Meeting in the Middle, Lebanon, KS The center of these United States lies in this heartland space, where love does battle with our hates, where politicians court their base; yet there should be some room for peace: our modern civil war must cease. Lies in this heartland space proliferate, become more lies. It’s something that we need to face or else this fragile union dies. How can we mend the social quilt? Can democracy be rebuilt, where love does battle with our hates? Let’s hope it has the upper hand. The intervention of the Fates may be required for us to stand on principles, but not take sides, to have a chance to heal divides. Where politicians court their base, there’s no chance for compromise. “Dog whistles” emphasizing race – or victimizing Anglo guys –…
“Who Must Be Fed,” by Julian Warmington
It took only a moment for her hunger to overwhelm her. In place of her contented satiation, there was a desire to feed that now burned inside of her, familiar yet new. It ached, burning inside. Instinct overrode any logic lingering in her mind. She needed to feed. She already knew that the usual fruits and nectars wouldn’t satisfy this craving. There was something more she needed, something vital and warm that would complete her. This was what she had been born to one day consume, and she was ready. With a flutter of her gossamer wings, she leaped into the air in search of the nourishment she craved. She flew for some time, her mind singly focused on seeking. It wasn’t long before she picked up the smell of a source. The sweet, heady…
“Tatiana’s Tango,” The Poetry of J.P. Christiansen
Tatiana’s Tango Her sex is a tango, sung in any language, please, in a black and white picture, mono chrome, with shadows of that desire, please. She stands under the lamp-post dividing day and lust, the music of a moon having come out to guide you, Tatiana. The small orchestra plays the seductive tones, the singer caresses words and refrain, here in the bar in Warsaw, 1938, where two bodies meet in a dance to celebrate life. A tango may last three minutes. I listen to the scratched vinyl surface of the 78. A memory arises with each turning of the needle in its grooves. Haunting notes and voice of a song which used to be. Now, 1939, and the gramophone is silent. The vinyl is broken. Did the walls fall on you, too, Tatiana…
Juneteenth: A Day of Remembrance and Celebration
Editor’s Note: Black lives matter. Creative lives matter. We’re very fortunate to see both embodied in The Fictional Café’s Residency program. In both instances, these are word-artists who had already discovered The Fictional Café and been published here. Mbizo Chirasha was asked to become our Poet-in-Residence because of the powerful messages of freedom from oppression and tyranny in his poetry. We are saddened to learn that he remains in exile, now for four long years, in large part because of his book of poetry, A Letter to the President, which drew the ire of the dictatorship in Mbizo’s native country. Against powerfully thwarting odds, we’re trying to help. Derrick R. Lafayette is, with pun intended, our Black Knight of fiction. His fierce, compelling stories captivated us from his first submission. His strong advocacy for our…
“Dottie,” A Short Story by Kerry Breen
Dottie looked past her reflection in the bathroom mirror to the metallic petals outlining her slight frame. She’d found the vinyl-coated wallpaper in W.T. Grants on Washington Street that Wednesday and had spent half of Thursday hanging it. Looking back to the mirror, she folded the final curler into her hair and snapped it shut. She then began her nightly routine of wrapping toilet paper around the circumference of her head to keep her cropped, platinum hair smooth around each bubblegum pink foam roller. She had thought the yellow and orange flowers traced in gold were just the springy boost the tiny bath needed, but now she wasn’t sure. “George? Hey, George?” she called into the hallway. “Yes, dear,” George replied, stealthily dipping his left hand into the candy dish on the kitchen counter. …
“Sonnet to Morrow,” Poems by Yuan Changming
Sonnet to Morrow Since yester twilight Along the borderline of tonight With fits of thirst & hunger Among storms of pain Under attacks of viruses Between interludes of insomnia Beyond both hope & expectation At the depth of darkness Amidst the nightmare Through one tiny antlike moment After another . . . Against deadly despair Until awakening To the first ray of dawn Holistic Relationship (for Qi Hong) 99% from me plus 1% from you Makes Our love Just happily perfect Though, alas Not exactly ideal As anyone might wish Tips for Becoming a Great World Citizen in the e.Age 1. Don’t argue with any numbers, but just follow the google algorithm; 2. Abide by American interest rather than international law; 3. Whatever game Uncle Sam is up to play, join the team led by him; 4. Always shore…
“Bicycling with Butterflies,” A New Book by Sara Dykman
Editor’s note: Most of us are likely curious about the person who writes a book — in particular, one who rode her bicycle 10,201 miles to follow the monarch butterfly migration from Mexico across the United States to Canada and back again. So we’re introducing a new feature to our book excerpts: a Zoom interview with the author. If you like what you’re about to listen to, watch, read, please leave a note in the Comments—and treat yourself to a copy of Sara’s book. This is the best book about adventure cycling I’ve ever read, and it’s available on Amazon in hardcover, Kindle and Audible. ~ Jack Bicycling with Butterflies excerpt: “A Million-Winged Sendoff” DAYS 1 AND 2 / MARCH 12 AND 13 MILES 1–118 The sun’s warmth began to pour steadily through the branches,…
Rebecca Hosking — Multitalented Creative
Photo above: Elephant Camp, Chang Mai, Thailand Editor’s Note: This month’s featured artist is also a very talented musician and poet. Check out Rebecca Hosking’s diverse creative endeavors below. Not All Witches Belong to a Coven Not all witches belong to a coven. Put aside the stereotypes. Expand your mind and think outside of the box. Mother nature lives inside all of us. She is the mother of the earth. Her medicine lives in the plants that feed off the dirt. Get your feet wet, dabble, and expand your mind. Not all witches wear black clothing or dance naked in the garden just before dawn. This woman lives alone. She lives among her dreams, works hard like a graceful wave carrying life to the shore. She warms her skin with the sun and finds energy…
“Never Never Land,” by Michael Summerleigh
At some point in the evening he turned around and realised he was somewhere he’d never been before; that he couldn’t remember any of the people with whom he’d been in that wherever it was he thought he had been before ending up where he was. What it boiled down to was that he was alone, when at some point in the near past it had been otherwise . . . and now he was lost . . . which had not always been the case in that same shifty construct of reality he had assumed was his normal everyday life. Mostly he stayed on top of things. What frightened him was that it was, nevertheless, familiar; that the sudden crushing weight of what-the-fuck was not new; that he had been there in the Nowhere a thousand times since the day/night/whatever when Timothy Thomas Garmin had woken up screaming because in…
“Lux et Veritas,” Four Sonnets by Claude Clayton Smith
Lux et Veritas —for Yvonne The light from all the stars we see goes on to other galaxies although those stars are dead. Where on earth does it end? In non- existent time? Does light lose speed like cars in neutral? Is “fading light” anomalous? Not quite. In empty space light waves maintain their speed until they interact with us or meet other resistance. Light does not distain a vacuum, but glass or water ebbs its flow, and Bose Einstein Condensate can slow it to one mile per hour. Black holes swallow light forever. All Nature does its bit. So where the hell does that leave you and me? The truth of light confounds eternally. B & B Let Basquiat & Banksy paint away, no cityscape untouched, four-handed art on walls and bridges, cement or brick—array of Day-Glo, long-tailed rats; vandals, one part anonymous, one not. Subversive rap or hip-hop punk, epigrams, graffiti…