Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

I found a grave. I came on the evidence one day, in a forgotten file, randomly numbered by my camera.  I remember walking through white snakes of sand, lifted by the wind. It blew straight off the North Sea; ice in its jaws. Always seeking I had strode out, looking for messages in bottles, finding only crackled plastic. Holding my camera with numb hands, it had been too cold to take many photos. Further up the sand, I passed through the iodine egg-stink of seaweed, then, crunched through broken shells to the path, up and away from the rage of the ocean. The wooden steps were filled with sand, an oil company’s unmaintained project. Corporate social responsibility ravaged by the elements. On the cliff above the beach, marram grass, pink campion, gorse and broom, grew, holding the sand together with their roots. The fierce wind had stolen my breath as I looked towards the new horizon. Crumpled red and orange petals had led me through the grass, past the remai...

You see him now and then buying pizza He ain’t one of life’s experimenters The man with the negative charisma Who darkens every room he enters Someone told me he was married once Now he makes no impression on life The man to whom no one responds Who reckons he doesn’t need a wife Naturally his colour of choice is grey He’ll nod a “good morning” as he passes But he’s the man with nothing to say Who blinks behind his plastic glasses His name in the Book of Life’s a misprint His face on the page a careless gaffe He’s the man who leaves only footprints Who takes undiscovered photographs Though you’d notice no lack of gaiety If he vanished in holy ascension To another world where he’s a deity Who vibrates in the fifth dimension Wouldn’t that be a kick in the head If he swooshed skyward every night? The man who flies while you’re in bed Who dances in the yellow moonlight by Derek Dohren

‘You’ve got something under your nose.’ With a giggle, Trudy wiped a finger under her nose, inspected the white powder there and sucked it clean. ‘I always get a bit nervous when it’s live.’ Hamish smiled thinly. He didn’t like live tv either but didn’t need any stimulation to get through a ten minute slot in the Blue Peter Garden; his ambition was enough. Ambition which would take him, if all went to plan, to Hollywood within five years. They straightened as the director, a terrifying platinum blond with ambitions to move into Sunday night drama as a stepping stone to HBO, arrived. ‘Right, let’s get on. Where are the brats?’ Half a dozen small children, all wearing brightly coloured wellies and Blue Peter cagoules, emerged from the shed, led by a production assistant. ‘That’s no good! Give them shovels, or hoes or something. We need them doing something useful in the background. Hurry up Sally, for God’ sake!’ Sally rushed back into the shed, emerged with a handful of shiny new tools,...