Cold fear seized Lucy as she mashed the Mustang’s gas pedal further down; her speed now hovered at eighty-eight. She peered into the rearview mirror, terrified by the man in the dented black Ford truck riding her bumper. She had peeled away from the curb in front of the nail salon when this truck pulled up beside her and the driver laid on the horn, waving his fist at her and shouting hoarse curses out of the open window. “Shut up and move on! I didn’t do anything to you!” Lucy screamed out her window, but this guy’s response—it had to be a guy, she thought—was to rev the truck’s engine as he drove along beside her. People walking along the sidewalks stopped and stared. The truck driver slowed and fell back, so she…

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Photo credit: Beverly Bambury Editor’s Note: Mitchell Grabois’ work nearly defies naming conventions, and that’s a good thing. It’s how new plants, birds, constellations and literary genres are born. We asked Mitch what name he gave to these creative, innovative set pieces, because they transcend the commonly known genres. They are almost anti-plot; the narrating character could be the author or someone else, but we can’t be certain; the prose structure leans into the movements in a musical work. Here’s what Mitch replied: “I consider these flash fictions because they are written in prose and they tell stories (though perhaps not conventional ones). Thanks for considering the work poetic—as you know, in much literary fiction there are elements of poetry in the prose.” Infidelity  1.  I hid behind a tree, not the Tree of Knowledge or…

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Editor’s Note: Zipporah Kuteesa, The Fictional Cafe’s 500th member, submitted her poetry to us. We are pleased to present her words, published for the first time! I REMEMBER NOW! I was reminded of the joy That came with passing by. The toddler I was… Fascinated by the beat, That drew us out into the heat, The thundering of the drums, My grandmother holding me back And I running back. My young intrigued eyes blinking So fast I didn’t want to miss a beat. I was reminded of the oneness That we shared in bliss, My mother and I, We never questioned why Grandma at her age was antsy And upbeat about the pulsating drums. Because we too could feel it It spoke full of meaning The ancient morals that kept us Sane, one, soberly together….

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A Postcard from the Ether The first shy dusting of snow looks too naked to threaten us with its pale, indefinite motives.   It can’t elide our visions of banana trees flourishing many-fingered hands of fruit   in suburbs littered with wrecks of nineteen-Fifties Chevys and Fords. It can’t erase our dreams of melons   bowling down sky avenues broader than aircraft carriers. It can’t persuade us that songs   about summer moonlight swelling the hearts of dancing couples can’t snuff the laugh of the dead   still standing where we left them. The eagle we saw yesterday cruised over the river,   scanned for fish and fended off the racket and teasing of crows, reminded us how negative light   falls in sheaves despite the grace and curvature of one’s narrative. The snow changes…

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