Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

I found a grave. I came on the evidence one day, in a forgotten file, randomly numbered by my camera.  I remember walking through white snakes of sand, lifted by the wind. It blew straight off the North Sea; ice in its jaws. Always seeking I had strode out, looking for messages in bottles, finding only crackled plastic. Holding my camera with numb hands, it had been too cold to take many photos. Further up the sand, I passed through the iodine egg-stink of seaweed, then, crunched through broken shells to the path, up and away from the rage of the ocean. The wooden steps were filled with sand, an oil company’s unmaintained project. Corporate social responsibility ravaged by the elements. On the cliff above the beach, marram grass, pink campion, gorse and broom, grew, holding the sand together with their roots. The fierce wind had stolen my breath as I looked towards the new horizon. Crumpled red and orange petals had led me through the grass, past the remai...

You see him now and then buying pizza He ain’t one of life’s experimenters The man with the negative charisma Who darkens every room he enters Someone told me he was married once Now he makes no impression on life The man to whom no one responds Who reckons he doesn’t need a wife Naturally his colour of choice is grey He’ll nod a “good morning” as he passes But he’s the man with nothing to say Who blinks behind his plastic glasses His name in the Book of Life’s a misprint His face on the page a careless gaffe He’s the man who leaves only footprints Who takes undiscovered photographs Though you’d notice no lack of gaiety If he vanished in holy ascension To another world where he’s a deity Who vibrates in the fifth dimension Wouldn’t that be a kick in the head If he swooshed skyward every night? The man who flies while you’re in bed Who dances in the yellow moonlight by Derek Dohren

‘You’ve got something under your nose.’ With a giggle, Trudy wiped a finger under her nose, inspected the white powder there and sucked it clean. ‘I always get a bit nervous when it’s live.’ Hamish smiled thinly. He didn’t like live tv either but didn’t need any stimulation to get through a ten minute slot in the Blue Peter Garden; his ambition was enough. Ambition which would take him, if all went to plan, to Hollywood within five years. They straightened as the director, a terrifying platinum blond with ambitions to move into Sunday night drama as a stepping stone to HBO, arrived. ‘Right, let’s get on. Where are the brats?’ Half a dozen small children, all wearing brightly coloured wellies and Blue Peter cagoules, emerged from the shed, led by a production assistant. ‘That’s no good! Give them shovels, or hoes or something. We need them doing something useful in the background. Hurry up Sally, for God’ sake!’ Sally rushed back into the shed, emerged with a handful of shiny new tools,...

A group of people huddles around a man lying down on the cobbles, turning green. The people are looking over each other's shoulders, not knowing what they would want done, had they been in his position. A woman in a brown cardigan is hysterical. She is sat on the cobbles next to the man with her legs sprawled out, like a marionette. Someone from the theatre café has brought her tissues and water in a plastic cup. The woman weeps, but all she can think of is how now she will never see the waters of Sharm El Sheikh or puff shisha sitting on satin cushions in overpriced seaside bars. She won't see the pyramids. The thought of not seeing the pyramids in particular makes her give off a high-pitched wail. The traffic policeman is tired. The bribes he's collected today aren’t enough to get that lamb shank his wife’s ordered. He should be on the road, fining Mercedes drivers for making the wrong U-turn, restriction sign obstructed by a birch tree. “Where the heck’s the ...

Ken spotted the grand piano idling by the shoreline as he took Blue for his early morning walk. It was a huge ebony instrument leaning slightly into the lapping waves. The piano lolled like a drunk around midnight. One leg was wedged deeper into the saturated sand than the others. It must have lolled there a while, he thought, as the lid already had speckles of seagull shit dotted like polka dots. Yet, it hadn’t been there last night, when Ken had taken his evening stroll with Blue. Had it washed up on the tide? He wondered. But then, it was standing bolt upright, as though dumped there once the tide had gone out this morning. He considered his tide timetable back at the cottage. Living on this part of the coast, you had to be aware of such minutiae. Ken studied them religiously. Had more than once had to warn youngsters to get off the beach before they got washed off the rocks. Ken stroked the top of the piano. He tapped a couple of the keys with cold, gloved fingers. ...

And then at times the dips of our marriage are no different than the falling into love in Richmond Park before we started home, and I wrote every day until the motion of the ship made me certain that for every berth going out, new souls put in, spit from foam. If I could read Greek or understand the errand of the cardinal we watch for with coffee in our hands, I could make poetry on the tips of fence spears where he stops and the fire of you would go urgently from land to land. by  Charles Bane, Jr. 

Welcome to the life of a Greg. Every morning, for five days a week, I inhabit the rickety, sweat-filled 7.32 train across to Manchester for 62 juddering minutes. Surrounded by what I can only assume to be a plethora of Gregs in their uniform of a grey suit, grey tie, black shoes, we ride together solemnly and silently. Fidgeting now and again, we jostle along with the train’s movements as one. But not me, not anymore; the misery ends today. This affliction will haunt me no longer. No longer shall I be one of these lifeless chumps by whom I now find myself surrounded. You fools! Can you not feel the tedium of your lives? Do you not see the meaninglessness? Wake up! It's time for a new name. A new name, a new life. But what name should it be – what name is really Me? I could be Ignacio, the imperious. Hawthorne, the heroic. Reuben, the rascal! How about Keith? Keith! I know anything is a step up from Greg, but Keith? Well, for now you'll just have to call me Not Greg. Hang on....