Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

My grandfather wrestled octopuses. He got on the TV and everything. My grandmother shot him dead one morning and she got on TV too. My dad was in the army. He got a purple heart and black toes when the diabetes came. Before that though he was in all the papers for following orders in Vietnam. My first mama couldn’t take his drinking so she stuck her head in an oven. That only made the local press. Well, till three other ladies in the neighborhood followed suit.  There was talks of banning gas ovens after that. My uncle was in politics and said something about electrical lobbyists, moguls and such. Everyone was gonna get rich but no one ever did. People just stopped killing theyselves. Started killing each other. A rock 'n' roll singer stabbed my sister to death. Half-sister. Her mama had a stroke on the courthouse steps. Died in front of a million flashing bulbs. That got a lotta press at the time but here it is, near thirty years later, and they’re still wr...

do not miniaturize the bicycle torso between blue wheels nor the twig tree broad-shouldered nor yellow-trousered man walking the candy cane coming shapes myself an igloo of time contracting mirror view hot pyramids the tips crumble so reaper crows confuse for wheat the sculpted falsity in the curving sidewalk those pickled legs just churn and churn by  James Croal Jackson

Simon took Nina’s hand as they climbed the steep cobbled streets to Beyoglu, to their favourite backstreet cafe where men hunched over hookah pipes and glasses of apple tea. The owner greeted them with a smile of recognition, bringing a pipe to the table at Simon’s nod, blowing gently on the coals. Nina watched the passers-by in silence. She knew she’d have to tell Simon her news before they went home, but she had no idea what response to expect from him, and she was scared. He put his hand over hers. ‘You’re very quiet?’ She wondered if this was a good time, but as she started to speak, Aslan came back up the steps to take their order. He shouted it across to the kitchen, then sat down with a cigarette, staying to talk until another customer arrived. In those few minutes, Nina changed her mind. Telling Simon would spoil their entire day. Their last day in Istanbul; a city they had waited so long to visit. And for these precious stolen days Simon’s wife had ceased to exist; ev...

Your fingers on my neck, a touch so light as to be hard to notice when not fresh from the shower. How your beautiful fingerprints feel more intimate than any others on my skin. I catch your hand, bring your palm to my lips. It tastes of raspberries and northern lights. Your head on my chest, my blood in your ears beats a tattoo of infinite commitment, boots on a dusty trail that heads into a sunset that never seems to quite slip into dark. by Robert Beveridge

Here Cafe Aphra barista Sara Roberts interviews writer Chris Fielden about his work and the highly successful flash fiction challenges he has been running since last year. Cafe Aphra: Hi Chris, so tell us what is your main interest as a writer, in terms of form and genre? Chris Fielden: Dark humour. Most of the stories I write involve an element of fantasy too, but are often set in our world. So there might be a demon in London, or a zombie in Washington. I’ve always been a fan of writers with vivid imaginations – Stephen King, Philip K. Dick, Ursula K. Le Guin, Terry Pratchett and Roald Dahl to name a few – so I’m drawn towards the weird, the wonderful, the macabre and the amusing. CA: Do you also teach creative writing? Tell us about your latest course. CF: I’m not a teacher in the academic sense, but I have written a book called How to Write a Short Story, Get Published and Make Money . That uses my own published stories as case studies, clearly showing how all the advice ...

Dim flame dying like a senile candle, a flickering old woman, crinkled fingers drooping  from large jeweled rings  as she sobs in septic sleep  that no lover’s steps  tread the midnights  of her bedroom.  by Gary Beck Gary Beck's poetry collection Rude Awakenings will be published by Winter Goose Publishing this spring.

From the bending willow’s grasp, she slides into the river. Eyes to the sky, she floats downstream, opens her mouth and sings. Good morrow, ’tis Saint Valentine’s day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.   Borne by her skirt’s twin billows, she sings of the fickleness of Princes, of he who called her celestial, his soul’s idol, sending her letters drenched with longing, “Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.” Words that gave him leave to slide his arm around her waist, to kiss her neck under the heavy hair that floats around her now, mossy with crow-flowers and dead men’s fingers. But all too soon love turned to ashes in his mouth, and he called her bawd and wanton, as a riddling madness drove his mind to fever and his hand too quick to the sword. One thrust, and her father’s blood, a waxen pool of scarlet, seeped up the arras like a blush....