Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

I would have laughed but for the fact the man who spoke to me did so with such an air of authority. His words were English, but the accent unusual. Not the lilt of Irish or the drawl of Australian, something altogether different.  The world seemed very still. I don’t mean things weren’t moving. The leaves on the trees on the other side of the tall grey stone wall rustled pleasingly. The man’s odd clothes moved with him. There seemed though, a space, a gap, where a sound ought to be. The air was crisp, his words distinct, birdsong soft and clear. It was as if some low buzzing ear worm had been removed from my ear, FM to digital. Crystal clear.  Though I had no idea where I was or how I had got there, I was certain I was trespassing. I noticed a movement some way behind. A woman, hurrying across the lawn. She came to a stop some twelve feet behind the man. She regarded me with amusement. As I looked at her she bobbed down and up again. Her eyes expressed some urgency. Finally I

"Morning." "Almost." Inspector Dalgaard looked along the bridge to where dawn would arrive. "How's your coffee?" "Terrible. Yours?" "Same. No budget for a new machine." "Seems we have more than one common cause." Inspector Stendahl threw the cup over the side. "I could have you done for littering." "It was on the Swedish side." "Might wash up in Denmark." "Might. See where the current takes it. Call me if you find it." They looked at the body lying across the borderline. "At least it's in one piece." "Anyone know you're here?" "No. Got the message, came immediately." "Lots of paperwork if we do this together." "Lots." Stendahl pulled out a coin. "Call." "Tails." Stendahl tossed the coin high. A gust caught it, stealing it into the night. "Th

Greetings Aphraites! I have just read the article below on the ever-wonderful website, Writer Unboxed . (If any of you are not familiar with this fabulous blog, check it out now.) This piece, called  The Off-Road Vehicle Mind vs. the Paved Story Plan , by Therese Walsh, really resonated with me.  Do any of you feel the same way? Do you ever get bored of writing a story if you have it all plotted and planned out in advance? And what do you do if that happens? Comments welcome below... And may you all have a block-free writing season this Christmas!! Sara x

I visited your grave on Crete  You said god pardons the singers  but I think he has doubts about poets  God sends streams of milk  flowing down the mountain  We whores of the imagination  tell stories of weeping prophets  and priests no one believes  We create ideas of winged clouds  filled with fiery kingdoms  but angels lie, steal and cheat  then break into tears  when they lift their arms up to heaven  and their hands fall off by Mario Zecca Image, "Heaven's Gate", by Mario Zecca

“Grande non-fat latte,” Simon yelled to no one in particular as he set the warm cup of coffee on the counter.  Both Tammy O’Hara and Walter Pankins reached for it. “Oh,” Tammy said, “I’m sorry. I thought it was mine.” “No, it’s a non-fat latte,” Walter replied. “That’s what I ordered.” They both pulled back their hands and looked at Simon. He checked the cup. What an idiot , Tammy thought.  We know what it is; we just don’t know who it belongs to. Walter stood taller.   I’m getting that coffee. If my therapist thinks I can’t stand up for myself, I’ll show her. They both reached again, almost touched hands and withdrew. Simon looked up; his hand still on the cup, sensing the door at the front of the store had opened.  Please let it be Jill coming in for her shift.  It wasn’t. He reached into his apron to check his phone for messages. Looking at the woman in front of him, he noted her long red hair, red lips, and a mole near her mouth.  Almost as beautiful as Jill.  Ji