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A grim reaper works the graveyard shift at a 24 hour diner and guides guests to the afterlife, serving their last meal. It’s through conversations with them that the story of their life unravels to reveal their regrets and their grief.
The reaper makes a mean bacon and eggs.
The reaper makes a mean bacon and eggs.
As Ahmed enters, he craves a continental. He wants the eggs over easy. The reaper says they’re only good at scrambled eggs.
Ahmed never wanted to compromise, from his career to his marriage. Sadly, rear ends of cars don’t compromise either.
He’ll try the scrambled eggs.
Ahmed never wanted to compromise, from his career to his marriage. Sadly, rear ends of cars don’t compromise either.
He’ll try the scrambled eggs.
Sophia was born to a large family.
She asks, with her refill of coffee, if that means the afterlife will have a place for them all.
The reaper asks if she thinks they’re all going to the same place.
“I hope not,” says Sophia. “I’ve always wanted my own room.”
She asks, with her refill of coffee, if that means the afterlife will have a place for them all.
The reaper asks if she thinks they’re all going to the same place.
“I hope not,” says Sophia. “I’ve always wanted my own room.”
Dorothy and Wilhelm died in each other’s arms. They both order a lemon tart and unsweetened ice tea. They both ask for sugar on the side.
The reaper asks if there’s anything else they can get them. They say no, but both leave a note in their napkins.
“They shot me first.”
The reaper asks if there’s anything else they can get them. They say no, but both leave a note in their napkins.
“They shot me first.”
“What do you recommend?” Ryan asks, shoulders hunched.
The reaper tells her that the choice is only hers.
“I’m bad at choices, ya know? I picked the wrong boyfriend, the wrong debts, the wrong cops.”
The reaper recommends the pancakes. They come with sprinkles and that’s fun.
The reaper tells her that the choice is only hers.
“I’m bad at choices, ya know? I picked the wrong boyfriend, the wrong debts, the wrong cops.”
The reaper recommends the pancakes. They come with sprinkles and that’s fun.
“My eggs are running.”
“Where are they going?”
“Where does anything go?”
“Good question,” the reaper replies. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”
“That’s a small comfort. At least there‘re still surprises, even when you’re past the edge of the plate.”
“Where are they going?”
“Where does anything go?”
“Good question,” the reaper replies. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”
“That’s a small comfort. At least there‘re still surprises, even when you’re past the edge of the plate.”
It’s almost the morning when Yasmine walks in. The reaper is mopping the floors.
“You keep coming back,” the reaper says, working away.
Yasmine says it’s because she likes the coffee and the company and the way the sun flitters in and warms her face. It’s a moment of peace.
“You keep coming back,” the reaper says, working away.
Yasmine says it’s because she likes the coffee and the company and the way the sun flitters in and warms her face. It’s a moment of peace.
“When does this joint close?” Theo asks.
“It doesn’t,” says the reaper, making a fresh pot of coffee.
“When can I go?”
“When you stop ordering refills.”
“I can’t,” says Theo. “The bottom of this mug feels like the end of something.”
The reaper agrees, filling his cup.
“It doesn’t,” says the reaper, making a fresh pot of coffee.
“When can I go?”
“When you stop ordering refills.”
“I can’t,” says Theo. “The bottom of this mug feels like the end of something.”
The reaper agrees, filling his cup.
The reaper stands outside. The door has been barracaded with a mop.
A rowdy bunch have broken in, dancing together, having their fill of anything on display. They’re laughing, they’re crying.
The reaper supposes they can be late today. It’s fine. They have nowhere else to be.
A rowdy bunch have broken in, dancing together, having their fill of anything on display. They’re laughing, they’re crying.
The reaper supposes they can be late today. It’s fine. They have nowhere else to be.
There are no midnight guests tonight, no folks looking for a cheap dinner.
Instead, the reaper brews their own coffee, cuts their own slice of pie.
What does it mean? The reaper asks no one. They’re unsure, but they now understand why the pie is a favorite.
The door chimes.
Instead, the reaper brews their own coffee, cuts their own slice of pie.
What does it mean? The reaper asks no one. They’re unsure, but they now understand why the pie is a favorite.
The door chimes.
“I think I’m lost,” Omar says after a while. He ordered nothing. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
The reaper polishes another glass and puts it away. They offer a sundae.
“Okay, but I don’t think it’s meant for me.”
It’s done in the way Omar likes, heavy syrup and lemon drops.
The reaper polishes another glass and puts it away. They offer a sundae.
“Okay, but I don’t think it’s meant for me.”
It’s done in the way Omar likes, heavy syrup and lemon drops.
There is a deep finality etched in the cracks of the tiled floor. A sense that this was the last gas station on a long stretch of road. The final rest stop before crossing state lines.
Lina knows that the reaper is the engine in flames. The car stalling. A journey’s abrupt end.
Lina knows that the reaper is the engine in flames. The car stalling. A journey’s abrupt end.
“When I looked into the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself,” Milo says. “I was just so angry.”
“And now?” Asks the reaper, setting down a plate of eggs and bacon. The eggs are over easy. Milo pokes them until the yolks run loose.
“No,” says Milo. “Now I don’t feel much at all.”
“And now?” Asks the reaper, setting down a plate of eggs and bacon. The eggs are over easy. Milo pokes them until the yolks run loose.
“No,” says Milo. “Now I don’t feel much at all.”
“It’s cold.”
“The heater’s broken,” the reaper says.
“Is that why we’re standing by the oven?”
“Yeah.”
“You’d think this place would be better prepared for this part.”
“Nobody truly prepares for this part. Not in the way that matters.”
“Oh. Is the pie ready?”
“Not yet.”
“The heater’s broken,” the reaper says.
“Is that why we’re standing by the oven?”
“Yeah.”
“You’d think this place would be better prepared for this part.”
“Nobody truly prepares for this part. Not in the way that matters.”
“Oh. Is the pie ready?”
“Not yet.”
I'll keep adding more when the inspiration strikes, but also just know: https://twitter.com/bogboogie/status/1264241821221376001?s=20
There is no solace in this place. There are no warm welcomes, no guides to the booth. There are no menus and no charades of choice.
There’s just you, sitting quietly alone. A coffee mug half empty, a picked at pie with crumbling crust.
There’s just you. It’s always been you.
There’s just you, sitting quietly alone. A coffee mug half empty, a picked at pie with crumbling crust.
There’s just you. It’s always been you.
Late to add to this thread but if you like this and want more, check out my other story threads here: https://twitter.com/i/events/1263834195740299269?s=21
