Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

Another grey dawn marked the end of another dark night, marked the start of another dark day. He shuffled awkwardly on the hard cot , his uniform stiff and cold. The meagre woollen blanket felt damp and offered no warmth. The kettle hissed as boiled water splashed into a pot. “Tea, Sir.” He wrapped his hands around the heat of the tin mug. His head was pounding in time to the pounding of the guns. Don’t think. Thinking was a luxury for the living. Existence was his goal. How long? The question pushed back into the recesses of his mind. Sanity was his goal.  Gun in hand , he forced one leg then the other to climb the ladder. His body jolted like a marionette as red clouded his eyes and brain. He fell back in the mud grimacing a smile. Wounded, he would survive. He would go home to live. Remember. He would not forget that life chose him.  by Philippa Shingleton

As you set out for Ithaka hope the voyage is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them: you’ll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you. Hope the voyage is a long one. May there be many a summer morning when, with what pleasure, what joy, you come into harbors seen for the first time; may you stop at Phoenician trading stations to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, sensual perfume of every kind— as many sensual perfumes as you can; and may you visit many Egyptian cities to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars. Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you are destined for. ...

It had been another fraught morning. Delayed karma, that's what it was and serve him right. Not that it had been all bad. No, at various moments either side of breakfast he'd been flying. A marvellous idea to do something extraordinary next August had popped into his head. It would be something that he would write a book about. He didn't know yet what this something was but such minor details were the stuff of trivia. It'd be something that pushed him to the limits of his physical powers. He'd also pretty much settled on a plan to paint the living room walls a mish mash of vibrant primary colours, possibly implementing some kind of mural on the main wall. Such grand thoughts often came in threes and so it was, while musing on the living room thing on the way home from the cafe, he'd come to the realisation that orange was his favourite colour. It was an unexpected load off his mind but the epiphany had soon delivered its nagging price. Had it been his...

“Sorry mate, full up.” “What do you mean, full up?” “Just what I said, full up!” “Haven’t you seen the state of my wife?” The innkeeper eased his copious figure further around the door frame and cast an indifferent eye over the tiny, tired woman with the blue shawl sitting on the donkey. “She seems pretty far gone. Oh well. It’s a shame but it’s not my fault you know. If we had a room I’d give it to you mate. It’s this silly census business - bloody Herod with his petty bureaucracy. He just loves it, doesn’t he? All this paperwork. Oh well. Keeps the Romans busy, anyway.” “Yes, but what about my wife? She’s not going to give birth out here in the street, is she? It’s Christmas for God’s sake!” “It’s what?” “Oh nevermind. Look, don’t you even have a stable or something?” A Roman soldier appeared in the doorway and pushed past them, reeling. He wove a few steps into the street, singing, before he fell and lay face down in the mud, giggling to himself. Joseph and th...

At first she didn’t fully notice. Like shadows, the grinning faces flickered in her vision. When she stopped at a crossing, she heard the snicker. It was almost like snorting: the hideous sound when somebody extrudes laughter and tries to inhale at same time. Like a pig! she thought, disgusted. The people behind her were whispering, as if sharing an inside joke. As the traffic lights shifted, she hurried to get away. The blisters on her feet were making her walk awkwardly. Yet she was determined to ignore the pain. The laughter pursued her, like an echo of every clunky step.  Wearily, she carried on. She had been on her feet for hours, without caring where she was going or what street she was on. The strap of her bag cut through the jacket and into her shoulder. It felt so heavy, as if every hour of her aimless journey had added more weight to carry around. A boy came towards her. As he passed by she saw him grinning, pressing his lips together to muffle his giggles....

It's not noughth week for me A minute mile and a decade east Baby braced to my breast babbling Bubbly bliss to the morning mist. It's not noughth week for me No rimey bike seat mark on jeans Midas dust on shelves of everything A blinking I on open window screen.  In not noughth week no essay looms Rumbling billow to be blown by breath Fresh on the marks of a maizey margin Pencilled thoughts that pulse past death.  Here, a decade away, I no longer get to press reset for yet  another noughth week. I keep counting.  by J.W.

All of us grew up with some stories and they keep accompanying us throughout our lives as adults. Whether they are neatly bound in a book, put to moving pictures, sung on the radio or whispered on the phone -there are stories everywhere. Which kind of stories do you like?   I asked Afia Nkrumah, a London based writer and filmmaker, who has also contributed stories here at Cafe Aphra, the same question. Barbara: Afia, what kind of stories fascinate you? Afia:  I  am quite broad in my tastes when it comes to stories, if a story moves me, or makes me see life in a different way or challenges my assumptions then I am interested. I grew up hearing Ananse stories and other traditional tales, as well as my family history. Learning to read at the age of ten, was for me was a magical thing, I thought and still do today that it is a form of telepathy. One person puts their thoughts on paper and another person can read those thoughts across time an...