December 15, 2021

Vera West Is Our 2022-2023 Poet-in-Residence!

Vera West Is Our 2022-2023 Poet-in-Residence!

Editor’s Note:We are excited to announce our second Poet-in-Residence, Vera West! Earlier this year, we were introduced to Vera through our all-star Poetry Barista, Yong Takahashi. Michael and Jennifer were throwing around the idea of doing a “potpourri post” of poetry. The timing worked out for it to fall on National Poetry Week, so we organized a lineup of poets for the post. I reached out to Yong to ask if she knew any poets who would want to contribute a poem and she replied with an enthusiastic request to include Vera. (You can see that National Poetry Month post here.) Over the summer, us baristas were discussing who we wanted to nominate for the next Poet-in-Residence position and again Yong came back with Vera’s name. We perused her portfolio and had a delightful Zoom…

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December 14, 2021

Announcing an FC Cento Poem Contest!

Announcing an FC Cento Poem Contest!

We’d like to announce a fun challenge for all you poets at the Café. We’re doing a Cento Poetry Challenge! For those who have never heard of centos, they are poems crafted from words and phrases found in others’ works and pasted together to form your new, unique thoughts. The best poems will be featured on FC’s site. The deadline is 12/31. To enter, email mike@fictionalcafe.com For more information on cento poems and how to create them, check out The New York Times‘ post.

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December 12, 2021

“Sang / Lait Chaud, ” A Short Story by Cathleen Davies

“Sang / Lait Chaud, ” A Short Story by Cathleen Davies

What’s good about the telly is that Susie can blather on and on and it doesn’t bother Dave at all. He’s always been pretty good at multi-tasking, keeping his mind on two things at once. It was a nice evening. Dave managed to leave work at the door. Susie was doing her knitting and the Tigers were still drawing with Stoke City. Dave sipped his beer. It was good to be home. “I think I’ll do a little hat to go with these if I have any wool leftover,” Susie said, as she held out a little booty on curved needles. “Oh, aye? Lovely.” “I hope it won’t offend your mum though. I know she got Alice that little white hat at Christmas, but she’s nearly grown out of it and she’ll need a new…

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December 6, 2021

Announcing Our First Ever Pushcart Prize Nominees!

Announcing Our First Ever Pushcart Prize Nominees!

Hello Coffee Clubbers! We are excited to announce that, for the first time, The Fictional Café has nominated a handful of our members for a Pushcart Prize. For those who are unfamiliar with Pushcart, they publish an anthology of short stories, essays and poetry from small presses and literary magazines each year—they’ve been doing it since 1976! Small presses and literary magazines can nominate works they’ve published over the course of that given year. The idea to nominate FC members came to us in early 2020. With the pandemic bearing down on the writing world, we wanted to offer something else to our talented, creative members. Ruth Simon, Michael Piekny and I were throwing around ideas and this one stood out as a perfect way to show just how much we value the work we…

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November 30, 2021

“Street Close-Ups,” An Art Exhibition by Ron Hartley

“Street Close-Ups,” An Art Exhibition by Ron Hartley

Artist’s Statement: I like to photograph things imbedded in urban asphalt or found on the sidewalks and by-ways of city streets. I love the grungy texture of street art; grunge being an inevitable by-product of the human species that speaks to the human condition like wrinkles to an elderly face. Someone tosses an empty soda can that gets crushed and rusted with time, a fallen leaf lays like a shipwreck marooned on a strange landscape, a white traffic line cracks up in a time-lapse of years, an oil slick fades in a time-lapse of minutes and I try to find my way there. Sometimes “there” can be in the middle of heavily trafficked streets where I practically risk my life trying to photograph such things like they were pieces of the Maltese Falcon. If the…

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November 24, 2021

An Excerpt and News from Mbizo Chirasha

An Excerpt and News from Mbizo Chirasha

Editor’s Note: Mbizo Chirasha is The Fictional Café’s Poet-in-Residence. We have featured his work for two years now and are closing in on the end of his term. You may have noticed that we have featured less of his work this year, which, we are sad to say, is because Mbizo has been fleeing his home in Zimbabwe and trying to find asylum in another country. Due to his criticism of African politics and corruption in his writing, he has frequently been a target of violence from his government. We have partnered with a few organizations to help him find a safe place to live and write, but he continues to meet challenges. Mbizo has recently published a new book, which we announced earlier this year. Here is an excerpt from his book, called, “Along…

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November 22, 2021

“Professor Crow,” A Short Story by Salvatore Difalco

“Professor Crow,” A Short Story by Salvatore Difalco

Things were a little hazy. I had resurfaced after an entire year. I knew it would take time to get my legs underneath me, and not enough of it had passed yet. Not by a long shot. Nevertheless there I stood, out in the world again. How much had it changed? How much had people changed? Had anything changed at all? I’d soon find out. The red floor was sticky. When I lifted my heel you could hear it.   I looked around the dimly lit tavern. Sparse crowd, folks still wary, or paranoid. We might still be doomed. We were doomed. Likely somewhere in that spectrum, not forgetting our recent ineptitude and iniquities as well as our successes. Dudes reeking of ganja wheeled about the place with bleeding eyes and slobbery mouths. The bald endomorphic bouncer, in a black turtleneck with a large gold crucifix hanging between his pectorals, stood by the door keeping six on them like an elephant with…

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November 18, 2021

“Once Upon a Dog,” A Short Story by Bob Calverley

“Once Upon a Dog,” A Short Story by Bob Calverley

One day Chief Warrant Officer Walters of the 99th Assault Helicopter Company would complain that the Tet Offensive began a month early for him. But on New Year’s Day, 1968, the company’s gun platoon, known as the Headhunters, was still basking in a lull that had begun a couple of weeks before Christmas. No one had been killed or wounded. Not a single rocket or mortar had exploded in Nui Binh Base Camp. Only one helicopter had been hit by ground fire. On New Year’s, the Headhunters returned to the base camp shortly before lunch after a long-planned combat assault was called off. Then they were given a rare afternoon off. Led by Walters, the gunship pilots decided to visit a Filipino engineering battalion stationed in Nui Binh. After lunch, most of the Headhunter enlisted…

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November 15, 2021

“Heather, Ludwig and Nathaniel,” An Excerpt by Derrick R. Lafayette

“Heather, Ludwig and Nathaniel,” An Excerpt by Derrick R. Lafayette

LUDWIG I was surprised she’d read the first chapter. My tutor usually found small detours in any narrative I put forth. It reminded me of looking at a sheet through a magnifying glass, judging the components that hold it together. Inside my glasses were three strands of hair, dust, and a fingerprint, yet, I blinked away the annoyance and kept going. When I finally finished chapter two, I emailed my document to her. She unearthed a cellphone twice the size of her hand, stuck her face into the screen, and scrolled with her pinky. “Do you know what a journeyman is?” the tutor asked slyly, leaving a hum of arrogance in the question. “A nomad?” I responded, unsure. “Ah, but you do know what failure is?” “A worker or sports player who is reliable but…

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November 8, 2021

“Orphan Smile,” The Poetry of Gopal Lahiri

“Orphan Smile,” The Poetry of Gopal Lahiri

Orphan Smile    How hard it is for the stars to weave a story.    It breaks through the wall and chain,  and then in turn, with eyes closed.    Words filter into dark rooms,  unnoticeably, to the tune of the evening.    It is not unexpected, nor is it striped,  wood pencils sketch grey and grey sky.    Each strum is a haze that thins and fades,  the one who sings with all the heart  for a while, is now trapped in the web of memory.    Each mirror reflects the orphan smile,  what remains is the rising smoke of the pyres.      Ancient Palms    We must learn to read, to hold them ever  among the corn fields of the golden year.    Before our eyes, the deep unique shadows  take me up…

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