By Ann Davis Editor’s note: Here is Part II of Ann Davis’ experimental fiction, guaranteed to open your eyes. The featured image, “Collapse of the Mind,” is courtesy Steve Sangapore, our Fine Arts Barista. But . . . before you begin reading, listen: Morris could not remember the last morning the sunlight had looked so golden, or when he had had such a refreshing sleep. Woke up entirely on his own too, before his alarm even, a whole hour before he usually did. Especially surprising was that he felt perfectly awake, with no urge to lie back down whatsoever. Must be from his long nap during the insertion the other day. Oh yes, the insertion! Suddenly driven by an urge to check the mirror, Morris darted out of bed and straight for the looking glass…

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Editor’s note: We met Ann Davis at a writers conference in December, 2018. She wanted to know more about the Fictional Cafe and then told us the writer’s lament: her hard drive had crashed and she’d lost all her writing. Well, a year passes and we’re back at the same writing conference again when Ann walks up to the Fictional Cafe booth with a two-inch stack of printout in her hands. She had recovered her work! We told her we were entertaining manuscripts that were a little, ah, different for 2019, and she tugged this one out from her stack. We read it, liked it, and accepted it. Of course it had to go through the submissions process as a Word file, but here it is. We’re calling it “experimental fiction.” Due to its length…

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Creative Nonfiction by Vlad Linder Translated from the Russian by Marika Marina One can travel in different ways: observe the surroundings comfortably through a car window, or blend into the local people’s lives, experiencing and going through their pain and joy, troubles and concerns, just as the author of ‘The Chronicles of Cambodia” did. Vlad Linder describes in detail his journey to the land of The Khmer Rouge, which took place in April 2012 . . .. Part I A week after my arrival in Sihanoukville, I was rather tired of the predictable life of a settled tourist. Staying at a snug little house right on the shore of the Gulf of Siam, I kept feeling I was looking at the world through a well-polished, barely visible glass. I set off to a place, where…

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A Novel in Ten 140-Word Tweets by John Gantz We’ve intentionally chosen today, April First – AKA All Fool’s Day – to publish this wise, witty, sex-and-death novel. We leave it to you to discern exactly what this Mayan love story means. You may want to re-read it a few times. Oh, and figure out why we’re publishing it today. 1. The body lay at his feet, desiccated, looking up. He nudged it. Another one, he mumbled. Time is short. 2.  What is it she asked, hookah smoke curling around her head? ’’’Nother roach. I thought they could survive an A-bomb.” 3. TS Elliot was wrong. It wouldn’t end with a whimper, OR a bang, but a cloud, a cloud of alien germs bathing the earth. 4.  Come here, she said, opening her blouse. He…

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By James Osborne Editor’s Note: Yesterday, we published Part I of this two-part excerpt. If you haven’t read it, you can scroll back on the home page slider to read it. When they arrived at the school, the three national elders were waiting. With them were Namusat’s current chief and the local council, and another local elder. When everyone was introduced and seated, Chief John Boisvert turned to Paul and said brusquely, “Why have you come?” Paul heard a sharp edge in Chief Boisvert’s voice, but he could see his eyes were not angry or aggressive. They bore a look of elegance and kindness… and much sadness. “I have not come with handouts nor have I come with any promises,” Paul replied. “I came to listen, perhaps to learn from you, and with your help…

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By James Osborne Editor’s Note: Due to the length of this excerpt from James Osborne’s new novel, we are presenting it in two parts, today and tomorrow. This is an excerpt from the book SECRET SHEPHERD, copyright © 2018 by JAMES OSBORNE. Published by Solstice Publishing Inc. Excerpted by permission of the author. All rights reserved. Namusat, Quebec, Canada November 1994 “Another two just last night!” Dan Stonechild said, his voice breaking. “That’s four suicides here in three weeks, Paul. Oh my… four! Four little kids!” Paul Winston embraced his friend awkwardly. Both wore knee-length parkas against the 30 below zero cold, their hands thrust deep in double-layered mittens, their feet clad in fur mukluks. Paul had just arrived on a chartered plane in the remote First Nations community of Namusat in northern Canada, after…

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