Tag: Oregon

Their luck ran out before the fortune cookies did.

It’s the kind of place where the cream rises to the top, but only after it’s been through the wringer. A joint where the air smells like fresh churned butter and the milk flows as pure as a widow’s tears. You wouldn’t think a man could find trouble in a place like that, but I’ve learned that where there’s milk, there’s money, and where there’s money, there’s always someone looking to sour the deal.

A place where the coffee’s as dark as the early morning light, and the pie crusts crumble like promises. It’s the kind of joint where the neon sign buzzes just a little too loud, and the waitress has a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You sit in a booth with cracked vinyl, wondering if the guy two stools down is a fisherman or just another lost soul trying to drown his troubles in a bottomless cup. In a place like that, even the sugar feels like it’s hiding something.

Those stairs could take you up to an old house that’s seen better days—or down into something you won’t walk away from. Either way, you know there’s a story here, buried just beneath the moss-covered stone, waiting for someone fool enough to dig it up.