August 17, 2019

“Juno Steel,” A Great New Audio Arts Adventure

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Audio Arts, Audio Arts, Member Writing & Art, Podcasts

We’re delighted to introduce Penumbra Podcasts to Fictional Cafe – especially upon learning we’re all more-or-less Boston creative types. Penumbra is making truly excellent podcasts, or audio arts as we like to call them because that term brings out the multiple dimensions of this work: excellent scripts, high-quality studio recording and mixing, and really delightful foley work (sound effects to you listeners). But let’s hear what the Penumbra people have to say for themselves: “We’ve always loved stories, whether they be science fiction, swashbucklers, high fantasy, horror, or mystery. We grew up passionately reading, watching movies and TV, and playing video games. But eventually we started to notice that a lot of the stories we consumed were the same ones over and over again, and we got tired of it. “Why did every boy and…

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August 15, 2019

Linnea Skoglöv: Portraits of Love

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

Cigarette Waking up slowly to a room set in darkness, eyes searching for light but finding nothing buta silhouette. You on one side of the bed and I on the other, not touching but I still feel you on my skinlike my mouth senses the aftertaste of a cigarette. A cigarette you smoked even though I begged you not to, I turned and said I won’t kiss youever again but you hugged me from behind and what was I supposed to do. So I kissed you. And you tasted worse than when you apologise for your breath in the morning, but the secondyour lips touched mine I had already forgiven you. Because when you look at me my heart suddenly belongs to a hummingbird, beating right out of my chest. And I need to feel your fingers…

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August 13, 2019

“The Gift,” A Wry Story by Maureen Crowley

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

You think you know a person until you have to buy her a gift—then it feels like you don’t know her at all. I realized I didn’t know my roommate Amanda as well as I thought I did, even though we’d been living together for two years. Most of what I had was speculation: she was from some cul-de-sac/suburban utopia where all the houses sit evenly spaced from one another and look pretty much like the builders used a Xerox machine while constructing them. Her mom was the kind of parent who seemed to be heavily involved in the PTA and was the chaperone of every school dance. Amanda probably got her expectations on what romance should be like from watching Disney movies—where happily-ever-after is the end–all, be all. She also didn’t think Nala qualified to…

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August 12, 2019

“The Music Boy,” by Claire Tollefsrud

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

The Music Boy He was young and made of sound. Rhythms followed him. They drummed through his fingers on school desks and sang through his dreams while he slept. His mother was a wildcard who wore her heart on her sleeve. She made sculptures and saw beauty everywhere, raised three boys while finishing her art degree. Many nights the boy slept on the floor of the art building with his brothers, tucked into blankets among the half-finished pieces of desire. So, maybe music was in his skin. And perhaps it also crept into his soul on those nights, like creativity tends to do. The boy was made of different mettle. It took him some time to find his way into the hearts of other people, but the melodious metronome in the back…

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August 11, 2019

Bridging Two Cultures: Emma Wang’s Fierce Poetry

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

Variations on the History of the People’s Republic of China i. Sometimes the skin retreats into the bone, jagged edges of tongue tasting the summer heat. ii. Imagine the ownership (or lack of) a sunken statue turning whispers behind closed conversations and blood against blood. iii. The first time I saw my father cry, there were ghosts in his lungs. iv. When the star-crossed, green-costumed women dance on skeletons My father averts his eyes like they’re the decapitated deer. v. On my passport every stamp sounds like yeye’s warnings, every printed word the broken English of my mother, every second of silence the wrath of old men. Abecedarian for the Chinese Immigrant All you can take are your Blouses and your tongue; Children & rice cakes should be Dropped into the sea to the Very last one. You will Find new building blocks to reassemble your Girls, new letters to construct your Houses – oh wait – It’s the other way around. Jackets you’ll buy at the K-mart, but only if it’s Local. You cannot carry your Mama nor your baba No matter how Oversized…

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August 9, 2019

Burbuqe Raufi’s “Life” Triptych, Part III

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

Editor’s Note: We’ve been honored to publish Ms. Raufi’s “Life” novella which, due to its length, has appeared in three parts this month: Part I, Part II, and herewith, the final panel of the author’s triptych. Please read them in order for full appreciation. “Life” Part III Samuel Blank/the one with the truth. Celestial morning sunbeams covered the Pacific Ocean. Soft, salty-smelling wind blew the papers Samuel held. He sat straight, looking at something on the horizon. I don’t know whether I’m going to miss this, he thought, but it really was an unforgettable experience—finally, everything is clear as this July sky. He dropped his papers, and the wind blew them away. A young man, wearing black, caught the papers and tried to put them in order, his feet sinking into the soft sand. The…

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August 8, 2019

Dayna Lellis: Telling Timeless Truths

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

Your Value Instagram followers Twitter retweets Facebook likes Snapchat views Numbers we use To quantify #Popularity #Beauty #Wittiness #Worth These numbers mean #Nothing Compared to the people In your life Yearning for quality time With you They don’t need numbers To see your value Emotional We develop strong arms, carrying around emotional baggage for months, even years. We mistake this for strength. We weaken our grip on our baggage, opening it to reveal its untidy contents to others. We mistake this for weakness. May Day Unnecessary clicks, swipes, and likes are taking away precious seconds, minutes, hours, days of our lives, of our budding dreams. “Just a little longer, okay?” “I’ll do it tomorrow,” you say. Tomorrow is growing impatient. Tomorrow is ready to bloom today. Two Vows I’ve walked this path for eternity. Its minutiae are etched into my mind. One random day, to my surprise, I notice stairs that reach the sky. As I ascend, I glance below. I see paths that swerve, with shadows galore. Others appear straight with a sunlit glow, but on closer inspection they have bumps as well. I search for mine. It takes some time. Its gentle curves are…

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August 5, 2019

“Life” – Burbuqe Raufi’s Epic Novella – Part II

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

“Life” Part II Angela Miller/the one who served justice for women. The storm was coming sooner than anyone expected. Garbage bins, branches, and road signs flew through the air as she drove her rented white Ford Cabriolet. She ducked her head in fear of getting hit by the flying objects. “Why did I come? Damn it. I knew this was coming,” Angela whined to herself while trying to keep the car on the road. She could hear the cyclone coming closer and closer. Her heart beat fast. Fear had conquered her whole body, and she couldn’t focus. She hit a tree, and the car stopped. She looked around. The air was thick with dust. She coughed; her lungs were full of filth. Her right leg was stuck underneath the steering wheel. She tried to free…

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August 5, 2019

The Nostalgic Poetry of Delaney Daly

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

Tender Continuum This town is a perfect snow globe on a mantelpiece, an impenetrable dome. Waves of puddles on the stone sidewalk swallow us down & we become a part of the rotation, the silent timepiece, the busted backdrop. We will never escape it even when we box up our memories & drive to the shore & cradle our kin or watch them outrun our misfortunes. Still, this is just a thought against actions, just a minute against an hour. When the glass shatters & we inhale the valley fog for the last time, we will draw breath as the pale petal in the summer storm wind. Silent Orenda Today, there is an urgency not to move. To instead, bury the worn soles of my feet in this comfortable, breathable moment, one that I am certain will not try to control me – in the same way that the passing hours like to threaten me and hold me to the slow, choking wind, who, with the right motivation,…

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August 3, 2019

“Life,” A Novella by Burbuqe Raufi

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

Editor’s Note: “How could you live and have no story to tell?” wrote Dostoevsky in his short story, “White Nights.” Life is about the stories we live and tell, and the three interrelated stories in this intriguing novella by Albanian writer Burbuqe Raufi, are no exception. We present these three stories of “Life” – Sergey Volgov, Angela Miller and Samuel Blanc – beginning tonight and concluding next week. ** “Life” Part I Sergey Volgov—the man who fought poverty. Freckled and ashy pale, Sergey Volgov, a very old man, sat in the wheelchair by the window, watching the mesmerizing motion of the late autumn leaves falling from the trees and landing on the muddy ground, waiting to experience his last breath, but his beaten body resisted freeing his moaning soul. A harsh torture, as was his thin…

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