All posts in Writing

April 6, 2022

“Trade an Honored Word,” by Michael Tyler

Sam lays beside, a strap released and delicate to the touch, bare back to the sun with a touch of whiskey to give the afternoon a kick. Charlie ties her hair back and applies lotion to Clay’s nose as he regales us all with tales of Amsterdam misadventure. A girl at each window, feigned desire amid fatuous aside from each passing native. Clay took a girl to a room, she cried as he undressed, he paid and let her be. She took his hand as she closed the door and returned to the window, he waved as he passed and that was Amsterdam. Clay has a fight in two days and Charlie notes he’s looking gaunt. He says it’s worth it for the adrenaline alone and it will not keep him from the whiskey. Charlie’s…

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March 27, 2022

“I Hear Yes,” Poetry by Vera West

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

i hear “yes” I jokingly have asked my husband: “Do you feel like I’m a gallon of milk you got home only to find out it’s expired?” He knows I’m referring to how I used to be pretty but now feel curdled. He laughs—not a real laugh but a confused nervous one I’ve forced out of him by knowing he loves me and asking him a ridiculous question like that anyway. You might focus on the fact that he did in fact laugh—coerced or not—but what you should really be focusing on is how only a sad insecure person hiding behind pain in humor would make that joke in the first place. It says so much and for the record, he always answers no but I always hear yes. ** affect and effect No one…

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March 21, 2022

“Tobias and the Wildflower Utopia,” by Derrick R. Lafayette

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

“Can you help me?” “Are you positive of what you lost?” “Yes.” “You’ve lost your soul?” “Yes.” “Where?” “I’m not sure. I awoke one day hollow.” “Continue.” There was a pathway beyond the wildflower meadows. My brother told me the noises from there were the product of trickery. Auditory hallucinations sent from devils and pagan worshippers. On a night not entirely unforeseen, my mother took her final breath in bed. I held a dying candle at her side. The embers cast a dreadful shadow upon the wall as if her soul was a silhouette. Dysentery had robbed her of her humanity. The smell tormented the house for days after. I suppose that was her way of saying she wasn’t ready. It left a silence in my home, which was filled with the sound of my…

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March 16, 2022

“Catch the Spring Young,” Poetry by Sunil Sharma

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Catch the spring young! A brief season that brings vitality to the faded flowers the wilted gardens and fields. The spring! It removes the effects of the winters in the frosty climes or the harsh sun in the moody tropics and ushers in dappled days dipped in fresh hues and light restores smiles on the  tired lips. Also, significantly, the young spring revives a hibernating artist by replenishing Within! ** The Snow the snow is deep outside the door shut inside in Toronto in the winter a whole world opens up Inside! ** Deep Darkness Evening no longer signals the darkness that thickens quickly, these days the tired eyes have seen darkness descend in the daylight also darkness that shines on despite the bright sun In a bleak country, where folks die quickly, fires burn merrily…

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March 9, 2022

“Counselling,” by Brandan Hingley-Lovatt

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: We keep the author’s original spelling when it differs from U.S. English. In this case, Brandan’s UK spelling of “counselling/counsellor” with two Ls persists throughout this work. If I were to write my suicide note I think I’d sign it “I’ve never liked anyone more than myself and I like myself this much.” A parting statement which I think is honest. I can picture it—the note attached to my shirt with a safety pin, my limp body hanging from the ceiling; a plastic bag wrapped around my head for good measure. Anyway, my counsellor says, “There are a lot of bad people in the world but there are good ones, too.” I agree but respectfully say that the good ones are too small in number so it doesn’t really make a difference. My…

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February 23, 2022

“Peter Roget,” Poems by Charles Rammelkamp

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Little Red Man My minister father composed sermons. My uncle praised their “taste and elegance”: a word man long before me. Son of a Geneva clockmaker, mon pere, Jean Roget – “little red man,” from the French rouge – immigrated to London at 24 to become pastor at Le Quarré, the French Protestant church in Soho. Papa preached in the little Huguenot church on Little Dean Street, a few blocks north of St. James’s, the colossus near Piccadilly Circus, Christopher Wren’s  largest church – where I was christened in 1779. Papa’d married Catherine Romilly a year before, in St. Marleybone Church, welcomed into their family without reservation. My uncle, Samuel, rhapsodized about our happiness, “as complete as is ever the portion of human beings,” but only months after my birth, Papa was “seized with an…

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February 16, 2022

“Python,” An Excerpt by Rob Swigart

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Rob Swigart brings Lisa Emmer back for Python, Book Three of his fascinating mystery series. I met Rob Swigart on the afternoon of April 29, 1977, at the University of Oregon Bookstore, where he was autographing copies of his first novel, Little America. Although we lost touch with one another for many years, Rob published more novels, many of which I’ve read. One day, perusing my bookshelf, I picked up Little America again and read Rob’s inscription. I turned to my computer and quickly found an email address for him! I’m very happy to know Rob once again, today as a friend and fellow novelist. Rob shared “Water,” a short story with us on FC a few years ago, and today we’re helping bring attention to his latest work, Python, the third book in his…

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February 13, 2022

Valentine’s Day 2022 at the Café

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Audio Arts, Writing

Three of our Coffee Club Members Share Their Valentine Stories Thank you, thank you everyone, for sending us your Valentine stories! We baristas have read your work and have tried to select works which portray different human perspectives – this in these days of a seemingly endless pandemic which has darkly colored the Be My Valentine emotions for a lot of folks. Our first Valentine’s Day winner is Wiam Najjar’s short story,”Valentine.” Wiam Najjar is a writer at heart and a school principal in mission. She leads teachers and students then goes home to her sacred haven; writing. She’s been published in online magazines and writing blogs and was shortlisted in the 2018 Memoir Magazine #MeToo Essay Contest. You can check out her articles on MyDramaList and her blog WiamNajjar’s Haven. Valentine “Valentine, you forgot your coffee!” She turned…

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February 8, 2022

A. Rayan El Nadim Presents Performance Poetry

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: A. Rayan El Nadim is an Egyptian poet whose work has been translated from Arabic into English here for your enjoyment on The Fictional Café. He categorizes his work as conceptual and performance poetry, specifically, “a deep dive into myths, folklore, and the secrets of inherited improvisational folk songs that deeply express pain, suffering and dream; the history of the Egyptian folk treasures; the songs of Rababa, a rediscovery of the true history buried in the walls of Egyptian houses; and the rituals of joy and sadness that lived for thousands of years on both banks of the Nile.” My name has been crossed out a long time ago on a brick wall -1- I searched for my name in my body I found it engraved in aversion, estrangement, and revulsion I searched…

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February 3, 2022

“A Hail of Stone,” A Short Story by Jane Nkiwane

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

The cry of the KWEREKWERE A hail of stones ran through Shoko’s Shack. His heart pounded so hard as he heard the thundering of the rocks every time they hit his corrugated iron shack. It was a chilly day but he found himself drenched in sweat, his mind was in turmoil. The only instinct he had was to save his life from the marauding monsters outside who were baying for his MaKwerekwere blood. “Come out you maggot!” “Cockroach!” “Scavenger” different voices called out from the mob gathered outside his one roomed shack. On top of the bed was a buttered and worn-out black suitcase with his meager belongings which he had hastily packed inside resting on a threadbare greasy quilt. The zipper had ceased to function. Shoko had wrapped a thick red string around it…

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