Friday Flash 55: What He Sees

Another Friday, another Flash 55. Thanks for the concept, G-man! I'm loving it. The idea is to write a story in exactly 55 words. Here's this week's:

Valentine's Day was barely a blip on his radar screen. He was more likely to compare her with Lucille Ball than with Audrey Hepburn. He never talked of the shape of her body or the hue of her skin.

He spoke of her spirit, her joy for life, and her klutziness. And she felt beautiful.

Signs of Spring

Signs of spring are here. Green returning to grass:

Leaves returning to trees:

turtles returning to logs (can you see him?).

Maybe Phil the groundhog got it wrong this year.

Friday Flash 55: Snow Rumor in the South

It's time for another Friday Flash 55 (a story in exactly 55 words), which I'm growing to love. Thank you, Mr. Knowitall! Here's today's:

Antone flung his apron onto the counter, "That's it!"

Lance retrieved it and held it out to him as Antone fumbled for his keys, "It's gonna be fine, man. Your apartment is a block away and it hasn't even started falling yet."

"Pfft," said Antone, "I'm outta here."

His customers sat, waiting for their salads.

Cranberry Chicken, a how to (and a how not to)

While I am mostly writing to share a tried and true recipe (it's easy, has only a few ingredients, and is a real crowd pleaser), I also had to share a few photos and an example of what not to do.

First, how to make Cranberry Chicken:

Ingredients:
4 Chicken breasts (cubed)
1 can of whole berry cranberry sauce
1/2 bag onion soup mix
1/2 bottle creamy French dressing

Place ingredients in a crock pot or casserole dish and mix well. Cook in crock pot for 5+ hours or until chicken is cooked. If you prefer baking, cook at 350 for 45 minutes to 1 hour (or until chicken is fully cooked).

It'll look something like this (photo doesn't look the best, but I promise I have yet to hear a bad review).


















I like to serve it with rice and steamed broccoli and cauliflower on the side. Here's a random photo of a broccoli forest (any excuse to use the camera phone, I guess).


















How not to make cranberry chicken:
Follow the instructions above, except use chicken that's not fully thawed. Grody things happen--the sauce doesn't quite synthesize and forms in grainy lumps instead. It's hard to see but the slightly darker spots in the sauce are oily sections. See what I mean? Grody.

Friday Flash 55: Unspoken

I enjoyed doing this exercise (of MrKnowitall's) last week so I figured I'd carry on with Friday Flash Fiction. The idea is to write a story in exactly 55 words.

I do feel the need to clarify that neither story is autobiographical. :) Maybe next week I'll go the comedy route. Here's this week's:

She studied the shelves while Mom pumped gas and Dad jangled his keys at the register. Then she raced over with her selection--a mini can of barbecue Pringles.

"Of course you'd have to go for the most expensive snack in the store!" he said.

Her reply remained unspoken: "I got them for you, Daddy."

For the love of a blank page

I have a stack of journals. Stacks of journals actually. The kind I buy for myself (despite the Onion's brilliant parody) are soft cover moleskins. They're thin, lined and you can wrap the cover all the way around to the back. And I love the snap of that trademark elastic band. I also get a variety of notebooks as gifts from dear friends who choose the blank page as a sweet and simple gesture of support. The most recent of such sits in my lap now, since I received it while writing this post. It's true. Though the giver was hoping for a sneaky and anonymous presentation and just the right pen to accompany it, she heard the subject of today's post and couldn't resist forking it over. The words "write with your heart" are inscribed on the front. On the inside are 100 more blank pages to fill. Yes.

Speaking of blank pages, check out this trailer for a movie of creative types who lost their jobs and started their lives. The tag line is, "It's not a pink slip, it's a blank page." Love that concept.

I sometimes fill those blank pages with clean rows of neat writing and take the time to relish the feel of the pen on the page. But when I get carried away with a passion of some sort, I fill them with large, hurried letters--sorta like when I listen to "Bad" while driving and find myself driving way over the speed limit. Still other pages have scribbles and delete marks and sketches in the margins. The only common thread among the sketches is that they look like they were done by a child. Here's one. I don't know what he is, but I named him Oliver.

Oliver exists because two pages stuck together and I discovered them later. I had to fill them with something, so I started with that squiggly line down the center (maybe water or hills or earth), not knowing where I'd go with it. So that's why it goes through Oliver in the middle, instead of stopping where he picks up. I don't think he minds.

The work journals are another story entirely. My current one is pretty on the outside, but ugly on the inside. There is nothing neat or orderly about the way I write it in. I even fill it up from front to back as well as back to front (by turning it upside down).

Despite the myriad of ways to fill the pages, I always get a thrill from a blank one. Don't you?

What will I fill today's pages with? Hopes, dreams, and possibilities? Yes. Observations, story ideas, and quotes from friends? Probably. To do lists and notes for current projects? Maybe. Grocery lists and lists of impossibles? Pfft--not a chance.

How about you?

A song about the possibility that comes with the blank page.

For the love of a pen

There is something seriously satisfying about writing with the perfect pen. If Goldilocks sat down at the bears' desks in search of something to write home with, it might have been a ball point that was neither too thick, nor too thin; not too inky, but not too dry; and with a point that was neither too fine nor too broad. A pen that was just right. For me, that sort of pen has black ink and a fine point (.05, to be exact); it writes smoothly; and it doesn't bleed, smear, spot, or smudge. And it's a delight that makes me relish the feel of the pen on the page. So delightful is it, in fact, that I'll make excuses to write and scribble and draw.

And I'm not alone. True pen lovers have stores, online forums, and even conventions dedicated to the quest for the perfect pen. Would you count yourself among such enthusiasts? Or maybe you're just somebody who would dig through the drawer an extra moment in search of that pen that's just right for journaling; penning fiction; doodling; creating; writing letters (gasp!); or simply signing checks. As for a journal that's just right...well that's a topic for another day.

In the meantime, I need to go to the store. I have a hankering for pens.

An interactive post

Here's a little experiment. Answer the following questions in the comment box (in complete sentences, please). After I get responses from at least ten of you, I'll post my own. Hmm... I wonder if I'll get to share. I'll include some possibilities in parenthesis for inspiration, but come up with your own. It'll be more fun that way.


1. If I were a country, my chief export would be _______. (peanuts, smiles, compassion, chocolate, hot air)

2. If I were a pretzel, I would _______________. (dip myself in chocolate; eat myself; find a bag of Chex mix to jump in)

3. If I were going to be reincarnated as an animal/insect, I would be a ______________ because/so ________________________. (a snipe so that I could meet Russell and Karl; a fly so I could finally see what all the hype about the wall is)

4. If I could have 90 days off work with pay, I would _____________. (backpack around the world, volunteer in a third world country, visit my grandpa)

5. If I had to be on a reality TV show, I would be on _______________. (American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, Biggest Loser)

6. I will be able to cross the following item off my bucket list this year: ____________________. (make a bucket list; lead a revolution so I have an excuse to wear one of those cool berets; learn another language; go to Italy)

7. In 2010, I will _____________. (appreciate my spouse; celebrate my friends and family on days besides their birthdays; come up with a new year's resolution at the beginning of the year instead of in February; blog more often)

8. This year, I will _______ more and ______ less. (smile more, worry less; walk more, drive less; love more, judge less)

9. I celebrated the Y2K (year 2000) by __________. (going to Times Square, watching Dick Clark at Thomas Clark's house (oops, gave mine away), hiding in a homemade bomb shelter with a hoard of water purification tablets)

10. Write your own!

"It's nothing you could fake"

Ever heard of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt? They're actors. They act, which means they pretend for a living. According to this article, the two were acting very much like a couple at a recent event even though there have been some tabloid breakup rumors swirling. According to one witness, "It's nothing you could fake."

Really? These award winning actors couldn't fake something? Now, I'm not saying they are faking and I don't really care either way. I'm just saying that they most certainly could. That's what they've both made boatloads of money and amassed mountains of awards for. They're actors. Fakers.

I'm just sayin'.

Friday Flash 55: Un-received

I've been reading Susan's Friday Flash 55s for a while now and figured I'd give it a shot. The idea (which comes from MrKnowitall) is to write a story in exactly 55 words. It certainly is a good exercise in brevity. Here's mine:

Grandpa Chaney wore overcoats with flannel pajamas and said dévà ju instead of déjà vu.

He watched her. She felt him watching.

She huffily dropped silverware into the drawer before turning towards him, "What, Dad?"

He held out a clump of tulips, her favorite, which she then tossed onto the counter.

She hated plastic flowers.

Confession

I was on a little road trip with a snack box containing assorted goodies: chex mix, granola bars, cookies, red velvet Twinkies, gum...you get the idea.

I ate some chex mix (avoiding the pretzels, of course) and then used my phone's light (it was dark, see) to illuminate another bag. The way it was folded over, I could only see the words Hot Buffalo Wing Pieces. "Yum," I thought. So I put my phone away, put the bag in my lap, and proceeded to eat handful upon handful of this spicy and savory magic. I made a mental note to purchase some of my own and then a horrifying thought came to my mind: Hot Buffalo Wing Pieces OF WHAT?

So I spread the bag out and in the glow of my phone, I scanned the large letters that spelled Snyder's Hot Buffalo Wing Pieces. Then the eerie glow lit up five words in small, deceitful letters at the bottom of the bag: artificially flavored sourdough hard pretzel.

I ate the rest of the bag.