This morning's prompt is 'pancakes'.

or 

Face, place and problem is somebody comes to visit yesterday's ACAD?

Somebody has goats and milk and wants to trade...

Ben was patching up his worst pair of pants, rags really, when he became aware of the neighbors sounding off. That much moaning was never good, but one of the moans cut off and he heard a tell-tale mushy, no longer meaty, thwock, several of them.

"Hey the house, a little help would be appreciated!"

Ben flew out the back door, then cursed his stupidity and took what cover there was by the dead refrigerator he had taken to using for dry storage. He peered around and over the fence and decided in for a penny, in for a pound.

The woman had the neighbor family down and Ben wasn't sure how he felt about that. A little shame, perhaps. He really coulda, woulda, shoulda... hadn't, seen to his neighbors. It would have been the decent thing to do.

"Sorry about the mess..."

Ben looked up from that to meet the woman's eyes, thinking she was being passive aggressive and detecting no judgement. She was a short middle aged black woman, maybe in her late thirties, short afro under a beach hat. She wore different sizes of clothing, baggy cargo shorts with a rope belt, hiking boots, a blood bank t-shirt and flannel long sleeve shirt tied over her shoulders. There was a satchel bag with a buckle over her left shoulder and a bloody, pointy headed hoe in her left hand, a lefty, he thought to himself. Like-

His mind shied away from who she was left-handed like.

There was a muffled clink from the satchel as she turned and swore. More company.

"Come inside. I don't want to deal with them either."

"You trust me?"

"I guess I feel like living dangerously. If you kill me, I'll just have to haunt you..."

"People!"

Ben shut the gate behind them and said. "You made that sound like a curse."

"It was. People are trouble, always have been."

Ben held out his hand. "Ben Martin."

She took it and shook. "Brenda, Brenda Flynn." She smiled. "I'm Irish."