All posts in Member Writing & Art

September 23, 2019

Dark Poetic Visions of Nigeria by Batunde Babafemi

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

Reminisce You remember when we were too beautiful to smile? savoring the tears for another day? How we search our breath In our nose? You see the prophesy was true; we will all die But my lover’s death took away my spine. I crawl all night and wonder about the shadow of a man buried inside a plank—The day I heard his demise, I thought it was a prank Until I see tears from my eyes. My love, How long have you been cold? Alone, I buried my pain inside my gaze looking through our memories I heard your voice inside my speech, & when the clergy summoned me My words become flaccid Like this I know how much death took from me. Abigail Her silence has words burning inside her Same as a…

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September 21, 2019

“My Year in Art,” by Steve Sangapore

Posted by Mike Rochester in Fine Art, Guest Posts, Member Writing & Art, Writing

After graduating from college in 2013 with a degree in art, I spent the next five years maintaining a sharp focus on honing my craft as a painter. Countless studio hours were matched with even more time pursuing opportunities, schmoozing with gallerists, and making my presence known within Boston’s, and the greater Northeast’s, vibrant art communities. While each year yielded great leaps in my technical dexterity and academic proficiency as a painter, the art was virtually devoid of the most important component that separates art from craft . . . and I just couldn’t see it. Or, perhaps I could see it—I just didn’t want to. The debates between, “what is good art” and “what is or can be art” have been raging on for years – particularly since the mid-19th century with the birth…

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September 17, 2019

“The Good Pimp,” A Short Story by James Hanna

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

While sitting in a Starbucks on Mission Street, I met a splendid pimp. The breakfast crowd had dispersed when he ambled into the restaurant, and he gave me a friendly nod before sitting down at the table beside me. He was a towering man with a heavy, black beard and menacing scar on his cheek, but his eyes were as kind as a minister’s and softer than poached eggs. “Good morning,” he said, his voice as smooth as butter. He was toting a leather briefcase, which he placed upon the floor, and he gazed at me like a spaniel hoping to gobble a tidbit. “Have you tried the strudel?” he asked me. “All my girls love the strudel. I assure you it’s the finest in all of San Francisco.” Having already sampled the nut bread,…

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September 12, 2019

“True Blue,” Every Man’s Fantasy – A Short Story by Paul Lewellan

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

For fifty-three years the Hilltop Diner on College Street fed the academic community of the University of Southern Iowa (USI). Dr. Benjamin “Blue” Boru’s usual table occupied the back corner by the bathrooms underneath the giant wheezing room air conditioner. Blue arrived daily at six a.m. and ordered The Special: two eggs (fried hard), two slices of buttered toast, hash browns, pork sausage links, and black coffee. After breakfast, Sheila Morgan, the owner’s redheaded daughter, cleared away his plate while Blue poured over Nag-Hammadi manuscripts. She left him alone, except to refill his coffee. She waitressed mornings, cooked for the lunch crowd, then called in the produce orders. Late afternoon and evenings she studied. Sheila began a master’s degree in religion the year she turned forty-three. Her first class was Blue’s. He’d been a regular…

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September 9, 2019

The Mechanics of Melancholy: Engaging Poetry by Rick Ratliff

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

Dark hallways Long hallway, doors on either side Like the departure platform at a rail station. No eye contact, everyone looking down, Shuffling along the bland grey floor. Away from the new arrivals  Lighting is always dimmed like perpetual twilight   And darkness creeps out of some doors like a black fog We come to say goodbye to those who no longer hear, And who stare blankly at the ceiling: While we are looking at the floor. Departure time is slowly approaching,  Breathing is mechanical like worn breaks And the smell, the odor that’s hard to describe–  Body odor with musty deodorant  Exhalation is pungent.   No talking now  It goes quiet at departure  As we silently stand in ovation as we exit FORGOTTEN SONG FORGET ME NOT She’s not you — yet, neither are you, (anymore) You would like her; I think. Flaxen hair (like yours) And I trust all the understanding A widow has of memories and loss. That helps, as I am daily learning To be the reluctant guardian…

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September 5, 2019

Jennifer Judge’s Poetry Tells Us The Way Things Just Are

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

PEOPLE Always say you know what to do when your child cries, you just know, like some parent gene kicks in, the knowledge springs up in your brain like it’s always been there, a priori knowledge. But that’s a load of bullshit. Watch a baby fall backwards and drop a chair on herself. You see the chair going but you can’t get there in time to stop it, and you can’t control the gasp that escapes you. You’re not supposed to gasp, have to remain calm so that the child does. And when there’s nothing, nothing, nothing that calms her after the fall—walking, talking, hugging, singing, kissing—you know your love is not strong enough now for anyone, that you are what you are, failure of a parent, and you know this is your life now….

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September 1, 2019

William Wolak, Master of Collage

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

Bill Wolak has kindly consented to share his masterful collage works with Fictional Cafe, and we’re delighted to bring his work before you. As his collages take different form and shape depending upon his ideas and materials, so it is with his work and creativity. Titles are displayed beneath images. Bill Wolak teaches creative writing at William Paterson University in Paterson, New Jersey. In addition to creating collages, he is a poet and a photographer. He has just published his fifteenth book of poetry entitled The Nakedness Defense with Ekstasis Editions. His collages have appeared recently in Naked in New Hope 2017; The 2019 Seattle Erotic Art Festival; Poetic Illusion; The Riverside Gallery, Hackensack, NJ; the 2019 Dirty Show in Detroit; 2018 The Rochester Erotic Arts Festival and The 2018 Montreal Erotic Art Festival. artist photo courtesy India Times

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August 28, 2019

Aphrodite’s Revenge: Two Poems by Madison Culpepper

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

Even Aphrodite Has Lazy Days I apologize for the days I don’t wear make-up or dress in tight gowns, and for the days I don’t try to seduce a man to feel worthy. I used to bathe myself in lavender to attract men. Right now, I’m tired and alone. My confidence wilts when I don’t plaster my face with a glow brighter than the sun. Today, I’m lying beneath blankets in nothing but sweats and skin. My hair is tied into a bun, purple scoops under my eyes. I wish a man could see that even without my highlight I’m still beautiful. Most days, I may appear like the pink sunsets pouring into violet streams. But beneath the gloss and glow and goddess sheen, I’m just a woman, a person. Someone who is more than vanity. And with my face bare, I hope my soul can finally shine, lilac light blooming freely through my skin after all this time. Citrus Grief Rows of oranges make a masterpiece in…

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August 27, 2019

The Women: Poems by Stephen Jackson

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

The Back of Trudy’s Head Everything, at once came to Trudy on the bus, the world through a window smeared with hair grease came in clear, she looked around at all the other passengers and knew us — felt our tension in her shoulders, drew a breath of body odor, smelled our fear. And the thick, pink man who sat ahead of Trudy leaned back to scratch his mat of ratted graying hair releasing flakes of skin down his back and in the air, then turned to smile a crooked-tooth smile at himself in the window, that at night is both a window and a mirror. Trudy pulled the cord to make the driver stop, as it was all that she could think to do, and when he did the doors swung open but Trudy could not get off — no one did but…

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