July 23, 2020

“Captain,” A Short Story by Zach Piggott

“Captain,” A Short Story by Zach Piggott

The pulsing woke him up from his deep sleep. He hated those blaring alarms and had opted years ago for the pulse. It did him wonders back then. Now he hated feeling it. He hoped for a morning where he wouldn’t feel it.  He groaned, moving his body under the covers. His fingertips grazed the cool metal that had become familiar to him over the past weeks. He swung his feet over the side, his weary green eyes half opened. Where a partner should’ve been had been empty for six years. Too committed to the military. It was just another excuse. The routine was the same since he had gotten home from his deployment: breakfast, shower, shave, dress and wait. Sometimes he waited all day with nothing happening. Other times he received phone calls. Once or twice he was ushered…

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July 21, 2020

Kira Rice-Christianson — Six Poems

Kira Rice-Christianson — Six Poems

Little White Lies     I started carrying around   these little white lies;   they live here on my face.   Like when I ask you a question and   your answer seems ingenuine but   I smile at you softly, anyway.   Or when I fix you a plate  and you give me your thanks,  and I kiss the side of your head.   While inside I scold   the woman who does as she’s told,   though I lay with her each night in bed.   Or when you don’t come home  for three nights in a row  and I lay awake cracking my knuckles and toes.  I picture her holding your body, unclothed.  The thought leaves me paranoid,   and I look through your phone.   I shouldn’t have done that, now I can’t sleep.   My body is filled with anxiety and heat.   I…

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July 17, 2020

Jarrett Mazza and Michael Piekny Q&A

Jarrett Mazza and Michael Piekny Q&A

At The Fictional Café we love writers and love the written word.  We want to showcase the best contemporary writing and give our subscribers innovative, thought-provoking works across a whole range of art forms.  When it comes to fiction and poetry, every so often one of our Baristas really connects to a certain work and goes the extra mile to help showcase it to our global audience.  This was the case with yesterday’s featured story, Knowing, by Jarrett Mazza.  One of our Editorial Board members, and Fiction Barista, Michael Piekny, really connected with Jarret’s writing and reached out to see whether Jarrett would be interested in working together on a developmental edit of the story.  Jarrett was on board and the two of them worked closely together over several weeks to fine-tune this story of…

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July 16, 2020

“Knowing,” A Short Story by Jarrett Mazza

“Knowing,” A Short Story by Jarrett Mazza

SOMETIMES I WAKE UP AND forget where I am or how I arrived. We often wonder about our personal truths, our pilgrimages that help us to see who, what we are. At night, when I’m sleeping next to her, I sometimes roll quietly out of bed and stumble into the kitchen to shake off the nightmares I’ve had. I’m bleeding in each one. I can assemble so many pieces of my life and merge them meticulously together and take some time to assess how it’s all going to work before I get back to bed. But we can’t change overnight. We just need time. I suppose the lowest moment, the moments where you could say I wish I was saved became increasingly more frequent. Alone in my two-bedroom loft, before I met her, I found…

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July 14, 2020

“Another Day of Quarantine,” Poems by Michael P. Aleman

“Another Day of Quarantine,” Poems by Michael P. Aleman

Another Day of Quarantine    The morning sun bathes our bedroom with soft light  on a morning more than serene, a real gift on another day of quarantine.  Cool March air via a slightly opened window drifts in.  I welcome the freshness of the air and the sunlight.  They bring the end of night, and assurance that darkness won’t prevail.   The true blessing, of course, is being quarantined with you,   having you beside me, the halo of your silver hair soft upon your pillow.  The morning air billows the window curtain, offering a badly needed certainty   that normalcy remains, will sustain us to the end.  I abhor the thought of living through this quarantine alone,   for you are bride, lover, companion and friend,  and if the end is at hand, we’ll weather it together.  I will, however,…

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July 8, 2020

“Traffic Report,” A Novel Excerpt by Eric D. Goodman

“Traffic Report,” A Novel Excerpt by Eric D. Goodman

Editor’s Note: “Traffic Report” is an excerpt from the novel, Setting the Family Free, published October 2019 by Loyola University’s Apprentice House Press. Copyright, © Eric D. Goodman. This excerpt is reprinted with the permission of the publisher. Traffic Report This is your eye in the sky, the WCHL Traffic Copter. If you’re just now tuning in for the first time today, here’s a word of advice: stay home. You heard me right, folks: authorities have advised everyone in the Chillicothe area to remain indoors today and to stay off the roads. If you’re already driving to work, go back home. It’s a zoo out there—literally.   Lions and bears, wild cats and wolves have all escaped from a local animal reserve here in Chillicothe. If you leave your house today, you’re walking into a danger zone….

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July 6, 2020

“The Life and Death of Arthur Miller,” by Andrew Lafleche

“The Life and Death of Arthur Miller,” by Andrew Lafleche

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF ARTHUR MILLER or, Damnationem Vita et Humani Conditione  Fourteen days after Arthur Miller’s sixteenth birthday, both his parents were killed in an automobile accident when a drunken driver swerved into their lane as they returned home from a night at the theater. Their deaths occurred instantly, and to that effect, neither were able to be presented with an open coffin at their post-life nuptials. The last time Arthur saw his parents alive was in the moments following Sunday dinner, his mother in a dress, glowing, his father dressed handsomely, saying, “When you finally meet the woman who makes the world stand still, son, don’t ever quit doing for her what you did at the start. That way there will never be an end.”  Arthur clung to these words in the weeks that followed. He clung to everything…

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July 2, 2020

Fabrice Poussin — Painting the Roses Red

Fabrice Poussin — Painting the Roses Red

Editor’s Note: This month’s featured artist is Fabrice Poussin, an FC alum from 2018. In this collection, he presents his photography of spray-painted flowers and other objects. But this is no Alice in Wonderland redux. Find out what inspired Fabrice to take on this artistic project. I believe the artist must be like the bright-eyed child. He must seek beauty (what is beauty in his mind) and translate it into his own expression to inspire awe, bewilderment, joy, sadness, endless emotions to the viewer, reader, or listener. If he cannot find it, he must create it. These photos were conceived from a strange gift from a friend. He left me a number of cans of paint. For quite some time I wondered what I may do with those, and it occurred to me, and this…

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July 1, 2020

Former FC Art Barista Steve Sangapore Interview

Former FC Art Barista Steve Sangapore Interview

Today we are sharing an interview with former Fictional Café Visual Art Barista Steve Sangapore. Fountain Street Gallery, located in SOWA the artistic hub of Boston, presents this interview in their series LIVE AT FIVE on Instagram.  LIVE AT FIVE features a 30 minute interview of Boston based artist Steve Sangapore who will talk with Tatiana Flis about art, life, and his most recent painting series titled New Eden. You can follow Steve on Instagram at @stevesangapore. INFO:WEDNESDAY, JULY 01, 2020  |  5:00–5:30 PM EasternLIVE AT FIVE w/Fountain Street GalleryJOIN US ON INSTAGRAM LIVE@fountainstreetgallery

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June 28, 2020

“Countdown to Romance,” by Glen Donaldson

“Countdown to Romance,” by Glen Donaldson

Amid the din of busy Grinders Coffee Shop, silence like the centre of a hurricane enveloped them both. “Could this honestly get any suckier?” Fergus wondered to himself as he grasped his own sweaty, nervous fingers under the table, yanking then releasing them one after the other.  Sitting opposite him was his first meeting date, Willow. She’d said she was 27. She was not only wearing “awkward” like it was her own exclusive fashion label but by this stage had taken to incessant hair-twirling in an effort to get through the dead air and lumbering silences that felt by now to them both as long as a freight train.  Fergus commenced quietly tapping his Ray-Bans on the marble coffee table, being careful not to disturb the two polished silver stir-stick containers that rested in the centre; the same ones he’d positioned and repositioned more than a dozen times.  Like a finger-drumming leopard straining on…

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