September 13, 2024

Two Poems by Joe Bisicchia

Posted by Malik White in Featured Posts, Writing

*Featured Image courtesy of Eric Ward on Unsplash* This week, we have some lovely poems by Joe Bisicchia. They may be short, but they pack an emotional punch. Enjoy! Venus de Milo Hold me. Don’t be a stone heart. Be real. That simple. That plain. Hold me. Even if just with your eyes. Canvas My father’s hands were calloused from his plastering tool, his hold on his trowel, his carrying of mortar board before he would be lost in a cloud, lost in a Renoir brush, as weather patterns are wont to do. He always said see art in all the blank space. My father, an immigrant, had labored so many facades, long halls and tall vestibules with plaster of Paris, smoothing over surface of every wall to get me through school. Illiterate, yet, the…

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June 14, 2024

6 Poems by Marissa LaPorte

Posted by Malik White in Writing

*Featured image courtesy of Ian Deng on Unsplash* We have a nice collection of poems this week by Marissa LaPorte. Marissa evokes a lot of emotion in her writing, which we were immediately drawn to. Let’s give her a warm welcome to the community! Smoke and Nostalgia on the Underground City Train The city smog was suffocating Air purifiers blasting noise like static on the underground train Those purifiers didn’t have a chance against the thick city air It swarmed in like hordes of black flies every time the train stopped and dared to open its doors to the harsh conditions of outside Silly us for thinking we would be safe underground Sillier that people still believe it is a long-term fix I stifle the urge to laugh in the face of the absurdity Maybe…

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May 22, 2024

Book Excerpt: “The Last Train to Chicago” by Michael Gray

Posted by Malik White in Writing

*Featured image courtesy of Mado El Khouly on Unsplash* Michael Gray has given us the honor of publishing an excerpt from one of his upcoming pieces. Check it out and tell us what you think in the comments below. I’m just back from the dumpster, the Chicago train’s horn blaring its warning, as Hundley waltzes in with his load on and orders the blue plate special. It’s getting late and we only stay open until ten now because there’s not enough traffic. The blue plate is all we’ve got left, a mishmash of creamed corn or potatoes. Sometimes fries if there’s any in the fryer that haven’t drowned in oil. He’s not picky, Hundley. What drunk is? He stops by to soak up the alcohol with whatever we put in front of him. And of…

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April 27, 2023

Our National Poetry Month Finale: Vera West

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Please welcome Vera West, The Fictional Cafe’s Poet in Residence, who shares her thoughts about our National Poetry Month celebration: chickadee I’m not always angry but I am mostly melancholy, thinking about those little potholes of memories riddling a twisting road of disappointment; these memories jar me: pancakes, carnivals, front yard barbecues, black fridays and pastel pink egg hunts, nicknames no one else called me; these memories always jarred me, they’re so different than the standard of both back then and now. ** thinking of you Things you did right: encourage me to be authentic, drive me around town, instill independence, and push high expectations. [I want to be somewhere in the middle, between the good and the bad, between emotion and logic, but I’m stuck in extremes. either I miss you terribly or hate you…

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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 15, 2021

“In the Hotel Room with Arles,” by Jeffrey Boldt

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

1. I first met Arlene Henson in law school. She’d been a teacher for twenty years and was in her early forties—which made her nearly twenty years older than me, and most of the rest of our class. But Arlene was still youthful and fun, and I never thought of her age as a significant factor in our friendship. Her face had the gentle and patient look which you’d want to see on your favorite teacher, but it was also quick to flash into an ironic smile and even a dismissive, almost-cynical laugh. Arlene was recently divorced from a Geography professor and she was attending law school on her share of the sale of their house in Milwaukee. She’d been a collegiate swimmer, and still did triathlons; she often came to class in tight fitting athletic outfits which hugged her trim figure and still drew plenty of attention from young men half her…

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February 16, 2021

“Soliloquy in Blue,” A Short Story by Johan Alexander

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Did she say something? Did I say something? Her brow illuminates under the streetlights and pulses with the beat of the windshield wipers. She won’t look at me: her eyes flash sequins at the sidewalk. Droplets floating, floating: translucent globes hanging in space. Then they burst apart. She shakes her hair and I can no longer see her eyes. Rain: I yawn through the misty rhythm. My eyes close continuously. Headlights and streetlights mix in the distance and through the murk I wonder when things started to go off course. We had danced together, squeezing particles of music from our sweatshirts. Then we ate at the Greasy Spoon, where she said it. The air between us is a stale sponge unable to soak up all these discarded feelings. Damp inside the car and heavy on my eyelids. I try to blink. The tires below us slime their way through the night. She sits in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. What`s the point? She glances over, a quick reflex of her neck, surprised. I realize I have mumbled my thoughts aloud. Beads of sweat wander across my hairline. I keep my face forward. She turns away. Again. I roll down my window an inch. I open my mouth. A few raindrops land on my tongue. …

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September 6, 2020

“Yodeling in the City” A Short Story by Marc Littman

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

“No more yodeling, John, I can’t stand it!” Joan clutched her ears like she was clinging to a stout tree in a hurricane. I peered at my wife’s pained visage, a face that after 40 years I no longer tried to spare any torment, and shrugged. “Maybe I’m calling out to you, if only you could hear.” “Like I’m a fat cow in the Alps and you’re a shepherd?!” Joan cried. “We live in New York, John. People don’t yodel in the city.” Peering through our expansive windows at a Matterhorn of concrete, I started to warble but stifled the urge. Taking a different tack, I pivoted to confront Joan. “Elmer does.” “Elmer’s a peasant, he belongs in the Alps. He and Julie Andrews can sing their hearts out!” Joan volleyed back. I took a hit but stood my ground. “Yodeling is more than singing, Joan. The subtle pitches and measured breathing, it calms me, and it reminds me of our younger days. Remember when we used to…

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August 24, 2020

“The Beholder,” A Short Story by Fiama Mastrangelo

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

You blink your eyes open and stretch your arms above your head. You’re wearing an extra-large cotton t-shirt this morning—one that you got for free in your freshman year and never threw out. Your dark brown hair is splayed out on the pillowcase and is exceptionally messy. I wonder if you were feeling lazy or if you just didn’t care what I would think when you decided on this look last night. We can work on that. I watch you get up and move into the bathroom. I can hear you washing your face, brushing your teeth. You turn on the shower and the noise of running water fills the room. No steam, it’s cold water. Hot water will age you, remember? I wouldn’t like that at all. I told you that your legs felt prickly last night. I wonder if you remember that this morning, while you…

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August 6, 2020

“Party Boy,” A Short Story by Lee Anderson

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

I’m alone at a charity event in Patricia Yeo’s new Midtown eatery. Shirtless, chiseled busboys and lanky, large-breasted servers run lightly about the restaurant, carrying trays the size of manhole covers. The place is gold-trimmed and supported by Roman columns but a terrible place to have a party. Not enough room. We’re ass-to-hip in here practically. I meet gazes with Celine about ten minutes after I arrive. She approaches me without hesitation. I actually don’t think she’s ever hesitated a day in her life. “Uh-oh,” she says. “Lazarus Fucking Cooper. Is that you?” “Last I checked.” “Well, there’s no telling what’s going to happen now.” “We’ll have to be careful.” “Yeah, you attract bad energy. I’m a lily caught in the rapids with you.” “I see you haven’t changed.” “Does anyone?” A hyper-paced metal song begins growling from heightened speakers,…

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