Cafe Aphra: An Online Community for Writers

Within days, I’ve selected him from the saloon passengers as the most suitable candidate. Sensitive, tidy – not flamboyant like some of those men. And always attentive to his son – a family man, if you will. I do like a family man. Especially one with no wife!  If he’s emigrating, he’ll be looking to make friends, that much you can count on. I smile broadly as we pass on deck. His pace quickens. The boy follows, looking down. So, he’s shy – what’s wrong with that? Shy I can work with. Shy I can handle. If only my ex-husband had been so shy! During lunch, I occupy a nearby table. He orders pea soup. So I order pea soup. He gets out a copy of the Times. And I do the same. His hand shakes as he turns the pages. I might be making him nervous! Is this the right time to introduce myself? Maybe I should bide my time. Several days pass. On some I don’t see him at all. They must be keeping to their cabin. Once or twice we say a courteous ‘hello’. But never more than that. Not ye...

‘I believe I lost my husband outside the Church of Miracles. I knew he had been there at the time in the gardens, which were dark green and dismal after rain. I was trying to use up the end of a long roll of film and called out to him. He looked back at me and I think he smiled. But when the photographs came back from the developer, he was no longer there. You could just about make out some distant shape, almost a shadow,  at the end of the avenue of cypresses, but it no longer resembled a person.’ Cafe Aphra follower M.S. Clary has won three prizes for short fiction and has now published her first novel, A Spell in France , with Matador. It is available as an eBook   on Amazon Kindle, Apple iPad and all electronic readers. Cafe Aphra: Tell us a little bit about your novel,  A Spell in France . How would you sum it up for a potential reader? M.S. Clary: It's a psychological thriller which involves a mysterious disappearance and its aftermath. ...

She watched it fall in waves gracefully down to the floor. She’d always been told that it was her best feature, thick and luxurious with a single streak of white. It was natural, she insisted. A reminder of her busy life with four children. That streak was a trophy, the spoils of battle on a field of teenaged angst where more than once she’d had to pick her hill to die on. That battlefield had changed over the years. Now she was waging a war upon her own body as the chemo worked its gruesome magic. Her life was a whirlwind of doctor’s check-ups, follow-ups and throwing up. Now those very same teenagers were riding into battle alongside her, lances raised and armor ready to fight off the latest onslaught of her disease. Breast cancer. A large tumor that had grown in the single year since her last exam. She’d lived the past months in suspended animation, going through the motions as they rallied around her. She worked at an elementary school, the kids all making get-well cards, wishing...

This is the story of man who can’t begin to think or question why the unfathomability of all that is good or bad is even comparable to the unending nothing or why the chances are slim or why one would even try and change or what needs changing and how it can even be possible to see the entirety; the plusses and negatives, pros and cons, arguments and counter arguments, or is it even in those terms and if so how and what can be done; about right and left, religion, greed, altruism, nature or what is our nature and why can’t there be more than one, how many times have people been over the ins and outs, the ups and downs, the circular - back to the began; is there more than one person (me?) who thinks this and if so would it be rude and why would it be, why can’t one talk to those dead souls on the train and if one can what would they say (speak souls speak!) would they make their excuses and leave, is there any excuse good enough or what is important to him or her and her and him, if it’...

The zeitgeist you’ve created Is a pox of epic reach, A free-for-all of vitriol Via one-way posts and tweets. Trolls and bullies lurk Behind your anonymic walls, Without a shred of decency (Or any guts at all). You abet the human tendency To cluster into groups Whose members feed each other And regurgitate their tropes. Opinions trump established facts; Lies outshout the truth; News that’s false gets more applause Than news that’s backed by proof. We can castigate each other With a mouse-click-turned-down thumb, And a friend is just a notch On someone’s cyber radar gun. by J. Craig Hill

Do you like horror fiction? Is that your writing genre? February 2017 marks the 8th edition of Women in Horror Month (WiHM), an international initiative showcasing the underrepresented work of women in the horror industries.  At www.womeninhorrormonth.com  you can find information about fun events in your area. These range from art projects to meet-ups, film screenings and performances taking place in various countries all over the globe including Australia, Japan, Germany, England, Scotland and the United States. Of course there are also literary projects dedicated to Women in Horror Month, such as the 5th annual WiHM issue of The Sirens Call . Check out  last year's issue including a story by one of our Cafe Aphra baristas, B.E. Seidl. And - worth knowing - if you want to promote your own horror writing project which will take place in February, simply use the hashtag #WiHM8 on Twitter or Facebook and take advantage of a readership of approximately 35,000 read...

See the fight last week? Oh yeah Brutal, kid's got a chance - I like The Mexican fella that should be Some scrap who's ordering the Pizza? That new girl in work? Fucking hell Barry'll be on it like gravy o’er a tattie! A flush beats a straight you Daft twat - hand us a beer Stan! Good man. I don't know why We are here or what we Are supposed to be doing But we are here and doing it For some shared reason though We don't know one another or Really wish to and there's no Money on the table. Why do they play  Poker for matches In prison On TV? by Alex McMillan