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The Diner

Or where an old god went

By Brittany MacKeownPublished 3 years ago 3 min read
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The Diner
Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

It had been a quiet night at the Dickinson Family Diner. The garbled radio mumbling from the kitchen prophesied a heavy thunderstorm in the early hours next morning, but for now, there wasn’t a drop of rain in sight.

Chalchi had been idly picking through a magazine for most of the evening, waiting for her leg to cramp which always happened when it was going to storm. The cook, Nova, always laughed when Chalchi complained about the pain. “You’re like an old woman,” she would say.

Tonight, though, the sensation wasn’t settling in. There was something colder in her bones, something heavier than rain.

It came in the form of a stranger dressed in all black. He pulled up in an old Ford truck, the dark paint chipping away to reveal coppery rust. The moment he appeared at the door, she knew he had nothing good to say. She curled the magazine closed and smiled at him warmly, eyes sharp as they took in his flowing black coat that caught and hissed around his ankles like an angry cat.

“Welcome to the Dickinson Family Diner,” she said in her customer service voice.

The man smiled at her, both kindly and mockingly. He was handsome in a way—though unkempt as if he’d just returned from camping. He clucked his tongue, that vaguely sharp jawline ticking in the shadows. Night curled close to him—no, not night. Sinister fog, the kind that frequents flickering street lamps and the unchecked niches in your bedroom. “May I help you?” she asked, her pitch dropping an octave.

“One day,” he said slowly, lips pinching at the sight of Nova in the back watching him warily, “the ones on bottom will rise to the top.” His voice was wistful though weighted. Rough as tree bark but as gentle as needles.

Anger sparked up Chalchi’s spine. She swallowed it back to her toes. “Sir, here’s a menu,” she said, offering one to him.

He took it, and his fingers brushed hers. She hated every moment of contact.

“Don’t you want to know what it’s like to live in penthouses and eat caviar like it’s bread?” he asked her, opening the menu with a haughtiness Chalchi had never seen before. Pride and menus didn’t usually go hand in hand; they weren’t even comparable.

“Dude,” Chalchi said, dropping the customer service veil. She jabbed her finger at the clock. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve worked a—”

“Long shift, I know, but I’ll make sure that never happens again,” he said. Roses coated his tongue, the scent overwhelming and thorny. She could feel it cut inside her mouth when she parted her lips.

“Do you want something, or do you just like to hear yourself talk?” Chalchi asked.

Nova chuckled.

The man grabbed her wrist, always gentle but always forceful. She could feel his intentions flow through her. They were sour and sweet, bitter and warm, cold and sharp. Her eyes hardened. He spoke first, “Swans are ducklings in unfortunate coats.” His eyes appraised her with condescending passion.

She smiled. It reached her ears.

He froze.

Her teeth were too long, too sharp, too big.

She said as her knees began to ache, “The worst men are always disguised as heroes.”

The rain began.

It fell through the roof, swelling around her. Her bones called to it, eyes a stormy gray, the whites dyed a burnt black. Lightning forked from her tongue, and when she talked, her teeth clacked as loud as thunder. She yanked her arm away, and he stumbled back. He was a lost child, a man scorched by scars and unable to let them fade even after he’d exacted his revenge. He had a villain’s heart, one as dry as a desert.

She watched the rain swallow him. Fill his wounds and burst them. Flood his heart until it erupted. Her smile broadened into something grotesquely cheerful, something stutteringly depthless. She let the rain consume her, and in turn, it consumed him.

Fantasy
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About the Creator

Brittany MacKeown

I also go by my middle name, Renee, but you can call me about anything

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