Photo credit: Beverly Bambury Editor’s Note: Mitchell Grabois’ work nearly defies naming conventions, and that’s a good thing. It’s how new plants, birds, constellations and literary genres are born. We asked Mitch what name he gave to these creative, innovative set pieces, because they transcend the commonly known genres. They are almost anti-plot; the narrating character could be the author or someone else, but we can’t be certain; the prose structure leans into the movements in a musical work. Here’s what Mitch replied: “I consider these flash fictions because they are written in prose and they tell stories (though perhaps not conventional ones). Thanks for considering the work poetic—as you know, in much literary fiction there are elements of poetry in the prose.” Infidelity  1.  I hid behind a tree, not the Tree of Knowledge or…

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Editor’s Note: Zipporah Kuteesa, The Fictional Cafe’s 500th member, submitted her poetry to us. We are pleased to present her words, published for the first time! I REMEMBER NOW! I was reminded of the joy That came with passing by. The toddler I was… Fascinated by the beat, That drew us out into the heat, The thundering of the drums, My grandmother holding me back And I running back. My young intrigued eyes blinking So fast I didn’t want to miss a beat. I was reminded of the oneness That we shared in bliss, My mother and I, We never questioned why Grandma at her age was antsy And upbeat about the pulsating drums. Because we too could feel it It spoke full of meaning The ancient morals that kept us Sane, one, soberly together….

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A Postcard from the Ether The first shy dusting of snow looks too naked to threaten us with its pale, indefinite motives.   It can’t elide our visions of banana trees flourishing many-fingered hands of fruit   in suburbs littered with wrecks of nineteen-Fifties Chevys and Fords. It can’t erase our dreams of melons   bowling down sky avenues broader than aircraft carriers. It can’t persuade us that songs   about summer moonlight swelling the hearts of dancing couples can’t snuff the laugh of the dead   still standing where we left them. The eagle we saw yesterday cruised over the river,   scanned for fish and fended off the racket and teasing of crows, reminded us how negative light   falls in sheaves despite the grace and curvature of one’s narrative. The snow changes…

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Editor’s Note: Here’s the conclusion to Tori’s novella, a work which Fictional Café is quite proud to have premiered. Elephant Tadpoles by Tori Merkle Part III It was amazing, for a while. There was a new adventure every day in with my gallivanting group of unchained artists. We bounced from place to place, absorbing each one and carrying its thumbprint to the next. I was pursuing my art. I was in love. I was free of rules and expectations. I was being who I wanted to be. After the first year and a half, the need for a stable income settled in. Our savings were nearly gone, put into food and camping equipment and art supplies. Aiden couldn’t find a venue for his music. I couldn’t sell my paintings. We ran out of money to…

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Editor’s Note: Here’s the second instalment in Tori Merkle’s novella, “Elephant Tadpoles,” which began on Monday. The concluding Part III appears here on Friday, July, 13. Elephant Tadpoles by Tori Merkle Part II Summers at the Hayward Estate in the British Isles were lustrous and tender. The property felt endless to me, the rows of grape trees in the vineyard stretched on and on until they blurred into the soft green hills beyond them. I wished I could trace my finger along the landscape and feel its nooks and crannies. I thought there must be entire worlds hidden in the ravines between the hills. There were more than enough ravines to explore on the property, though. The stone-walled house had three peaks like a castle, and ivy spun up the sides and the columns that…

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Editor’s Note: It isn’t often we’re presented with a novella-length submission, but this one was too good to pass up. What makes it extra special is that it’s the author’s first published work. Victoria “Tori” Merkle’s “Elephant Tadpoles” will appear in three segments this week – today, Wednesday and Friday. We hope you’ll appreciate it as much as we baristas did, and will share your Comments with the author. ℘ Elephant Tadpoles by Tori Merkle Part I “Come on, girls, school in an hour!” our mother, Grace Hayward, ushered our two blonde heads down the hall. I was five steps faster, my messy pigtails bobbing up and down as I skipped into the kitchen. My bare feet slapped against the dark oak floor and my plaid skirt, its waistband folded twice over, could have slipped…

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    AS a leaf autumnally As a leaf autumnally pitching in wind, I am ravished by the airs of your mouth. Tumultuous I fly, bending, more corrupt with every spineless form of sin. I collapse continually, again.   With ancient hands you seasonally pour decay in my ripe buds, for, on Earth’s floor, I’d received too much tenderness of skin, more than you care to comply with. Veiny contempt spirals with pollen as a new variety to lovemaking, and hands stretch empty, brown. The petulant stem I am quakes, grainy limbs forming foliage of impiety. As your leaf, I toss like a mind in sundown.     anonymity how you do reconcile the dying breath of the flickering fluorescent young? their waning lights of ecstasy throughout weekly hazards are simulations of warmth. the impoverished…

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The Beginning of a Tradition  On Friday night, the eve of my best friend’s birthday, we all drive twenty minutes to the ocean. It is 10 p.m. and we are armed with chocolate chip cookies, hot pretzels, cubed cheese, and an assortment of chips from our college’s late night snack offerings in the dining hall. Though it is mid-May, we dress in winter coats and hats, sitting cross-legged in a circle on the dock, a blanket draped over our laps. We look at the stars and laugh about nothing, cheering for my friend when it is finally midnight. This is tradition, even though it is only the second time we have done this. Having known each other less than four years, the traditions my college friends and I practice are echoes of the ones we…

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SEISMOMETERS FEVERISH & BLUE the clock is black and ticking gold-flecked velvet insidethis mystery earth fringed-edged mycelium push out for miles undergroundone mushroom the entrance to our world mycelium not fragileattuned like seismometerslacey fungalveil holding strong over molten core the core where I live there’s so much difficultyin burning I always took it for grantedthat your heart I’d melt those years my heart was lavain the time of the roosterin the time of the coconutwhen we couldn’t make itto the bed we’d take iton the kitchen floor when the ground moves in incrementsour hearts seismometers feverish and blueI learned that what burns with such intensityhas fragility your mouth my delicacy root hairs that push us out of ourselvesinto another’s arms push us cross country or into outer space    given wingsin the time of acacia…

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I am not a criminal I am ducking my responsibility Before it comes To telling my grandchildren (For I shall have none) That I am the one who did these things;   I am the one who choked the sea With plastic, wrapped conveniently Around everything I could ever need (And some things I didn’t) To keep them sanitary, clean Never mind the lungs and eyes The breaking hearts of those unseen, Never mind the damaged soil Pits of poison, smoke’s toxic roil, Death dripping from the very pores Of those I never knew, never heard of before. It was me.   I am the one who chained the men The women, and the children when I bought the things which owned their lives Paid their captors, swallowed the lies, Ignored the truths I didn’t…

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