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 writing things 

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