Flash Fiction by Matthew Sam Praxmarer
They had breakfast at the diner in the dark. Neither knew why. Their waitress was kind, though the husband could easily tell she wished she was dead. He put too much syrup on his pancakes and some spilled over the plate and made a little pool of blood. He muttered. She complained that the eggs were too runny. They left a reasonable tip.
They turned out of the parking lot. At the end of the road they were each struck by a wall of red punctuated by purple clouds and a still indistinct and molten yellow sun.
“The eggs really weren’t all that bad.”
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