April 1, 2021

Ann Privateer — Photography from Near and Far

Artist Statement: I took these photographs because they caught my eye. The vivid colors and my closeup technique make me stop and take a second look: blood orange, surprise clover–searching for a four leaf, shoes that sparkle, a fetal pistachio nut, and a pink pansy. From pin-hole cameras in elementary school to my very own Brownie camera for Christmas, I have been fascinated with taking photographs practically my entire life. So many cameras later, I now most often shoot with my Sony phone. Some of these photographs were taken in Paris, France and one in my kitchen after cracking open a pistachio nut which, to me, resembled a fetus. *** Ann Privateer is a poet, artist, and photographer. She grew up in the Midwest and now resides in California. Some of her recent work has…

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March 30, 2021

March Edition of “The Break from HOKAIC”

Posted by Mike Rochester in News

Happy end of March! This month has been really, really busy. I’ve been up to a lot of things, some of which will show up lately in pretty cool ways. For now, with y’all, I wanted to share the five most important things I learned (or was reminded of) this month. Do some little marketing task every day. If you’re self-published, there’s lots of options. If you’re going traditional, build inroads with editors and agents. Perfectionism might be our greatest enemy. Sprizzy and Social Growth Engine are two services that help promote videos. SGE seems to work much better, even if they feel much sketchier to the user. It’s amazing how far people are willing to go to help you if you just ask them for help. Our second greatest enemy is probably working on…

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March 29, 2021

“Tress Theory, A Lesson,” by Kathryn Kopple

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Charles gazed at the night sky and smiled. It appeared filmy, as if a giant sheet of wax paper hovered between him and the heavens. The hotel balcony, where he stood, gave him a sweeping view of the Gran Vía, the large boulevard that ran through the center of Madrid. Pulsing red, twinkling blue and violet, blinking yellow, speeding white high beams—the street swam with electric intensity below while above all was murky. Nothing shone or twinkled up there. Even the moon was less visible, something he noticed back in New York over a year ago. He didn’t make much of it, not at first, assuming that the moon’s disappearance was an effect of light pollution. Astronomers had long issued warnings: too much artificial outdoor lighting was responsible for transforming pristine darkness into an unsightly wash of cloudy denim. Charles experienced a sense of loss…

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March 25, 2021

“Amor Fati,” The Poetry of Vincent St. Clare

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Caption: Darvaza gas crater in the Karakum Desert in Turkmenistan, said to be the Doorway to Hell. Amor Fati I’d like to be happy in Hell I’d like to wear my drill-on dunce cap Stuffed to the brim with snakes and diarrhea And all the same I could laugh all the while Yes, I could smile Like the Indian prince on his deathbed Of stone covered in dysentery and then  Silence,  Despite it But it won’t be by divine mandate  That I wash these walls Or scrub the floors with a toothbrush That’s got nails for bristles Or a sponge saturated with Brine and boiling metal It won’t be by right or choice that I Cross the fire and into the light Or wander circle to circle all the way To the big, bright gangbang in the sky Surmounted…

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March 23, 2021

“Real Estate,” A Novel Excerpt by Kathryn Holzman

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

A few passages from my novel, Real Estate, published by Propertius Press in November 2020. Excerpt #1 Santa Clara Valley, 1962 On a cloudless Saturday afternoon in May 1962, Harriet Jackson rode her brother’s battered blue Schwinn bicycle along Mariani Avenue, alert for passing cars. She inhaled the delicate spring scent of newly budding manzanita blooms, delighted that her mother had sent her to the store for a quart of milk. As she pedaled, she sang “Johnny Angel,” mouthing the words as sung on her favorite 45 by Shelly Fabares. Harriet let the breeze carry the lead but provided the chorus’s echo under her breath. The popular song complemented the sense of possibility in the crisp morning air. The rotation of her bike tires provided the backbeat. Together we will see how lovely heaven will be. She tilted the bike automatically into…

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March 20, 2021

“Pyramid of Peril,” by Gregg Taylor

Posted by Ruby Fink in Audio Arts

Presenting this week . . . “Pyramid of Peril” by Gregg Taylor! Listeners, we’re trying a new thing this week, an audiobook sample from the wildly talented Decoder Ring Theatre. Though there are more than enough podcasts out there to tantalize your audio experience, we at The Fictional Café thought it would be fun to expand your range of listening opportunities. With that in mind, let’s check out this story . . . involving a certain daring duo. A desperate call for help from half a world away brings our masked man of mystery far from the urban jungle he is sworn to protect. With his mentor, Maxwell Falconi, who once fought crime behind the mask of the Stranger, in mortal peril, the Red Panda must battle both ancient powers and modern terrors, just to…

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March 17, 2021

“Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life,” A Book Review by Lorraine Martindale

Posted by Mike Rochester in Book Reviews

Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life is a biography of horror fiction writer Shirley Jackson by Ruth Franklin. My first encounter with Shirley Jackson was reading “The Lottery” in junior high. It was the first story that truly disturbed me; the stoning of an innocent woman was a shock. The culprits were not villains. They were regular people, going about their regular lives in their bucolic village. Jackson was confronting conformity at a time when the individual wasn’t valued. I could have been one of them. I wasn’t the only one implicated. After it was published in The New Yorker in 1948, the magazine received letters calling “The Lottery” “outrageous, “gruesome,” and “utterly pointless.” The New Yorker had never received so much mail in response to a work of fiction. Jackson received letters as well,…

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March 15, 2021

“In the Hotel Room with Arles,” by Jeffrey Boldt

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

1. I first met Arlene Henson in law school. She’d been a teacher for twenty years and was in her early forties—which made her nearly twenty years older than me, and most of the rest of our class. But Arlene was still youthful and fun, and I never thought of her age as a significant factor in our friendship. Her face had the gentle and patient look which you’d want to see on your favorite teacher, but it was also quick to flash into an ironic smile and even a dismissive, almost-cynical laugh. Arlene was recently divorced from a Geography professor and she was attending law school on her share of the sale of their house in Milwaukee. She’d been a collegiate swimmer, and still did triathlons; she often came to class in tight fitting athletic outfits which hugged her trim figure and still drew plenty of attention from young men half her…

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March 11, 2021

“Thirty Years in a White Haze,” A Memoir Excerpt

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Dan Egan, with Eric Wilbur, has written a memoir which is true to its title: Dan’s three decades as an athlete in general and specifically one of the founders of the sport of extreme skiing. Thirty Years in a White Haze is his story as told to Eric. It is also the story of growing up in the Egan family and in particular becoming a world-class extreme skier alongside his brother John. We learn how they came to develop skiing abilities far beyond those of the average skier and to become extreme skiing stars in many of the legendary Warren Miller’s ski movies, ultimately arriving at the podium of the US Skiing & Snowboarding Hall of Fame in 2016. This excerpt is the book’s Prologue, and describes what is perhaps his most challenging and life-threatening…

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March 8, 2021

“She Is Going to Do Something Nutty,” by Raymond Abbott

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

He told the police sergeant, as he knew he would, that he would leave right away and help however he might. The address he wrote down was familiar to him. It was in the Flats, an old Holyoke neighborhood or section of the city once inhabited by many different ethnic groups, although now almost exclusively Puerto Rican. He shoved the paper with the address in his coat pocket and found his little black bag with the oils and other implements for giving what once was called the last rites of the church, but were now termed the sacrament of the sick, and headed off in the direction of the Flats. Sixty-six Center Street. He’d been there before, he was sure. Only the week before, the adjoining block had burned up. It was another of those…

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