Frydaze Challenge

[Madhatterat60]

An easy way to overcome writer's block is to set aside what you're presently working on (or stumped on) and do something completely different. SO...here's a challenge:

Write a dinner scene without making it a talking heads scene.

TALKING HEADS SCENE: A talking heads scene is where the characters exchange a great deal of conversation...in which nothing happens and nothing advances the plot in any direction.

Post them here.

Good Luck!

[Vikkig]

I find when there are too many thoughts to pull anything together creatively writing about something familiar helps with focus.

Cinnamon Toast
There is a special place on the kitchen table where a loaf of soft white bread and a jar of sweet cinnamon sugar await the early bird to each weekends’ Saturday morn. Sitting on the table wing that droops a little to the left; unsteady, it wills itself steadfast each night placed as each time before, ready for the early bird who wakes first to taste and eat as much as it dares, leaving little to spare, for those whose dreams keep them wrapped in the comforts of beds’ rest. It is far too early this morning and I’ve eaten my share, left a mess for the next; out the door I go to play for I am the early bird, young and brave and I love cinnamon toast.

[Madhatterat60]

The man in the shabby coat sat with his back to the wall of the small diner so he could keep one eye on the door. His layers of clothes peeked through various rends in the coat. He crooked his left arm around his meal like a fortress wall while his left hand clutched the available silverware like a bouquet of flowers for an expected lover. As his right hand tipped the bowl of thick stew, the man lowered his head to meet the rim with his mouth.
Hunched over the bowl like an asthmatic breathing in healing vapors, the diner snorted into his meal like a starving animal, a series of clearly audible gulping sounds followed each intake of air. His greasy, black locks cascaded from the top of his head, providing a partial curtain for the spectacle. His eyes, black specks of fire, flicked up towards the door now and then.
Not all the stew made it into his snapping cavern of a mouth. Bits of pasta and other stew debris dribbled into his black, graying beard, adding to the twisted mat. The brown sauce colored his mustache and upper lip and dribbled down the sides of his mouth, disappearing into his beard. He continued to gulp his food as his left hand whipped out and skewered bread from the bowl in the center of the table on his butter knife. His snakeªquick movements sent a water glass skipping in the opposite direction.
Only when the glass shattered on the floor did the man look at his surroundings. Like a carnivore startled from its carcass, the man froze, then glanced at every face in the room, most carefully at his table companion. His companion saw shock cross his face, and awareness. His frown lines softened into worry lines as flint hard eyes melted into lipid pools of obsidian. His right sleeve started for his mouth and froze half way into the motion, as if he suddenly remembered table manners.
"I've been gone long time this time," he said. "Haven't I?"