“You make mistakes, mistakes don’t make you.”
Tag Mistake
“Too late, I found, you can’t wait to become perfect. You got to go out and fall down and get up with everybody else.”
-Charles Halloway in Something Wicked This Way Comes, by Ray Bradbury
The Most Sleep-Deprived Time of the Year
My apologies. I just realized that I announced the ending and the winners of The Terrible Weekly Poetry Contest a day early.
The reason is that I thought today was Friday. I’m not sure which Friday because I am so exhausted lately it ought to be illegal for me to even run a washing machine.
…I tried.
Anyway; again, my apologies. No one pointed the mistake out, though, so maybe I’m not the only writer needing a long winter’s nap.
This all ties into something I meant to mention at my weekly wrap-up on Wednesday, which is that I will not be writing a Wilhelmina Winters nor Skinwalkers story next week. I will post the next Skinwalkers tomorrow, and keep the other days for whatever strikes my fancy.
I hope you all have a merry Christmas, especially if you do not read another message from me till after it’s all unwrapped and done.
A Tisket, A Tasket, A Green and Yellow Fruit Basket
Igor stared at the remains of his shopping trip. His enormous hunch rose and fell in a worried sigh.
He knew he’d gotten what he was sent for. He remembered selecting the shiniest peeler from the grocery shelf and heading to Checkout.
While standing in line behind an old lady with a dog in her purse and in front of a young boy who kept poking his hunch, Igor had noticed the fruit cups.
His stomach had rumbled.
Why not? it had asked. Herr doktor will never know. He’d added them to his peeler, hurriedly paid, and left. Just to be certain, he’d tossed the receipt behind a few scraggly bushes outside the door.
And now, as he stared at the gaping hole his leaking containers had made in the paper bag, he realized a receipt might be a thing to hang onto.
“Ah, Igor,” a deep voice said from the doorway. “Excellent. A minute more and the specimen would be useless.” Dr. Frankenstein held out a hand. “Give me the peeler and let’s get him started.”
Created for Fractured Faith Blog’s Flash Fiction Challenge.
Mondays and Memories
The pictures people post of life are beautiful, artistic, happy, and well-framed. They are also less than a second of time, and 4×6 inches of a multi-perspective panorama. Better make them the best, right?
So, when you see this pile of mess I’ve included, you may wonder where the beauty is. Why would I post this?
For the story. For the reality.
This pile is what was left after my two youngest (ages 7 and 4) mixed and baked a chocolate cake completely by themselves. They did so after making grilled cheese sandwiches and (somewhat charred) tomato soup for dinner.
I’m not certain why the “cakes” boiled over into the oven since I was returning from martial arts at the time. My twelve-year-old suspects they severely over-measured the baking soda. My husband was with them and told me how excited the six-year-old was for me to come home to a surprise dinner and a whole cake!
If I were aiming for artistry, I could pose the bakers’ chocolate-stained faces in front of a symmetrically-messy counter. I could write that my darling, budding chefs made dinner and dessert. Then I could elaborate, saying we ended the evening singing songs of family unity and went to bed before sundown.
The problem is that the evening did not end with dessert and singing. The problem is that I tried to clean up the remains of amateur baking with the oven’s self-clean option. That method didn’t last long.
As I sit in our smoke-scented house and listen to the roaring fans downstairs, I can’t help but consider how much easier this day would have been if I’d not allowed them to create their dessert surprise.
Then, I remember what my husband said about our budding baker. “That was so sweet of you!” I tell my six-year-old as we tuck him in. “I am so impressed that you made dinner and a whole cake by yourself!” As he swells with self-pride I suggest gently, “Let’s make it together next time.”
Chel Owens 