You mean I made the deadline! Wow. Here goes: Scene 1: Maggie made for her front door. With luck her mom would be out back, surveying the horizon for any sign of her, and she could poke her head out the back door and innocently ask, Have you been calling me? She had used the feint before to good effect, and hoped for the best. She ran up to the front door and stopped there to catch her breath. The trick obviously would not work if she was winded. Then she looked at her soiled clothes and began to doubt that this strategy would work. Still, it was worth a try. After a moment or two she swallowed the last of her panting and eased the front door open. The smell of dinner cooking made her realize how hungry she was. Her mom was making spaghetti, one of her favorites, and the aromas of garlic mixed with those of rosemary, basil and oregano. Unfortunately, she could hear movement in the kitchen. Her mother was inside, not out, making this feint all the more unlikely to succeed. If she could sneak across the hall and get upstairs unobserved, then quickly change her clothes, she had a chance. Cautiously, she entered the hall. Margaret Louise Walton! Her mother stood at the stove stirring the spaghetti sauce, not even turning her head. Where have you been? She popped the lid back on the sauce pan to contain the bubbling mixture and turned her steely gaze on her wayward daughter. Her expression became even more grim when she laid eyes on the state of her attire. What in the world! She crossed the kitchen to the hall in a series of quick, sharp steps, to seize Maggie by the shoulder for closer inspection. Maggie was a mess, and she saw the dismay in her mother's eyes. The mud, caked on her shoes and around the cuffs of her jeans, was flaking off onto the highly polished floor. Worse yet, the dampness from her wet underwear accentuated the grime, crispy outlining her bar and panties on her outer garments. What is the meaning of this, young lady? She looked at the floor, twisting a bit on her ankles. Ma'am? You're are a mess! And the garden still has not been weeded. Where have you been? Didn't you hear me calling you? Why, I was about to call the police. Didn't I tell you not to wander off without telling me where you were going? The questions flew much too fast to afford any opportunity for a response, and no response was needed. Maggie stood somber and silent, while her mother vent her spleen. Finally, the tirade ended with, Your father will be home soon, and I won't have you looking like that! Go take a shower, and be quick about it. I don't want you making dinner late! Now get! Maggie bolted up the stairs as her mother took a half hearted swipe at her bottom. And how'd you get so wet? Maggie did not answer, but just dashed into the bathroom and closed the door. Scene 2: Maggie made for her front door. With luck her mom would be out back, surveying the horizon for any sign of her, and she could poke her head out the back door and innocently ask, Have you been calling me? She had used the feint before to good effect, and hoped for the best. She ran up to the front door and stopped there to catch her breath. The trick obviously would not work if she was winded. Then she looked at her soiled clothes and began to doubt that this strategy would work. Still, she had try. After a moment or two she swallowed the last of her panting and eased the front door open. Despite the smell of dinner cooking, she realized how hungry she was. Her mom was making spaghetti, again, and the smell of garlic and mismatched herbs made her stomach reel. Unfortunately, she could hear movement in the kitchen. Her mother was inside, not out, all but dooming this feint. If she could only sneak across the hall and get upstairs unobserved, then quickly change her clothes, she still had a chance. Cautiously, she entered the hall. Margaret Louise Walton! Her mother stood at the stove stirring the spaghetti sauce like mad. She did not even bother to turn her head. Where have you been? she demanded, slamming the lid back on the sauce pan. Only then did she turn her steely gaze on her daughter. Her expression became even more severe when she laid eyes on the state of her attire. What in the world! She crossed the kitchen to the hall in a series of quick, sharp steps, to roughly seize Maggie by the shoulder for closer inspection. Maggie was a mess, and she saw the fury in her mother's eyes. The mud, caked on her shoes and around the cuffs of her jeans, was flaking off onto her mother's precious, highly polished floor. Worse yet, the dampness from her wet underwear accentuated the grime, crispy outlining her bar and panties on her outer garments. What is the meaning of this, young lady? She looked at the floor, twisting a bit on her ankles. Ma'am? You're are a mess! And the garden still has not been weeded. Where have you been? Didn't you hear me calling you? Why, I was about to call the police. Didn't I tell you not to wander off without telling me where you were going? The questions flew much too fast to afford any opportunity for a response, for no response was possible, not when her mother was in this mood. Maggie stood somber and silent, while her mother vent her spleen. Finally, the tirade ended with, Your father will be home soon, and I won't have you looking like that and spoiling our dinner. Go take a shower, and be quick about it! Now get! Maggie bolted up the stairs, but not quick enough to avoid the sharp smack on her behind. And how the hell did you get so wet? her mother demanded. Maggie did not answer, but just dashed into the safety of the bathroom, quickly closing and bolting the door behind her.

 
~jon
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