Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

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...

The land of mullets, that was Alaska to a T (with a long tail hanging down from the flat top) and particularly the case in Clam Point, a small community on the peninsula south of Anchorage. Fashion was traditionally twelve years behind Paris, Tokyo, New York and London (grunge only hit in 2003) but recently cable TV and the internet had resulted in people's clothing and hairdos being only a decade behind. That's when Molly, 17, asked her cousin to start sending care packages from London. Molly, atypically concerned with grooming in a state where fishing hip-waders counted as semi-formal, insisted that Carrie send her large packets bubble-wrapped and swaddled in brown paper, labelled A FASHION CARE PACKAGE TO CLAM POINT, ALASKA in big red letters, so the post office folks would realise that they were living in the style equivalent of an Alaskan glacier (inching forward while always regressing into the inevitable mullet) and, in Molly’s opinion, might do something about th...

I will grow up and then your turn will come.   In the garden. Stillness. On soft grass under trees, jacket for pillow, hand under head, Sons and Lovers, Late afternoon birdsong.   Door bangs. Door slams. Hurricanes out in heavy shoes, my father, red-eyed, hurls down steps. Hammering hands draw leather, rain lashes.   No rain in lashes. Lightning and thunder and stinging and strapping and cutting and bleeding. No soft rain in lashes.   Nose in grass, hands over head. ‘You saw her go. You did not stop her.’ Brown beer breath. Brown leather lashes. Heavy shoes, stomps steps. Door slam. Door bang. Hurricanes in.   Now only me, face in grass, Wet smell. Green smell. Red eyes. No more listening to her yelling and shouting and swearing and crying her pain. But soon –   Soon I’ll be grown up.  My fist drawing brown leather. Soon I’ll be your size And then your turn will come. ...

"Rainbow weather," Jan sniffed. "Can't make its mind up."  She stood at the sink, rubber gloves dripping. Shirts hung limply over the lawn: white crosses in a cemetery. There used to be little dresses flapping and a school uniform mucky from football.   "I’d take the washing in," Tom grunted, turning a page. "Looks like rain."   It wasn't her fault. Everyone thought the bruising was from the playground. Then the social worker called her in, asking questions. They took Anna out of school. She was so tired and washed-out, all that running around. Needed a good rest.   Tom thought she was anemic, said they should take her to the doctor's. Jan shuddered at the thought of all the prodding and poking, waiting rooms full of other people’s germs - so they took her to the seaside. The air would get her appetite back, put some colour in her.   The weather was kind at first, glorious sunshine and seagull...

Last year, inspired by the annual Na-No-Wri-Mo Challenge, Cafe Aphra decided to hold our own version to encourage, motivate or just kick ourselves and our followers into some sort of regular writing activity over the month of November. The 2013 was a great success with people committing a range of writing pursuits and finding that setting themselves a goal reaped rewards. Some decided to write for certain amounts of time each day, whether it was ten minutes first thing or an hour before bed. Some wanted to start or finish projects that had stagnated in the planning stages for far too long. Instead of writing some chose that other put-off activity of editing – taking words out can be as challenging and painful as putting them in. So how about we do it again? What are you delaying, avoiding, hiding in the dark recesses of your desk drawers or hard drives? What have you promised yourself you’ll do one day? What have you put to the back of your mind until the time is ‘right’?...

A ramrod streak tore across that blue canvas sky With a mighty silver roar It bellowed its beauty from high Metallic heart of aluminium Jet propelled fusilage Pulsed with electricity That wonderful flying bird visage I watched from where I stood Those dead wings fixed in flight At boiling white tail feathers And try as I might I could not move my eyes From the miracle I saw That distant bird above Sucked my soul up from the floor I pledged my heart to it there and then Before that dreadful bleak Moment it was gone forever Mighty silver ramrod streak by Derek Dohren

It was a small advert, flickering on the right hand column of Stacey’s screen, but it spoke to her. Played on her mind. After another evening of silence - sat next to each other, eating off trays on their laps, kind ‘good nights’ and rolling away to their own thoughts - she’d had enough. She called the number, made the appointment.             “You’ve been coming here for a few months now, do you feel any differently towards your husband?” asked the kindly looking old man with a pointy grey beard and half moon glasses. She shook her head.             “No. It’s the same. But, well, I haven’t told you everything.”             “For this to work, you need to be honest.”             “I know.”           ...