All posts in Writing

May 13, 2021

“My Sister,” Poems by Susan J. Wurtzburg

My Sister My sister enacts meal provider, family clustered around the table. Sustenance for body and heart, hollowed out by this year. Muffled emptiness behind my ribs muted by video calls. Strands across the Pacific from my island to her wooded home. My sibling draws me back to Canada, closed pine borders. Each call a step closer, but still stranded on a rock in the ocean. ** The Toad Heavy rains, another toad in the garden, poison to my dog. Buffo catching, my new pastime, followed by a marsh trip. Bye Mr. Toad. No whimsical talking character, Wind in the Willows cute. Instead a mammoth, warty body, with venom sacs behind his ears. Toad number seven in a lineage, a hopping invading force. Beady eyes, fire-plug body, strong jumping legs, garden bane in Hawaii. Islands replete with outsiders: frogs, rats, goats, even tourists. If the toads arrived with…

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May 10, 2021

“Demon Road,” A Short Story by Derrick R. Lafayette

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

I lived in a castle made of mud. Solid enough to make you feel caged. Light barely escaped the brown warped walls. The house had so many ancestors pass away inside, that layers of its spirit fought each other seasonally. I was doomed. I believe it was late autumn when my stomach’s emptiness corresponded with my heart. After fifty-five days in solitude, the hunger monster devoured me. Food was to be acquired. There used to be another person to handle these things during the summer. However, the sunlight tempted her to search for buried treasure in the cityscape. She thought there were buildings, roads, and regular life beyond the mountains, past the desert plain. All things inside the dome. I located the area map before she did and destroyed it. I thought about her wandering hopelessly every night. Helped me sleep. The gun seemed to gain ten pounds since the last time I…

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April 27, 2021

“Head Space,” Poems by Ted Millar

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Head Space I still know my childhood best friend’s telephone number even though I’ll never dial it again. I’ve taught certain poems so many times I can recite them on demand, yet some claim that has no practical application. Most find my ability to name the American presidents by years in office amusing before urging me to remember “something important” (like last night’s winning Powerball numbers?). I embrace my savant-esque ability to rattle off every Bob Dylan album and the songs featured on them. I prefer not to cram my head with empty crap on the radio and celebrity gossip, thank you very much. Want something proofread, I’m the resident grammarian, but if it’s scores to last night’s game, I suggest turning on ESPN. I’ve actually read the whole Constitution, not cherry-picked excerpts. Ditto the Declaration of Independence, the United Nations’ Declaration of…

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April 26, 2021

This Friday: Live Webinar for Writers on FC!!

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

This Friday, April 30th, at 2pm Eastern we will be hosting a webinar for writers who want to learn how to create an author platform and market their books. Dan Blank will be presenting on various topics. Check out the description below! Stay tuned for the link for the webinar later this week. An Introduction to Author Platform and Finding Your Ideal Readers Dan Blank has helped thousands of writers develop their author platforms, launch their books, and create marketing strategies that work. In this 1-hour webinar, he will share his methodology for how to develop your author platform, market your writing, and find a sense of joy and fulfillment in the process. He will discuss social media, finding your ideal readers, how to present yourself online, and the key elements of book launches. A Q&A…

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April 18, 2021

“Rat Road,” A Short Story by Paul Negri

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Because I had no father, no brothers or sisters, no aunts or uncles, and no friends, and was scared of everything, Mom was worried about me. “I’m worried about you, Tommy,” she would say, and she looked it. And that worried me. She was all I had, my lifeline, and even at nine I knew a frayed rope was not the best lifeline, though I did not think of it in such fancy metaphoric terms, as being a child I had no need for metaphors. What I knew was instinctive, a heightened sense of risk that permeated my day to day and night to night life. Like me, Mom’s father left before she was born and her mother (who I later came to call the Unknown Grandma) gave Mom up for adoption, which launched her into a carousel of foster care for several years. But unlike me, Mom was not afraid of anything, as far as I could tell, and I imagined she never had been. …

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April 15, 2021

“Botticelli’s Oranges,” The Poetry of Reed Venrick

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Botticelli’s Oranges In an Italian port village near where the boy called “Allessandro” grew up, some thought his circles drawn must be made with a mechanical compass, so round, so fine, there in the Mediterranean sand, where Botticelli grew into youth, wandering through the orange and lemon groves of the Italian littoral; even then sketching lines of muscular trunks and extending arms branching into fingers of leaves, mixing into colors of rinds of reds and yellows. But when youthful fingers grew long enough to put a brush to canvas, he tinted the precious fruit In Madonna with Child and Angels, where she sat under blooming orange trees in spring, for the artist used orange trees to symbolize the virgin, because as he said: among fruits, only oranges are evergreen, “if one sees the mean.” So…

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April 12, 2021

“Kali,” A Short Story by Emily Chaff

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

“Is everything okay here?” “Well, it’s fine. But, can I ask you, I mean, I don’t know if you can do anything about it, but—” Kali waited beside the table, her fist tightening around the handle of the coffee pot she held. She couldn’t care less what the problem was. She wondered if her customers realized she was contractually obligated to ask them if they were enjoying their meal and if she could get them anything else. And with this guy, it was always something. He came in every morning the second the door was open. Breakfast started at 7am and she dreaded seeing his face peering through the glass, without fail, at 6:55. He sat himself at the same four-top table, table 32, and set himself up like a king holding court. Extra napkins….

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April 5, 2021

National Poetry Month: A Potpourri of Poems

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: What goes better with a piping-hot cuppa java than a great poem that whisks you away to another world or makes you contemplate the eccentricities of modern life? If you agree, you’re in luck, because it’s National Poetry Month and we’ll be celebrating here at the Café all month long! To kick it off, here are a few words from our Poetry Barista, Yong Takahashi, followed by a biscuit of poetry from six different poets for you to dunk into your favorite brew. Enjoy! A Little History In April 1996, the Academy of American Poets launched National Poetry Month to increase awareness and appreciation of poetry. It was inspired by the success of Black History Month (February) and Women’s History Month (March). Since its inception, it has become one of the…

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March 29, 2021

“Tress Theory, A Lesson,” by Kathryn Kopple

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Charles gazed at the night sky and smiled. It appeared filmy, as if a giant sheet of wax paper hovered between him and the heavens. The hotel balcony, where he stood, gave him a sweeping view of the Gran Vía, the large boulevard that ran through the center of Madrid. Pulsing red, twinkling blue and violet, blinking yellow, speeding white high beams—the street swam with electric intensity below while above all was murky. Nothing shone or twinkled up there. Even the moon was less visible, something he noticed back in New York over a year ago. He didn’t make much of it, not at first, assuming that the moon’s disappearance was an effect of light pollution. Astronomers had long issued warnings: too much artificial outdoor lighting was responsible for transforming pristine darkness into an unsightly wash of cloudy denim. Charles experienced a sense of loss…

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March 25, 2021

“Amor Fati,” The Poetry of Vincent St. Clare

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Caption: Darvaza gas crater in the Karakum Desert in Turkmenistan, said to be the Doorway to Hell. Amor Fati I’d like to be happy in Hell I’d like to wear my drill-on dunce cap Stuffed to the brim with snakes and diarrhea And all the same I could laugh all the while Yes, I could smile Like the Indian prince on his deathbed Of stone covered in dysentery and then  Silence,  Despite it But it won’t be by divine mandate  That I wash these walls Or scrub the floors with a toothbrush That’s got nails for bristles Or a sponge saturated with Brine and boiling metal It won’t be by right or choice that I Cross the fire and into the light Or wander circle to circle all the way To the big, bright gangbang in the sky Surmounted…

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