All posts in Writing

February 6, 2023

Deux Poèmes from Deux Poets

Today, Fictional Café introduces two fine poems from two fine American poets in our virtual magazine. Please let us know what you think of their work in the Comments section at the end of this post. Frank De Canio Language Primer I might as well become a child again, since my substantial English goes as far as what my senorita comprehends. As such, my native tongue becomes a bar against pronounced exchanges with my friend. She understands enough of what I say to stumble through the meaning I intend, but not enough for me to get my way. Yet, speaking fluent Spanish to her peers, she leaves me feeling witless in my age, while she with rapid fluency endears herself to those in the proficient stage of verbal mastery. And I must wait on textbook…

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February 1, 2023

Robert Lunday’s Poetic Moments

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Little Man I need what I earn and could use a little more. But the little man in me needs none of it. He squats like an undiscovered arthropod and bottom-feeds on my mutterings. He sits in the position known as Lotus with his knees at forty-five degrees. The supposed virtues are his zodiac and if he’s naked you try not to notice. Fragment Please believe in me and do not doubt what I say. This foaming mouth is Aphrodite but the hands are Hephaestus clawing the air as he falls through the heavens in dismay. You break my heart but I take the pieces and make from each a thousand more. Gravel Gravel was on the menu. It was the thing you weren’t supposed to eat. It was there to make everything else look…

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January 29, 2023

“Man Does Not Live By Words Alone”

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Poetry by Dana Yost Rainbow Through the window the sun blew into a glass of white wine then refracted into a rainbow upon the skin of lemon-pepper chicken as we talked about Nazi death camps and soldiers killed by sniper fire in Vietnam. A teacher dead in the recent derecho. It was such a peaceful setting for death, wasn’t it? The seven of us around the table and one finally mentioned amnesty for draft-dodgers, and no one went berserk, no one even disagreed. We shook our heads at the insanity of war, at the cruelty of death, and my classmate posted photos on Facebook of herself in hospice, ready to die from cancer. “I’ll be here for the end,” she said from her living room couch, under a blanket. I looked for a rainbow but…

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January 20, 2023

“Paper Dolls” by Rachel Gonzalez

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

A Short Story by Our New Writer in Residence He has a collection of paper dolls and a workshop dedicated to them. It’s a perfectly maintained and organized room filled with tools of his trade. Xacto knives and self-healing mats, tacky spray for stubborn pages, creasing tools for the ideal line. There are no unruly folds or crinkled edges in his workshop. He’s a sentimental man. His favorite paper dolls live in a box on the highest shelf. Sometimes he pulls them out to admire them, or to take inspiration for his newest project. His process is very thorough: First comes the raw material. He can spot the potential of a page from a mile away. Be it the pattern or the texture or the pliability, he knows a good page when he gets his…

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December 15, 2022

“Mother,” Poetry by Bharti Bansal

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Mother Sometimes I look at the regrets of my mother trailing along the corners of her eyes As she wonders about her place in the world too often There is no secret to motherhood, I suppose Just a constant feeling of doing it wrong My father consoles her, calls her beloved A sincere way of reminding her of their own vows Yet when she wakes up at night, feeling the clutches of past on her throat, she simply lets him sleep without saying a single word I believe it is when a relationship turns into partnership as time moves along the edges of their bodies, Sometimes becoming a game, as they team up together, shake hands, pat each other’s back, constantly reminding themselves about the love that blossomed years ago This is how I see…

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December 6, 2022

“Monsters Like Us,” by Sarah Normandie

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

The New England mid-October air, sharp and crisp, presented itself in a way that said goodbye to summer while promising winter soon. Detective Thicket trudged his feet through the carpet of red and gold fallen leaves as he breathed in the wet, musty smell of the woods. He couldn’t help but notice that nothing had changed since the last time he was here. The trees stood the way they stood each day before, just some taller and stronger while others stood with lost branches from heavy winds or were dying from disease. The squirrels and the birds went about their business on this day, the same way other squirrels and birds went about their business in 1995. If only the forest could talk, he thought, the stories it would tell. Somewhere in Thicket’s mind he…

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December 2, 2022

“Ode to the Wild Daffodil,” Poetry by Birch Saperstein

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Ode to the Wild Daffodil After Ross Gay Come, rise, my friends! The season has shown her fertile belly, turned her deep skin, and now a new portion is facing the sun! Come, join me! Our time growing underground has come to an end, face the world with me! Open your faces to the bees and butterflies and hummingbirds and gnats and let them sing you everywhere! I know you’re scared, terrified to stick your stems out into the air, terrified of frost and collapse and wind and rabbits and I know there’s nothing I can do to change or quell that which you fear. But I know, no, I promise, that we’ll rise together, into a new season. ** Clippers My heart is a pair of hedge clippers wielded by a crow who simply…

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November 22, 2022

Nina Kossman Poetry

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

The Tale of Tzarina Alyonushka and Her Brother Ivanushka (a free-verse version of a well-known Russian fairy tale) “I warned my brother not to drink from the lake. I warned him. But, at that age, do they listen? He drank from it. And of course his quick arms and legs became goat limbs, his blond curls became white fleece. –Ivanushka! Beware, kid brother, of the witch and her knives, her pots full of water. Her greed fills them up. Her jealousy heats them. She is the Queen now. She wears my face. She stole my figure, and I– I worked so hard at it! But who can hear my protests? My voice hardly reaches you from these stinky depths. What does she want with us? Ah, my husband, the Tzar. Does she hold his hands…

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October 11, 2022

“The Anchored World”- An Excerpt

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Fictional Cafe is pleased to share with our readers an excerpt from a just-published, highly original new work by Jasmine Sawers. Please see our interview with the founders of Rose Metal Press, which follows the excerpt. ** The Weight of the Moon The moon fell from the sky last Tuesday. I rolled her into the shed and gave her some water. “Thank you,” she said. “Don’t you worry about it,” I said. I patted her sorest-looking crater. I got some lotion and rubbed it on. “Thank you,” she said. Everyone was so worried. “The tides,” they said. “The rotation of the earth on its axis,” they said. “The migration of the birds, the turning of the seasons, the visibility at nighttime. Where is the moon? The end is nigh. Judgment is coming. Repent.” They don’t…

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September 29, 2022

“The Last Supper” by Rachel Cann

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

“Now there’s a view,” said Phil, so smugly I felt like putting my hands around his neck and throttling. Easter Sunday and we were on the concrete deck at the Swampscott home of his best friend under house arrest with bail in excess of a million dollars. It would be the last time they would break bread, the two most feared men in the New England Cosa Nostra. The tide was low; the air charged with the rich, dank smell of home. As complaining seagulls swooped and soared above the deserted beach and the dark, gray Atlantic, I breathed deeply, tried to relax the muscles around my narcissistic heart. The family inside was in crisis. I was always in crisis. Would it never end? Adrenaline coursed through my veins like an out-of-control locomotive, clickety-clack, drowning…

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