Working Theory

He has a fear of hot Danish. When the bakery shop opens its accusing awning in the morning, he retreats to avoid notice by the shop’s pastries. Open-air breakfast shops infuriate him. In his infrequent sleep, he is haunted by the idea of smothering icing, steam welling into a wall of baker’s avenging anger. The syrup run-off loitering in the pan. He wakes with his cheeks and tongue burning, the rift of his nose aflame, a gooey lump of heat assaulting his eyes from the backside. He tells himself: they will cool. When they do, he will conquer them all.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner

A Diner Problem

Ralph and Rayette were at breakfast, with Ralph treating. He called the waiter over to their booth with its plywood table top.

“Is something the matter?”

“I'll say...Rayette, here, just saw another fly by her oatmeal."

Ralph had the eggs, and Rayette the oatmeal.

“What kind of place is this that has so many flies?”

“Many? What’d you mean by ‘many’?”

Rayette said she saw about five, maybe six of them.

Dismissively the waiter frowned.

“Six? You think six flies is a lot? You should see the number of ‘em in the kitchen...Especially around the pot of oatmeal.”From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Breakfast

“Mel, you don't happen to have any rat poison on you, do you?”

“What'd you mean by that?”

“Well...it's a kind of poison that you use on...”

“I know what rat poison is, Ed.”

They were at the counter of AL'S DINER, eating their breakfasts.

“You don't need to get upset.”

“Look, Ed, I'm trying to finish my oatmeal.”

“I know. But I asked Marge already.”

Marge was the waitress.

“She said they didn't have any to take care of the rat that's been running around the place this morning.”

“What?”

“The one there...That one, by your foot.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Open Up Your Heart

The door slammed shut so forcefully, Winston felt the reverberations from his bedroom.

It was better this way. Sarah would never be happy. She wanted someone to match her emotions at both ends. He just wasn't built that way. "Don't get too high or too low." That was his motto.

There were probably another 20 minutes before daylight would start creaking through the blinds, but there was no point trying to fall back asleep. So he went to the kitchen and poured himself a bowl of cereal.

Winston wished the fight had started after breakfast. He missed Sarah's pancakes already.

Thinking Outside the Coop

In a quaint village beyond the hills, lived a scatterbrained chicken named Cluckers. Every morning, Cluckers would lay eggs and forget where she put them. The villagers chuckled, but Farmer Ben grumbled, "No eggs for breakfast!"

One day, Cluckers stumbled upon a stash of eggs hidden under a bush. "Eureka!" she screamed. Cluckers went to share her discovery with the other chickens, encouraging them to "think outside the coop."

Word spread. Soon, every chicken laid eggs in unexpected places. Farmer Ben's breakfasts improved, and the village learned: even mishaps teach valuable lessons.

And Cluckers? She never forgot that lesson again.

From Guest Contributor Chinmayi Goyal

Saturday Jog

Jogging through the park, I keep the pace feeling energetic and free. The breeze against my cheeks feels refreshing and the chirping birds fill the air with song.

It’s crowded for a Saturday morning and parents are up early with their children. I pass two women pushing their young children on the swings as the boys soar high and chortle. Other joggers pass and smile contently.

I finish my lap and take a seat on the bench gulping water.

After breakfast and a shower, I will go about my regular weekend visiting my dad in the nursing home memory unit.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Circumstances

For Duard, his dog Rocky was his life’s purpose. Two-hour walks in the park were as common as sharing corn flakes at breakfast. When an inattentive woman and her Cadillac hit the big dog and the old man, all four of them – both people, the dog and the car – were badly damaged.

Duard recovered first but sorely missed his comfortable and companionable walks with Rocky. After 12 days without any progress, Duard put Rocky down. He never forgave himself even though none of it was his fault. As for the causative woman and her Cadillac, the story isn’t about them.From Guest Contributor Gip Plaster

Gip is a Texas web content writer who experiments with microfiction. He is the creator of 17WordStories.com.

Suffrage

I clear the breakfast plates as a dutiful wife, while my husband, Robert, legs crossed, newspaper in hand, clears his throat and faces me.

“Are you seriously considering going to the parade, Grace?”

“Not considering, I’m going,” I say and slam the cabinet door, dishes rattling.

“There’s no reasoning with you,” he says and leaves the room.

I want more than keeping a home and obeying Robert’s commands. I want the freedom to choose.

I hold my head high, grab my “Women have the Right to Vote banner,” and walk out the door to Fifth Avenue to make a difference.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Dear New York

Your 9 a.m. is my six. Once again, you didn’t leave a message. I was asleep, and not dreaming of my youth. Or Bobby Short at the Carlyle, Yul Brynner as the King. The Oak Room, their scotch so expensive I almost gave it up. Since I’m awake now, I’ve begun my day. Doing the wash. Starting breakfast. Wondering what it is you want. Why not cast me aside as just another woman who headed west when the buildings fell? Here, the mountains are tall, the sea, a pebble’s throw away. I know it’s you, New York. Calling me home.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared in Outlook Springs, A Story in 100 Words, What Rough Beast, the New Verse News, Misfit Magazine, and others.

Metamorphosis

Kids are dumb. Especially when they're fourteen.

Vivian was this really fat girl in my Algebra class. Her friend passed me a note via my friend: Vivian likes you.

She waited for me in the cafeteria.

Her face was cute, but I didn't want to be seen with her.

"I don't like that fat girl," I shouted so all would hear.

Since then I can't bear to see her cry.

Yesterday, over breakfast, I asked my son to pass a birthday card to her.

She cried.

"You know, Dad, sometimes you're a real dumb guy."

I smiled. "I know, Son."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E. has works published at Entropy, Spillwords, The Purple Pen, The Haven, and several works are in the anthology, "NanoNightmares."