All posts in Writing

October 11, 2020

“Tumours on My Chest” —Poems of Anindita Sarkar

Tumours on my Chest Tear drops, popcorn, kidney peas, red ants collectively navigating through a complex quarry, a fable of sequins, or say like the child with knotted limbs who couldn’t make it till dawn break. Is it vitriolic? Not like the toothache that barges in when we are mid-flight into our dirty deeds, but like the cramps on arcane purple mornings when you are buried in deep sleep. Will they appear again? You mean like the hairs on my bald terrain? Theory says yes like uneasy questions searching for meaning I hope this time they are photogenic. Robot Mom No girly time but a relic of disenfranchised relationship. She weaves the worn-out pillowcase with my butchered dreams, ignites the chipped tile fireplace with paper-cuts from my Origamis she wouldn’t let my art…

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October 8, 2020

“Red Studio” — A Short Story by Bob Conklin

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

In your lover’s studio, everything is red—the chairs, the coverlets, the bedspread, the afghans, the doilies, the end tables, the lamps, the lampshades, the sofa. Red is how she likes it. The easel itself is painted red, as is the canvas, and she always wears a red dress. To mention individual items is a pointless exercise, as it is impossible to distinguish shape from shape, item from item, form from form. It strains perception, and your eyes must make a profound adjustment coming into the room, and then readjust when you leave. It is similar to entering a room that is without light, pitch black, except that once your eyes adjust to the perpetual darkness, you come to accept the featureless quality of the darkened environment. Or else your eyes begin to detect faint shapes,…

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October 5, 2020

“E T R A H” — The Poetry of Michael T. Smith

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

E T R A H During the moon landing I was on earth But ever asked: how subjective is ‘here?’ At what point does famil’rity have birth? In a dark side of the sun place a hearth. Because a home of heart is without peer During the moon landing I was on earth Beg with a Styrofoam cup of such worth: Spacemen in a fishbowl of walls not clear. At what point does famil’rity have birth? For space to be on a premium dearth On a TV screen wide enough for cheer. During the moon landing I was on earth Hands held across a million miles in mirth Static dances for grains of a soiled year At what point does famil’rity have birth? Our empty hands surround a riddling girth A small doubloon of proximity ne’er near During the moon landing I was on earth …

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September 29, 2020

“A Blue Finch”— Short Fiction of Ana Vidosavljevic

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: We are thrilled to present two pieces of flash fiction by one of our members, Ana Vidosavljevic, from Serbia: “A Blue Finch” and “A Yellow Marigold.” A Blue Finch I keep many secrets in the pit of my stomach. My trees and shrubs witnessed many fortunate and unfortunate events that occurred in the depth of my body. And I helped many wretched souls that got lost among my thick tree trunks. On the other hand, I couldn’t help some of them. They were in a hopeless pursuit or running from their own wrongdoings. And their own deserved destiny caught them. One lost soul especially got stuck in my memory. Her name was Hope. Hope was a little blonde girl, not taller than my blueberry shrubs. She came to me breathing heavily, and almost losing breath. She was…

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September 27, 2020

September Edition: “The Break from HOKAIC”

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editorial Note: This is the September edition of our new monthly feature from writing coach and longtime FC Barista Jason Brick. In this column, he’ll bring you news and advice from the writing world. Greetings again! September has been an interesting month in the publishing world. Here’s a selection of the most interesting, informative, or amusing things I found around the internet while researching my weekly newsletter for writers: A piece on the fact-checking crisis in publishing Whether you should offer comp titles in a query letter Case study on why women write under men’s names A solid article on how to market your book Writing advice from GRR Martin Why Gillian Flynn gets her best writing done after midnight If you have any questions or comments about these articles, leave a comment and let’s…

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September 24, 2020

“Love on the Road” — The Poetry of Irving Glassman

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Love On The Road We hug and kiss in the fast food parking area From their SUV my family waves farewell to me We are on the same road until they slow to approach their exit For an instant we are side by side Everyone turns in their seats and throws me an extra kiss They look like any other family Except they’re my family # # # Crossing Over My daughter runs, hops, and skips To the curb’s edge For her ritual rite of passage I assure her it’s safe to cross She runs, hops and skips To the opposite curb “I’m a grown up now,” she yells I yelled back, “Don’t grow up yet. You have time.” …

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September 22, 2020

“Counseling” — A Short Story by Yash Seyedbagheri

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Go see a counselor, classmates proclaim, when I ask for company. Friendship. “It’ll help,” the ringleader of the pro-counseling legion proclaims. Her name is Betty Brown, she wears huge glasses, and I suspect she has a few fucking issues of her own. “It’ll help you get balance. You’ll find peace in your life, Nick.” Balance? What the fuck? I want a friend. I want a fucking friend. As if counselors can compensate for the vast spaces between me and people, the empty rooms at night, the excessive time spent with Netflix and its soothing red glow. Can counselors make people respond to the emails I send? Are they punishing me for bluntness unmasked? Counselors are just as fucked up, truth be told. They’re people who disguise sorrows beneath diagnoses and cold recommendations. Take this pill. Get more exercise. I’d like a friend. That’s what every email I send…

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September 20, 2020

“Frank Olson” — The Poetry of Charles Rammelkamp

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Frank Olson “Webber,” my editor barked when I walked into the office that day just after Thanksgiving, 1953. “I want you to look into this story about the CIA guy who jumped out of the tenth floor window at the Statler, on Seventh Avenue. Why did he do it? Could he have been he pushed?” My beat? CIA, MK-ULTRA, “mind-control” drugs. Brainwashing. I knew about Frank Olson already; worked at Camp Dietrich in Maryland, Special Ops, an aerosol expert, his specialty “airborne distribution of biological germs.” Worked on Operation Sea Spray a couple year earlier, where they released a dust that floated like anthrax, near San Francisco. At Dietrich, he directed experiments that involved gassing and poisoning lab animals. “I’ll look right into it, sir,” already booking a flight and hotel in my mind, thinking,…

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September 15, 2020

“On Waking Up and Strong Desires,” by Kelly Burke

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

It is Saturday morning. I woke up with a strong desire to get a haircut. On my laptop I look up local salons to read reviews and compare ratings. I find one that looks promising. It has 4.9 stars and a recent client named Beatrice wrote that the stylists are warm and helpful people. Everything on the website is written in a romantic cursive font like a wedding invitation. I book an appointment for noon. I type out my name, email address, and phone number. Before submitting the form, it asks me to select the length of my hair, long or short. There is no option for medium or other. It makes me wince a bit. Then I begin contemplating the most accurate way to describe the length of my hair. I think about how…

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September 13, 2020

“Leap of Faith” — An Ekphrasis Poem by Mark Blickley

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Image by Mark Blickley Leap of Faith I’m a dead frog and I don’t say this with any pity or understanding or shame, it’s just an observation that people seem to like us, like us a bit too much because they like to push hooks through our jaws and cast us out to sea, as well as amputate us for fine dining and draw us as a cartoon shuffling cigar smoking smart ass, and they like to blame us when they choke on the phlegm in their throats, and they swear that some of us give them hideous skin infections while the evil ones enjoy tossing us into their steamy potions as the younger ones imitate us with a game of leaps and crashes, perhaps because we abandon our young and we larger ones like to…

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