Breakfast at the Diner. Flash Fiction.

Steven looked down at the knife in his hands. It felt right there, natural. The gleaming surface was spotted with blood, though he had not actually harmed anyone himself. Outside he could hear noises of everyday life, the small diner was deathly quiet. Somehow no one outside had noticed the man who walked in and went straight to the counter, that he had jumped over it, shrieking nonsense, that he had pulled a knife and started attacking people. Steven had been enjoying a leisurely breakfast when it happened, he hadn’t been paying attention either, caught up in his newspaper. Then the shrieks started, shortly followed by screams. He had turned in time to see the knife vanishing into the poor young girls throat, before it was ripped free sending an arc of blood into the air. Stevens hand clutched at the knife it was holding as his body tried to move back further into the vinyl booth.

It happened quickly, but it seemed to take hours. Steven watched, unable to move as the attacker killed everyone in the diner, one by one. Some were frozen in terror like he was, but a few tried to defend themselves, take down the attacker. He moved like nothing Steven had ever seen. Ducking and weaving as if it was some complicated dance that he had long ago memorised. It was beautiful in its fluidity and terrifying in its deadliness. When the man finally stopped he stood, panting in the middle of the diner, his head turned slowly towards Steven. The mans eyes were bright and feverish, just slightly too wide. He moved one finger up to his blood splattered lips, then he smiled and winked at Steven before calmly turning and leaving the diner. Steven stayed where he was, unable to move. Listening to the steady drip, drip, drip of blood. He didn’t know how long he was sitting there, almost panting rather than breathing, when a loud scream rung out from the door. He flinched back, dropping the knife with a loud clatter. His fingers were stiff and sore, his whole body felt numb, unable to move. He tried to turn to whoever was screaming, to tell them to stop making noise in case the man came back, but nothing came out except high pitched gasps.

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About Alan James Keogh

I am a 24 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
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