Day 26: Meritorious

Word of the Day:



deserving praise, reward, esteem, etc.; praiseworthy: to receive a gift for meritorious service.

Alright.  Here goes:

“Dude.”  I looked at him solemnly.  “This pie.”

“I know,” Andrew said, grinning.

“No,” I said.  “You don’t.  This pie.  This pie is unbelievable.  This pie is meritorious.”


“Meritorious.  If I had a blue ribbon right now, it would be yours.”

“So…I should open that bakery?” he asked.

“I don’t care if you open the bakery or not,” I said.  “But you need to give me this pie right nowAll of it.

“The whole thing?” he laughed.

“I need all the pie, Andrew.  I need all of it; I need it now.”

He laughed in that wonderful way of his—a full body laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes crinkled.

I grabbed the pie and bolted, ignoring his shouts behind me to come back.

The pie was mine.

What?  I’m hungry, okay?

Cara Kennaway


10 thoughts on “Day 26: Meritorious

      1. Well, it’s just that sometimes I consciously and actively want pie (like, when I’m thinking about it or reading prompt fills about it) and sometimes I only subconsciously want pie (like, when I’m thinking about something else).

  1. There is a roaring fire in the fireplace. The mantelpiece is lined with plaques and medals commemorating displays of meritorious valor given on faraway battlefields. The doilies and china tastefully positioned throughout the room suggest the presence of a fine, classy woman in this war hero’s life. The walls are decorated by portraits of kind-eyed ancestors who seem to gaze approvingly at the rich furnishings, as though thinking, “Only look at our great-great-great grandson. What a life he has made for himself.”

    For all that, there’s something empty and echoing about the room; a hollow ring to the clean-faced suitableness of it all.

    Or maybe she’s only imagining that, knowing what it hides. Knowing what tidings she brings.

    Suddenly, the man himself enters the room. He looks just like the man in the portrait hanging over his left shoulder. He smiles when he sees that she’s looking at his awards.

    “Hello,” he says warmly. “It’s always such a pleasure to receive visitors. But I’m afraid that the maid failed to tell me your name, Miss…?”

    “This isn’t a social call, Sir Marquette. I have some news,” she says, leaving his unspoken question unanswered.

    He blinks once in surprise, but quickly recovers his pleasantly dignified manner (though it now comes across as a bit forced). “Oh. Of course. What is it?”

    “Your son is dead.”

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