Memories like Scars There is a 22-year-old somewhere Buried beneath the layers of abuse Curled up like a starving street cat Its fur caked with grime, oil, and feces Those star speckled marble eyes Bulging from the frail skull And the shy stomach purring While the confident takes its milk With a trowel she can be found A bit of digging and smoothing over With time Her blistered lips that have been Bitten by glass roses Will heal The gory craters dotting her face Torn open during 4am battles With invisible insects Will recover Her skeleton will grow a new coat Night by night Day by day Meal by meal A shape will appear where a spike Once stood And those tear tracks dipped In mascara Running down her cheeks Simply vanished With a…
“Nothing Against Ms. Johnson, But . . .” by Patricia Callahan
Nothing against Ms. Johnson, but when she read aloud to us, her head wobbled on her long neck. And she licked her thumb to turn pages. Nobody ever checked out a book she had read aloud during Library Hour. The day she tried to read us The Mouse and the Motorcycle, her thumb had just smudged page one when Evan stood on a library stool and threw the recess kickball at her. It smacked her in the face. The chapter book dropped to the floor, its pages fanning out before us as Ms. Johnson let out a high “Oh!” of surprise. Then a smaller “Oh.” Of realization. She brought her knuckles to her nose. Nobody breathed. “Tissue,” she said through her hand, and brought her other hand to the blotch of pink swelling on her cheek. “Please.” The kickball, bumping across the carpet, tapped against the picture books lining a bottom shelf and dribbled to a stop. Then Evan wound up and toe-balled…
November Edition of “The Break from HOKAIC”
We’d like to welcome back our new monthly feature by-writer and writing coach, and longtime FC friend Jason Brick. He brings us news from around the writing world. Here’s his November Edition of The Break from HOKAIC (Hands on Keyboard, Ass in Chair). Greetings all! As many of you know, I run a weekly newsletter of useful, fun, or amusing pieces of writing industry news called The Break From HOKAIC. As writers and lovers of writing yourselves, The Fictional Café thought you’d enjoy some highlights for your information and entertainment: Does Twitter pitching work? Four common pieces of writing advice that don’t go far enough A guide to influencer marketing for authors Alan Dean Foster and Disney are fussing over something important Some fabulous writing quotes you should know 8 Must-read self publishing blogs If you’d like more, delivered…
“Letters” and Other Poems by Morgan Bazilian
LETTERS The economists argue about the shape of letters. They consider V and U and even W. The letters, though have their own ideas about their shapes, and futures and destinies. The experts try to force them to fit a mold or a pre-conceived notion related to time and space. Ultimately, the letters dance across the graphs, unencumbered and uncaring of the constraints placed on them by nearly everyone. ** DAYS A day transitions under its own volition, without heralding anything of consequence. And then, two more or three in an un-syncopated beat. Boundaries do not exist, even circadian rhythms are not respected. This time has no empathy, no forgiveness as the fourth dimension. ** The LAWN The grass is blooming. It looks haphazard and unkempt. The sun is mixing with the rain and producing poppies and dandelions. Weeds…
“The Blind and the Seeing Are Not Equal” by Ikjot Kaur
Before I stopped seeing, I started dreaming a lot more. The dreams, if they can be called that, gradually increased in frequency and intensity. The whimsical visions of my dreams spilled over into my waking life, the line between the two states smudged. In the unravelling, I discovered a senseless, feral urge to read. Books multiplied on the shelves overnight, in the dark, while I was asleep. I wandered into used bookstores and rifled through the pages with a hunger for ink. I pored over the manuscripts in my office, the paper rustling under my fingers. Boxes filled with paperbacks arrived at my doorstep. I cracked open their spines. Words crept under my front door, slid over the carpets, climbed into my bed. I read passages out loud, swirling the syllables around my mouth like sips…