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Weekly Contest #218
Mother always told me to avoid the coffee shop that smelled like gingerbread. “Witches,” her brittle voice would whisper, “There are witches in that shop.” The shop didn’t seem like it was full of witches. There were no black cats sitting on the sidewalk or spiders hanging from the eaves. And it felt, well, homey. But Mom’s nails always dug gouges into my arm when we walked by, as if she thought I would try diving through the doors in search of a tasty treat. To be fair, I probably would’ve. It’s not my fault the damn place smelled...
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