All posts in Writing

May 23, 2023

“Can We Ever Atone?” by Thom Wainwright

It’s a memory so dark and shameful that words almost fail me. It’s been hidden away for some five decades now. The details of the incident now present as both hallucinogenic and mundane. At times, it banishes me to that terrible place where no one would ever dare to come find me. We were on a dusty red road just outside of Cu Chi. Stevens and I were setting up a broadcasting post on this well-traveled section of Highway 13, which links the City of Tunnels with the capital city of Saigon. It was well known that the Viet Cong frequented this stretch, usually under cover of darkness, to brazenly plant land mines in the clay and stone of the road bed. Mamma-san and baby-san would be posted along the roadway during daylight hours, purportedly…

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May 17, 2023

“Burial,” A Short Story by Peter Dellolio

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Leaves and twigs scattered suddenly, as if the last, hurried pat of her seven-year-old palm, hitting the flattened surface of moist earth that moments ago revealed a fourth hole, was somehow acknowledged by the secret watchfulness of nature, and the little whisking breezes, surrounding her finished labors, had somehow bestowed their blessing upon her task. She had left the house as surreptitiously as her tiny form and sincere energy would allow, running down the old boards, almost jumping across the eighteenth-century backdoor steps of the farmhouse, charging into the woods like an infantryman rushing into battle, head held high with quiet dignity and deadly purpose, without even an atom of fear, soul impervious to danger, defying threats to life and limb, lying just ahead in the enemy’s midst. She felt that if the subjects of her…

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May 15, 2023

“Wheels of the Bus,” by Bethany Reid

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

When the brakes failed, Claire did not panic. Later, describing the accident—which she was asked to do an ungodly number of times—she insisted on her level-headed, calm reaction. Cool under fire, grace under pressure, all that crap. No panic. She did everything as she had been taught in bus-driver school. She pumped the brake pedal all the way down, twice, three times. She shifted into third and then into second and got ready to shift further down. All the while muttering under her breath, first, reverse, like a prayer. Or a curse. But then the idiot motorcyclist weaved into the HOV lane, right in front of the bus, not signaling, just darting from between rows of moving cars, hugely illegal. And at the same instant traffic swelled and slowed. With working brakes, it wouldn’t have…

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May 11, 2023

“The Greatest of These,” by Kathie Giorgio

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Faith wished she could pray, and then wondered if, by wishing, she was already praying. What was the difference between lighting birthday cake candles and lighting a votive in a church? With one, she closed her eyes and wished. With the other, she closed her eyes and prayed. Faith thought of all the years she tried to earn a wish by blowing out her birthday candles with one big gust, and all the Sundays she knelt in her space in the pew, she at the end, her parents at the aisle, and her siblings in between. They folded their hands in prayer. It was all about asking for something, Faith decided, and then believing she was going to get it. With one, she asked God; with the other, she asked the universe or the air…

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May 9, 2023

Col. Jon D. Marsh — Poetry and Prose

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

“Pagan” THEY made this so. It was so even before the Others came. Too many moons ago to consider. Even before the Fathers of the Father’s Fathers, it was so. But that does not matter. Before the Others came They called Us Mana-Hoka. The Others called Us Machu Grande, and They were forced to use the Other’s words. The Others are gone now. They gave the Others to their Gods to appease them. Now We are Mana-Hoka once more. But that does not matter, either. At those times when They became of many, the Gods would often grow angry and send a curse of hunger or sickness, so They learned to appease the Gods, as They would on a night when a complete moon fills the jungle with soft light. Just as They had many…

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April 27, 2023

Our National Poetry Month Finale: Vera West

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Please welcome Vera West, The Fictional Cafe’s Poet in Residence, who shares her thoughts about our National Poetry Month celebration: chickadee I’m not always angry but I am mostly melancholy, thinking about those little potholes of memories riddling a twisting road of disappointment; these memories jar me: pancakes, carnivals, front yard barbecues, black fridays and pastel pink egg hunts, nicknames no one else called me; these memories always jarred me, they’re so different than the standard of both back then and now. ** thinking of you Things you did right: encourage me to be authentic, drive me around town, instill independence, and push high expectations. [I want to be somewhere in the middle, between the good and the bad, between emotion and logic, but I’m stuck in extremes. either I miss you terribly or hate you…

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April 25, 2023

Week Four: Eric Forsbergh, Susan Simonds, and Eric Goodman

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Two Erics? How did that happen? Is it a coincidence or kismet? Let’ give ’em both a read before we decide. Here’s our first, Eric Forsbergh. The Love Poetry of Eric Forsbergh My Lucky Jacket My lucky jacket drapes me pleasingly: a cross between the wings of victory and an asbestos fire suit. A cloth talisman, it buffs my confidence to polished brass. After all, I wore it during our initial kiss. It’s my fabric shield the eyes of trolls roll off. On my motorcycle, in the rain, I swear this jacket wards me from a lightning strike. You’re my loving skeptic. You claim it’s not a coffin or a cure. You claim what counts will rise within my skin. My lucky jacket? Some days it’s like a rescue blanket made of foil: shiny and…

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April 18, 2023

Week Three: John Kucera, Jaya Abraham, Gopal Lahiri

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Poet and fabulist John Kucera entertains us with two poems and two fables, an ancient form of narrative intended to entertain and instruct. Compass Clouds and storms hover Over us like a lost thought. A strange idea we once had to build a log cabin together and explore worlds beyond our own. But our lives were surmounted by menial tasks and we never got around to our plans like the campfire and the sunsets and the paintings of a dry winter and the umbrella of youth closing slowly but surely on all these things we remember later in our circles of routine. We were both deserted but they were also forgotten. Our plans, still changing, and guiding us today like the compass above a rooftop and the wolf we patted at the Indian neighbor’s house,…

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April 18, 2023

“The Great Adverb War” by Russ Lopez

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Time out from our celebration of National Poetry Month for a fun, witty short story about the nemesis of all writers: the adverb. Or is it? The Merriam-Webster Dictionary states, “Adverbs are words that usually modify—that is, they limit or restrict the meaning of—verbs. They may also modify adjectives, other adverbs, phrases, or even entire sentences. Got it? Read on. The Great Adverb War A Short Story by Russ Lopez To nearly everyone’s surprise, the most contentious divide among Provincetown’s writers was not fiction vs. nonfiction, prose or poetry, or even the need for an Oxford comma, though Benji Camarillo’s husband had famously threatened to file for divorce over his refusal to use one after the penultimate noun in a series. No. The large, historic writing community in town violently splintered over adverbs. The war…

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April 11, 2023

Week Two: AJ Huffman, Morouje Sherif, Charles Remmelkamp

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

We’re so delighted to welcome A. J. Huffman and her poetry to Fictional Cafe. A.J. is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has published 27 collections and chapbooks of poetry. In addition, she has published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. She is currently the editor for Kind of a Hurricane Press literary journals. Two Boards Don’t Always Equal An X I wear his depression for hours.  Like a crown of duller thorns, it does not bleed me.  But breeds a bizarre dissension.  I understand the gray it is shading. Around my edges it appears.  Colder than his.  He shudders. Mistaking the chill for lore.  It is not your soul leaving your body. I sigh.  (It is my soul trying to breathe.)  You worry I am not strong/safe/alive enough to hold you.  You are wrong (Such…

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