Sammie Stabby Opens a Restaurant

by Elyce | Oct 22, 2023 | stories

Sammie Stabby had the greasiest hands. He wore plastic gloves, but the butter puddles seeped inside, smearing all over his fingers. This didn’t matter. Grease was something he would wipe away when the gravy was ready.

His long rubbery apron was slicked with wet lard and his meshy white hairnet was glistening with particles of seared fat. It was all just the necessary grit of the job. In his large pot, he stirred his thick gravy, turning it over and over. Sammie loved how the chunks of pork lopped with his spoon, like they were bits of death slowly circling in a hearty, soupy grave.

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Sammie Stabby Goes to Church

by Elyce | Oct 21, 2022 | stories

He walks to the pulpit with a slight limp; his foot is sore and the pain in his lower back flared while he was sleeping.

“Good morning, friends.” His arms spread in a wing-like way. “Today is a brand new day, a gift from God, a gift for us. Let us celebrate a new day together. Please join me in prayer.” Friar Sammie Stabby suddenly coughs with a palpable thunder; his hand grasps for his chest. There is a whir of concern from his parishioners, but in moments, he’s recovered. “Just my asthma, friends. Apologies for the alarm. God is just reminding me to be grateful for each breath I take.” His smile glows over the congregation.

Friar Sammie Stabby from Leicester is 68 years old, and he has been sharing the word of God for 40 of them. Every Sunday, in a long brown robe and a long silver cross, he climbs to the pulpit to preach.

“Lord Jesus, thank you. You provided the sun that brightens our morning and the very foundation on which we walk. We thank you for sharing your love with us today and every day.”

At 12:30 after the Sunday service, he locks the doors of the church and begins a trudging journey home, with his foot lagging a step behind. Sammie holds his back. It’s ached for years, and the years feel like too many.

A black cat, Guacamole, greets him at the door, sliding and purring. “Hi there, Guacky boy. It’s another day, isn’t it? It’s another bloody day.”

When Sammie Stabby woke up that morning, it was with a biting sadness. To the electronic chime of his alarm, he flung himself forward. “Jesus Christ, God forsaken fuck,” he stammered. “For the fucking sake of heaven, how can it be morning already? Holy goddamn, Guacamole.”

Sammie pads his way to the kitchen, sunlight sweeping in through the window, and the warmth of it sears his eyes. He is blinded; Sammie doesn’t notice the morning’s glory or the soft heat on his arms.

Guacamole rounds Sammie’s ankles, purring. “It’s a strain, isn’t it, Guac?” Sammie says, looking down at his feet. “Can hardly breathe a breath of heaven anymore. But, God deals us a fair hand, doesn’t he?”

The coffee maker hisses, then spurts liquid into Sammie’s mug. “You know, my hand could be a bit fucking nicer, if I’m honest. This isn’t exactly the ballroom life I imagined. More like a goddamn circus. This coffee tastes like dirt. This whole life is just dirt. Everything but you, Guacky boy. Everything but you.”