It was the greasiest spoon I'd ever mustered the courage to step inside of. I nearly slipped out of the barstool as I took a seat at the counter. The waitress approached and slid me an oily menu across the chipped Formica, and I caught a whiff of burnt toast and ashtrays. I could sense the residual smoke exiting her lungs on the exhale. She smiled at me and I thought her teeth might fall out and bounce across the counter into someone's coffee or scrambled eggs.
I asked her what was good today. She told me that the bacon was smoked to perfection and the grits were to die for. Apparently their homemade gravy could induce a spontaneous communion with God, which I wasn't sure was a good thing.
None of this surprised me. I decided to pass on the gravy as I was too hungover to talk with anyone, especially God. I ordered the grits with extra butter and a side of bacon, and a cup of bitter sludge that was supposed to be coffee. I took it to go.
The bacon was delicious, but the grits were an epiphany.
DU LIEST GERADE
Nothing to See Here
KurzgeschichtenThese are short stories, flash and microfictions, most less than 500 words, the longest about 1500 words. Short, funny, and sometimes fun. Sometimes pointed and sometimes pointless. These stories have been described as eclectic, quirky, and sometime...
