Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Cynthia Serra

Pirate at the Diner

I watched him at the dinner counter. Slurping soup from a spoon, dripping, sloshing, and splattering everywhere. A string of pasta dangled from his lip as a round of carrot dropped to the floor and rolled near my shoe. When the waitress swung by with the coffeepot, he growled at her and she jumped away, hot brew on her chest. He acted like he had rabies.

I scribbled something in my notebook. Something to remember later about the gritty squint of his eye, the thin white lines splayed out from the corner, and the black beret pulled low over his forehead. Dark stubble harvested in short, spiky stalks across a ruddy -- no --a tight, browned cheek. He looked as though he'd sailed the wind-whipped decks of an old schooner all the way across the Atlantic.

I wrote something else. The scratch of my pencil made me smile. The sound of work, creation, satisfaction. I imagined he wore a striped tunic and red kerchief beneath his black coat. I wanted him to be a sailor from a ghost, come in from the fog of lost time, stumbling through the docks to the diner, where he grunted and looked mean, and the waitress simply brought him something to keep him from lunging at her.

He stopped chewing and turned. His one good eye like silver ice as he caught me staring. His other eye ... gone! I swallowed at the hooked scar from lip to eye. I'd only seen the one side of his face. He grinned a greasy, gapped smile and my heart pounded. His knobby fingers tapped the scabbard inside his long coat.

He rose and his bones creaked as he settled on ratty, knee-high boots. I gulped. Writing, scribbling. He was alive! The string of pasta swung from his lip as he hitched over to where I sat, with nothing to defend myself but pen, notebook, and a grilled cheese sandwich.

He drew his sword and I shrank back into the booth. I looked about in panic, my blood pumping, but no one seemed to notice. He pricked the point of his gleaming rapier against my throat and squinted at me with his one eye. Then he threw back his head and laughed, the scratchy sound echoing off the ceiling. He spat to his side and withdrew. His heavy boots crushed the carrot as he returned to the stool at the counter.

Breathing heavily, I looked down at my notebook. I looked back to the counter. The man in the long black coat and bad mood threw some change next to his splattered plate. He stumbled out without a single glance in my direction.

I'd brought a pirate to life in the diner! What wonders of writing! Excited and exhausted, I finished my grilled cheese, leaving the accosted waitress a big tip.

© Copyright 2003 Cynthia Serra

About the Author:

Cynthia Serra writes paranormal romance as CB Scott (with her writing partner Beth Ciotta) and has two novels published with ImaJinn Books. Her third novel, Kindred Spirits, will be released in December. Visit her at http://www.cbscottbooks.com. Writing from a cold, rainy day in the Northeast, Cynthia was inspired to write a little fantasy to forget the long-lingering winter outside.