Common

To my surprise, I placed high in the second round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. I placed respectably in the middle of the first round and figured I would need to place in the top three of the second round in order to move on to the third.

I placed second.

Here’s a little secret (for which Caz and Lex continually yell at me) for you – I have little confidence in my writing. I don’t know if it’s my general insecurity in everything…or that I’ve read and reread my stuff so many times during writing/revising/editing that I end up thinking it’s trash.

But I liked my second round story (“Kai’s Very Bad Day”). I liked writing it. It was fun. I have the most fun writing silly and funny real life stories. Unfortunately, I had little faith in it. I should trust my gut more. I thought it was good and it turns out, it was.

The feedback, received the day before round three commenced, was so positive and gushing that I blushed while reading it. The ‘things I could do better’ were helpful and nitpicky, which, I get – it’s a contest. There were comments in it that I should have developed scenes more. Given the 1000 word limit…well, let’s just say that is difficult.

On Friday evening as the clock turned to midnight going into Saturday, I received my third round prompts.
Genre: Drama
Location: Luxury Hotel
Object: Frankfurter

I woke up at 12:30am to go to the bathroom, checked my email, and then lay in bed until my 2:41am alarm went off thinking over the prompts. The frankfurter was the proverbial curveball. I wasn’t worried about the drama or luxury hotel part. Humor is my strong point, but I can write drama if needs be.

By the time I was done with my shower and downstairs on the couch, I had the story planned out and had half of it written before I left for work. I finished it later in the day during my lunch break and handed it off to my betas (Caz and Lex) and they had almost no corrections (!!).

I couldn’t believe I finished it so fast, leaving myself plenty of time to edit, revise, and get it under the 1000 word limit (first draft 1157). I submitted it Sunday night and now have to wait until December for results. I’m up against twenty-five people in my group and the top three advance to the final round!

And so, my friends, I present to you: “Common”

Common

“Common.”

The word, said in a voice dripping with disapproval, gave pause to Penny.  The silver knife buttering her bread stopped mid-swipe.  She didn’t need to ask what caused the criticism.  She glanced at her daughter in the chair next to her.  “It’s what she wanted, Mama.”

“Common,” her mother repeated.  Abby, happily oblivious, munched on this new delight – a hot dog – with gusto.  Penny conceded the street fare looked strange in this setting, nestled in the white-gloved hands of her daughter.

“Is there mustard, Mother?” Abby asked.

“I doubt it, little monkey,” she answered.

She continued to butter her bread.  A canary at the other end of the room sang in heartbreak, its voice rising above the babble of restaurant patrons.  Penny hated birds.  They reminded her too much of the woman across from her, who unconsciously mimicked the mannerisms of the beasts.  Her mother pecked at her food no matter how delicious or elegant it was, grasping with aged talons at her silverware.  Chirping gossip and mean opinions, beady eyes constantly darting around to look for something to critique.

Abby asked for another hot dog.  They’d discovered the treat on their stroll the previous day along the boardwalk.  Abby loved them, and Penny didn’t care that the catsup stain on her lace gloves would never come out.

It was nice to see Abby smile.

Penny stopped the waiter, asking him to fetch another frankfurter from the cart outside.  One would not expect L’Hôtel de la Mer D’or to sell common street food in their French restaurant.  The waiter was happy to oblige.  Her mother was rich and a regular guest of the elegant hotel, which made people want to bend over backwards for her.

“You should not eat such nasty food, Abigail,” her mother said.  “It’s common.”

That word sat like poison on her mother’s tongue.  Just as the look of disdain lived in her eyes.  The sour twist that graced her lips.  She doubted her mother ever looked happy, flaunting her ugly beauty as she flaunted her flashy diamonds and glittering gold.  Her mother had been quite the debutante as a young woman, but time and marriage turned her into a wretched old woman.  Penny pitied as much as hated her.

“I’m not stuffing Abby with foie gras all day, Mama,” Penny said, keeping her voice calm.  She needed money right now, so it was best not to start arguments.  Admittedly, the hot dogs were probably not the best idea.

“Why are you here?  Interrupting my holiday.”

Penny suppressed a sigh, glancing around.  It was mid-day and the dining room was full.  Men and women sat stiffly at the tables like mannequins, pretending to be happy as they automatically lifted food to their mouths, minding their manners in a show to impress everyone else.  Gold gilded the edges of the hotel walls and restaurant china, as it gilded the edges of the people, a show of richness – worldly richness that had nothing to do with the soul.

“I’m divorcing John.”

The heavy word fell onto the table between them, clattering among the china, crystal, and silverware.  Her mother stared at her in shock, as if Penny had reached across the table and slapped her beaky mouth.

“Penelope.”

Her proper name burned in her ears.  She hated it.  It reminded her of childhood, trapped in her home like the birds her mother kept in golden cages.  Penny sounded sweeter.  Simpler.  Was a different woman than Penelope – a name spoken with a sneer from her mother, her father, John.  The way they all said it, possessively and dominating. 

Penny, spoken in soft tones, caressing and silky.  She much preferred it as such.  It was…common.

“He beats me.  I won’t put up with it.”

“It’s a wife’s duty…” her mother began.

“No.  He’s lucky he never touched Abby.  Or you’d be bailing me out of jail.”

Her mother’s birdlike hand clasped at her pearls, the talons catching in the rough balls of white.  “The scandal…”

“I don’t care.  He used a cane last time.”  The pain still lingered in the bruise on her back.  

“And what will you do?  You’re not moving back home.”

“I have a…” Penny hesitated.  “…a friend.  Down state.  She’s offered us her home.”

“Who is her family?”

“No one you know.  They’re grocers.”

“My daughter and granddaughter will live as commoners?”

“It will be good for Abby.”

‘And me,’ she thought, her mind lingering on the brush of velvety arms, satiny thighs, unbound hair falling to the waist.

“How will you support yourselves?”

“My friend has friends in the publishing industry.  I’ll try my hand at writing.”  Penny wouldn’t tell her mother Rose’s name, or where she lived.  It would be easier to disappear with her love if Penny’s parents couldn’t find her.

“I won’t let you do this.  Not to our family name.”

“You don’t have a say.”  She now knew her mother wouldn’t give her any money.  

The waiter returned with Abby’s hot dog on a china plate.  The contrast of the common food on the delicate platter swept a wave of hilarity through Penny as he set it down.  She laughed – at the hot dog, at the stuffy people in the room, at the look on her mother’s face.  Her life was flipping inside out and upside down and all she could do was laugh.

“Come, Abby,” she said, standing.  She ignored the lacy napkin that fell to the floor.  “We must catch the train.”  To add a little dig, she added, “Like the common folk in coach.”

“Can I bring my hot dog?”

“Yes, my darling.  Eat it as we walk along.”  She took a last look at her mother, taking in the details of the pinched and sour face.  “Goodbye.”

Abby snatched the treat off the plate and, munching it with one gloved hand, she tripped along next to Penny as they left the hotel.

“Common…” was the last word Penny ever heard her mother speak.