They ran, the four of them, hand in hand. It was the only way they could get from this place to the next. Despair rose in the thicker woods as one became wrapped around a tree, whiplashing the group in the onslaught. But on they ran, recovering themselves, never breaking their grasp to dust off their muddy knees. The terrain was an endless, mountainous wood. Neverending. But there is nothing more determined to race home than a Howling. Howlings are almost always children, amorphous in their gender until they make a choice at age 18—if they make it to that rare age—and despite their name they very rarely howl. But when they do, you don’t want to be anywhere near. It is the sound of universes shattering and will consume your eardrums by snaking up…

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The Mahogany Box by Karen M Trappett The movement sent waves across her belly, like little fish weaving and darting amongst the piers of a jetty, pushing gently up through the layers of her woollen skirt and reaching her gloved hands resting lightly on her lap. Holding her breath through the crest, she looked down and attempted to catch a glimpse of the creature currently using her body as a gymnasium. A soft smile made the corners of her mouth crinkle, and she felt the contours of her bump. Was that a foot, or a hand? Crimson leaves glistened, moisture dripped onto her knitted hat and the shoulders of her coat. A bedraggled sparrow appeared to keenly observe her, then shivered. Hearing her little ones, she hopped to an inner branch and disappeared; thoughts of…

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Editor’s Note: We hope you enjoy this story of the Wild West – Texas, to be specific – which captures the essence of life back in the earlier days of America. At 89 years of age, Harry is the Elder Scribbler of Fictional Café. Keep writing, Harry! Image credit: “Prospecting the Cattle Range,” (1889) an oil painting by Frederic Remington [public domain]. *** Henry Kinsey smiled inwardly, nothing to do with his fellow stagecoach passengers. They were strangers four hours ago. He was in possession of two secrets: one, today, March 15, 1843, was his twenty-third birthday. The other was Kinsey family lore handed down for four generations. He and his family agreed since the solution to the family conundrum would more likely be found in the Republic of Texas, he should begin his law career there…

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Editor’s note: Michael Larrain is back, gracing the stage here at the funky ole Fictional Café, bringing us the poetry we know we need because that’s where all this came from, the coffee and the poetry and the blues and those long-forgotten smoky bistros filled with beautiful women and cowboy poets and coffee, always the coffee, the jet fuel Jack Kerouac sucked down as fast as his ma could make pot after pot while he wrote On the Road with her Scotch-taping the sheets of paper together and then Michael, our very own Michael Larrain, writing poetry on the Kesey-like boat’s canvas sails, poetry-cum-novels, and reading his stories for darling daughter Catherine The Rage of Paris Larrain, and narrating Jack’s Brady novella with such a voice, and now a new poem. So you see why we’re understandably happy he’s…

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