Princess  Olivia by Joy Son Once upon a time there lived a lonely princess. She had a strong, wealthy king as a father but he paid little attention to his daughter and didn’t care if people starved in the village. In fact, he mostly only cared about money. Although Olivia’s father didn’t pay much attention to Olivia, he still loved her and cared for her. The one thing he was doing wrong was keeping Olivia away from the village that was once a happy place, full of laughter and singing. Olivia longed to go to the village and make sure the villagers were warm before the cold fell and winter moved in. Whenever Olivia tried to ask her dad a question, he would interrupt her right in the middle of a word. One Tuesday afternoon,…

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As promised last month, here are three more wonderful poems by our frequent contributor, John Grey. ALL IN ONE DAY We drove the ocean road, smothered in fog, could barely see the blue expanse, all our vision was in the hearing as it pounded the shore below.   But then that fog lifted. The day was all of a sudden warm and dazzling.   We stopped at a meadow, picked wildflowers, spotted a fawn with its mother, hiked a trail to a waterfall and rested in a cool oak grove.   We ate outdoors at a roadside restaurant. We saw a lone surfer testing his skill on medium-sized waves at some unnamed beach.   Clouds moved in and it began to rain. The wind picked up. My wipers beat like my heart had earlier.  …

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Battle for the Finish Line My friends step up to the starting line I look around We all look like hungry animals, Animals that were ready to get the last piece of meat I close my eyes and take a deep breath My heart is jumping in and out of my chest I open my eyes, the flag goes down My eyes are glued to the finish line I can imagine myself there, Holding the trophy with pride But then someone comes up The butterflies in my stomach wake up I take a deep breath I inhale and crank my arms up The sun’s heat is crushing me like a giant stepping on an ant Drip-drop I can’t feel my legs “I’m almost there!” I feel like I’m going to die 50 yards…40 yards…30 yards…20…

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Editor’s Note: Kathryn Holzman and her husband Lew Holzman have both published here at the Fictional Café in the past, but not together – until now. Kathryn wrote this story, entitled “Amnesia,” and Lew created original digital illustrations to accompany his wife’s words. We all hope you enjoy this psychological thriller!      Amnesia       The C5 transport plane crossed the spring sky descending towards the nearby Air Force base. Low and slow, the plane had a cargo compartment big enough to supply a battalion and capable of carrying six Apache helicopters. We were taking a weekend hike with friends and had almost arrived at the summit of the low, verdant hill they called Mount Blacklock. The block of ice fell dreamily from the plane. There clearly was no intent. We didn’t see…

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When I become incensed at prejudice, I tend to fight back with an edge of cynicism aimed at cutting through to someone’s stupidity. I am always hopeful that I can be an educator rather than a warrior against bigotry. George, a French Jew who had come to America, had told me of the growing anti-Semitism in France and the French collaboration in the deportation of his family from Lyons to the WW II concentration camps. He had grown up with French anti-Semitism, had witnessed the attack on Jo Goldenberg’s Jewish delicatessen, battled to defend Israel at the Sorbonne and finally—fed up and exhausted—convinced his family to move to the US. It was the late 1980s. I was scheduled to meet with the president of a French firm to discuss his acquisition of my client’s company….

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Editor’s Note: John Grey graced our ‘zine with his poetry last year. Here are three new poems from his pen, and in August we shall publish three more, so you can savor each one.   THE WEDDING RING   The rotten end to a wrecked season, footsteps bring no redemption   no resurrection as wet grass on the feet merely adds to the machinery of bitterness   until I come across the river whose undermining poverty is quieted by discovery   of something illicit in the shore-weeds – a dead wedding ring   glistening like bone – it’s been lost or tossed – why not?   everything on earth finds itself in the same situation.   * BRAIN MATTERS   The question arises – do I really need all this?   I can live in…

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They ran, the four of them, hand in hand. It was the only way they could get from this place to the next. Despair rose in the thicker woods as one became wrapped around a tree, whiplashing the group in the onslaught. But on they ran, recovering themselves, never breaking their grasp to dust off their muddy knees. The terrain was an endless, mountainous wood. Neverending. But there is nothing more determined to race home than a Howling. Howlings are almost always children, amorphous in their gender until they make a choice at age 18—if they make it to that rare age—and despite their name they very rarely howl. But when they do, you don’t want to be anywhere near. It is the sound of universes shattering and will consume your eardrums by snaking up…

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The Mahogany Box by Karen M Trappett The movement sent waves across her belly, like little fish weaving and darting amongst the piers of a jetty, pushing gently up through the layers of her woollen skirt and reaching her gloved hands resting lightly on her lap. Holding her breath through the crest, she looked down and attempted to catch a glimpse of the creature currently using her body as a gymnasium. A soft smile made the corners of her mouth crinkle, and she felt the contours of her bump. Was that a foot, or a hand? Crimson leaves glistened, moisture dripped onto her knitted hat and the shoulders of her coat. A bedraggled sparrow appeared to keenly observe her, then shivered. Hearing her little ones, she hopped to an inner branch and disappeared; thoughts of…

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Editor’s Note: We hope you enjoy this story of the Wild West – Texas, to be specific – which captures the essence of life back in the earlier days of America. At 89 years of age, Harry is the Elder Scribbler of Fictional Café. Keep writing, Harry! Image credit: “Prospecting the Cattle Range,” (1889) an oil painting by Frederic Remington [public domain]. *** Henry Kinsey smiled inwardly, nothing to do with his fellow stagecoach passengers. They were strangers four hours ago. He was in possession of two secrets: one, today, March 15, 1843, was his twenty-third birthday. The other was Kinsey family lore handed down for four generations. He and his family agreed since the solution to the family conundrum would more likely be found in the Republic of Texas, he should begin his law career there…

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