465 posts by Mike Rochester

March 27, 2022

“I Hear Yes,” Poetry by Vera West

i hear “yes” I jokingly have asked my husband: “Do you feel like I’m a gallon of milk you got home only to find out it’s expired?” He knows I’m referring to how I used to be pretty but now feel curdled. He laughs—not a real laugh but a confused nervous one I’ve forced out of him by knowing he loves me and asking him a ridiculous question like that anyway. You might focus on the fact that he did in fact laugh—coerced or not—but what you should really be focusing on is how only a sad insecure person hiding behind pain in humor would make that joke in the first place. It says so much and for the record, he always answers no but I always hear yes. ** affect and effect No one…

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March 21, 2022

“Tobias and the Wildflower Utopia,” by Derrick R. Lafayette

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

“Can you help me?” “Are you positive of what you lost?” “Yes.” “You’ve lost your soul?” “Yes.” “Where?” “I’m not sure. I awoke one day hollow.” “Continue.” There was a pathway beyond the wildflower meadows. My brother told me the noises from there were the product of trickery. Auditory hallucinations sent from devils and pagan worshippers. On a night not entirely unforeseen, my mother took her final breath in bed. I held a dying candle at her side. The embers cast a dreadful shadow upon the wall as if her soul was a silhouette. Dysentery had robbed her of her humanity. The smell tormented the house for days after. I suppose that was her way of saying she wasn’t ready. It left a silence in my home, which was filled with the sound of my…

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March 16, 2022

“Catch the Spring Young,” Poetry by Sunil Sharma

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Catch the spring young! A brief season that brings vitality to the faded flowers the wilted gardens and fields. The spring! It removes the effects of the winters in the frosty climes or the harsh sun in the moody tropics and ushers in dappled days dipped in fresh hues and light restores smiles on the  tired lips. Also, significantly, the young spring revives a hibernating artist by replenishing Within! ** The Snow the snow is deep outside the door shut inside in Toronto in the winter a whole world opens up Inside! ** Deep Darkness Evening no longer signals the darkness that thickens quickly, these days the tired eyes have seen darkness descend in the daylight also darkness that shines on despite the bright sun In a bleak country, where folks die quickly, fires burn merrily…

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March 9, 2022

“Counselling,” by Brandan Hingley-Lovatt

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: We keep the author’s original spelling when it differs from U.S. English. In this case, Brandan’s UK spelling of “counselling/counsellor” with two Ls persists throughout this work. If I were to write my suicide note I think I’d sign it “I’ve never liked anyone more than myself and I like myself this much.” A parting statement which I think is honest. I can picture it—the note attached to my shirt with a safety pin, my limp body hanging from the ceiling; a plastic bag wrapped around my head for good measure. Anyway, my counsellor says, “There are a lot of bad people in the world but there are good ones, too.” I agree but respectfully say that the good ones are too small in number so it doesn’t really make a difference. My…

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February 28, 2022

“Painting for Personal Joy,” by Hume Baugh

Posted by Mike Rochester in Fine Art

Artist’s Statement: I’ve been painting for five years. I am mostly self-taught. When I started painting, I decided right away that I was going to paint for my own joy, not to please other people. I wasn’t going to worry about whether the paintings were thought to be good or bad but was going to celebrate whenever someone found something in them. I have worked in other artistic contexts and there is always pressure to do well, to excel. But what this resolution regarding painting did for me was free me to simply play. Like when I was a child and I had paints. Sheer playing. This has been my method of operation since. I learn all the time, I am always experimenting, facing challenges, correcting mistakes, following unexpected paths – that is part of…

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February 23, 2022

“Peter Roget,” Poems by Charles Rammelkamp

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Little Red Man My minister father composed sermons. My uncle praised their “taste and elegance”: a word man long before me. Son of a Geneva clockmaker, mon pere, Jean Roget – “little red man,” from the French rouge – immigrated to London at 24 to become pastor at Le Quarré, the French Protestant church in Soho. Papa preached in the little Huguenot church on Little Dean Street, a few blocks north of St. James’s, the colossus near Piccadilly Circus, Christopher Wren’s  largest church – where I was christened in 1779. Papa’d married Catherine Romilly a year before, in St. Marleybone Church, welcomed into their family without reservation. My uncle, Samuel, rhapsodized about our happiness, “as complete as is ever the portion of human beings,” but only months after my birth, Papa was “seized with an…

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February 8, 2022

A. Rayan El Nadim Presents Performance Poetry

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: A. Rayan El Nadim is an Egyptian poet whose work has been translated from Arabic into English here for your enjoyment on The Fictional Café. He categorizes his work as conceptual and performance poetry, specifically, “a deep dive into myths, folklore, and the secrets of inherited improvisational folk songs that deeply express pain, suffering and dream; the history of the Egyptian folk treasures; the songs of Rababa, a rediscovery of the true history buried in the walls of Egyptian houses; and the rituals of joy and sadness that lived for thousands of years on both banks of the Nile.” My name has been crossed out a long time ago on a brick wall -1- I searched for my name in my body I found it engraved in aversion, estrangement, and revulsion I searched…

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February 3, 2022

“A Hail of Stone,” A Short Story by Jane Nkiwane

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

The cry of the KWEREKWERE A hail of stones ran through Shoko’s Shack. His heart pounded so hard as he heard the thundering of the rocks every time they hit his corrugated iron shack. It was a chilly day but he found himself drenched in sweat, his mind was in turmoil. The only instinct he had was to save his life from the marauding monsters outside who were baying for his MaKwerekwere blood. “Come out you maggot!” “Cockroach!” “Scavenger” different voices called out from the mob gathered outside his one roomed shack. On top of the bed was a buttered and worn-out black suitcase with his meager belongings which he had hastily packed inside resting on a threadbare greasy quilt. The zipper had ceased to function. Shoko had wrapped a thick red string around it…

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January 31, 2022

“Landscapes,” Photography by Fabrice Poussin

Posted by Mike Rochester in Fine Art

Artist’s Statement: There is something grand to be said about solitude. Although it is not perhaps the ideal state most seek, it is nonetheless a privileged place in which to rest. When the noise stops and the silence of a pristine world sets in, things merely change within. Imagine inhaling the thinning air of high altitudes, of the desert, or the thicker atmosphere of one’s backyard. There is life in every particle if you take the time to slow down and abandon the humdrum of the city where it may appear everything is. It is quite unfathomable for many to understand the possibility offered by a solitary journey to where few venture. These images are an invitation to join and commune with something much larger than the daily unwanted duties of a busy human life. …

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January 26, 2022

“A Sad Tale,” Poetry by Vera West

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: This is Vera West’s first full poetry post on The Fictional Café as our new Poet-in-Residence for 2022-2023. Please help us welcome her to the Café and be sure to read her haunting, heartbreaking trilogy of poems at the end, called “A Sad Tale.” loneliness It’s an odd thing to grieve in advance, to let your mind give you a sample taste of the things you fear; the most flavorful being: loneliness. I’m anxious about the day when my loved ones are all gone, and I’m truly alone. between sisters the first time I told her our father had killed our dog, she hadn’t believed me. Perhaps it was the way I’d said it; “he killed our dog,” was all I’d said. the second time I told her she asked our father and…

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