*yesterday’s prompt*

the town was so small and the only cafe was tucked in the back of the gas station. signage from the 1970’s stood rusted along the highway … even without wind the sign whistled constantly. the old lady showed up every morning and started the coffee pot, she turned on each burner and the charred stale smell quickly filled the cafe. mornings mozied into  afternoons, by evenings every coffee pot was cleaned, the burners turned off, and the lights in the abstract cafe slept to the whistle of the signage.

© 2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved


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