CafeLit an the creative Project
Publihsed in \\march were:
Ed Ahern,Gregory Ballinger, y Gail Vallance Barrington, Tamarara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos,Darci Bysouth, Judy Cabito,Brian MacLeod Carey, Henri Colt, Sara E. Das Gupta,Daniel Day,Caittlin Devlins Renee Ebert, Judith English ,Mike Everley, Patricia Feeney, Anita Noelle Green,Stephn Hafft, Héctor Hernández, Alan Jacobs, Rosemary Johnson, leonie Jarrett, Nazia Kamali,Mabel Liegh, Aminah Khan, Mike Lee, Zoé Mahfouz, ROB MOlan, Leah Mueller, Airif Nawaz, Diane Neilson, Haxzel Pearson,Prof Rajeshwar Prasad, S. M. Rosen, Jane Spirit, Charles Sutphin by Aditi Surana, Melissa L Vardy, Ken Whitson,and Mark Winson,
Top performing posts in March were:
And Is There Honey? by Mike Everley, hot chocolate with a spoonful of honey (364)
“The lies, and truths, and pain?… oh! yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?”*
The last honeybee died on the 24th of August last year. No one really knew the cause of that final wave of Colony Collapse Disorder. Jared suspected the genetically manipulated crops promoted by the big Agri Corporation. They denied it of course, they always did. But, whatever the cause, the apiaries of the world now stood empty and abandoned. There was still honey of course. Synthesized in the chemical laboratories of the same Agri Corporations, insipid and pale in comparison. But, in time, people would forget the taste and texture of real honey.
THpuffer coat by Judith English, hot chocolate with whipped cream. (295)
Stella made a New Year’s Resolution. But it was now late February, and she was no nearer tackling it. Decision making and being proactive were not her strong points.
She needed to address her housing situation. It was no good pretending that the landlord had not issued an eviction notice, but it made her angry. Which is why she tried not to think about it. He had no right. She had always been a good tenant, paid her rent on time, kept the flat clean and tidy. He said he wanted to sell, but Stella suspected he simply didn’t like her. Thought she was too bolshy. Which she was, but then, since Mike had abandoned her years ago, leaving her with two energetic children, life had been a struggle. She needed to be bolshy to survive.
She had three months to find somewhere else, or more precisely, two months, since she had spent a month procrastinating. She thought she might buy a flat. She had rented long enough and wanted a place of her own. She deserved a bit of security. Now that the children had left home, she would only need two bedrooms, one and a half would do at a push. She looked at a flat locally, turned out it was too near the river, in a flood risk zone, so she would never manage to insure it. Then she hit upon the idea of moving further away, where prices would be more favourable.
And so, on a sullen February morning, when sleet and rain were lashing against each other, she found herself waiting on Platform 3 for the train to Leamington Spa. Her friend said it was too far away, but she argued with herself that it was only fourty-five minutes on the train, a perfectly reasonable commute, even if the walk from the station to the office added another ten minutes. She was sure it would be fine, it would all work out.
Arriving at Leamington Spa, she hesitated, not sure which exit to take.
ilence is Scented By Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos, a flat white with extra foam (155)
I didn’t mean to become LinkedIn’s reluctant oracle. I was simply trying to mute Dave. Dave was a guy from high school who had discovered 'nuance' last Tuesday and subsequently decided to treat the platform like a hostage situation run by bullet points and passive-aggressive emojis.
I opened the app with a singular, quiet objective: three dots, a thirty-day mute, and closure. Instead, the interface prompted me: ‘Share your thoughts?’
I felt irritation rather than inspiration. I typed, 'Silence is the most radical form of engagement,' and hit post before I could overthink it.
Twelve minutes later, I had three thousand likes. Hundreds of comments flooded my notifications, including a direct message from a man calling himself an ‘ethics ninja.’ The responses were a chorus of 'This,' and 'Let this sink in,' and ‘We’re not ready for this conversation.' I wasn't ready either; I was still trying to find the button to hide Dave’s latest update about his morning cold-plunge routine.
Hero’s Story by Aditi Surana, cold coffee (246)
The boy sat at the table right in front of the entrance, so directly in front that it was impossible not to see him when you stepped into the café. He kept glancing at the door every time it opened; perhaps awaiting someone. He is well dressed in a half-sleeve shirt and jeans, a whiff of perfume, and neatly tousled hair, like he is on a date.
A girl walks in, just as I am about to make more Sherlock Holmes-like (or Dr Watson-like) observations and draw up hypotheses. And I know from the way our hero’s mouth stretches, it is the ‘someone’ he is here for. I shall refer to him as such, for I reckon he shall be an interesting character. His date will be ‘the girl’ until I determine whether she will play a part in our hero’s story or, rather, in mine.
‘Story’ might not be the right word; this an assignment for my creative writing class I’m taking to be a ‘writer.’ I certainly look the part in black, thick glasses, oxidised silver jewellery, hair in a bun, sitting hunched over my laptop in an overpriced but aesthetically pleasing café.
The Creative Café Project
I've adde one café his month : The ace Café London https://www.creativecafeproject.org/2026/03/the-ace-cafe.html - really a biker café. Also live music and car meets.