All posts in Writing

September 13, 2021

“Bridge Across the Ocean,” a New Novel by FC Founding Barista Jack B. Rochester

Today, we celebrate with Jack, our fearless leader, the publication of his new novel, Bridge Across the Ocean. He began writing it ten years ago, and needless to say it’s been through a few changes since then. Here’s a short synopsis: Jedediah Smith, Luke Lin, David Bondsman and Rick Saundersson have created the most innovative bicycle drive in history: The Spinner, a technologically advanced device that produces and stores its own energy without using batteries. It’s 2011, and it’s ideally positioned for the just-emerging city bike market, and the world’s largest bicycle maker located in Taiwan is interested. Just before they are to leave for Taipei, Taiwan, to discuss a licensing agreement with Joyful Bike, Luke is struck down while cycling and killed by a hit-and-run driver. Although heartbroken, the three friends decide to continue…

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September 9, 2021

“Party Time,” Poetry by Shoshauna Shy

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

PARTY TIME Everybody’s laughing at you because you’re swinging a stick like a fool at nothing and because it’s June Fest but moms made them come h e r e. Even Bobby Ferrell, your classroom “book buddy” jeers. The cake your mother served was lemon coconut for your sister who missed out on her own party in April when sick. You trip on your own feet. This makes the pitch of laughter rise – and then ka-SHAB! – the stick makes contact, the string snaps, and the piñata tumbles to the ground. Nobody understands, least of all you, why you keep whacking and whacking that jackass flat even after it spills the goods. CHOOSING THE BEST TIME TO STAGE YOUR OWN ABDUCTION Not while your dorm mate is in Connecticut and won’t notice how you aren’t there but your purse and cell phone are. Not the day…

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September 7, 2021

“The Sword of David,” An Excerpt by Charles Lichtman

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: This month we are featuring four novel excerpts—debuting one each Tuesday. Our first is Charles Lichtman’s The Sword of David—a brand new novel, which came out today. In this action-packed thriller, an Israeli commando must search the globe for a long-lost biblical treasure. Hope you enjoy! PART ONE CHAPTER 1 Jerusalem, Present Day “Excuse me, Ms. Klein, I hate to impose, but may I please have your autograph?” asked a middle-aged woman who was holding out a piece of paper and a pen. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. People come up to me all the time thinking I’m the woman who saved the president. I know I look like her, but it’s not me,” replied the younger woman. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the tourist said. “Please forgive me.” “Not a problem,” Debra Klein replied. “It happens…

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August 30, 2021

“T.S. Eliot Homage,” Poetry by Timothy Resau

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

T.S. Eliot Homage (a love poem) Looking, now, at myself, do you think of me, later? When the tropical sun and high waves wash across my thin ankles? White-haired and crazy with spider-like legs, stumbling over small sand dunes— dunes I shall call memories. Should I be calling: — More champagne? Hashish? Incense? Should I be laughing: — Why have you forsaken me O Lord? Looking, then, at myself, and you, seeing you over my Paper-Mache shoulders— brittle, like old bird bones, these once worldly shoulders. Do you think of me? — And the angel of the Lord declared unto Mary that she was to be the Mother of God . . . White-haired and crazed, red bandana and erotic music. Original, native paintings upon my clay walls, so modest— The Mother of…

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August 26, 2021

“Tiny Shredded Pieces,” A Story by Unimke Ushie

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

When my husband told me his mother was visiting London after our wedding in Nigeria when we last saw her, I remembered her not so soft hands tapping my buttocks, touching my breast and every crease around its plumpness, and saying –with a smile that did not wrinkle the skin around her eyes– “nwunye anyi, our wife, I’m just checking if your breasts have enough to support my unborn grandchildren.” I had a bland look on my face when she touched me, that is somehow the same now listening to my husband tell me of her coming to London. And soon I felt something I cannot see or name entering my body, and a damp wetness between my legs. “I’ll finally eat good food” he added. Avoiding my face. “Oh, Chikelu you know cooking is…

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August 23, 2021

“Drawing Mannequin,” Poetry by Julia Franklin

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Drawing Mannequin Mischief in monochrome. Subtle sidekick, sleek home of souls. Cold conjuror, no-face freedom. No life out of reach. The Pasta Hour Late walk, home again. Dark sky above, weak legs beneath. Fifteen-minute era of Waiting, Watching, and Stirring . . . To be rewarded with chewy-salty Victory, butter-cheese-fork Relief, calorie-laden Defiance, primal-unconditional Devotion. The Fire I come not from one house, but three. House Number One was festive, dependable, full of sweet dreams and hypotheticals that I shrugged off. House Number Two was empty, frigid and aloof, stripped to its skeleton, and infected with smoke. House Number Three was recuperating in the balm of springtime and accepting, sheepishly, the cardboard boxes that held its Number One face. …

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August 15, 2021

“Sandy Ajax, We Hardly Knew You,” by James Hanna

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

The World Baseball League was born in the sixties in our suburban home in Virginia. My kid brother and I invented it on a sweltering Fourth of July. It was a heroic invention—a vehicle by which two nerdy kids might share the aura of champions. Armed with dice, meticulously drawn charts, and a cardboard baseball diamond, Robbie and I commanded the destinies of twenty baseball teams. We played daily throughout the long hot summers—up to six games a day—and we tweaked team standings and player averages after every game. So absorbed were we in horsehide heroics that we rendered the summers neither long nor hot. Our rosters consisted of four hundred individual players each represented by a 2” by 2” square of cardboard. Batting averages, fielding percentages, slugging potential, and base- running speed were recorded on each of these squares along…

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August 9, 2021

“Finding Progressions in Mere Lists,” by M. A. Istvan

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

finding progressions in mere lists when none of the facts so integral to who you are can be reached absenting oneself from a situation by fainting sitting on a wood fence for hours in hope that a new face will show itself to talk failures loom larger in places where little else is around pinching the tongue of one seizuring the flood displacement would have been a glorified camping vacation had he not learned of her betrayal feigning knowledge of facts mentioned in an offhand tone as if you knew them already thoughts of suicide to stay in the game when mere to-do lists fail making the position clear threatens to make it vulnerable even the sexual organs of family are open for dinner conversation once…

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July 30, 2021

“BugSplat,” A Short Story by Karen Lethlean

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

So boring. No one her age. Already run out of books. Less to do than being at home. Sandra felt her feet get heavy in loose beach sand as she tried to dispel inertia by taking a walk. “Get out and find something you enjoy. Nature is therapeutic you know.” Why the hell did her mum think therapy was required? Strange how once upon a time she and her father wandered along these same beaches, christened these walks Morning Explorations and set the task of finding The Most Terrible Thing washed up overnight. Now Sandra stared out at water, twisting her hair or shooting an imaginary gun at squawking gulls. Couldn’t even get much of a signal on her phone. Limited people about. Not even any good waves to attract surfers. Cute blonde boys she…

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July 20, 2021

“Incompletist,” Poetry by Tom Pennacchini

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Incompletist It’s all a bit sketchy don’t you know what with the RMS and all.  Formal education and I didn’t work out but I was on my way across the country to fulfill my own peculiar and particular manifest destiny which at the time (at the time)? was a semi – conscious state of befuddled uncertainty laced with a lack of pragmatics that was nothing short of utter ineptitude.  (Oh essential humor I laugh to myself now at the notion of then going clear across the country to maintain my standards and my continuous quest for success in failure). We arrived at the train station and said our goodbyes.  After you left there was a welling and a filling and at the same time a depletion of air.  I rushed outside after a constricted couple of…

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