April 27, 2023

Our National Poetry Month Finale: Vera West

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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March 16, 2023

“Cherry Black,” A Story by Levi Dodd

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Once in a while, a story of uncommon power lands our e-desktops here at the Cafe. This is one of them. We think “Cherry Black” will keep you on the edge of your seat right up until . . . the end. Biting cold slowly moves up my fingers as they hover just above the doorknob, not close enough to touch it but close enough to feel the cold radiating from the shiny silver metal. How long have I stood here, frozen in place? It exhausts me to even consider turning the knob. A familiar sensation on my thigh distracts me from the looming dread of reality and before I’m even conscious of it, my hand has moved away from the doorknob to grab at this welcome distraction. I unlock my phone and open the…

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March 15, 2021

“In the Hotel Room with Arles,” by Jeffrey Boldt

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

1. I first met Arlene Henson in law school. She’d been a teacher for twenty years and was in her early forties—which made her nearly twenty years older than me, and most of the rest of our class. But Arlene was still youthful and fun, and I never thought of her age as a significant factor in our friendship. Her face had the gentle and patient look which you’d want to see on your favorite teacher, but it was also quick to flash into an ironic smile and even a dismissive, almost-cynical laugh. Arlene was recently divorced from a Geography professor and she was attending law school on her share of the sale of their house in Milwaukee. She’d been a collegiate swimmer, and still did triathlons; she often came to class in tight fitting athletic outfits which hugged her trim figure and still drew plenty of attention from young men half her…

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February 16, 2021

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

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

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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September 6, 2020

“Yodeling in the City” A Short Story by Marc Littman

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

“No more yodeling, John, I can’t stand it!” Joan clutched her ears like she was clinging to a stout tree in a hurricane. I peered at my wife’s pained visage, a face that after 40 years I no longer tried to spare any torment, and shrugged. “Maybe I’m calling out to you, if only you could hear.” “Like I’m a fat cow in the Alps and you’re a shepherd?!” Joan cried. “We live in New York, John. People don’t yodel in the city.” Peering through our expansive windows at a Matterhorn of concrete, I started to warble but stifled the urge. Taking a different tack, I pivoted to confront Joan. “Elmer does.” “Elmer’s a peasant, he belongs in the Alps. He and Julie Andrews can sing their hearts out!” Joan volleyed back. I took a hit but stood my ground. “Yodeling is more than singing, Joan. The subtle pitches and measured breathing, it calms me, and it reminds me of our younger days. Remember when we used to…

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August 24, 2020

“The Beholder,” A Short Story by Fiama Mastrangelo

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

You blink your eyes open and stretch your arms above your head. You’re wearing an extra-large cotton t-shirt this morning—one that you got for free in your freshman year and never threw out. Your dark brown hair is splayed out on the pillowcase and is exceptionally messy. I wonder if you were feeling lazy or if you just didn’t care what I would think when you decided on this look last night. We can work on that. I watch you get up and move into the bathroom. I can hear you washing your face, brushing your teeth. You turn on the shower and the noise of running water fills the room. No steam, it’s cold water. Hot water will age you, remember? I wouldn’t like that at all. I told you that your legs felt prickly last night. I wonder if you remember that this morning, while you…

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August 6, 2020

“Party Boy,” A Short Story by Lee Anderson

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

I’m alone at a charity event in Patricia Yeo’s new Midtown eatery. Shirtless, chiseled busboys and lanky, large-breasted servers run lightly about the restaurant, carrying trays the size of manhole covers. The place is gold-trimmed and supported by Roman columns but a terrible place to have a party. Not enough room. We’re ass-to-hip in here practically. I meet gazes with Celine about ten minutes after I arrive. She approaches me without hesitation. I actually don’t think she’s ever hesitated a day in her life. “Uh-oh,” she says. “Lazarus Fucking Cooper. Is that you?” “Last I checked.” “Well, there’s no telling what’s going to happen now.” “We’ll have to be careful.” “Yeah, you attract bad energy. I’m a lily caught in the rapids with you.” “I see you haven’t changed.” “Does anyone?” A hyper-paced metal song begins growling from heightened speakers,…

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July 21, 2020

Kira Rice-Christianson — Six Poems

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

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 16, 2020

“Knowing,” A Short Story by Jarrett Mazza

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

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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June 22, 2020

“Up There” — Three Poems by Chad W. Lutz

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Up There this one goes out to anyone that’s ever made me feel I wasn’t enough or felt they were too good & drifted away I remember we fucked in the auditorium your idea & how carnal & playful you were wore a skirt and it hurt but I’ll admit I wasn’t ready here’s to the loves that didn’t last couldn’t last it’s all in the past now but I still daydream time to time Acan Glaske big border you know what that means government shutdowns partisan bickering sniveling banter back and forth we go the first settlers built walls around their encampments wanted to keep the threats out the Lakota the Apache the Comanche they lived on the open range in communion with nature …

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