The Grumpy Old Man

Chapter 1Mornings Were Invented by Evil People

The Grumpy Old Man woke up before he wanted to.

This annoyed him.

He did not believe in mornings. He believed mornings were a conspiracy created by clocks, sunlight, and people who had something to look forward to. None of those applied to him.

The alarm clock began screaming on the nightstand like it had just discovered fire.

He stared at it with one eye open, daring it to continue.

It continued.

“Of course,” he muttered. “You again.”

He reached over and slapped the top of the clock—not gently, but not hard enough to feel productive either. The alarm stopped, but the damage had already been done.

He was awake now.

“Waking up should be optional after a certain age.”

He lay still, listening.

The house made noises. Old houses always did. Pipes knocked. Floors creaked. The refrigerator hummed like it was proud of itself.

The Grumpy Old Man did not trust appliances that made noise.

He sat up slowly, as if gravity might change its mind halfway through. His knees protested. His back added commentary.

“Quiet,” he told his own body. “I didn’t ask for opinions.”

The floor was cold. Floors were always cold in the morning. This was another reason mornings were suspicious.

He shuffled toward the kitchen, wearing slippers that had lost their shape years ago but remained loyal.

Sunlight crept through the window, bright and cheerful, which immediately put him in a worse mood.

“Nothing good ever starts with sunshine.”

The coffee maker sat on the counter, blinking at him.

He didn’t remember turning it on. He didn’t remember most things before coffee.

He filled it with water, spilling some on the counter.

“Fantastic,” he said. “A mess already.”

The coffee maker beeped.

He stared at it.

“I know,” he said. “You’re excited. I’m not.”

It beeped again.

“Everything beeps now. Nothing listens.”

While the coffee brewed, he looked out the window at the street.

Someone was jogging. At this hour. On purpose.

He shook his head.

“Running before breakfast,” he said. “That’s how you know society has failed.”

A car drove by too fast. A bird chirped far too happily.

The coffee finished brewing with a final, smug beep.

He poured himself a cup, black, the way coffee should be.

He took a sip.

Too hot.

He waited.

Now it was too cold.

“Nothing is ever the right temperature.”

He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the wall while the coffee reached what he considered “barely acceptable.”

The newspaper waited on the table. He unfolded it and frowned.

“Too many pages,” he said. “No one needs these many opinions.”

He flipped straight to the comics.

“They used to try.”

Back in the living room, the clock ticked loudly.

Too loudly.

He sat in his favorite chair—the one shaped perfectly to his stubbornness.

The television turned on.

Too loud. Too bright. Too happy.

He turned it off.

“I don’t need a screen to tell me the world is annoying.”