I sit here drinking a warm caramel coffe and eating a muffin. The energy in the bakery is so low that there are barely anyone in here, but you can hear the murmuring from the people who are here. The smell of fresh baked goods fills the whole bakery. I love to write on my breaks, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, which puts a smile on my face. Writing makes me happy. I’m not happy with my job or my life, but that’s because I want to be a writer. Writing always calms me down, but being a writer is not easy, I can’t just quit my job and become a writer. I can only write in my free time. I work remotely as a software engineer so I can pretty much work anywhere. which makes it better to write while on my breaks. Today I chose to sit in a corner of this bakery and watch the cars go by at the intersections. I wish it was louder in here, it normally is, I don’t normally come to this bakery on a Wednesday. I wanted to change it up a little and I don’t like it. I hate change, I wish nothing ever changes. Everything alway changes for the worst or for the best, it doesn’t matter life still always changes..

I like when my life feels small.

Just big enough for me and my thoughts. 

The people around me have their own lives too but they feel like dear friends as we sit here together in comfortable quietude. 

We never seem to catch eyes. 

I can’t help but gaze upon them and in moments when I am lost in my work, I suddenly feel the prickle of someone watching me as well. I don’t look up; I just let them stare. 

I feel protected in this warm corner, dimly lit by a golden chandelier. 

A vent blows warm air continuously over my skin. It has been recycled through the bakery so many times I can almost taste sugar and cinnamon in the wind. 

Looking out the bay windows I see the snow whipping across the street and I settle further into my plush scarf, grateful for this warmth and these moments of splendor.

i went up to the counter and ordered another black coffee

i gave the young woman a few bills and got my coffee and sat back down at my laptop

the blank page stared back at me taunting me that the woman half my age makes more than i do by pouring black coffee into a cup

but that is my choice because the page is still blank

because instead of making the croissants and the coffee i will just order them as a dopamine rush as a distraction while the page stays as blank as my bank account

and that is what gets turned around that the woman probably looks at me writing at ten in the morning on a weekday at the cafe and envies me

she probably envies my freedom and the willingness to follow dreams that i am sure she thinks have come true

as i sit with this blank page

and envy her ability to swallow her ego like i swallow her coffee

She closed her eyes and took in the warmth of the bakery. The quiet chatter from the tables around her accompanied by the noise of the ovens behind the counter, releasing a sweet aroma of cookies and cakes into the air. She was working, but didn’t have a care in the world. All was quiet and the chilly fall breeze couldn’t reach her in here. It was warm and peaceful. She took a sip of her pumpkin spice latte, feeling the warmth run through her body. Calm washed over her. Nothing outside of the bakery mattered. She wrote down the name of the store so she could go back whenever she needed a break.

Warm bliss settles as you sit tucked in the corner, laptop humming. Silent yet alive, the sensual aroma of yeast and salty vinaigrette fills the air. Hyper-intense calm anchors you, free-thinking and relaxed. Solace wraps around as your mind flows in dream-like clarity, cradled by the bakery’s comforting scent arousijg sensual desires from the heart uplifting to the surface.

Warmth. It swells in my heart, filling empty holes and mending broken strings. Warmth can come from many things. A steaming cup of coffee. A cat purring in your lap. The embrace of a loved one. This kind of warmth tickles inside you, stretching and traveling until you just have a feeling of joy left in its presence. A feeling of peace. A feeling of belonging.

Ayame Weber ordered an apple maple tea latte from City Bakery in Tokyo, Japan. She was a Japanese/German American visiting her mother’s homeland for the first time as an adult. She felt right at home in the bakery with its warm light and enticing smells of bread, cinnamon, and coffee. Hurriedly, she picked a seat in the corner, eager to write in her blog.

“One by one, they’ll hear my call, then this wicked town, will follow my fall.” She typed the quote from the Joker out of the comic book, Batman: The Man Who Laughs, by Ed Brubaker. She intended to compare the Tokyo railway attack by a guy dressed as the Joker, to the Aurora, Colorado shootings by another man dressed as the joker. She’d already done enough research to find out they were very different men. _Why did they hear the Joker’s call, _she wrote provocatively.

As she sipped her hot tea, she felt very safe and content. Tokyo was an amazing city, and the bakery was a great place to work from. Cinnamon wafted from a nearby mug. Time flew by as she typed. As the door opened, she heard bicycles whiz past. It was almost time to go. _The Joker was never meant to inspire a movement or a copycat from the point of view of his creators. He’s just a villain written to keep things interesting and for Batman to chase. People who want their life to look like a comic book, can’t go out and become a superhero, but they can be a villain. The Tokyo railway stabber—_she refused to call him by his name—_told investigators he was worthless and wanted to be killed. The Aurora shooter said his life would have more worth the more he killed, as if he started on empty. It’s as if they want to catch a superhero’s attention, and they don’t care if they get killed because they are so miserable and mad. Theres always been a portion of the population more vulnerable to rage than others. What makes Japan and America so different when it comes to violence? I’ll be taking a fresh look, throwing out preconceived notions, as the days go on. _ __ __ That’s it. She shut her laptop and took a last sip of her tea, knowing it would be cold, but liking it anyway. She smiled at the room while looking around at all the people. No one looked her way. It was hard to imagine the mind that would blame strangers for not caring to know them, or blame themselves for not being likable. It was just a simple matter of everyone being busy and not wanting to intrude on each other. She was going to go meet her extended family next. First, she ordered a box of pastries to bring to them as a gift. Life was good. She walked out of City Bakery feeling like she was on the trail of a great story.

END

The sweet smell of warmed milky espresso wafted up from the white porcelain diner mug. The heat from the cup warmed her. The anticipation of drinking her first coffee of the day had Saris salivating. That first sip, a bright light in her early morning, the perfect amount of foam like a soft marshmallow, a sense of relaxation washing over her, after the chaos of her commute.

Walking into Billie’s Bakery, damp from the rain, set the stage for her thrice weekly writing pilgrimage. Seeing the familiar wooden counters stuffed full of fresh rustic breads, sweet pastries filled with fruit and cheese and chocolate, savory scones, a dozen different pies, and, her favorite, the cinnamon roll as big as a dinner plate, gave her the push she needed to focus. She always waited until she had written at least 500 words before she let herself order the gargantuan fluffy treat.

Saris looked up from her coffee, noticing a few other regulars. It was busier than usual, conversations roaring in her ears. She realized she had forgotten her noise cancelling headphones. She beelined to the back room, passing through the counter area and the booths. Fewer people congregated around the several couches and armchairs. It always surprised her how the bakery could be buzzing, but the quiet of the buttery yellow room welcomed her. The evergreen Bauhaus-style lounge chair was available, a comfortable option for writing. She could easily have her bag beside her, her coffee on the small side table, and her laptop on her lap.

The rain beat down outside, and thunder crashed. Saris pulled her burgundy marled fuzzy sweater out of her bag. Luckily, it hadn’t gotten wet in the trip from the car. She shivered, wrapping herself in the plush oversized warmth. She was ready.

Five hundred words felt like an insurmountable task before she began, much less 1200 words, her goal for today. Saris, inspired by Billie’s quaint charm and adorable baker, was writing a first draft of a cozy fantasy romance. While she wouldn’t admit it to her best friend Carole, Saris kept coming to the bakeshop because of Simon. He was kind, and funny, and yes, he was gorgeous. They had developed a bit of a back and forth over the last couple months. He was like that with all the regulars.

Saris opened her laptop, wincing at the brightness of the screen. She allowed herself a couple more sips of coffee, the blueberry tasting notes of the single origin espresso more potent at this cooler temperature. She took a deep breath, the buttery, sweet scent of the air filling her lungs.

Before long, Saris was in flow, writing without much thought, as if the words were automatic. Time passed, but she did not notice. People entered the room and worked around her, but their presence went unobserved. Engrossed in her work, she barely registered the tap on her shoulder.

“Saris,” Simon interrupted, tapping her for the fourth time. Saris jumped, nearly losing her laptop. “Oh gods!” Simon smirked. “Writing something smutty?” Saris’ face turned bright red, and she yanked on the collar of her sweater. “Yeeeah, actually,” she stammered. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for 5 minutes,” he replied. Simon had never gone out of his way to chat with her, much less touch her. Mortified, she closed her laptop to give him her full attention. Then, she noticed he was holding a dinner plate. On it was the pastry love of her life, the cream cheese frosting topped cinnamon swirled confection. She drooled for a moment, staring at it. Simon laughed. “Many a man would pay A LOT of money to have you stare at them like you stare at these cinnamon rolls,” he said. Saris looked up, surprised at his comment, her cheeks somehow getting redder. “This was the last one. I didn’t want you to miss out,” he stated. “How many words have you got?” “Enough,” she replied. “And thank you for thinking of me. I got a little lost in the story today.” “I could tell,” he smiled.

So much hustle and bustle of holiday spirit, High Rise & Shine on the corner of 6th and Pine welcomed bundled faces to warm drinks coupled with fresh pastries; business men and women on their routine route, but can’t deny mingling tones of cinnamon, tang and yeast aroma wafting out after the swing of the garland decorated door, to saunter inside, greeting Cadence’s son, Travis, who nods and notes their orders, sliding the slip on the counter behind him for Cadence to rotate the espresso machine’s grounds, while Travis follows the men and women’s points to whatever baked goodie they’ll take to go.

 Not every seat was occupied. Those who weren’t hurried had been enjoying the quaint atmosphere since before Eliza entered, she decidingly seating herself at a far corner booth nearest a window view, snow just beginning to fall, yet it wasn’t cold enough to stick. 

 Travis finished clearing a table to then approach Eliza, she draping her wool winter coat around the backrest of an adjacent empty chair and fluffing her frizzy curls from being tucked underneath a knitted beanie, dropping it on the gleaming wooden table. “Wow, what a sudden chill,” Eliza commented, giving Travis her order: a breakfast croissant with a slice of raspberry cheesecake and a hot buttered rum. “How was your Thanksgiving?” Travis attempted chitchat, Eliza restraining a wry smirk. “I’ll be full for the next week,” she said, sitting, removing her leather gloves. “Well, at least you have room for a croissant and cheesecake,” Travis said, losing eye contact and shuffling to the next set of customers. 

 Eliza breathed to the smooth tempo of piano jazz, letting the small iron fireplace soon heat her damp clothes, she huffing a sigh, now relaxing. Almost begrudgingly, she unzipped her laptop bag and hoisted the laptop on the table, flipping it open, it already awake and awaiting commands. She signed in, and a cluster of documents, sticky notes, and blinking IM icons filled the screen - a white blaze compared to the bakery’s cozy industrial ambiance, their gooseneck ceiling lights emitting a wash of golden glow. Eliza blinked, trailing her sight to peer out the window, observing downtown’s congestion, how many people walked alone or in pairs. 

 “Your buttered rum will be up shortly,” Cadence’s voice was heard to the right, she bringing the plate of the croissant and cheesecake slice. When Eliza’s eyes met her’s, Cadence held a warm smile as recognition and appreciation to Eliza’s considerable visits. Eliza thanked her, the scent of raspberries prickling her nose. 

 Her laptop pinged. An email. 

 Eliza squinted at the laptop, then the dish. 

 Two tables down, friends erupted in laughter, covering their mouths to prevent a chewed pastry escaping. 

 Her laptop pinged again. It was only 8:30am. The IM icons continued to blink, and the typed document’s words started blending together. 

 Someone honked, Eliza noticing a group of bobbling heads scooting across her laptop’s lid - an entire family; young kids squealing, aunts and uncles discussing, teens avoiding their parents’ scorns, grandparents sightseeing, causing the impatient taxi to hit his horn while they crossed the street, marching themselves inside High Rise & Shine, carrying multiple conversations as they shouted and repeated their orders to one person, a mid-50s fatherly figure. 

 Eliza’s laptop pinged again, and she closed the lid, handling the croissant to her lips, admiring the unpredictable entertainment unraveling. 

 The youngest, maybe six, argued to a ten-year-old, maybe her older brother, about how the Nordstrom Santa wasn’t the real Santa, but he worked for Santa. The ten-year-old, ogling the array of desserts, tugged at the motherly figure’s arm, requesting which dessert he wanted. Cadence, on the other end, leaned over the pastry display case, struggling to hear what was an order and what could be part of their previous topic. Travis managed to squeeze between the group, holding Eliza’s buttered rum. She finished her croissant, brushing the crumbs on her fingers onto the plate, before sinking a fork into the cheesecake, presenting Travis with a grin when he arrived at her table. “Santa should gift us a bigger bakery,” he muttered, glancing at Eliza, them both chuckling.

Brendan sat huddled in the corner, still shivering from the cold he had endured outside to arrive at work at 2 AM. He had switched on all the lights and ovens first after entering. The cosy bakery was not quite so cosy at 2 AM, nor was the life of an apprentice baker, for that matter.

It would not take long, however, for his shivering to stop and the familiar warmth of his cosy little bakery would begin to resemble what most people recognised when they visited him.

Upon entering, his second task was to make hot chocolate, warming his hands around the mug. The steam drifted, warmly brushing his face, and the rich cocoa scent filled his lungs. He took a cautious first sip, checking the temperature. With that, the shivering finally began to ease.

He took a full mouthful of his hot chocolate drink and gulped it down, the warmth now spreading to his belly. Taking another mouthful with his eyes closed, he savoured the taste and the experience of the warmth spreading to every part of his body as he swallowed it down.

The ovens from the bakery had started to warm the entire room, slowly reaching the corner where he sat. The familiar smells of baked goods started wafting towards him. Feeling more comfortable now, he took his jacket off placing it in his backpack. Not before taking out his laptop. He had half an hour before the ovens were ready.

Like every morning, he spent that half an hour learning to hone his skills for his dreams. Not to be a baker, that would just pay the bills in the interim. No, his dream was to be a writer. So every day, for the first half an hour he sat alone in the cosy bakery. He would craft his skills. Before life's demands took over, and he had to start preparing everything for the daily bake.

He fired up his laptop and opened his Daily Prompt writing app. Eagerly awaited what challenge he would face today. The prompt appeared on the screen, causing Brendan to smile a little, and then wonder if someone was watching him.

He glanced around the bakery, its familiar cosiness in full flow. No, he was definitely alone here, chuckling to himself. He re-read the daily prompt.

"Your character is working remotely in a cosy bakery, tucked in the corner with a warm drink and their laptop. Describe the feeling they have. Try to utilise as many senses as you can to fully immerse the reader in your character's experience."

Without hesitation, Brendan’s fingers began dancing across the keyboard, pausing only for thoughtful sips from his mug. He lost himself in the cadence of typing, of words appearing on the screen, of ideas taking shape in his mind and flowing out of his hands.

And in that quiet corner, as the bakery breathed into life around him, Brendan was, indeed, a writer. Each word he crafted brought him closer to his dream, a reminder that a writer writes, and here he was, fulfilling that simple truth.