All posts tagged with death

November 13, 2023

“Wednesday in a Factory Town,” Poetry by John Grey

WEDNESDAY IN A FACTORY TOWN Sunlight succumbs to weather and chimney, fat gray clouds, much billowing of smoke. In a town of factories, faces stare, solemn and blackened like stove flues, through windows, as red eyes make tunnels in the gloom. Rivers wait like standing water for more dust and grime to fuel their current. Shoppers cough their way from store to store. Kids grub up without even trying. No sky as once was promised. Not even the church, chiming three o’clock, can get back God’s attention. ** EMMA, A MONTH BEYOND THE DEATH OF HER FATHER She can’t swerve to avoid the dead possum on the road without crashing through huddled sobbing mourners and braking just in time so she doesn’t topple down into the freshly dug hole, and smash headlong into her father’s…

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September 22, 2022

“The Day I Thought I Would Die, ” by Mini Babu

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

The Day I Thought I Would Die The day I thought I would die the woman who accompanied me to the hospital said, she needs cooking oil for, “tomorrow,” I used up a little of my valued time, to contemplate on, “tomorrow.” Coffee houses, supermarkets and theatres drove past me, coffee, bread and rice were found unseasoned . . . And they went on talking of “coffees” while I rode in a vehicle called, “now.” All things, other than me were yesterdays and tomorrows. ** Talcum Powder The first time I powdered my face, I imitated the manner my father did, tender strokes on the brow, cheeks and chin, and a mellow even rub, from that time on, I thought of him, twice a day, at no unusual hours, later on, I gave up using…

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October 7, 2021

“The Place Where the Chiefs Meet,” by Frank Diamond

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: We are pleased to announce the return of Frank Diamond to the Café. His latest short story, presented here, is accompanied by the song “To Live Again” by singer/songwriter Camille Peruto, and a reading of the story by actress Maggie Peruto. The Place Where the Chiefs Meet I am 26 and it’s the night my father died. My mother insists that I had nothing to do with it. My siblings don’t play; they curse me over the phone. They’ll be in tomorrow. At one point, I slump at the kitchen table, crying and sick from withdrawal. Crystal tugs my arm: “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” I shake loose and run out. I should head to my apartment, but I don’t want to be alone. Dizzy’s not there. He’s heard about Antonio and decides to visit friends “in Jersey.” That’s…

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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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July 6, 2020

“The Life and Death of Arthur Miller,” by Andrew Lafleche

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF ARTHUR MILLER or, Damnationem Vita et Humani Conditione Fourteen days after Arthur Miller’s sixteenth birthday, both his parents were killed in an automobile accident when a drunken driver swerved into their lane as they returned home from a night at the theater. Their deaths occurred instantly, and to that effect, neither were able to be presented with an open coffin at their post-life nuptials. The last time Arthur saw his parents alive was in the moments following Sunday dinner, his mother in a dress, glowing, his father dressed handsomely, saying, “When you finally meet the woman who makes the world stand still, son, don’t ever quit doing for her what you did at the start. That way there will never be an end.” Arthur clung to these words in the weeks that followed. He clung to everything…

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May 20, 2020

“Lester and the Mysteries of Wax and Wane,” by Derrick R. Lafayette

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Lester, for all intents and purposes, was walking his dog down a familiar trail at 8:21 pm. The first block was uneventful. The dog peed where he’d always peed millions of times before. Shat where he’d always shat before. Lester readied his green, eco-friendly poop bag, bent down with ease, and collected his pet’s droppings. At 8:35pm, Lester and his dog about-faced and were heading home when a giant flash of light enveloped the sky. He saw nothing but white, and his dog was an inverted shadow, blurring in his vision. When Lester was able to see again, all of the familiar surroundings took an interesting turn. A man whose feet never touched the ground, shrouded in orange garb with mandala designs, appeared before him. The man stretched his arm, opened his hand, and inside…

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February 6, 2020

Brett Stout – Deep, Dark Paintings

Posted by Mike Rochester in Fine Art, Member Writing & Art

All images copyright, Brett Stout. *** Brett Stout is a 40-year-old artist and writer. He is a high school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and paramedic. He creates mostly controversial work usually while breathing toxic paint fumes from a small cramped apartment known as “The Nerd Lab” in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. His work has appeared in a vast range of diverse media, from international indie zines like Litro Magazine UK to Brown University. This is his first feature in The Fictional Café.

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January 6, 2020

“Low-Hanging Fireworks,” Poetry by Richard-Yves Sitoski

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

Low-Hanging FireworksMother never woke up tangled in starsbut stayed on Earth, which father droppedand watched as it rolled beneath the couch.Her music was straight as a prairie road,his was bent like an elbow to the gut.He prefered the company of dogs,she of me when I felt like one.He proved that there are no happy alcoholicsand that love is conditional,she that mushrooms can push through asphaltand that cancer comes without a screenplay.The cookies she baked were chocolate chipbut I always wound up with raisin.He taught me to fish, but each oneI caught swallowed the hook.He tried to be anonymousbut the rest of the world ignored him.Some nights he came home after not coming home.Some days her migraines were low-hanging fireworks.I wrote this poem because memoryis no insurance against decay.I wrote this poem because it ain’t gossip…

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December 8, 2019

A Short Story, “Judgment Day,” by Philip Sherman Mygatt

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

On a cold, rainy April day, I put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. It wasn’t the way I wanted to die, but I had no choice, especially after losing my wife, whom I loved so dearly. It wasn’t a random act; I had carefully planned it as I spiraled downward into the depths of insanity and deep depression. It wasn’t pretty, but I was finally out of my misery, or so I thought at the time. I had always wondered what it was like to die; perhaps it was like getting anesthesia before an operation, or perhaps it was like just closing your eyes and going to sleep, however it turned out to be quite different. Even now as I send this message across that invisible barrier separating life from death, it’s…

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