All posts in Writing

April 18, 2023

Week Three: John Kucera PLAGIARIST, Jaya Abraham, Gopal Lahiri

Three works attributed to John Kucera have been removed from our site because they were plagiarized from other poets and writers. We most sincerely apologize to those writers whose rights have been violated by the individual named John Kucera and condemn him for his plagiarism and lack of respect for the creative efforts of other people. Fictional Cafe will never tolerate plagiarism and will take down those who commit it. We invite those who have been wronged to submit work to Fictional Cafe, where you will be treated with all the respect we can muster. From Abu Dhabai, perhaps the most beautiful city on earth, please welcome Jaya Abraham and five of her poems. KENOPSIA* There is nothing between The moon and me, My gloomy crescent Clings to the skies tonight, Adamant, like the red…

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April 11, 2023

Week Two: AJ Huffman, Morouje Sherif, Charles Remmelkamp

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

We’re so delighted to welcome A. J. Huffman and her poetry to Fictional Cafe. A.J. is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has published 27 collections and chapbooks of poetry. In addition, she has published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. She is currently the editor for Kind of a Hurricane Press literary journals. Two Boards Don’t Always Equal An X I wear his depression for hours.  Like a crown of duller thorns, it does not bleed me.  But breeds a bizarre dissension.  I understand the gray it is shading. Around my edges it appears.  Colder than his.  He shudders. Mistaking the chill for lore.  It is not your soul leaving your body. I sigh.  (It is my soul trying to breathe.)  You worry I am not strong/safe/alive enough to hold you.  You are wrong (Such…

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April 6, 2023

“Popet,” A Short Story by Pierre Boodhoo

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Where is the line drawn between fantasy and reality? Between what we see and what we imagine? Read on as Pierre Boodhoo, in his first story for The Fictional Café, takes us on this exploration. Popet “Ayesha, my popet, the eve is upon us. It is time to awaken.” Mother’s voice sparks the fire. The embodiment of Mother’s love spreads within her as limbs come alive. After a few blinks, the blurriness fades. The pale, sharp features of Mother’s face hide between strands of green and black hair as she comes into focus. Mother captivates her. “Mother!” Ayesha throws her arms around Mother’s waist. Herhand pats Ayesha’s head and she beams. Ayesha releases Mother and waits patiently. Mother straightens her clothes and dusts herself off. Ayesha imagines herself in a mature body resembling Mother. If…

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April 4, 2023

Week One: Bob Pope, Eva Grace, Sal Difalco

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Bob Pope returns to FC with a provocative poem Samantha Quince Devastated by Death of Biological Mother The fingertips of one of the older woman’s hands land lightly on her breast like a mosquito. Excuse me? she says. You are my biological mother, Samantha Quince says. Ah, I see, she says, a film crew. Mother said to come when I can drive myself. How nice you got your license. That’s my adoptive mother’s car. It looks so easy to handle. I wanted, no needed to see you. I have lemonade. Do you like tea? I was inside you. I came like a moon out the side of a planet. …this woman this stranger my mother, so familiar and weirdly unfamiliar at the same time staring like she doesn’t know me… Wait, what’s this? Taken in…

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April 4, 2023

“Spring in Siberia” – A Novel by Artem Mozgovoy

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Book Reviews, Guest Posts, Writing

Red Hen Press and Fictional Cafe celebrate today the publication of Spring in Siberia, the first novel by a young writer named Artem Mozgovoy. Born in Central Siberia, he finds solace in the literature he reads and begins to write. Spring in Siberia is his coming of age story, told in fiction. This excerpt is from Chapter 16. An interview with Kate Gale, Managing Editorand Executive Director at Red Hen Press, follows it. ‘I’m afraid that I love you,’ my classmate spoke quickly and quietly, but I managed to catch his words before they melted in the evening smoke. We were standing on the sixteenth-story balcony, on the top floor of the tallest building in our city. Neither he nor I lived in that block, but we knew that each level gave access to a…

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April 2, 2023

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

AT THE FICTIONAL CAFÉ Welcome, all, to our second celebration of National Poetry Month, sponsored by the National Academy of Poets. The beautiful image for our posts this month was created by Marc Brown for the Academy. With over 1,200 Coffee Cub members in 74 countries, we baristas often find ourselves with an abundance of excellent poetry from our contributors, who reside literally around the world. Over the National Poetry Month of April we’ll be sharing some of the best recently submitted work. Each week we’ll publish several poets in a single post, so as not to clog your email inboxes. Look for the banner to indicate a new poetry post. We’ll also publish a few other special works because variety is always the spice of life! It all begins tomorrow and we’d love for…

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March 26, 2023

“Sal the Barber” by Frank Diamond

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

“That’s a common mistake, mi amigo,” Sal Gonzalez says. He stops clipping, looks into the barbershop mirror at Larry Shanks. Sal stands to the right and a bit behind Larry; it would be the blind side, if not for reflection. “That’s my first marriage. I married my friend. And we’re still friends.” Larry rolls his neck, says: “One day you look up and you’re roomies. Sex? Maybe. Sometimes. Schedule it.” “And couples need that passion,” Sal says, resuming the clip-clip. “I married three times. Third time’s the charm. With Rita 33 years. I am blessed. Without Rita, I’m dead.” COVID-19 had almost killed Sal three months earlier. He’d been on a respirator—torture!—and had pneumonia. It took eleven weeks to recover and get back to work. “All the nurses on every shift knew Rita.” “How old…

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March 20, 2023

Derrick R. Lafayette’s “Kaleidoscope”

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Today, March 21st, we celebrate the publication of Kaleidoscope, a short story collection by Fictional Cafe’s former Fiction Writer in Residence, and published by our own imprint! As the French author Marcel Proust once remarked, the mind evokes endlessly changing thought patterns, much like a kaleidoscope. And so reading Derrick R. Lafayette’s Kaleidoscope: Dark Tales, an extraordinary collection of five short stories and a novella, is like seeing the world anew through bits of colored glass. What if . . . In this weird Wild West story an old gunfighter, accompanied by a Billy-the-Kid wannabe, arrives in a town to claim a straightforward bounty. But due to mistaken identity, they run afoul of a supernatural occurrence. What if . . . A loner, held captive for months in a mud castle, escapes but feels certain…

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March 16, 2023

“Cherry Black,” A Story by Levi Dodd

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Once in a while, a story of uncommon power lands our e-desktops here at the Cafe. This is one of them. We think “Cherry Black” will keep you on the edge of your seat right up until . . . the end. Biting cold slowly moves up my fingers as they hover just above the doorknob, not close enough to touch it but close enough to feel the cold radiating from the shiny silver metal. How long have I stood here, frozen in place? It exhausts me to even consider turning the knob. A familiar sensation on my thigh distracts me from the looming dread of reality and before I’m even conscious of it, my hand has moved away from the doorknob to grab at this welcome distraction. I unlock my phone and open the…

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March 10, 2023

Michael Larrain’s “The Long Con”

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

for Sister Monica Joan I’ve sort of lost track of time, but it must have been, oh, a dozen or so years ago that I put a rear-view mirror on my medicine chest, so that now when I shave of a morning I can only see myself in the past. And therefore, by a process I cannot pretend to understand, do I grow one day younger every day. As long as I keep shaving, I’m slipping backwards twenty-four hours at a time, growing gradually more limber, my synapses finger-popping like Hank Ballard and the Midnighters, my beard no longer bristling with silver but turning to a burr of golden blond. When I remember how to move the appropriate muscles in my face, I catch the reflection of something resembling a smile, teeth sparkling, eyes bright….

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