It stuck out, an old railcar pushed into a corner of town long after the trains had stopped running. Back in the day, shiny chrome welcomed day trippers from Boston, but it had turned dingy and grey.
An old woman, the original owner, a perpetual cigarette hanging from her lip, served me. The coffee was bitter, the eggs greasy and the toast older than the diner. The next youngest customer had half a century on me.
I never returned.
I passed the empty lot today. What the health-inspector found came back. It’s been 20 years and I still felt nauseous.
Word count = 100
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s p
This is partially based on fact. When I first moved to Wilton, there was an old railcar diner in a corner of town. I ate there once. It was enough. It was gone within a couple of years of me being in town. I did hear some rumors, but not quite this bad…