Meatloaf - It's What's for Dinner

Working on getting my writing game back on. Here's another short bit of fiction inspired by this week's prompt at Sunday Scribblings.

"Meatloaf - It's What's for dinner"

Craig hit the front door at 6:45 pm. It had been a long day; Heck, it had been a long week.

"Honey, I'm home!" he called out as he sat in the foyer removing his brown patent leather shoes.

"Oh good," his bride replied, "You're just in time. Dinner is coming out of the oven as we speak. It'll be on the table in just a few minutes."

At the sound of Craig's voice his beloved and faithful companion Rex came bounding in from the other room. Mostly Golden Retriever, but with a speck of Yellow Lab mixed in, Rex was as gentle and lovable as they come.

"Come on boy, let's go have dinner." his master said while giving him a scratch behind the ears followed by a light pat on his fluffy, auburn colored head.

Craig's wife Carol rounded the corner to the dining room at the same time the "Boy and his dog" (as she lovingly referred to them) did.

A large bowl of creamy-white mashed potatoes and a smaller bowl of green peas with a dollop of butter in the center already sat on the table as Carol delivered the main dish of her famous meatloaf.

She and her husband of twenty years sat and ate and shared stories of what had transpired during their respective days. Nothing exceptionally noteworthy, but that didn't matter. They were together and they were talking. Even after all these years they still enjoyed each others company.

After finishing a plate of dinner and when the conversation began to dwindle a bit, Carol got up and said, "How about another piece of meatloaf?"

"Sounds good honey."

Slicing off another portion and sliding it onto Craig's plate, Carol told him to enjoy and that she'd take care of clearing the table while he finished.

With the sound of dishes clanking in the kitchen sink, Craig felt it was safe and summoned over Rex, who had up to this point been quietly lying in the corner of the dining room. With a tail wagging, a pink tongue hanging out and his head cocked to the side just a bit, Rex was immediately at Craig's side waiting for his master's next word.

Discretely Craig took his remaining piece of meatloaf and passed it to his four legged friend. One quick gulp and all evidence was gone. At nothing more than a whisper, Craig leaned over and told his friend, "Between you and me... I've never liked her meatloaf."

Flood

A short bit of fiction inspired by the writing prompt this week at Sunday Scribblings.

"Flood"

Where was it? Frantically, Belinda searched every nook and cranny hoping in near desperation that she would find it. Through mountains of chaos the ordered and obvious were no more. They had been, in just a few short hours, replaced with upheaval and disarray.

With tears steadily streaming down her smudged face, Belinda moved from room to room sorting through the disheveled pieces of her once well kept home. The mud and debris significantly impeded her progress, but did very little to slow her resolve to find her prized possession. It was here and she was determined that no amount of destruction would keep her from finding it.

Belinda could hardly believe she was now standing in her living room. Two feet to the right lay what was left of her washing machine while another couple of feet away was a mix of broken figurines from the curio and silverware from the kitchen cabinets. Nothing was where it should be. Still she looked.

Daylight now faded and the shadows grew long across her battered home. Belinda felt both emotionally and physically exhausted.

Flashes of red and blue light peeked their way through the front windows and Belinda knew it was the local Sheriff making his way up the street painfully having to order the residents of Carlyle street to vacate their properties.

She only had a few more moments before the inevitable knock on the door would come. One last scan across what used to be the dining room revealed something in the corner that caught her eye. "Could it be?" she thought. Hearing the rap of knuckles on the front door, Belinda quickly dashed to the other side of the room. She grasped at the dark green album that held her greatest treasures; the photographs of her late husband and both of her grown children. It was a little stained on the outside cover from the water, but the pages inside were in nearly perfect condition.

The Sheriff called out, "Hello, anyone in here?"

Belinda replied, "I'm in here."

"I hate to have to do this, but I'm afraid you're going to have to leave immediately." the officer pleaded.  "It's just not safe to be in here any longer."

Through tears and a wee bit of a smile, Belinda replied, "That's ok, I've got all I need with me now."

My Backyard

From this week's writing prompt at Sunday Scribblings.

"My Backyard"

The distinctive smell of flat stale beer and the omnipresent haze from a number of lit cigarettes both past and present, announced to the senses that I had walked into Callahan's.

An Irish Pub by designation was this neighborhood watering hole, which sadly, served as a home away from home to its usual cast of characters. Many of them were already assembled as often was the case by this time of the afternoon.

Mickey, a Goliath sized man with hands resembling that of a full sized Kodiak bear sat next to his long time friend Bruce Tate. They were jawing back and forth about something of little consequence as was generally their M.O. Politics I think it was today, but it could have easily been about the raw deal their foreman was giving them, or how much those god-damned A Rabs, as they so eloquently called them, were getting for a barrel of crude oil. It mattered not, because the subject of their debates may have changed from one day to the next, but their disdain for nearly everything outside of a couple of whiskeys was the one constant in their pathetic lives.

In the back corner, the only spot in the place with decent lighting was Frank. He was on his fourth of fifth pint by this point and his dart throwing skills were already showing the ill effects of his buzz. He'd only be another beer or two away from challenging anyone and everyone who'd pony-up a ten spot for a game. It was downright comical watching him drop his money repeatedly each time he'd get a taker. Still he tried and still he failed miserably.

Vivian was sitting at the end of the dark mahogany bar intently eying the door in anticipation of  the next businessman to walk in. Her advancing age and less than attractive lifestyle had deposited deep lines upon her face, much like a well traveled road in need of significant repair. Trying desperately to compensate for her shortcomings for what many would consider beauty, she typically wore bright colored, tight fitting tops with a low cut opening in front. Showing off her ample size on top she found, helped draw men in much the same way sugar beckons ants to come closer and have a taste. It seemed to be an effective ploy, because the upholstered bar stool next to her never stayed empty for any length of time. Another mark in her favor was the dim lighting of the old pub which helped her cause immensely.

Then their was Shamus, the owner and barkeep of this padded sewer. He was dressed in his usual attire of black slacks with a permanent crease from their no-iron polyester chemistry and a white button down the front shirt with sleeves rolled up just past the wrist. He also wore a hunter green apron  that hung just below his stomach and a matching bow tie. His once auburn colored hair gave way to more of a gray hue these days, and his voice once strong and boisterous was now subdued and scratchy from years of inhaling the toxic smoke of his patrons.

I ordered a bourbon and coke and retreated to a table along the south wall. There was a cribbage board sitting on the table that had four matchsticks placed in the holes replacing the colored pegs that had long since disappeared. From their positions I could tell the last game had not ended well for one of the players. The one using matches that had the burnt tips had been skunked, most certainly giving bragging rights to his partner.

I moved the wooden game board and deck of old stained playing cards to the adjacent table and opted for the newspaper that was there instead. The front page headline immediately caught my eye.

"Gruesome discovery leaves police questioning why?" was stretched out in bold black letters. I felt a warm rush as I dove into the words that followed. The police had discovered the remains of at least four bodies so far and were continuing their search, it explained. My fingers tugged playfully with the curly brown hairs adorning my chin and a content smile washed over my face.

"The police may have questions," I thought, "but I have all the answers."

About this same time Shamus reached up to the TV set that was perched above the end of the bar from a large metal arm. Pressing the inset button on the panel, he turned up the volume to hear the newscaster announcing some sort of breaking news.

It was channel eight and Kohr Daniels, the regular evening anchor chimed in, "We interrupt your regular programming to bring you this special report. Police have descended on a local home and at this moment are searching for yet more victims following yesterday's terrible discovery of four bodies in rural Brunswick County. We take you now to Crystal Chong who is live at the scene."

The steel faced anchor with the square jaw continued with, "We're getting reports that the police have found at least three more bodies. Is that right Crystal?"

Video coverage from their news helicopter showed an all too familiar location as the smooth skinned Asian reporter provided the commentary.

"That's right Kohr." Chong said with a voice that was strong, yet conveyed a feeling of concern.

"As you can see, local police as well as a host of other agencies have converged on this once quiet suburban neighborhood."

"It's an unbelievable scene here." she continued, "Right now they are using ground penetrating radar and are looking for voids in the subterranean surface in hopes of finding what they think will be quite a number of previously missing people."

"What kind of sick bastard does something like that?" Shamus uttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

Quietly I got up, folded the paper and tucked it under my arm as I started for the door. I knew I needed to get going before they showed a picture of the owner of the home they were at. I knew this because they were at this very moment, digging in my backyard.

You Are Here

 From this week's writing prompt at Sunday Scribblings

"You Are Here"

If you were to ask who had the coolest mom, we'd have told you hands down it was Gary Butler's mom, Mrs "B". Heck, she was probably the best in Alpine Springs, maybe even in the whole state.

On those long hot days of summer Mrs B would always have a big plate of bologna and cheese sandwiches for us to munch on and a pitcher of of ice cold lemon-aid to quench our thirsts.

Sunday's were one of my favorite days to happen by Gary's  place. Like most of us back then he had a house with one of those big covered porches in front and you could bet your bicycle Mrs B would be sitting on the bench swing reading from an old tattered black, leather bound Bible. You also knew on the table next to her would be a large ceramic platter with a couple dozen freshly baked cookies.

I never realized until that summer that there were so many different kinds of cookies. She made oatmeal-raisen ones and little ball shaped ones dusted with powdered sugar. There were round scalloped edged ones with jam filled centers. There were peanut butter cookies complete with criss crosses on top and then there were my favorites of course, chocolate chip with walnuts. Those in particular were best when they were still warm in the center from the oven and you could smell the melted chocolate hovering in the air.

The cookies sat there ready for the taking, but they did come with one small price. Before we could have one, (or two, or three) she'd read a verse from the good book and then ask each person if she could pray for them. Saying yes was never a prerequisite to getting your treat, but we always figured it wouldn't hurt either. Most of us thought it was a little goofy at the time, but now that I sit here all these years later preparing my sermon for the upcoming Sunday service I remember Mrs B's cookies and prayers and it puts a smile on my aging face.

The weekly trip to the cookie laden platter was great, but there was one other thing Mrs B did that clearly put her into the "Mom Hall of Fame".

It was the last week in August when summer vacation was coming to a close and the threat of another school year loomed on the horizon. I think Gary's mom knew we needed a boost and boy oh boy did she come through in a big way.

Making the rounds from one buddy's house to another, we eventually ended up at Gary's, and there it was. Hanging on the back fence was a hand drawn map. Not just any map mind you, but a fell fledged treasure map, complete with an "X" marking a yet undisclosed location. Scribed at the bottom in elegant handwriting were the words, "Young pirates... An adventure awaits you. Go forth, follow the clues and you will find the hidden gold!". It was signed, "Mrs Blackbeard".

I'm sure they heard us three counties away as we danced about cheering and shouting. With the speed of a gold medal relay team we tore around the side of the house to the front porch where a smiling Mrs B was waiting. Dressed in black pants, a white blouse and a scarlet sash tied around her mid section, she definitely looked the part of the piratess. She even had one of those traditional black flags with the skull and cross bones on it flying proudly where she normally kept one of her flower pattered ones.

"Where is it?"

Where's the gold Mrs B?", we cried loudly.

Through her ear to ear grin she handed us a rolled up scroll and said simply, "You found the map and now you have the clues to go along with it. Take them and find your gold."

Then she interjected, "Oh, and before you go, you may want these."

The "These" she was referring to was a bag full of bandannas, eye patches, feathers for our hair and even a couple of plastic swords. Yep, we were unmistakably a band of pirates now and were ready for our quest.

The next two or so hours would take us all over the neighborhood and even through the nearby park. From one discovery to the next, we trudged about, hooping and hollering all the way. With swords raised high we practiced our "Arrrgh's" and "Aye Matey's".

Up trees and over fences we went hoping each clue would be the one that ultimately led us to our treasure, and that's when we found it; the clue that said, "Congratulations young pirates, you've made it this far. Now go to Blackbeard's hideout and look for the X."

We knew exactly what it meant. Blackbeard's hideout was Mrs B's house.

"I knew it!" we all yelled. Like being shot from a cannon we took off for Gary's pla... that is, Blackbeard's place.

Once again we found Mrs B on the front porch.

"Where's the X?" we squealed.

Shrugging her shoulders and lifting her palms up she said, "Don't know. Maybe out back?"

That's all we needed. Around back we went like a flash. Pinned to the fence just where we started was a new note. This one said, "You are here". Below it was freshly tilled soil with a giant X placed on top of it fashioned out of golden fabric and leaning on the cedar fenced next to it was a shovel.

Gary got the honors and started digging. A few scoops in we all heard a "Clank!" Dropping the shovel Gary and the rest of us fell to our knees and started pawing at the dirt unearthing the small metal box that now doubled as a treasure chest. We lifted it out of the ground and popped open the lid. Our eyes opened wide and jaws fell agape as we looked inside. Dozens and dozens of gold coins lay glistening before us in the late summer sunlight. They were chocolate filled of course, but as far as we were concerned, they were pure gold.

~~~

Dedicated to my mom who was and still is a Mrs B mom.

The Call

A writing prompt from "Sunday Scribblings".

"The Call"

The time on the game clock showed a mere eight seconds left. West Slope High had been controlling the tempo of the game for the better part of the evening, but our boys from East Ridge fought back fiercely and managed to narrow the gap to a manageable three points. It was now what everybody on our side of the cold aluminum bleachers hoped for, a final push down the rain soaked field culminating into a "W" for us.

During the previous down, Cody Grant, our six-two, all American quarterback dropped back three steps for a pass play into the well protected pocket his linemen created . Unfortunately, when he went to plant his foot for a throw, he slipped in the mud and went down. It was no surprise though, because where there used to be lush green turf before the torrential rains of the evening and the constant trampling by all the boys in cleats was now nothing more than a giant mud hole. Somehow, miraculously it seemed, Cody regained his footing and squirmed to the left, narrowly missing being crushed by West Slope's Goliath of a defensive tackle.  Scrambling, Cody found a receiver down field and let go of the perfect spiral. Our wide receiver David Bradly had managed to stay one step ahead of the defender and with outstretched arms grabbed the ball as it fell perfectly into his grasp. As he hit the ground, he slid (more like hydroplaned) another six yards before being touched by West Slope's safety and ruled down.

Using our last time out, Coach Hacket stopped the clock with only eight ticks left. The ball was on the twelve yard line, and on a good night, well within field goal range. He knew he had a tough choice to make and the remaining time would only allow for one play. A field goal would tie the game and send it into overtime, but the conditions of the field made what would have normally been a easy shot, into a probable one at best. A touchdown would signal a win and would also garner him a Gatorade bath from the boys on the sidelines. On the flip side, he knew if they went for it and were unsuccessful, their season would abruptly come to an end.

With the game on the line and the advancement to the state championships at stake, Coach Hacket was prepared to take his chances with the ball on the ground. He called a reverse, banking on the defense looking for another pass play. As the team stood huddled in a large circle on the sideline, Coach gave them the play and called out, "East Ridge on three. One, Two, Three...", and all the players shouted in unison, "EAST RIDGE!"

Eleven mud soaked boys walked to the line with cheers from the stands encouraging them on. The referee blew his whistle signaling the ball ready for play. Cody started his cadence yelling out, "Blue forty-two. Blue forty-two. Hut, hut, hike..." and the center snapped the ball into his waiting hands. The defense sent most of their guys into coverage expecting a pass, but didn't completely sell out, sending a tackle off the strong side toward Cody. It was exactly what Coach had hoped for. Cody dropped back a few steps and handed the ball off to the running back Derrick Combs who reversed direction and took it up the weak side toward the end zone. As he raced across the five yard line, the defense adjusted and was barring down on him. Coming up on the end zone he was met by a wall of red jerseys with only one intent; stopping him from crossing the line.

With the clock at zero and a pile of players in both red and white uniforms mixed with brownish mud and green grass stains, the referee blew his whistle. The game was officially over and somewhere at the bottom of the pile was the football. The only question was, did Derrick manage to cross into the end zone or not? With everyone in the stands on our feet we waited for the call as the refs pulled bodies off the pile one by one.

After a few seconds, which seemed more like hours as we watched, the two line judges looked at each other, nodded their heads in agreement and simultaneously threw both their arms straight up into the air signaling "TOUCHDOWN!"