This is a collection of flash-fiction, sketches and other vignettes focused on these mundane, often forgettable, everyday moments.

You are sitting at the dinner table dropping your peas into a mountain of white rice.

"Pony! Stop playing with your food!"

You look at your mother, her hair tied loosely behind her head a few wispy strands touch her face.

Her face looks tired, but her voice is strong and crisp.

You are about to open your mouth and say sorry when your mom gets up from the tale and walks away.

She doesn't say anything.

You kick Soda's leg.

Soda kicks your leg.

This is a game the two of you play. You're not trying to hurt each other. At least not really hurt one another. Although that one time Soda was mad at you for taking his pogo stick without permission…

The point of the game is to see who can last the longest without making a sound. The first person who whines or pouts (you) or burst out laughing or making any sort of noise (Soda) loses.

The winner gets bragging rights, the loser gets humiliated, and in your case a vigorous noogie from Soda.

Once, the two of you went through the entire dinner, including dessert, kicking each other under the table. Mom and Dad didn't notice, but Darry smirked at you both and then whispered instructions to you. You figure it's fair that Darry join your side since you're so little and besides Soda's really good at this game.

You have a huge grin your face; you pull your foot back ready to get Soda good now…

"DAMNIT!"

You jump up. Darry drops his fork and looks at you.

Well, a glare is more like it.

You never seen a kid who looks more like a grown up than Darry. He looks like a 12 year old, except when he's mad, he's the spitting image of your mom.

You missed Soda.

You cringe, ready for Darry to kick you back under the table. Darry is big. Soda's pretty easy on you, even when he's kicking you. Except for the time you took his pogo stick, of course.

Darry, you're not quite sure about. You look down at his stocking feet. Phew. You're just glad he's not wearing his football cleats.

"Ouch!" Soda yelps.

"That's for teaching him that stupid game." Darry stuffs more ground chuck into his mouth.

You notice that he talks with his mouth full, something he never would do if mom was still at the table.

You halfway want to find your mom and tattle on Darry, especially since your mom already scolded you for playing with your food, but you think twice about it. Darry did come to your rescue, besides you just turned six, you're too old to tattle.

Dad tells you not to tattle so much, but you can't help it, your brothers get away with everything! Mom and Dad never seem to catch them when they misbehave.

You, on the other hand, they watch like a firefly. You can't get away with nothing.

"I won!" You are grinning from ear to ear.

Being the youngest you don't get a chance to win too much against Soda and Darry, even when Darry tries to help you out.

"Hey, that don't count. Darry kicked me. It don't count if Darry made me yell." Sodapop isn't a stickler for the rules except when he benefits from them; in which case he becomes a little mini policeman handing out tickets to friend and foe alike.

Soda glares at Darry, who gives him a disinterested shrug in return. You're afraid Darry is going to take Soda's side.

Which would not be fair. At all.

"Nope! The rules say the first person who makes a noise loses. It don't say nothing about who made you yell." You give Soda a look of smug satisfaction. Who is he trying to take away your win?

You cross your arms in front of your chest. You're a bit mad. It ain't right for Soda to change the rules just because he lost fair and square.

"Come on Darry, tell Soda that he lost." You're trying not to whine, but Soda makes it hard sometimes.

Darry takes another heaping bite, "you lost, Soda" he says with disinterest. He doesn't care about the game, but that doesn't matter, he's declared you the winner.

Soda is about to open his mouth to protest when the three of you hear the faint sound of crying.

"See Soda, you made mom cry!"

You figure it couldn't have been you, after all you were just explaining to Soda how the game was played, Soda was the one who was trying to say you didn't win.

Soda looks at you and his face turns ghost white and his eyes open wide. You feel like you have a tummy ache and the chicken pox all at once.

"I'm sorry Soda, I'm sorry; mom isn't crying because of you." You don't know what to do, so you just put your arms around your brother.

But Soda just looks like he wants to start bawling. "It's true, I got another D on my report card, that's why Mom is so mad."

Soda sounds miserable as he looks down at his plate, smashing the peas with his fork.

Your mouth drops open. They don't give letter grades in kindergarten, but you know that a "D" is a very bad grade.

"That's real bad Soda."

Soda just nods.

You hope you don't get bad grades when you start first grade. You're excited about sharing lunch with Soda. He always shares his cookies with you, except peanut butter, that is his favorite and he keeps those all to himself.

But you can't think of yourself right now, Soda needs you.

You don't know what to say, so you fling a pea in his direction.

He looks mad, his face bunches up and he crosses his arms.

"What's the big deal, Pony?"

But you give him a wide eyed crazy grin and shout, "food fight!"

Before you know it, the two of you are flinging peas and mashed potatoes at each other and Soda is laughing.

You like to give yourself credit for making Soda laugh again, but the truth is Soda is a real happy kid. It doesn't take much for him to start giggling, even if he was in tears just a few minutes earlier.

Darry has left the table long before, you see him sitting outside your parents' closed room. His arms are around his knees and you think he looks scared, but Darry is the bravest kid you know, he can't be scared.

He plays football.

Tackle football.

"Mom," he says, "mom, it's okay, everything will be okay."

Standing at your dining room table, your hair with pieces of peas and mashed potatoes you can't help but think that Darry sounds awfully young, even if he's trying his best to sound as soothing and as grown up as your father.

You think about your dad, working the evening shift at the warehouse. You miss eating supper with him.

You're grateful that Darry stuck up for you, but he's not your dad.

Not by a long shot.

S.E. Hinton owns