February 11, 2021

“Walking to Rhode Island,” A Story by Stephen Brayton

The call came in just after 1 a.m. “Hey, I got a question for you,” the male voice said. “Am I right that it’s not OK to walk to Rhode Island on Route 1?” O’Connell on dispatch managed to get out “What?” before the guy continued. “Walking on Route 1 .. I didn’t think it was allowed and just wanted to check.” The voice sounded semi-sober; O’Connell had heard plenty worse. But sober or not, who would think of walking to Rhode Island on Route 1, aka Boston-Providence Highway? A four-lane divided highway lined with shopping malls, office buildings and car dealers. It had to be at least 30 miles to the Rhode Island line. Sure, there were stretches in Grenville with sidewalks; but had he ever seen anyone on them? And going south through Norwood, Walpole . . . Sidewalks? He had no idea. Still, the guy had asked. “Well, I don’t know there’s any law against it,” answered O’Connell. “Why are you headed to Rhode Island? Kind…

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February 3, 2021

“Requiem of a Thursday,” by Luca Agostini

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Steffan looks up at me, a cone of light following his gaze. He is wearing a miner’s headlamp and I can’t shield my eyes in time. I have already drunk too much and the Ketamine is starting to kick in. The music thudding from behind the closed door of the narrow bathroom seems that much further, dripping through the concrete walls of the 1960s East Berlin Platte where the party is. I rub my eyes, the cone of light still fixed on me. Is it gone? Yes, the cone has moved. I am relieved as Steffan’s earnest, slanted face looks up at me as if emerging from the black depths of an ocean, his face ghostly and shimmering in the light. I want to lean forward, to break the surface of the blackness around him, but I…

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February 1, 2021

“Shush Please,” Poetry and Art by Tamizh Ponni

Posted by Mike Rochester in Fine Art, Writing

Shush please On a cold winter night I lay in the comfort of soft blankets and cushy pillows The non-stop titter-tatter against all tangibles mercilessly broke my hard-earned slumber Sliding and slithering over and over Crystalline droplets raced on the glassy tracks without much caution or trepidation. The uncoiled skeins of climatic emotions were desperate to bring glee into doldrums. I woke up, sat up and stayed up leaning towards the window pane, listening to their tantrums All night in silence, eyes closed, ears open It was a performance that clamoured for attention from lonely souls and midnight owls. I wish it came with a volume control The loud clatter and yellow lights, were acting like partners in crime brutally stirring up memories of good times Days that could not be reclaimed Nights and people…

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January 28, 2021

Mbizo Chirasha – My First Year as Poet-in-Residence

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Time has legs: it walks and of course it runs. Somewhere in the cybernetic land of the brave, America, a trailblazing coffee shop is situated, born from assortments of poetry biscuits, flash fiction soups that wink likea jolt of rainforest lightning. The Fictional Café, a buffet of literary commentary and steaming cups of cappuccinos,the sweet aroma of words waft through its glowing virtual walls, beckoning and satiating all sure creatives.Inside the Café, you are welcomed by a band of poetry baristas. I joined the Fictional Café as the Poet in Residence and the greatest blessing is a myriad of my experimental writings have been serialized, featured, and published within its digital pages. Jack B. Rochester and your team of literary champions:I salute you for the Poet in Residence position and for your confident investmentin my writings and mutual collaborative efforts. ***…

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January 25, 2021

Mark Parsons – Poetry in Pieces

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Leg Panel the color of raw steak discoloring once it’s exposed to the air slides on its runner, crosscutting fibres bunched into fascicles sheathed with elastin that shift like amoebas, contract, clinch, then dilate again. Panel after panel, runners underfoot and thickness of panels decreasing. A click, something catches. Or caught, something releases and scrapes to the opposite wall. This fleshly corridor can’t go on much longer: the panels can get no thinner. The thought of hiding once I’m out, the reason not to hide. Never did I present agoraphobia, or tendencies . . . say, vampiric. No symptoms of anemia. Never was a bleeder, in any sense. I have to keep my nerve. It’s all that separates me from my surroundings. My leg feels . . . feels like. Prologue Taking life one rescue animal at…

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“Walking to Rhode Island,” A Story by Stephen Brayton

“Requiem of a Thursday,” by Luca Agostini

“Shush Please,” Poetry and Art by Tamizh Ponni

Mbizo Chirasha – My First Year as Poet-in-Residence

Mark Parsons – Poetry in Pieces

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