Friday’s Coffee

by C. Joy

It was FREE Friday, and Guido was late, again.

Fresh donuts were spilling out of the oven faster than Marra’s reddened fingers could place them on the cooling rack.

Doughy sweetness filled the bakery while hundreds of cooled donuts waited for Guido’s signature icing. And the bakery was to open within the hour.

“Today is so NOT the day to be late!” Marra muttered, placing another greased, dough filled pan onto the conveyer. She quickly washed her hands. In exactly five minutes the donuts would start spilling out again, giving her just enough time to start the coffee pots.

She loved the bakery, the early mornings and the aroma of sweetness. She had grown up watching Gramps and Guido create and bake their way into the neighborhood’s heart, and making it her home. Marra sighed as she sniffed deep rich coffee beans, and poured water into the pots. Her best memories were in this bakery. Gramps had taught her the business, so it had been an honor to carry it on.

“Marra, I’m here!” A feisty Sicilian, always late, but his reputation for to –die -for buttercream icing earned him continual forgiveness. Plus, Marra had inherited Guido with the business.

“You have forty minutes and three hundred donuts!” Marra shouted from the front, a smile tugging her face.

Pans and spoons clanged, the mixer fired up and the kitchen filled with a cloud of powdered sugar and Guido’s singing.

Thirty minutes later, there was steaming coffee, and a display case full of iced donuts. Free Friday was ready to start. As a way to generate business and show gratitude, Gramps started Free Friday in which any cop, fireman or EMT still in uniform was offered free coffee and donuts. It started slow, but like a downhill snow ball, it grew quickly. It wasn’t about a profit, and Marra loved giving back to the community.

“He’ll be here.” Guido grinned and winked.

“Who?’ Marra asked innocently, trying to hide the blush that crept up her face.

“Your cop!” Guido exclaimed.

“He’s not my cop.” But, she had taken extra care with her hair just in case.

“See, you do know who!” Guido teased, and flipped the on OPEN sign.

Within minutes, the first of many began to trickle into the bakery. Jacob hadn’t missed in the last seven weeks. Not that she was counting. The first time, all she noticed was his broad shoulders and those deep green eyes. The second time, his lazy smile and the lack of a wedding ring. Eventually, his name. And that he was a detective. Lately though, the conversations were tantalizing and Jacob would stay until late morning. The attraction was definitely there, but she was starting to wonder if he felt the same. Would he ever ask her out? If he only knew some of the fantasies he had been in, Marra blushed in memory. He might be a detective, but he was missing some obvious clues.

Three hours later, all the donuts and copious amounts of coffee mingled with the laughter and banter of grateful servicemen, including the entire 34th precinct, celebrating their captain’s birthday, were gone. Lacking the arrival of Jacob.

Guido shut off the Free Friday sign and waved as he left. Embarrassed with herself over an imagined romance, Marra marched into the kitchen to start the weekend orders.

Her shoulders were sore, and her forearms burned, as she pounded out dough fueled by frustration, when the front door chimed. She wiped her floured hands on her apron, pushed through the double doors and stopped. The object of her frustration was standing in the center of her bakery. Be still, my heart, she thought.

“Hello! Sorry, but you missed it.” She didn’t mean to sound so aloof. Kripes, don’t blow it!

“Today, I didn’t come for donuts,” Jacob said as he walked towards her, never taking his eyes off her.

“OK, well, is there something I can get you?” Her heart was in her throat, she swore.

“Yes”, he said with a slow smile, and stopped in front of her. His hand cupped her cheek and then his lips found hers. The kiss was sweetness and strength, and pulled her under.

“Gracious woman. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he sighed. “Fridays aren’t enough. I want more than once a week. Tonight, dinner?” He whispered against her mouth.

She couldn’t breathe or talk so she nodded, and pulled him in for another kiss. She hadn’t misread a thing. As happiness flooded her, she grinned and said “Yes, Detective. Dinner sounds great.”


Nestled in the Midwest, C. Joy writes for fun, reads with a passion and lives to experience as much life as possible.

Someone to Watch Over

by Brian Weston

From my vantage point I have a view into your world.
Your life history. Page by page. Every morning you are the first one awake. At 6:30 you open the back door and let the dog out.
You don’t like the dog. The dog doesn’t like you. You are not its master.
When the morning sun is out you raise your head up into the rays. You immerse yourself in its warmth. For a second you look. Happy.

Then chaos ensues as the rest of the house awake.
In the madness you blend into the background. Invisible in your own house. But I see you. You go to say goodbye to her. She recoils as you move closer. Eventually letting you kiss her on her cheek. She swats your arm away like a fly as you try to caress her. You wander out of the house, looking as if you were the one who had a tail to put between your legs.
The house breathes a silent sigh of relief.

She potters about the everyday mundane that nobody likes to do. At 1pm, Tuesday and Thursday her lover slithers into your house. They could not be closer. Passion and lust in equal measure. They make love on the kitchen diner floor. The new flooring that you laid last Bank Holiday weekend. By yourself. On your own. Alone.

I feel sick for you. I feel hurt for you. I want to tell you. I know if I told you it would not hurt as much. But I am not allowed. Those are the rules. My stupid rules.

Thirteen hours later you return. You move around the room like a considerate intruder. You even pierce the film on the microwave meal as quietly as possible, just to ensure you don’t wake anybody from their slumber. Always kind, always thinking of others.
You start to eat. After a few mouthfuls you raise your head. Chewing, you survey your domain. When you finish chewing you still keep looking around the empty space in the room. You look lost.

Alone. I feel a tear roll down my cheek.

Every morning you are the first one awake. At 6:30 you open the back door and let the dog out. Today you stand in the morning sun. With your arms outstretched it looks like you are trying to hug the sun. I share a smile with you.


Brian Weston is a nervous newbie writer. Loving writing and hope to find people that love what he writes. Alan Bennett is his hero. With Brian Bilston a close second.

A Beautiful Flower

by Lionel Ray Green

Lily grabs Dexter’s groping right hand and twists it back until his wrist snaps like a dry twig.

“I am a lady, and I will be treated as one,” Lily says over Dexter’s stunned scream.
With tears streaming down his face, Dexter drops to his knees, gingerly holding the broken wrist to his chest.

“Lily … fl-fl-flower,” Dexter stutters through sobbing lips.

Lily wraps her hand around Dexter’s neck, picks him up under the chin, and tosses him over the couch where he smashes into a wall and drops facedown to the floor.

A framed black and white photograph of a naked woman in chains falls off an end table and lands on top of him.

Dexter tries to shake the cobwebs from his brain as the pain of his wrist sears through his cortex.

Lily stands over him.

“I am a lady, and I will be treated as one,” Lily repeats.

“Lily …beautiful … fl-flower,” Dexter mumbles again as he awkwardly pushes himself to his knees.

Lily punches Dexter square in the face, shattering the bridge of his nose and upper lip in an explosion of blood and mucus. He swallows at least one tooth.

Dexter crawls like a turtle with three legs toward the jacket hanging on the chair at his computer desk. He likes to play rough, but this is insane.

“Please,” Dexter begs.

Lily calmly steps toward Dexter.

“Lily is a beautiful flower,” Dexter blurts the barely comprehensible words through swollen and bloody lips.

Lily pauses and tilts her head to the right as if processing Dexter’s words. A wisp of smoke escapes from her left ear and dissipates in the air above her head.

“Thank you for your business,” Lily says.

Lily then walks to the front door, opens it, and exits without another word.

Dexter rolls on his back and thanks his god that the safe phrase worked.

Dexter reaches for the smartphone in his jacket pocket and slowly taps numbers after the vocal recognition application fails to discern his blubbering like Lily did.

The phone on the other end rings once before a friendly female voice answers.

“Robomance Escorts. How may I help you?”

Dexter spits out a tooth and says, “I want a refund.”


Lionel Ray Green is a horror and fantasy writer, an award-winning newspaper journalist, and a U.S. Army gulf war veteran living in Alabama. His work has appeared in eleven anthologies and two magazines, including Alabama’s Emerging Writers; The Heart of a Devil; and In Creeps the Night. His short story “Scarecrow Road” won the WriterWriter 2018 International Halloween Themed Writing Competition All Hallows’ Prose. Visit lionelraygreen.com to check out his blog.

The Witch and the Donkey

by Sophie Kearing

Grating laughter drills up through the floorboards and into our living room.

“She legit sounds like a witch,” I mutter, turning up the volume on our T.V.

“What?” my boyfriend Keagan says, ever tolerant of the antagonistic racket produced by our downstairs neighbors.

“That crazy cackling? Her huge, crooked nose? The black rat’s nest on her head? Slap some green face paint on her and she’d be a dead ringer for the Wicked Witch of the West.”

Keagan tries to cheer me up with a Harry Potter reference. “Should we buy her a broom and make her fly away? Maybe a Nimbus 2000?”

“And waste, like, a thousand galleons on her?”

“You’re right,” he says. “I’d much rather spend all our galleons on butterbeer.”

The next evening, we opt for board games in our kitchen, as it’s usually quieter in there. We’re not playing for five minutes before we hear the bass-filled bray of the witch’s husband.

“Wow,” I say. “He literally sounds like a hungry donkey.”

“Maybe we should feed him,” Keagan says, blowing on the dice superstitiously.

“What do donkeys even eat?”

In the name of research, my boyfriend pulls out his phone. “Looks like… grass… berries… and bark.”

“Well, we don’t have any of that. Too bad they don’t eat ramen or chocolate pudding.”

Later, Keagan and I stand in our bathroom, brushing our teeth and thanking our lucky stars that the only sound beneath our feet is the roar of the neighbors’ shower. But then it starts: the revolting grunts and wails of sex that’s desperate to be heard.

“Oh my god—EW!” I practically throw my toothbrush into its holder and flee into our room.

My boyfriend joins me in bed. “My god,” he laughs. “It seriously sounds like a witch and a donkey mating!”

We pull the covers over our heads and watch YouTube videos on my tablet until we both fall asleep.

Around two a.m., we’re both jolted awake by the cries of the baby downstairs. Angry, we smash our pillows into our heads.

At three a.m., the baby is screeching. My anger has dissolved into a brand of concern that only women know. “Why don’t they just feed him? I legit have milk coming in just listening to him!”

“Ooh, that sounds delicious,” Keagan jokes, slipping his hand under my t-shirt.

I swat him away. “I’m serious. I’m worried.”

By 4 a.m., the baby is issuing horse, ragged shrieks every few minutes.

Tears in my eyes, I whisper, “This is awful.”

Keagan mumbles unintelligibly and rolls over. How on earth can he sleep through this?

My heart aches for the neglected soul downstairs. “He’s confused and scared down there,” I say wetly, perhaps overly fraught due to lack of sleep. Why I haven’t heard the baby’s parents stir or speak once is beyond me. Lord only knows they have no qualms about making their presence known any other time of day.

Three hours later, the alarm on my phone rips me from a dead sleep. I drive to work and move through my blessedly short shift in a bleary-eyed haze. During my commute home, I’m optimistic that I’ll be able to nap a few hours before Keagan, who has showings until six today, returns.

The donkey and the witch will be at work, I reason. The baby will be at daycare.
I pull into my building’s parking lot. I am absolutely crestfallen to see the witch’s car, complete with tacky leopard print seat covers and hot pink dice hanging from the rearview mirror. Who the fuck uses neon dice to decorate their car? Are we in a sleazy drug movie from the 90’s? Does this cauldron-stirring hellion run coke at night instead of comforting her screaming child?

Once I’m inside, it becomes obvious that the witch is determined to prove that no, actually, she’s a doting mother. She’s shouting “Peek-a-boo!” so loudly you’d be able to hear it from space. Her exaggerated volume elicits her infant son’s laughter, but it’s the kind that has a hysterical lilt to it. Sure enough, his confused, overtired giggling transitions into sobbing.

So much for the siesta I had planned.

I yank open our broom closet. It’s time to exact some revenge by having a little afternoon vacuuming sesh with the huge, outdated Hoover Keagan’s mom gave us. I take my sweet time, even lifting furniture to get at the carpet beneath it. When I finish, I’m satisfied to find that a quiet stillness has descended upon the building. I lay on the couch and fall asleep almost immediately. Too bad I’m jarred awake a mere ten minutes later by the howling of the pit bull downstairs. Apparently, the donkey has returned home and is howling as well, egging his canine on.

Does no one work nine to five anymore?

I feel crabbier and more tired than I did before I laid down. I stomp into my bedroom and put on my headphones in hopes that I’ll fall back asleep. But all I do is fidget under the sheets, fling off the comforter then pull it back on, prop myself up on pillows then push them to the floor. When Keagan gets home, he lays next to me with his suit still on.

He threads my anger-tossed hair behind my ear. “Rough day?”

“Awful.”

“I have something that might cheer you up.”

Lifelessly, I ask, “What?”

“See for yourself. It’s in my pocket.”

I sigh loudly and throw my forearm over my eyes. “Can’t you see that I’m too tired to play with your boner?”

My boyfriend issues a loud bark of laughter. “Well, I didn’t have a boner before, but all this talk about my boner is giving me a boner.”

I turn away from him.

Keagan gets up, circles the bed, and sits next to me. “Come on. See what’s in my pocket. By the way, perve, I meant my jacket pocket, not my pants pocket.”

I jam my hand into his suit jacket and extract keys. “What are these? Did you buy a new car?”

“They aren’t car keys,” he says, locking eyes with me.

“Oh my god.” I jerk upright. “Are they…?”

“The keys to our new home? Yep.”

“Keagan!” I stand. “Keagan, can we afford a house?”

He chuckles affably. “Of course we can. My commissions have been off the chain and my galleons are piled high. Plus it was a short sale. I practically stole the place, and even better: it’s unoccupied.”

“But… Will I like it?”

“Only if you like walk-in closets, quartz countertops, wood burning fireplaces, and a whole lotta peace and quiet.”

“Oh my god!” I hop excitedly. “OH MY GOD!”

Keagan jumps alongside me. “OH MY GOD, I’M THE BEST!”

We continue pounding around our room and calling out as if in the throes of passion.

Suddenly, there’s a banging below our feet.

“Um, are they taking a broom to their own ceiling?” Keagan asks.

“Thank god we never bought her a Nimbus 2000. That crazy witch clearly already has one.” I climb onto our bed, launch myself off the mattress, and come to a thunderous landing on the hardwood. “YES, KEAGAN! YEEEEEESSS!”

My boyfriend joins in my nonsensical mockery of the witch and the donkey by opening and slamming our dresser drawers while emitting one loud, final moan. When we’re done with our wild celebration, the building is steeped in stunned silence.

“They know there’s no way they can win,” Keagan whispers and pulls me to him. “What do you say we go take a look at the new house, maybe christen it with a few bottles of butterbeer?”

I bring his face to mine for a lingering kiss. “Keagan, I like the way you think.”

A few months later we learn that after we’d left, the police had knocked on our door because of a noise complaint made by the donkey himself. To this day, we have no idea how they were able to decipher the meaning of his pathetic brays over the phone lines.


Sophie Kearing loves drinking coffee, interacting on Twitter, and writing short stories. Her work has been featured by Spelk Fiction, Horror Tree, Ellipsis Zine, Left Hand Publishers, and Moonchild Magazine. She has pieces upcoming in Mojave Heart Review and Jolly Horror Press. Find her on Twitter @SophieKearing.

The Animals

by Vera Pastore

And the rains stopped, all across the land. Stopped.

The quiet—it hung heavy. It always did. But this time it was so heavy that it was almost visible. Heavy as if each particle of dust in the universe suddenly had been ordered to hold a certain spot mid-air, uniting in a group effort for a particular purpose. Heavy like a stack of unread books unable to be lifted because the glitter between the pages was yet to be sifted out.

Slowly each animal broke through the curtain of quiet and peeped out of its place of refuge, turning first this way and then that, surveying the scene, comparing it to the familiar. They saw that the world—as they knew it—was still there. It was just soaked with the invisible tears of the one above.

And now, stepping out with less trepidation, they ventured back to their paths, because for the moment, all was well. But not being gullible, they knew it would happen again. They were sure of it.

You see, there was a pattern to these rains. But the quiet—the quiet—seemed to be getting worse, and that was something to ponder. For today, though, the running was over, and the sun was back in charge.


Vera Pastore, owner of Word Choreography, writes, edits, and proofreads business materials and books. She counsels writers of all levels on next steps in her free Writing Triage program at local libraries. She writes poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, and encourages the use of the Oxford comma.