"The Price of Coffee" by Tim Clark

There was still coffee in the pot when I got here this morning. I just turned it on. In thirty
minutes it was hot, and I had a cup. Reduce, reuse and recycle. I said. Taking a small sip out of
a mug that said Worlds Greatest Boss. It was sitting in the cupboard, just another coffee mug
left behind by some former employee.

Whenever it was clean I would grab that mug. Certain it had been a gift from some adoring
associates to a benevolent supervisor. Some Suleiman of Accounting. Gone, and forgotten.
Amnesiac annals of departmental memories chewing em up and spitting em out. What have
you done for me lately? For a day, I was the Worlds Greatest Boss.

It was not difficult to imagine some manager in the distant reaches of the future, standing on a
hovering platform, looking over his robot workers, drinking from this mug. Drinking from my
mug, which used to be somebody elses mug, and was really everybodys mug,

Robert looked at me, turning his head ever so slightly. With an exaggerated movement of his
eyes he bypassed the thick lenses in his aviator frames, a theatric test of peripheral vision. Why?
Why not just make a fresh pot? He asked, sadly, disapproving, as though I had disappointed
him.

There was three fourths of a pot left. It seemed wasteful. After a little thought, I added. It was
easier. A lot easier.

He turned to face me, looking over the top of his glasses directly at my face. I wondered why he
wore such thick glasses. He seemed more comfortable not looking through them.

Was it any good? He asked. It was a question, but it was asked in a tone that said he just knew
what the answer was going to be. I could see the smile starting to form. He was waiting, and he
was going to enjoy it. Robert liked being right. It was even better when someone else was wrong.

You tell me. You got the last cup.

He looked at his cup, his face a frozen mask. Took a sip, and then another. Reaching up he
moved his glasses to the top of his head. Bits of hair sticking up at odd angles around the
oversized tear shaped frames.

Thats pretty good coffee. He took another drink. From yesterday, huh? I wonder who made
it.

They deserve a raise. I agreed. Raising my cup in a modest toast.

Hey, Bobby, we got an issue with the number four pump. A voice crackled from the radio on
Roberts belt.

I got to split. See you at lunch? He said, walking away, his glasses in his left hand, the radio in
his right. On my way. He said pressing the button on the radio.

Sure, I said to his back, knowing he didnt hear me.

When I got back to my office I made coffee, just like I did when I got there that morning. I
smiled thinking of Robert, and the little joke. I loved it when Robert was wrong, even if he was
right.

There was an envelope sitting in the middle of my desk. It was addressed to Occupant, and the
return address was Occupant. There was no postage, and the envelope looked old, it was
yellowing and the paper was brittle.

The flap was not sealed. When I pulled the single sheet from envelope I was surprised to find it
seemed almost new. As though it had been put in the envelope years after it was mailed.

In words formed by pasting letters cut from the various catalogs the company had produced over
the years a simple message said thats my coffee cup. It was not signed.

With his hands buried in Pump #4 up to his elbows, Robert smiled, thinking of the note, the mug,
and his friend. He loved that mug.

Tim Clark, is a blogger, (who wants to be a writer) a warehouse associate, a happily married man
(for 28 years) and a father, from Columbus, Ohio.

He has proudly contributed to Street Speech, a local homeless advocacy newspaper, and writes a
monthly column for The Wild Word.

"In the Dark of a City Night" by Don Herald

My car and another in front stopped at the red light.

Just past the intersection, something was lying on the roadway.

The light changed. Both of us moved forward.

The car in front slowed beside the object on the road, then quickly swerved into a nearby
driveway.

A young woman jumped from the passenger side, leaving her door open. Glancing neither left
nor right for approaching cars, she ran into the roadway and knelt beside a light brown bundle on
the pavement.

It was a cat. It was dead.

My headlights illuminated the woman as brightly as if she were on a stage.

Bending over, she paused, and then ever so gently lifted the cat in her arms. It was a large cat. Its
head and hind quarters dangled loosely over each of her outstretched arms.

For just a brief moment, the cats eyes shone pale white in my headlights.

As if she was cradling a cherished thing, the woman slowly moved with purpose to the curb. In
measured motion, she lay the cat gently down onto a small patch of winter-brown grass. She
bowed low over the body. A hand stroked the fur tenderly as if the cat were still alive.

The white shine of the cats lifeless eyes and the gentleness of that womans reverential act
moved me greatly. It was an upsetting moment for me.
Now it is almost twenty-four hours later.

Im still haunted by those images - a simple act of kindness by an unknown woman bathed in the
harsh glare of headlights in the dark of a city night.
Someones cherished pet, a loved companion, will not ever be returning home.

Dear woman from that car ahead thank you. Your act of gentle, unexpected kindness toward
the body of another unknown someones cat shall not easily be forgotten.

Don Heralds short fiction has been published in Canada, the US and UK. Apart from writing, he
expresses his creative interests in colourful paintings of odd shapes with wavy lines and
performing personal stories that he hopes will ignite the imaginations and emotions of his
audiences.

Two Pieces by Niles Reddick

Merger

When news that the two plants would merge was announced, I grimaced, shook my head
and could only imagine what those I would leave behind were thinking. I knew folks were
forwarding the email, running around to see who knew, and all of them were offering opinions.
The result was a flurry of randomness, like a busy Facebook feed---some turning to God and
prayer, some biting each others heads off like political ads, some throwing back to better times,
some resorting to jokes and humor, some blaming others along class lines within the companies.
Id been one of the fortunate few whod landed a better job in another state before the
merger was announced, my resume highlighting accomplishments in chronological order. The
many times I had reviewed it, I wouldve hired me, too, for I felt Id highlighted our best
accomplishments. Id read the body language of executives, picked up bits and pieces in
speeches about efficiency, and like an animal sensing the earthquake, I turned those Darwinian
survival skills into a plan to act, to move to safer and higher ground before the merger.
Most couldnt have put together such a resume; they were left behind wondering what they had
done in the past twenty years that might stand out and look good on their resumes. More often
than not, they were swept up in a tide of progress about which theyd fight and complain. They
would find ways to jockey and position themselves on the periphery, their pride swelling, but the
waves of merger would come crashing, scattering their thoughts and sending them to scramble
and to put their humpty-dumpty together again.
In the breakroom, while refilling my coffee mug, I saw Minnow, our custodian. Everyone
pronounced it Minner, and I had asked her a few years back how she came to have that name.
Shed said, My mama said my grandparents said when I was born, I was so little and shiny, I
looked like a minnow. I guess they just kept on using it and I never thought nothing about it.
Some kids called me fish bait in school, but I didnt pay them no mind and they quit. Id
chuckled and knew she probably made the smallest salary at the plant, so much so that wed
taken up a collection every year at Christmas. She raised her children by herself and then her
grandchildren, too. Most had finished high school and gone to college with her help.
Youll be alright, Minnow. You have always done an excellent job and they will keep
you because none of them will do the work you do.
I hope so. Im gonna work until I fall over dead.
We both laughed and I refilled my mug.
It was sad to me, though, and I figured it would be to all the retired folks who had given
their best years to the plant. While the merged plant would not erase history completely (not
because they cared, but because they wanted to make sure and honor their own legacy and to use
it for public relations purposes), there would be a new iteration unfolding, all in the name of
efficiency and cost-savings. The hidden agenda, of course, was to inadvertently raise prices and
to pay the consulting firm who put the merger together and who were cousins to a board
member. Yes, progress, and this was the real trickle-down-economics people hear about from
Washington.
The saddest will be the job loss. Employees would find other jobs at local insurance
agencies, social services organizations, or in retail, but benefits would not be on par with what
theyd had, if they got them at all. They would ultimately find that when they needed those
benefits the most, they would no longer exist, and most employees knew it and were scared. My
administrative assistant Kiwanis (named by her mother who took the name from the club sign on
the Welcome to the City marquis she noticed on her way to give birth at the hospital) told me,
Without that insurance, I dont know what Im gonna do when mine get sick, but Ill find that
deadbeat ex-husband and make him pay his share. Hes had it easy long enough. If the merger
motivated others like Kiwanis, then it wouldnt be an all bad thing, and after all, history proves
that time erases much.

Oldies Concert

I bought a VIP ticket to the radio stations annual oldies concert at the city auditorium, so
I got an early admission to the meet and greet with the singers from The Lovin Spoonful, The
Drifters, The Association, The Turtles, and The Hollies. The only way the line-up could have
been better was if the remaining Bee Gees showed. I brought my old albums for autographs in a
double-bagged plastic Kroger bag and cleaned my cell screen for selfies.
The line wasnt as long as I had assumed, and I wrongly assumed the crowd might be
mid-forties like me. They seemed much older, maybe mid-seventies, and I remembered it was
my mom who had conditioned me to love this music when I was a kid in the late 1960s. She
taught me and my siblings to dance, twisting to Chubby Checker across our wooden floors in a
new brick home in the suburbs. My anticipation and excitement decreased, however, as I heard
the comments from those in front and behind me in line: I hope it gets out by 9:00. I need to
take my medication, I heard those auditorium seats arent good for your back, and They said
one of the singers died last week and aint coming, but I bet they wont give us a partial refund.
When the doors finally opened, I made my way to the stage area, where the singers sat
behind folding tables poised for photos and autographs. As I stood in a line to meet the Yester
brothers, one who had been a lead singer for The Association and one who had been a lead
singer for The Lovin Spoonful, I noticed the lady in front of me. She was wearing jeans and a
rhinestone shirt and cowboy boots. She turned and smiled at me, revealing two canine teeth
(cuspids) on the top row of her mouth and was missing the four inscisors or front teeth between
the canines. She looked like a vampire and maybe that was the look she was going for, but she
turned to me and said, "That ugly guy in front of me just farted."
I laughed because I didnt think she thought she was ugly and because I couldn't believe
shed revealed that information to a complete stranger. Oh no, I said.
When she stepped away, I shook the Yesters hands, told them how much I had admired
their music through the years, took a selfie, had my albums autographed, and moved on to the
next line. I didnt see the vampire again, nor the fellow who farted. I found my seat and absorbed
the oldies music, one hit after another, closed my eyes and imagined me and mom dancing on the
wooden floors again.

Niles Reddicks newest novel Drifting too far from the Shore was nominated for a Pulitzer.
Previously, his collection Road Kill Art and Other Oddities was a finalist for an Eppie award and
his first novella Lead Me Home was a national finalist for a ForeWord award. His work has
appeared in anthologies Southern Voices in Every Direction, Unusual Circumstances, Getting
Old, and Happy Holidays and has been featured in many journals including The Arkansas
Review: a Journal of Delta Studies, Southern Reader, Like the Dew, The Dead Mule School of
Southern Literature, The Pomanok Review, Corner Club Press, Slice of Life, Faircloth Review,
and many others. Niles works for the University of Memphis. His website
is www.nilesreddick.com