Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

Your rod hung In lonely air, Extending further and Further. A seagull flew into it; Snapped it straight in Half. I thought you'd pursue Another hobby.  You sat upon freezing Pebbles, Weeping salt water. by Ellie Sparks

The bookmark is the part that I keep coming back to, perhaps because I think that it is the thing about the whole incident that says the most about me, the only thing that means anything. The exact placement of the bookmark, the way that I precisely, if quickly, wedged it into the book so that the bottom edge cleanly revealed a line of text and its top edge protruded out of the book at its customary surplus of about 1.5 inches. I was reading in the park, engrossed in a world very far from my own, but one in which I was reading a highly coincidental passage about a car accident. I’m sure that it means nothing that I was reading about an accident, but when I heard the bang of the collision, it was a shock to my mind as much as my ears. It was as though the life of the pages were playing out before me, and as I looked quickly up at the car accident coming to a stop only yards from the bench, I became very confused. I was already in action of course, as the papers went to great length...

Summer, and Priya was visiting Uncle and Aunt in rural Jainampore. It was her favourite time of day, late afternoon, when they migrated to the rooftops to catch the southeasterly breezes. They perched on the ledges, clutching glass tumblers filled with cardamom  chai . Their view, the nine mile stretch of Trunk Road with its cluster of smart middle class residences on each side thinning to slums at the far end.      A scooter trundled by. Two men with lustrous moustaches were crouching on it, a flat screen TV between them.      ‘See the struggle of common man,’ Uncle said.       About five minutes later, a khaki-clad policeman approached on a rusty bicycle. If the scooter was leisurely, this vehicle was a shade speedier than stationary.       He gave them a salute. ‘I am hot on the heels of burglars. They’ve stolen Mr Sharma’s TV. Did you see which way they went?’      ‘Down Trunk Road.....

                                         Flames whisper;            “You deserve this.” A quiet burn. Tasting soul's flesh, searing the mind Into silence. Like fire pulsing In dark veins underground, It burns for years. Feeding  On fossilised memories Of bygone eras. But time wins,  As it always does. Flames become embers, Glowing with promise  Of release. In the cool ash  Of the past, There is nothing left to burn. The future forms- Amongst the grey motes, The future forms- And it bursts forth,  Soaring            Into the sky                            ...

Cherry laid out vegetables in order of cooking on the black marble surface. Golden summer garlic, pale sweet onions, leeks, carrots, green pea pods. Fragrance and freshness. It was a safe kind of chore—making soup. Two cloves of garlic on the old wooden chopping board. The wide body of their Japanese cooking knife, bought in Kyoto where they’d celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She still had strength to crush garlic… He would be crushed. She’d kept their last summer together joyful, organising excursions to visit places they’d been happy before; walking once again their easier walks – all the cliché things their older friends had done. Why do people despise cliché, she wondered. It was a slow-growing cancer, inoperable. If she wished, her doctors would give her radio and chemo, but the statistics weren’t promising. She reassured them, feeling sorry for the young men who had to give her the news––once her husband’s students, then colleagues––ethically boun...

The rusted swing was a steady pendulum, counting the seconds away drip by drip. Billy continued to swing under skies blanketed in an iron hue, hiding the sun like a deep secret. Billy was a strange looking fellow. He was a tall and gaunt man, his spindly legs as susceptible to break as that of a delicate daddy long legs. The park was abandoned long ago. He found it sad to see his childhood memories torn asunder, to be hurt by the trauma of time. Time was the enemy. Things were different twenty years ago. Billy was an eight year old child residing in a peaceful home with his loving parents. The park was once vibrant; a modest amusement park of gleaming slides, silky fields, and clean benches. Children played in abundance, the sound of laughter echoing throughout the tight neighbourhood. Today the attractions were crumpled remnants of their past selves. Billy's parents had been carried across the proverbial barrier; his best friend moved on to a life of money and love among his new f...

Orion, born of Euryale and Poseidon, Could walk on waves to islands far But a single sting stole his breath.  Now his muscles are made of brightest star. Fair Merope still loves the man Who dared to attack Oenopion’s scion, Still loves Orion Even though now he does the heavens span.  If only Zeus had refused to lift The hunter to cerulean skies. If only he had refused the gift And Helios had not healed his eyes.  If only loyal Cedalion had not guided the beast To the oracle that bade him to uttermost east, He would not stand for all to see, Shining bright for eternity. by Sarah Mills