The Pancake Stack

Frank had grown accustomed to the sharp sound of dragging metal and the smell of bleach. Once upon a time he would sit bolt up in his bed, sweat falling in large beads from his forehead, the stained and frayed sheet a wet tangle at his cold feet.

Today he woke up with a welcomed sunspot on his bed, warming his usually cold and aching feet.

Breathing in deeply through his nose, smelling passed the bleach, Frank scented something that he hadn't smelled in what felt like a lifetime.

It was his wife's famous homecooked breakfast.

Laura had always been a marvelous cook. In her home she proudly displayed her 20+ cookbooks, she had one of every kind it seemed.

Vegan, vegetarian, pescatarian, meat eaters delight, the works.

Laura loved caring for others, she had always been that way, and cooking was, in her words, "the simplest way to show love to those who may not know how to receive it".

In her lifetime, Laura had met people from every walk of life. As an accomplished psychologist and professor at her local esteemed college, she had met many souls who had experienced pain, and the very worst life had to offer. Laura loved and cared for them all, and they adored her.

While understanding that not everybody can accept physical affection, or even tolerate it, she always found that an offering of something homemade, with love, helped her "hug" the people who weren't comfortable with the physical stuff. Her heart was pure, and as much as she loved to cook for others, it was also the structure of recipes that she loved. Straight forward instructions, and measurements', gave her busy mind a sense of calm.

Frank, laying in his bed, waiting for his eyes to adjust to being awake, could almost see her in his mind. Her hair cropped tightly, a silk scarf wrapped around her head. Her rubber duck yellow crocs squeaking under her small feet, as she danced to whatever music was playing in the open tabs of her mind. The kitchen a complete mess, fresh daisies from the garden in a vase on the kitchens stained, rustic dining table, and bacon sizzling in the pan.

The sharp cracking and popping of the bacon almost covered up that horrible scrape of the sliding metal.

Frank groaned as he hoisted himself out of bed, since turning 58, groaning during, after, or before movement, had become the norm for him. Now at 71 the groans had deepened, as had the back pain. An inevitable result of years of labour and this confounded mattress. He pulled on his overalls and slip on shoes, then slowly made his way to the toilet. The unmistakable smell of crispy maple bacon got him thinking on the other mouthwatering, wonderful things Laura would have made up for her famous breakfast. He thought of the fried eggs, over easy, just as he liked. The toasted sourdough, covered in raspberry jam, assorted fruits, no kiwis though, Frank hated the damned things, orange juice, tea AND coffee, and of course, the center piece; The Pancake Stack. 6 thick, fluffy pancakes, oozing with maple syrup and butter. As Frank brushed his teeth he could visualise the globs of syrup dripping down the side of the stack and his stomach cramped in response.

He was pulled from his revelry and longing for Laura's breakfast by the clang of metal and the guard calling his number.

Frank stood to attention as he had done for 18 years, turned to face the wall, and lay his palms flat against the damp, mould reeking cell wall. The CO entered the cell and filled the space. George was a remarkably large man. Wide in the shoulders and exceptionally tall. Frank being a man of 6ft, had to look up at George, meaning he was very tall indeed. "A fine morning, Officer George", Frank grumbled, the annoyance of being lifted from his fantasy had leaked into his normally cheerful voice.

"Hmm hmm" replied George, patting Frank down and allowing him to turn to face him. "18 years Frank, and here we are at the end of the line, you gonna be ok"?

George had been here 6 days a week, 10 hours a day, for the 18 years Frank had been locked away. The two had built a sort of friendship, if you could call it that, over the years.

Frank was, for the most part, a well behaved inmate, at least for George he was, and George had a softness to him most CO's did not. It was a rare day indeed when the other officers didn't abuse you in some way or other.

"Nothing my wife's famous breakfast couldn't fix", Frank winks at George, then, satisfied that Frank is unarmed, George gives the go ahead to the guard waiting outside with a trolley overflowing with food, to come in. The jealous moans and cusses from the other inmates, men who have been living off glorified gruel for untold years, could be heard over the squeaking wheels of the trolley. Franks mouth fills with saliva.

"You know, I always told Laura that her breakfast would be my last meal, and we would both laugh together. You fellas did a fine job getting this together, didn't miss a single item! I'd swear you had the main woman herself cook it up!" The other guard scoffed in disgust at this remark. Frank looked up at the man, he could never remember his name, probably because he beat Frank most days and once or twice gave him a concussion. Said concussions may have given Frank some issues with memory, or, Frank did it to antagonise him. Like a lot of things with Frank, we will never know. "Did I say something to offend, Kevin?", Frank asked, innocence thick as honey, coating his voice.

With a scorned lovers rage, the guard bellowed, "you know damn well my name is not Kevin, it's Kyle, and secondly, you know your wife had nothing to do with cooking this because you killed her!". The cell fell quiet.