She had come to this meadow often, but only at dusk, never when the hawks circled and screeched. She scurried under the log and rested there. Dust blew in the air followed by a whirring sound and then a drag over the earth. Something near felt bigger than the log that she hunched under. Nervously she dug deeper, removing the small pine nuts from her cheek and then a shadow came over here. She held her breath. Something big fell upon the log and she quickly twitched her tail as the log tipped. She held quiet. A silence came over the meadow, no hawks, no rustle of deer. A bonk on her head shocked her and then plopped to the ground. It was red, red with white markings. The white looked like a drawing of two mountains. Her legs began to tremble and she feared the log would begin to shake. Suddenly the shadow moved and grew across the log and then disappeared followed by the whirring sound and the drag over the earth. The red bead with the white marking glared at her. She reached out, tapped it. Hard. Sticky. She tapped again and a small bit of the red flaked off. She patted the bald spot—it looked and felt a bit like mud, but a quick wiff and she immediately thought of honey. She tapped the earthen brown again and then put her paw to her nose, then to her tongue. Her head reeled, her mouth salivated, and her heart raced. She heard a hawk screetch, a sound she had never heard before, something that sounded like, “chok laaaaat.” Her head reeled, her mouth salivated, and her heart raced.
Editor's note: This is what we call flash fiction, a story in 1,000 words or less. It's March story maddness for Inky Thinky. The goal is a story-a-day, under 800 words, probably closer to 300. This one’s about that. Let’s see how it goes. Every picture tells a story. Send me a photo if you want me to use it in a story. Send your photos to inkythinky@mac.com.
Work work work. Drink drink drink. No post no post no post. I guess I am a big fat quitter. Quitter on the $500 bucks a month and a quitter on posting.
So 2 more days and I'll be back on the INK with a story a day. Stay tuned.
Until then, ponder this one: is it possible for a pig killer to be a pig lover or even a lover? Hmmm, more about that later.
Perhaps it was the drinking that resumed on the First of February. Or maybe it was the noxious flu. Or maybe it was the temper tantrum I had at the wine shop.
Either way. I quit this "$500 budget for February" bullshit.
I admit it. I'm a quitter. I can't keep track of the dollars flying out of the wallet, I hate the restriction, and I don't have time to think about it.
All these thoughts make me sick. You know why? Because I know that families of 10 live on less than $500 in a month, or maybe in a year. Sick because I know I'm simply being a spoiled brat about the whole thing. Sick because I hate spoiled brats and I'm being one. Sick because, well, I did have a fever...does that maybe explain it?
And a cheater!
What disturbs me is how much, in the last year, I've become a consumer. I want to spend spend spend. It's not like I want a Rolls Royce (but I wouldn't object) or to spend my $500 on a single pair of shoes (but I would on 2 cases of wine!). The problem is I can't stop thinking about all the things I want to buy. I'm telling you, it's not obsessive. It's worse. It's subtle. And I feel entitled. Entitled do whatever I want.
Ever since I said I'd keep to the $500 budget I've been devising ways of cheating. What if I order it now and it arrives after the leap year? What if I make someone else pay for it and pay them back? Not since 7th grade history class have I wanted to cheat so much.
I think I have a problem. And I'm a big fat gluttonous quitter. What do you think about that?
Not more than 3 days off the inky thinky no cupcakes, no vodka, no lattes, no BS, and I get hit with the flu. Guess I'll be continuing the fast for a few extra days.
The good news is that if you can't leave your bed, you can't spend money. Well I could, on the internet, but I haven't the muster.
The flu is an interesting virus. One I've always believed to be violently vomitous. Turns out what we call the stomach flu isn't a flu. But the fevers, the aches, the coughing, the sore throat, all that could be a flu, or it could be a common cold.
During my fever-streaked dreams the last two days I've had time to ponder January and what it meant to me to take a month off of livin' it up.
Honestly, I don't really miss the sticky sweet of sugar, the blurred effect of alcohol, or the buzz of caffeine. Call it getting old. I'm not sure what to call it.
Now don't get me wrong. Monday night, moments before the flu hit, I got to enjoy at least two (maybe three) glasses of robust red wine at the Incanto "rancher and farmer appreciation dinner." At a table of strangers (save for Steve of Prather Ranch and Ellen of Yumm! fadoodling) we enjoyed a loverly dinner, several glasses of wine, digestives and desserts.
(These are the bones of Ellen's sardines...I heard they were delish. I went straight for dessert.)
That's what makes me certain I've got the flu. All that garlic and wine and good cheer would have chased a cold away.
Needless to say with two days at home and probably more days in bed, I may have saved enough this week's $100 budget to be able to splurge for a fancy dinner Saturday night. I can't wait! Until then, stay away from those germies.
This was breakfast on Friday. Deep gratitude to Deb for providing the wine. I've barely had a moment to enjoy the end of January's "no fun cuz there aint' no sugar, no booze, no caffeine and absolutely no fucking swearing."
I'm not sure how it happened, but on Friday as I was slurping up my second G&T, the celebration quickly turned to strategy for "what's next?!" Easy for them to think big and decide I should give myself $500 dollars for all discretionary spending in February. It is a short month after all.
Just when I had visions of $4 lattes, $200 dinners, and $150 a week in groceries from the fancy market, my "fun" just got cut off at the knees. Apparently I can barter to my heart's content. That may be interesting, particularly when it comes to martinis.
Since Saturday I've already spent about $50. Ouch!
She had come to this meadow often, but only at dusk, never when the hawks circled and screeched. She scurried under the log and rested there. Dust blew in the air followed by a whirring sound and then a drag over the earth. Something near felt bigger than the log that she hunched under. Nervously she dug deeper, removing the small pine nuts from her cheek and then a shadow came over here. She held her breath. Something big fell upon the log and she quickly twitched her tail as the log tipped. She held quiet. A silence came over the meadow, no hawks, no rustle of deer. A bonk on her head shocked her and then plopped to the ground. It was red, red with white markings. The white looked like a drawing of two mountains. Her legs began to tremble and she feared the log would begin to shake. Suddenly the shadow moved and grew across the log and then disappeared followed by the whirring sound and the drag over the earth. The red bead with the white marking glared at her. She reached out, tapped it. Hard. Sticky. She tapped again and a small bit of the red flaked off. She patted the bald spot—it looked and felt a bit like mud, but a quick wiff and she immediately thought of honey. She tapped the earthen brown again and then put her paw to her nose, then to her tongue. Her head reeled, her mouth salivated, and her heart raced. She heard a hawk screetch, a sound she had never heard before, something that sounded like, “chok laaaaat.” Her head reeled, her mouth salivated, and her heart raced.
Posts
