Flash Fiction Entry

A while ago, I entered a flash fiction contest.  I've had some ask me what flash fiction is, so I'll explain.

Flash fiction is a super short story.  Different contests request different word counts, and the contest that I submitted to required 250 words or less.

Below is the story I submitted called, Steam.

Yes, I'll admit that The Race is cheesy, but with all that's been going on in the world, I thought a change for the better was what I wanted to do.  Sometimes, we all need happy endings in our life. :)

This is a really fun challenge, and since it's free, you should give it a shot next year!


Steam

The hard tip of the green bean fell into the metal bowl by my feet.  My red painted porch was littered with the ones that had bounced out. Snap!  Snap!  Snap!  I quickly broke a handful of beans into thirds, dropping them into an almost-full bucket.  Across the street, spectators from the high school football game roared to life, their cheers echoing in the cool evening air.  A loud horn sliced through the commotion. Touchdown, I suppose.

I wiped my wet and dirty hands onto my jeans, then brushed some strands of hair away from my eyes.  Two hours of snapping beans meant an hour and a half of bottling them.  I loved the hot, sweet smell of cooking beans that saturated my house on summer nights.  The steaming of the pressure cooker took me back to the old times, when Tom was still alive, and little ones swarmed my feet like ants to honey.  I regret now ordering them outside with a stern finger, eager for some silence and space.

They say that nothing big ever happens in this town, and I guess they’re right.  Nothing big to the right people, anyway.  But for my little family, a cell phone and a speeding SUV were monumental. 

I don’t need to bottle beans anymore.  It’s just me, and I’ve grown tired of eating them.  I guess I do it for the memories.  I stand up, stray bean tips falling onto the porch, and I stretch my aching back.  I pick up the bucket, heavy from my day’s labor, and swing the squeaky storm door open.  As I enter the kitchen, sweet, hot steam envelops me, reminding me of the arms of my little family, and the hugs I’ve been missing out on for four long, eternal years.

Why I hate "achieving" "goals"

I always laugh every time I come across a place where I've mentioned a goal I had in mind, because frankly, I religiously flop at goals.  I am not a goal setter.  I hate goals, I hate the pressure of achieving them, and I hate the words "goal" and "achieve."  I swear something from my youth must have turned me off to them.

Committing myself to doing something has always terrified me.  I can't stand the pressure, knowing that I told someone I'd do something, or be somewhere.  I get stressed out over the simplest things, such as planning on going out with friends, or even planning ahead when to go grocery shopping.  While I love having plans, I hate having commitments.  I've turned into a spur-of-the-moment kind of person.  Maybe having kids does that, with the last minute diaper explosions, sudden meltdowns because naps didn't get taken at the typical times, and everything else that always seems to come up when you've got four little boys.

One of my goals I came across was to write every day.  Ha.  I try to work from home every day, I try to exercise every day, I try to do something every day, but something always seems to take higher priority...like watching TV.  Yeah.  It's always TV.  Maybe I should make a goal to watch TV every day.  If I can do it, then I will have achieved a goal.  Win.  If I fail, that means I've done something productive.  Another win.  So there we have it:  I plan on watching TV every day.  If that's not a lofty goal, I don't know what is.

One of my many unreachable goals is to get healthier.  I tend to start exercising, then a few days later, give up, because I don't want to do it anymore.  I've started this diet, and the only thing that got me through it was what my husband told me.  "Don't do it because you think you have to.  Do it because you say you're going to."  I can't believe how much that has empowered me!  Saying I HAVE to do something puts me in the hands of fate, as if I'm a prisoner, and I look for any way possible to escape.  Saying that I'm GOING to do something gives ME the power.  There's no pressure, but self-determination.  I've made it 12 days so far, with a ten pound loss.  Yes, I have been overpowered by temptation (throwing away a HAMBURGER, cheese, chocolate and tater tots that my kids refused to eat), but because I'm going to get healthy, I have had the power to overcome it.

My diet isn't a restriction.  It's a cleansing.  I'm taking better care of myself, and slowly, I'm becoming stronger with every little victory that I achieve.   By taking away the commitment of dieting and replacing it with a willingness to improve myself, it has given me the power to stick with it.  Nothing is more powerful than the words, "I WILL!"

UPDATE!!
Five yeras ago, I wrote this blog post on achieveing goals. I've gotten a little better at setting goals for myself, because I think I've finally transformed my way of thinking into viewing them more as achieving my dreams. One dream I've always had was to become published. After pushing myself and committing myself to taking the necessary steps, it's finally happened!! My book, The Trouble with Fairy Godmothers, took eight long years to write, most of it sitting and collecting dust while I dreaded making the necessary changes to improve. But when I decided I was going to publish no matter what, I was finally able to follow through. And now, I have a paperback I can hold in my hands, and I can proudly show the world what I have been able to create. It's a huge step.

Check out my book!

The Sky

Ever since I was a child, I have been fascinated by the sky.  There's something so fragile about looking up and seeing the blue that is really a small barrier to an eternity of the emptiness of space.  At night, it's as if the earth's shield is let down, and we are able to catch a small glimpse of what lays out there.  It makes me feel so insignificant...and so significant, too, at the same time.  Something about the sky draws me to God, makes me more aware of my existence, and provides enlightenment about my purpose and worth.  When I look up, I can feel God's eyes on me.  It's a deeply spiritual experience for me, whether I'm watching the passing clouds, searching the stars, or just staring into the deep blue expanse.  

I love the sky.  I love the colors, the way the clouds drift by, or when they build up and darken before a storm.  To me, the sky represents freedom, peace, and beauty.  How the world looks is dependent on how the sky looks.  I'm so thankful for such a gorgeous, ever-changing, ever-present part of life.  The love of God is shared through the beauty of the sky.

Paint Me A Sky

The sun sets

     Dripping wet

Down below the horizon

Purple painted skies

Dabbled with dusk

     And dusty clouds

Foretell that heaven’s beauty

Is not laid to rest for the night

But only just beginning

The pallet of colors burn

As they rush to sink into sleep

Beneath the folds of the sky

Then gently

     Ever so gently

A bashful diamond glimmers

Growing bolder as the night wanes on

Until at last

The sky glitters above

With such remarkable brilliance

That I’ve already forgotten the beauty

Of the sunset.

What would YOU do with millions of dollars?!

I've always wanted to be rich.  I have this vision of what my dream house looks like, and it's not gonna happen with the salary that we bring in.  I don't want to be filthy rich, but having extra money to get a new outfit when I feel like it would be nice.  As I realistically think of ways to earn this money (such as trying to get my book published, or having my husband FINALLY get his degree and get an actual career), I also enter sweepstakes every so often, with the hopes that I'll be that one-in-a-billion winner.

Yesterday, I entered this sweepstakes where the winner brings home one million dollars...every year for the rest of their life.  Wow.  Talk about being taken care of.  As soon as I entered, I got this sinking feeling.  What on earth would a person DO with one million dollars every year?  I suddenly regretted entering, worrying excessively about the overwhelmingly monstrous amount of money.  I knew that the first thing I wanted to do was buy a new home.  I don't want one of those multi-million dollar monstrosities where you'll never see your family members for an entire week as you get lost down the hundreds of corridors or fifty different rooms.  Maybe we could just buy this house that we're renting, rip it down, and have a gorgeous new house built in its place.  Or better yet...we could just buy my dream house.  However, I wanted to still live in a place where my child can attend the same school.  So..I began stressing about that, wondering what we'd do with our new house once my husband graduated school and got a job.

And then I got hit by reality.  If we became multimillionaires, would my husband still be working?  Yeah...probably not.  So what on earth are we going to do all day, sit on our rears and read?  I started stressing about how pointless our lives would become.  And then, I began worrying about what to do with this never-ending supply of money that would constantly be pouring in.  The thought of it made me feel like drowning, as if this money would somehow become a plague.

Obviously, if we came into this amount of money, we'd have to become philanthropists.  There's NO WAY we'd know what to do with it all.  I began stressing about how I'd start donating to charities, or the city, and wondering how best to use the money to help my community.

It was hopeless.  Having that much money wouldn't bring me any happiness.  I don't know how to be wealthy.  My husband and I don't want to own boats, we're not business owners, and we don't want ten different homes.  Getting a million dollars a year would be disastrous.

This morning, I talked this over with my husband (somehow still plagued by my fantasy), and he knew right away what we'd do with the money.  His dream is to own and operate his own farm.  With the land and all the equipment, it would definitely cost well over a million dollars.  It comforted me to know that an actual plan could be made.

It's funny how such a silly fantasy affected me so much emotionally.  I guess it really made me appreciate what I had.  As overwhelming as life may sometimes seem, it's what builds me into who I am.  Money is never the answer to happiness.  What matters most is living, loving, struggling, and holding on together.  But if I do somehow walk into a million dollars someday...at least I'll know what to do with it!

The Phone Call

It was the type of phone call that made your blood curdle, your heart stop, and your cheeks flush to a deep, hot crimson.  Luckily, it wasn't meant for me.

I was sitting at the break room table, along with three of my co-workers and Brent, my boss.  We were waiting for a fourth to join us for a 12:30 meeting.  Joe was late.  My boss' cell phone rang, and he answered it, eager to hurry the time along.  The four of us girls quietly talked, politely ignoring Brent's conversation.  At last, he hung up, but the meeting couldn't start yet.  Joe still hadn't arrived.

Brent dialed a number, then spoke casually to a machine.  None of us cared to know what he was saying, until suddenly, a bomb of the juiciest information was plunked down in front of us.  "Oh, and by the way, the current renter found a letter of yours behind a cupboard, and the police would really like to talk to you about it.  They didn't say what it was about, but they need you to call them immediately.  Uh...good luck with whatever it is, and I'll talk to you soon."

Our mouths slammed to the table in disbelief, and our wide eyes darted from one to the other...each avoiding his gaze.  Did we really just hear that?  

I couldn't help but be overcome with feelings of guilt and dread as he spoke those words, as if somehow I had been involved.  And yet, at the same time, I was filled with exhilaration at overhearing the most scandalous conversation ever told over the phone.  Talk about being in the right place at the right time!  

When Brent ended the call, I couldn't help myself.  "There's a message you never want to get!"  With the tension now broken, laughter replaced shock, and we mused over what the letter contained.  A suicide note?  Information regarding drugs?  Really...it could be anything.  

Randy,

I saw what you did last night.  I followed the trail of blood, and found where you buried the body.  Leave $50,000 beneath the pine by the school's flag pole next Tuesday at midnight, or I go to the police.

Tom

What do you think it said??

It's the Little Things

Life is not supposed to be easy, or fair, or even something that makes a whole lot of sense.  It's not some huge singular event, and you're not meant to be perfect at it.  Life is made up of billions of tiny moments, and who we have become is a result of how we have chosen to respond to those moments.  Just as life is made up of billions of parts, I as a person am also made up of billions of parts.  Every minute that I have lived is a new thread to the tapestry of who I am becoming.  Sure, I'm going to mess up (a lot), and sure, I'm going to do lots of good, too, which may or may not go noticed.  It's not for others to see who we have become, but a journey of self-discovery.

A lot of the moments in my life feel insignificant, but probably because I'm aware of the incredible magnitude of responsibility that has been handed to me in the raising of four children.  Who I am is going to influence who my children will become, and that's a pretty daunting task.  I used to stress out by all of the things I wasn't doing for my children, comparing myself to other moms who had it more "together."  But lately, even though I've been falling behind in my responsibilities with my housekeeping, I've been doing a little bit better in being more tuned in into my children's needs.

I realized that expressing love for my children was more important than having all of my chores done.  I've started embracing the little moments with my 2-year old, and instead of being frustrated with him all day long, I'm learning to sit down and let him climb into my lap and give me wet kisses.  I love it, and I can't believe I was missing out on them.  I used to get frustrated because he wouldn't let me read to him, but now, I'm okay with him choosing a book, sitting in my lap, and letting him look through the book at his own pace.  He never was a child who enjoyed being sung to, so I guess I kind of resented him for telling me "No!" when I tried to sing him lullabies.  Now, I ask if I can sing to him, and I ask him what songs I can sing, and I can enjoy him looking into my eyes as I sing one dumb simple song, because I'm showing him love the way he needs it.  Even though he can't communicate very well with me, I'm learning that he can sit quiet while I softly talk to him, because this is something he needs.  Just because he can't tell me stories doesn't mean that I can't tell him stories.  As child number 3, I'm afraid that I've been leaving him to entertain himself like the older 2 boys while I focus my efforts on my baby.  I need to refocus on him and his needs, and make sure that our bond deepens as I show him that I love him.

For anyone who knows my 5-year old, he can be pretty obstinate when he wants to be.  I'm learning to apologize to him when I've frustrated him, and I can explain why I've gotten angry with him, or why I've taken away his privilege, and he's starting to come around more.  Just last night, when I took him to bed, he ended up getting angry at me for something (I wish I could remember what!), and he ended up throwing some toys off his table that I  had just picked up.  Instead of yelling at him, I punished him calmly, and while he cried, I explained why he had made me upset.  Sure I was angry, and I told him to get into bed.  I didn't want to bother with his prayer.  But when he cried louder, I asked him what was wrong, and he said that he needed to say his prayer.  Humbled, I knelt down beside him.  Instantly, his demeanor changed, and he said the sweetest prayer, asking to not only be nicer to his brothers, but that I could start feeling well.  I couldn't believe how he thought to pray for me when just a minute before, he had been so angry with me!!  I hugged him, and told him how grown-up he was getting.  I'm learning that despite his stubbornness, he can still be a big softy as long as I'm willing to humble myself, and to explain myself.  Today, he showed a lot more affection towards me, and I loved it.  I guess all he really needs is gentle communication to feel safe and loved.

As a mom, I still have lots of flaws that I'm working on overcoming, but I'm happy to say that in the past few days, I've been improving little by little.  We bought "The Magic Treehouse" series to read to our children, and I have read one book a night to my older two for the past 2 weeks.  It's a nice time where we sit together, read, talk, and enjoy a quiet 35 minutes together.  I let my 6-year old know how much I loved him by making him a card (since he loves making me cards), and I am trying to sit with my baby and read with him.


It's hard trying to meet the emotional needs of four very young children, but if I can make a conscious effort to view them as little individuals who want to feel wanted, loved and important, then I think I can do a little bit more than I did before.  I shouldn't beat myself up for the kitchen floor that desperately needs to be swept and mopped, or the laundry that is once again turning into a towering monster.  As a mother, my first priority is my children's well-being, and if having a messy house for a few years is a result of my efforts towards them, then so be it.  After all, it's the little things in life that add up to make a great life, and in the end, it won't matter if my children had to re-wear a pair of dirty socks.

No Fair!!

There are some days where I literally think that my head is going to explode.  Wait, did I say some?  I meant most.  Being a mom is one of the most frustrating jobs on Earth.  Usually, my 6-year old is pretty obedient, and tries his best to be as helpful as he can.  But there are those times when for some reason, the words I say fly right past over his head.  Take this morning, for instance.  "Jacob, please go downstairs and get dressed for school."  He comes upstairs, and instead of his school uniform, he's wearing his torn play pants and a grungy tee shirt.  "What are you wearing?  Please go back downstairs and get dressed for SCHOOL."  He comes running upstairs a few minutes later, tearing into the living room to continue his golf game.  I peek in the living room between applying lipstick and mascara, only to find him in his school pants, and a different grungy tee.  Cue explosion.

Water is another source of frustration in my house.  Every day, there is a water mess to clean.  My 1-year old splashes in the cat bowl, causing me to not only dry the floor with one of my kitchen towels, but to change his now soaking outfit.  With the dishes on top of the counter, I think I'm safe...until I find my 2-year old standing on a chair, and lapping the cat's water, as well as pouring water onto the counter from a cup he pulled from the sink.  Ugh.  But that's on a good day.  On a typical day, he's standing in the bathroom, filling the sink to overflowing. He's pouring water from one cup to another, splashing over the counter...and all over his clothes.  Another outfit is always necessary.  Then, on a bad day, he's filling the bathroom cups and pouring them onto the floor.  He literally made a lake in my bathroom the other day.  I felt about 10 gray hairs pop up at that very moment, probably from the steam that shot out from my red ears.  Today, I found him under our roll-top desk...playing with the dish of water.  I'm beginning to really hate water.

Last night, all four of my boys were sick.  My 2-year old woke up after an hour, crying and miserable with a cough and fever.  He couldn't sleep, and refused to lie quietly in bed.  Instead, he screamed and cried until after an hour of trying to ignore it, I finally got him.  Somehow, the baby stayed mostly asleep.  I tried cuddling with him in my bed.  Most children can lie quietly and cuddle with Mom.  Not Jarod.  He shot up repeatedly, talking (loudly) about everything he saw, everything he thought about.  He is still learning to talk, and tends to repeat himself. A lot.  Finally, I gave up and took him back to bed.  He was quiet for another few minutes, but once I turned in my bed, sighing deeply and ready to embrace sleep, his sweet little voice called out miserably, "Mama!"  By that time, it was 1 a.m.  I shuffled into his room, applying Vick's vaporub to his feet.  At that time, my husband came home.  He lovingly peeked into the room, only to set off both the baby and Jarod into a frenzy of angry excitement.  Great.  Now I had 2 screaming sick kids. I tried comforting each one (which I secretly loved), but was frustrated because I was TIRED.

Eventually, my husband took Jarod, and Caleb finally fell asleep.  I was able to crawl back into bed while Jarod snuggled with Spencer on the couch, watching cartoons.  I was ripped out of my sleep at 3:40 am to my 5-year old crying in the bathroom, because not only did he have a cough, but he didn't want to wipe himself.  I did it myself, gave him more medicine, and collapsed once again into bed.  Of course, the next morning, Spencer had to wake up at 6:40 am for his early class, and the little boys only slept in until 7:40.  Sometimes, I just want to lie down on the floor, kicking and flailing my arms and legs, and yell, "No fair, no fair, no fair!!"