Doughnut Day

Doughnut Day

Arthur Morton collected his usual doughnut and coffee from the café counter and headed for his table of long habit. Frank and Harry were already sitting there. Both looked up as Arthur moved back the remaining chair to sit down.

“Awright, Art?” they chorused.

“I will be when I get this down me neck,” quipped Arthur, pointing with his nose at the doughnut. Silence fell as the three friends returned to the task of filling their bellies before discussion of the afternoon match.

As it happened, Arthur was barely halfway through his doughnut when the pain struck. It was as though his left arm had suddenly been plunged into a raging furnace, quickly progressing from there into his chest. In a vague attempt to escape the agony, Arthur slipped off the chair and fell to the floor.

He was hardly aware of his friends’ confused attempts to help. Darkness closed in on him and his thoughts suddenly became clear.

What day is it, he wondered. He answered his own question. Saturday. The match, remember.

Oh ar, he thought. Would be the bloody weekend, wouldn’t it?

When he awoke in the hospital, Arthur knew one thing. He’d never forget that weekend.


Word count: 200
For Monthly Micro-Stories Contest’s Forum
Prompt: A memorable weekend.