February 16, 2021

“Soliloquy in Blue,” A Short Story by Johan Alexander

Did she say something? Did I say something? Her brow illuminates under the streetlights and pulses with the beat of the windshield wipers. She won’t look at me: her eyes flash sequins at the sidewalk. Droplets floating, floating: translucent globes hanging in space. Then they burst apart. She shakes her hair and I can no longer see her eyes. Rain: I yawn through the misty rhythm. My eyes close continuously. Headlights and streetlights mix in the distance and through the murk I wonder when things started to go off course. We had danced together, squeezing particles of music from our sweatshirts. Then we ate at the Greasy Spoon, where she said it. The air between us is a stale sponge unable to soak up all these discarded feelings. Damp inside the car and heavy on my eyelids. I try to blink. The tires below us slime their way through the night. She sits in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. What`s the point? She glances over, a quick reflex of her neck, surprised. I realize I have mumbled my thoughts aloud. Beads of sweat wander across my hairline. I keep my face forward. She turns away. Again. I roll down my window an inch. I open my mouth. A few raindrops land on my tongue. …

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February 14, 2021

Laura Carter – Poems of Sensations and Memories

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

I pull away from the bruise. There is no bruise. It’s been said that language itself is a bruise, a collection of things to be feared. There is no bruise. I put off the pain. The pain returns. The body burns, as if in a fire, largely having been heated in winter by the obsolete feeling of the no. There is no no. I pull away from the no. The no, not having been part of the story, can’t really comment on anything. There are no people. There are people. Someone lights the proper way forward, as if in modernity, and I pull away from that. Why go? Someone on the other side of the ocean would pen a marinade and drink it down for dinner. I eat. There is no food. I see. There is no sight. I put away the bruise. Then, all…

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February 11, 2021

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

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

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 9, 2021

“The Girl on the Train,” A Review by Jennifer Green

Posted by Mike Rochester in Book Reviews

The Girl on the Train, Paula Hawkins To be totally transparent, this 2015 psychological thriller is not one I would have picked up or sought out on my own. However, as I’m always looking for new books to read and making a conscious effort to expand the genres on my shelf, when a colleague mentioned this page-turner in a recent Zoom meeting, I picked up a copy and dug in. It’s a quick read, and the premise is interesting: struggling alcoholic rides a train into London every day and muses about the inhabitants of the houses along the tracks, two of whom are her ex-husband and his new wife. When she observes suspicious behavior just before a young woman goes missing, the tension rises. However, it’s the narrative perspective that really gives the novel its…

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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 27, 2021

An Artist’s Look Back at 2020 by Steve Sangapore

Posted by Mike Rochester in Guest Posts

New Beginnings & New Work Considering the wide-spread struggle, uncertainty and turmoil of 2020, I think many of us are exhaling a hopeful sigh of relief now that we are starting a fresh new year. While the right side of our brains have enjoyed quite a bit of activity this year contending with all of the chaos and unknown, the left sides have been patiently awaiting a return to stability, structure and predictability. Over the course of the last ten months of “the new normal,” I have enjoyed conversations with dozens of creative people, and unsurprisingly, I have heard many varying testimonials. Some have thrived during the months of shutdowns and quarantine, while others have had difficulty locking-in to productivity due to disrupted schedules and a lack of creative motivation and inspiration. But wherever your…

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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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January 18, 2021

“The Interruption,” A Short Story by Jason Powell

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Each time is the same as before, but each time feels new. He and Grace hold hands in the hallway and stare at Destiny through the streakless glass. Grace chose the name and to see it written on that little plastic band in official type makes her happy. And why shouldn’t she be? The delivery went great. Destiny is perfect. Everything is perfect. Well, maybe not “perfect.” It’s true, Destiny was unplanned. True, he and Grace don’t have their own place to bring her home to. True Grace’s parents are actively unsupportive of their child and her teenage boyfriend bringing another child into the world. But none of that matters. Grace and Destiny are happy and healthy. That’s what matters. This moment matters. He wishes he could slow time down and stay in this moment…

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466 posts by Mike Rochester