"We're Gonna Eat Peaches For Dessert!" Announced My Mother Cheerfully.

Fantastic ending but Jesus did it catch me off guard.

Karen’s Diner

Karen’s Diner: Where our burgers are mean and our staff are meaner!

“Are you fuckin morons gonna stand there gawking at our sign all day?!”

The young couple, having just wandered into the near-empty diner from the highway outside, flinch at my rude outburst—before descending into giggles.

“See, Sarah, I told you we should eat here!” says the man excitedly to his partner. “This waiter is hilarious!”

“Oi, dickhead!” I bark, thrusting menus into his chest. “Go sit in that booth and shut the fuck up.”

Exchanging amused looks, the pair take a seat at said booth while other waiters flip them off from across the diner. I take the opportunity to eavesdrop by aggressively wiping the table beside them.

“So, the whole gimmick is that the staff are nasty to us?” asks the woman sceptically. “How dumb, Chris. And what’s a ‘Karen’?”

“You know—abrasive, selfish, entitled assholes. Karens. Anyway, novelty aside, the menu looks great! All our favourite meals are on it.”

“Gonna order something, dipshits?” interrupts a scowling waitress with a notepad.

Thirty minutes later, we bring their food out. Setting the plates on their table, I elbow a soda glass straight into the woman’s lap. She yelps as freezing ice drenches her clothes.

“Oops, clumsy me” I sneer, eating a fry off her club sandwich.

“Hey! What the hell?!” the man shouts, flabbergasted.

“So soweee” mocks the waitress, spitting in his spaghetti.

“Okay, this is going too far…” the woman murmurs. But it’s far too late for them to stop it.

At once, the waitstaff begin pelting the couple with glassware. Terrified, the pair’s complaints become shrieks as sharp projectiles lacerate their skin.

“Help! I want the manager!” screams the bleeding man, attempting to leave the booth. In response, I slam his head into his plate, splitting open his cheek.

Joining in the carnage, my fellow waitress uses a steak knife to slash chunks of hair from the screaming woman’s scalp.

“You can’t treat us like this!” they sob defeatedly. “We’re patrons!”

Us “waiters” just turn to each other and laugh.

That’s where they’re wrong. They’re no customers.

They’re death row inmates.

Back in the dark days, every prisoner was entitled to a last meal of their choosing—no matter how undeserving. Meanwhile, the cost of executing killers kept going up. Eventually, government officials had an idea.

Why not kill two birds with one stone?

Grab death row inmates, wipe their memories, drop them at a diner across from the prison, serve them their last meals, have the victims’ family members perform as malicious servers and…execute monsters.

And so Karen’s Diner was born—named after the last child to be savaged by criminals before society stepped up its justice system.

“This is for my daughter” I seethe, inching towards the maimed, memory-wiped convicts in the booth. ”The girl you killed.”

“This is for Karen.”

Those Green Eyes

I’ve never thought about the possibility of a break-in before.

I mean, sure. I know it happens. Some of my friends had experienced it before, quite unfortunately.

It’s just not something you ever think could happen to you.

Plus, my house doesn’t stand out as anything special in our cookie cutter neighborhood. It’s not those incredibly wealthy neighborhoods hidden behind a gate, probably a goldmine of expensive valuables. But it’s also a really nice neighborhood with such a low crime rate.

So yeah, I didn’t consider a break-in as a possibility.

Until that one summer night, when I was twelve, and my brother was fourteen.

I had my friend, Craig, over for a sleepover. My brother and I stayed up late playing Roblox lying on our stomachs in front of the warm, living room fireplace. Craig had his ipad, I was using the family computer that we’d unplugged and moved onto the floor, and my brother was using his tiny laptop. Our parents were upstairs sleeping, leaving only us three awake.

After beating us at a few rounds of Survive the Tornado, my brother got up and stretched. “I’m taking a break.”

Before anyone could reply, a strange noise left us all frozen in complete silence.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a fingernail on a windowpane.

It had come from the window on the front door.

“What was that?” Craig hissed.

“Maybe it was nothing.” I tried to insist, but my voice quivered in fear.

Tap tap tap. This time, we all stared at each other, terror etched onto our faces. I kept my gaze locked on my older brother, whose jaw jutted out. He does this whenever he's deep in thought.

I considered running upstairs to grab our parents, but the stairs were right in front of the door. My heart pounded in my chest as if warning me to get out of there.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK! Following the noise was a cracked, flickering groan, undead-like in its intonation.

We didn’t hesitate. My brother scooped up the old family dog who’d been lying peacefully next to us in a deep sleep, and the three of us bolted away towards the closest bathroom.

The small place only had a toilet and a sink. My brother locked the door behind us and we all crouched in the crowded area.

We remained in total darkness and silence, except for our heavy breaths.

And then the dog growled. Low and deep from my brother’s arms.

“What’s wrong with her?” Craig hissed fearfully. He almost sounded like he was about to cry.

Tap tap tap. There it was again, on the tiny bathroom window, which regrettably had no blinds or curtains covering the pitch-black night.

The dog started barking. Scratchy, angry barks, not the playful kind she used to greet someone at the door.

And from the pitch blackness of the window, two bright green eyes stared down at us.

We all screamed. In our scramble, I don’t remember who locked the door, but we all rushed out at once, bounding straight through the darkened living room and up the stairs, until finally reaching our parents' room.

With the family dog still tight in his arms, my brother tried to explain that someone was stalking the house. One of our dads grabbed a baseball bat and flounced outside around the house, and the other comforted us in their room after calling the cops.

My dad found the gate leading to the backyard wide open. So was our garage, even though we’d never heard it open.

Some of the boxes we kept in storage inside of it were tipped over, but we couldn’t tell if anything had been stolen.

A gruff police officer talked to the dad who had stayed inside with us about the incident, taking down notes.

“Did you see what the perpetrator looked like?” He asked me.

I tried to respond, but I was too distracted by his familiarly shiny green eyes.

~~~

Based off of a short story I wrote when I was younger.

"would you still love me if I was a worm?"

she said, as she reached for the zipper of her human suit.

No story today, appreciate this artwork

Art by Vincenzo Lamolinara

Everyone knows that actions speak louder than words.

Yet, for some reason, my English teacher gave me an F when I mimed my essay instead of writing it.

I can’t go home. There are only a few places open this late and I am walking. I leave a trail of footprints in the powdery snow. The music hall in the middle of town is playing a local band no one has heard of and a single popup store sits outside. I go to the window. The clerk is on her phone in the small cramped cart. Her screen goes dark and she looks up. Her hair is deep brown and tied back so neat and boxy you’d think it was a nun’s habit.

“Hot chocolate,” I say.

The clerk is nonplussed. She takes my money. Her habit-like-hair is stiff and doesn’t shift as she nods and counts my ones. She moves from one end of the little cart to the other with a Styrofoam cup. 

She carries the sugar-thick hot chocolate in one hand and it lets out a thick steam. I am sure she made it too hot. She stops. Her gaze draws up and over my shoulder. Her pupils expand and shoulders rise almost to her ears.

She glances at my face and then away again. Her lips are thin and uncolored. She mouths the words like an unskilled ventriloquist, “do you need me to call someone?”

I shake my head and take the cup and the texture is squeaky and flakes off in my grip. I walk. My footprints mark the powder-white snow and my city only has a few places open at this time of night. My legs are numb with cold and my eyes ache from lack of sleep. I am grateful for the street lights which are all a pale blue color that is supposed to help the birds. I am a bird person, I think, if I was going to be anything.

Cars pass and I am grateful for those too. I reach the street of little cramped stores, one after the next. A fabric store. A second-hand book store. Florists and boutique shoe shops. All too charming to be supportive. The Walmart is just outside our small town limits and I can’t go home.

Across the street, the pub has lowlights on and voices rumble like a thunderstorm from within. I don’t think the rest of the town likes the pub. The bar has one long window made up of colored glass in muted reds and blues and yellows. It reminds me of church windows and leaves the impression of making up for it. Making up for being what it is.

I square my shoulders and push my way in. The air is warm and floor a good type of dark wood. The tables are full enough to be considered a party–or, what I imagine a party to be like. I hadn’t noticed the dusting of snow on my hoodie, and shook it off like dandruff.

The man behind the counter gives me a cursory look. He is a big man with a large mouth and wears frowns like he’s making up for something too. “Mark isn’t here,” he says in a further cursory manner. I shake my head and make my way to the counter. I hadn’t finished my hot chocolate and clutch the Styrofoam cup in both hands.

“Warm up?” I ask but Steven Plyer, the barkeep, is looking over my shoulder. He mouths to himself silently like he’s working out a math problem under his breath.

Two men, big and strapping, move away from the bar’s church-like window. They take seats at the end of the bar and Steven Plyer, the barkeep, leans over the counter. His pupils are ink-dipped coins. I fiddle with the ends of my sleeves. He looks over my shoulder just as I push my hot chocolate closer over the counter.

“There’s a whole world out there,” he says.

I close my eyes. “I know.”

“You don’t have to go.”

I shake my head and Steven Plyer takes my hot chocolate and disappears behind the swinging doors to the back. The rest of the men have moved away from the window and sit on either side of me. They murmur in voices too low to hear.

The oldest of them, a man that smells like leather, stands. His voice has a vibrating quality, unsmooth, dragging out the “a’s” like a regal sheep. “Do your parents know?”

Steven Plyer returns with my hot chocolate steaming and passes it to me with both hands. I get up because the old man needs my seat, I think. The first two men huddle by the front door, coats on and heads bent together like prayer, and I leave without them. The snow is no longer powder but inch-thick fluff. I kick up the fluff with each step and the silver hangs about me like fairy lights, I imagine. I take a sip of hot chocolate and it is too hot and too sweet and you can be grateful for that too.

The sidewalk ends and I walk alongside the side of the road just on the edge of the white line. I think I can see the lights of the Walmart beyond the lights of the city. Trees gather on either side and I miss the blue glow of the street lights and the concerned gaze of the clerk in her tiny cart. I wish she had come with me. I wish Steven Plyer had called me by name.

A solitary car passes and its stark white headlights blare against the night, more violent than kind, and I have to shield my eyes. The car is red and large and pulls to stop on the other side of the road. The window rolls down and a curly-haired woman sticks her head out. Her face is small and elfish and mouth pinches together at the corners. She wears a tight shirt buttoned up all the way to her throat like it might hold her in.

The head beams glow perpendicular to me and I regard the woman as she regards me. She is slow to speak. Slower than the men at the bar had been.

“Get in,” she says, buttoned-up to the throat and with eyes more tired than sad.

“No,” I say and take a sip from the hot chocolate. It’s cold.

Her windshields wipe away the snow and she looks over her dashboard. Her voice is breathy in the way of a Hollywood actress from a bygone era. “I’m worried.”

I nod. They all are. “That can be enough.”

Her mouth zips together into an angry line. She sticks her head out the window, close to a snarl, looking past me, and honks her horn in one long blast. I shy away from the noise and the too-brightness of her head beams. She drives with her head out the window, honking her horn over and over again as loud as she can.

I walk and there are no more cars. The snow settles over my shoulders and I don’t bother to dust off my hood or warm my hands. I leave the white line and walk in the middle of the road. The lights of the Walmart warm the night just outside of town and I can make out the outline of parked cars in the distance. They’re aren’t that many places open this late at night. 

I slow to a stop and sway a bit, like I'm drunk, I think, if this is what that's like. A second pair of footprints mark the snow in front of me. When had that happened? I tilt my head all the way back. The clouds are bright like daylight and snow growing heavy. I think it will all be glittering when the morning comes.

FIN

My book! 🐈 Newsletter

CLOWN IN A CORNFIELD COMES OUT TOMORROW

No story today, enjoy this horrific artwork of Anxiety

Anxiety, 3D concept art by Martin TK Hamilton

Poor Comatose Souls

There are hospitals where people can hear the thoughts of coma patients.

When this technology was first invented, it came with caveats.

The first was that the machine only worked on a random handful of coma patients. This angered many heartbroken family members who’d excitedly waited for the technology.

The second was that the mind-scanning devices were not powered by electricity, but some proprietary secret.

Despite its exclusive, mysterious nature, this new technology yielded incredible results. Entire thoughts of a select few comatose were broadcast to their loved ones. Nostalgic memories, song lyrics and philosophical ruminations were streamed right from their brains into speakers, bringing closure to loved ones.

As an orderly at one of the few hospitals using this tech, I grew curious. Dr Wincott, the neuroscientist in charge of the comaprojection unit, was tightlipped and we were under strict orders never to pry for more info. If patients were a viable candidate for comaprojection, we’d project their thoughts.

But what about the rejected candidates? What would happen if the scanner was used on this majority? Surely it couldn’t worsen their situation if they’re already in a long-term coma?

One day my curiosity got the better of me. While doing my rounds, I snuck into the coma ward. I entered the room of one of the rejected coma patients, Mrs Flowers, a middle-aged woman in a coma for 3 years after being struck by a cyclist. Despite her long stay, she looked peaceful.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I heard from the speakers when I turned the mind-scanner on.

Howling, agonized, unrelenting screams. Minutes upon minutes of screaming. The sound was so guttural I nearly collapsed as Mrs Flowers’ comatose cries reverberated around the room.

By the time I switched it off, Dr Wincott had already been summoned by the cacophony.

“What the hell?!” I sputtered to him in the doorway. “Those were her screams! She’s conscious and suffering!”.

I pointed to her motionless in bed.

“That’s why it’s better not to use the device on most” Dr Wincott answered emotionlessly. “Some people are peaceful in comas. Their families pay top dollar to hear their thoughts. But most long-term patients are like Mrs Flowers.”

“Then why not pull the plug?! Raise the alarm about what they’re experiencing?!”

Dr Wincott just cackled, motioning to the scanner.

“What do you think is powering the tech in the first place? It’s those screams.”

I’d learned too much. As I tried to flee the building, I felt the sharp push of Dr Wincotts hands against my back. I tumbled down that flight of stairs…and straight into the coma I’m in now.

Within my comatose mind, I repeat this story to myself again and again on loop. Hoping someone uses the device on me and learns the truth. If you’re hearing this, please blow the whistle on Dr Wincott and comaprojection.

If you’re not, then it won’t be long until I’m screaming too.