Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

She watched it fall in waves gracefully down to the floor. She’d always been told that it was her best feature, thick and luxurious with a single streak of white. It was natural, she insisted. A reminder of her busy life with four children. That streak was a trophy, the spoils of battle on a field of teenaged angst where more than once she’d had to pick her hill to die on. That battlefield had changed over the years. Now she was waging a war upon her own body as the chemo worked its gruesome magic. Her life was a whirlwind of doctor’s check-ups, follow-ups and throwing up. Now those very same teenagers were riding into battle alongside her, lances raised and armor ready to fight off the latest onslaught of her disease. Breast cancer. A large tumor that had grown in the single year since her last exam. She’d lived the past months in suspended animation, going through the motions as they rallied around her. She worked at an elementary school, the kids all making get-well cards, wishing...

This is the story of man who can’t begin to think or question why the unfathomability of all that is good or bad is even comparable to the unending nothing or why the chances are slim or why one would even try and change or what needs changing and how it can even be possible to see the entirety; the plusses and negatives, pros and cons, arguments and counter arguments, or is it even in those terms and if so how and what can be done; about right and left, religion, greed, altruism, nature or what is our nature and why can’t there be more than one, how many times have people been over the ins and outs, the ups and downs, the circular - back to the began; is there more than one person (me?) who thinks this and if so would it be rude and why would it be, why can’t one talk to those dead souls on the train and if one can what would they say (speak souls speak!) would they make their excuses and leave, is there any excuse good enough or what is important to him or her and her and him, if it’...

The zeitgeist you’ve created Is a pox of epic reach, A free-for-all of vitriol Via one-way posts and tweets. Trolls and bullies lurk Behind your anonymic walls, Without a shred of decency (Or any guts at all). You abet the human tendency To cluster into groups Whose members feed each other And regurgitate their tropes. Opinions trump established facts; Lies outshout the truth; News that’s false gets more applause Than news that’s backed by proof. We can castigate each other With a mouse-click-turned-down thumb, And a friend is just a notch On someone’s cyber radar gun. by J. Craig Hill

Do you like horror fiction? Is that your writing genre? February 2017 marks the 8th edition of Women in Horror Month (WiHM), an international initiative showcasing the underrepresented work of women in the horror industries.  At www.womeninhorrormonth.com  you can find information about fun events in your area. These range from art projects to meet-ups, film screenings and performances taking place in various countries all over the globe including Australia, Japan, Germany, England, Scotland and the United States. Of course there are also literary projects dedicated to Women in Horror Month, such as the 5th annual WiHM issue of The Sirens Call . Check out  last year's issue including a story by one of our Cafe Aphra baristas, B.E. Seidl. And - worth knowing - if you want to promote your own horror writing project which will take place in February, simply use the hashtag #WiHM8 on Twitter or Facebook and take advantage of a readership of approximately 35,000 read...

See the fight last week? Oh yeah Brutal, kid's got a chance - I like The Mexican fella that should be Some scrap who's ordering the Pizza? That new girl in work? Fucking hell Barry'll be on it like gravy o’er a tattie! A flush beats a straight you Daft twat - hand us a beer Stan! Good man. I don't know why We are here or what we Are supposed to be doing But we are here and doing it For some shared reason though We don't know one another or Really wish to and there's no Money on the table. Why do they play  Poker for matches In prison On TV? by Alex McMillan

The waitress, a smallish girl with heavy makeup, came with the menu to take my order. She dropped it and made to turn away. If she was familiar with me, she would know I place my orders immediately. I’m a regular here.  “Please, wait. I am placing my order straight away.” She had the figure of a runway model. I didn’t recognise her. I opened the menu and ordered Purr Double Breakfast. “But, please, make it omelettes instead of eggs.” “This is a standard menu, sir. It has to be eggs.” I peered at the nametag on her blue polo shirt.  “Kathie, please check with your chef. I’ve had it that way before here.” “OK, sir. I will check and be back.” She strode off. Cyndi Lauper crooned Time After Time from the speakers hidden in the ceiling. I shut my eyes to savour the richness of her voice. The waitress came back. “I apologize. You can have it your way, sir.” “It’s OK. With coffee and water. All to be served at the same time.”  That ins...

Grass, grown tall, cuts at his arms. He swipes back, but blade after blade they fight him, drawing lines of blood that serve only to feed the gasping soil. Poppies parade past him as he runs. Their stems erect, their heads tilted back, they watch him leap and fly, tearing through the endless green.  A shout: Captain! Captain! The call, it twists around him, dizzying in its antiphony. Pulled forwards and then back by the words, he stumbles in confusion, then rights himself and continues to trample through the virgin field. Decapitating poppies as he passes, petals dance like the damned around him, fluttering to the ground to form a blood red pool. Black seeds scatter across the mass of petals, only to be crushed beneath the Captain’s feet as he pounds on and on.  Again, there is the call. This time closer but he doesn’t hesitate. On he runs; faster and faster, until he trips. There is the sensation of falling, a velvet thud resounds as he hits the ground, then black. Ho...