Daily writing prompts from June 9th, 2008 to December 31st, 2022
Sunday September 4th, 2022
The exercise:
Write about: a family dinner.
Had Kat's aunt and uncle who live in Penticton over for a BBQ this evening. Between the pandemic and moving, it was our first dinner guests in a long time.
I'm a little late on this; I'm going to Mallorca later this week so I've been busy sorting everything out ready for that. It's only for a couple of days, but work still needs looking after....
A family dinner "Put the dog on the floor," said War, his tone indicating that he was not interested in any reasons, good or bad, why the dog shouldn't be on the floor. Scuffles opened his mouth, looked around the table, and realised that everyone was watching to see if he was going to say anything. He closed it again and set Hilda gently on the floor. "Thank-you," said War. Hilda waited until he'd finished speaking, then deftly lept back up onto Scuffles's lap. She looked like a small, black-and-tan, chihuahua; all huge brown eyes, apple-shaped head, pointed, pricked ears and hellfire breath. She was in fact one of War's hellhounds, which accounts for the breath and the attitude. "Oh for... my sake," said War. "Hilda!" The hellhound looked at him and bared her teeth, growling low and slow as though she thought he was going to try and take a favourite toy away from her. War stood up, intent on walking round the table to take her bodily from Scuffles's lap, and Hilda blew a small fireball across the table towards him. It charred the top layer of the walnut-pesto pasta that was in a large, earthenware bowl between them, and there was a rich, earthy smell of toasting walnuts suddenly everywhere. "You're not to feed her at the table," said War, sitting back down. "And I'm sure she's picked that attitude up from Famine. If she starts speaking in tongues she's going for retraining." He picked his napkin up and unfolded it by holding a corner and flicking it out like a whip. "Grace. There, that's said, so go ahead and eat." "What did he mean, speaking in tongues? It's a hellhound, they don't talk." The speaker was Gang Warfare, one of War's nephews, and sitting next to Scuffles. Hilda turned her head to regard her with a truly baleful stare.
3 comments:
I'm a little late on this; I'm going to Mallorca later this week so I've been busy sorting everything out ready for that. It's only for a couple of days, but work still needs looking after....
A family dinner
"Put the dog on the floor," said War, his tone indicating that he was not interested in any reasons, good or bad, why the dog shouldn't be on the floor. Scuffles opened his mouth, looked around the table, and realised that everyone was watching to see if he was going to say anything. He closed it again and set Hilda gently on the floor.
"Thank-you," said War. Hilda waited until he'd finished speaking, then deftly lept back up onto Scuffles's lap. She looked like a small, black-and-tan, chihuahua; all huge brown eyes, apple-shaped head, pointed, pricked ears and hellfire breath. She was in fact one of War's hellhounds, which accounts for the breath and the attitude.
"Oh for... my sake," said War. "Hilda!"
The hellhound looked at him and bared her teeth, growling low and slow as though she thought he was going to try and take a favourite toy away from her. War stood up, intent on walking round the table to take her bodily from Scuffles's lap, and Hilda blew a small fireball across the table towards him. It charred the top layer of the walnut-pesto pasta that was in a large, earthenware bowl between them, and there was a rich, earthy smell of toasting walnuts suddenly everywhere.
"You're not to feed her at the table," said War, sitting back down. "And I'm sure she's picked that attitude up from Famine. If she starts speaking in tongues she's going for retraining." He picked his napkin up and unfolded it by holding a corner and flicking it out like a whip. "Grace. There, that's said, so go ahead and eat."
"What did he mean, speaking in tongues? It's a hellhound, they don't talk." The speaker was Gang Warfare, one of War's nephews, and sitting next to Scuffles. Hilda turned her head to regard her with a truly baleful stare.
"She," said Scuffles whilst leaning over her slightly to reach for the pasta and pushing the top layer aside to get to the creamy farfalle beneath. Smells of hot cheese and nutmeg mingled with the roasted walnut as he spooned some onto his plate. "She's a she, and she's well aware of it. And Famine doesn't speak in tongues exactly, it's just that he's affected by modern vocabulary. He claims that there's a grammar famine, but I don't know how you'd check if that's true or if he just likes the words."
"Right," said Gang Warfare. She sounded uncertain and a black-fingernailed hand reached up to pat her pink mohawk as though to check it was still there. The parts of her head without hair were covered in swirling tattoos that looked like a message written in hieroglyphics. "But the dog doesn't talk, right?"
"Not sure," said Scuffles. He leaned the other way and Hilda repositioned herself to keep an eye on Gang Warfare, who squirmed a little, to reach for the dish of spinach gratinéed with crumbled bacon. "Pest seems to be able to talk to her; she's definitely got a soft spot for him. But unless you can get her to talk to you as well I don't know how you'd prove that he can talk to her."
"I've not met Pest," said Gang Warfare. She looked around the table and picked up a stuffed aubergine cunningly made to look like a grenade and put it on her plate. It sat there, alone and sad in a white expanse, as though she didn't quite understand the idea of dinner. "What's he like?"
"He's supposed to be here," said War. "I gave him instructions to be here at 11, and not to bring that pest Famine with him."
"But Fam's fam," said Scuffles without thinking, and all the conversation around the table stopped instantly as the thunderheads of War's anger coalesced above the table into a grey storm.
"Go to your room! And take the damn dog with you!"
Scuffles sighed and picked his plate up, glad that he's mostly finished filling it, and tucked Hilda under his other arm.
"You've got anger management issues," he said to War, deciding that he may as well say it while War couldn't get any angrier. "I mean, you've all got issues, and Fam takes too much pleasure in winding you up, but your anger's getting out of hand. We can't even have a simple family dinner without you exploding and throwing lightning bolts."
War's eyes bulged and E. Kevin Gway, who had been trying to shell a hard-boiled egg with no success, dived under the table. Then there was a sudden break in the clouds, which had no place above a dining table, and War got himself under control.
"Sit back down," he said, sounding ungracious. "I think there might be a point in what you've just said."
Greg - and I am much delayed in saying so, but I hope your trip was pleasant!
And now a visit from War (and family)! You're spoiling me.
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