Klismos – DH Reed

August 9, 2026

Clearly there, Nobody, he’s rapping and taking the wooly bits of steel against the pan. A clean pan makes no difference to the grub they mashed into it. A burnt pan would grill, gracefully, such shards.

Boss man with goggles, nil nisi bonum, a zombie thumbing frames. He lets Nobody scrub. He lets cook be. He lets serve the server clean shards freshly burnt.

“Is this the artillery?”

She smiles. “Is it what?”

“That might be the best question, actually.”

Grimaces. Smiles. Refilled coffee. Plate sliding away.

“Who makes the cake?”

“I do. When my shift starts.”

“Does he help you?”

A young boy coloring alone in the far booth.

“Sometimes.”

“I’ll take this to go and a slice of cake. I don’t want to get fat. Do you like coca-cola in your coffee?”

“Never tried that.”

“May I have a coke too. I think I’ll try and see about this ameri-cola.”

She gets and sets it quick with another cup. When I pour the coffee in she covers her face.

“Yum.”

She runs off toward the cake, hiding from artillery.

She comes back with a slice and a box.

“May I?” I pull out my wallet.

She takes my card and I dump the plate indiscriminately into the container. “Yum.”

I tip, sign, point and stand, putting on my jacket.

“Can he have cake? He’s too young for artillery.” I point again to the slice and take my box of shells.

Outside everything wars within. She did her best to draw me close. To finally meet him, everyone set far enough. Of course they’d burn the food anyway. It’s their temple. Burnt eggs and shells better than sage.