Author: Carol J Forrester

A Girl Called Spider #ThrowbackThursday

She sat smoking three seats away from the door, cigarette pinched between black talons as she waited for the boy in a green apron to bring her coffee. ‘There is something of the devil about that one,’ whispered an old woman standing in line. She leant in so her companion could hear. ‘Something unnatural.’ The pair twisted to stare; peering over round spectacles to examine the girl in black leather and brass buckles. ‘Very unnatural,’ hissed the old woman’s companion. “Not the right sort at all!” The girl sighed, pouring the smoke from her lips. She smiled at the old women and stabbed out the cigarette on the table-top. ‘Problem ladies?’ she asked. ‘This is a no smoking zone!’ squawked the first, pointing a shrivelling, stumpy finger at the no smoking sign just beside the door. ‘You are no supposed to smoke that,’ she pointed at the crushed cigarette, ‘in here.’ The girl smiled again, teeth bone white against ebony gloss. ‘I must have missed the sign,’ she said, curling her lips back further. The …

Fixer-Upper #FridayFictioneers

‘You realise no one is going to buy this place, right?’ Adam’s hand appeared above the back of the sofa, stray screwdriver retrieved. Sally took it off him, one knee wedged so firmly between the cushions that she stayed stuck when she tried to stand. ‘It’s a fixer-upper,’ she shrugged. ‘People like that sort of thing.’ ‘No, they think they like it,’ said Adam. He’d stood up and Sally choked down a laugh at the dust wig haloing his bald head. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Nothing, nothing,’ Sally spluttered. ‘Just maybe you’re right. It might be time to get a hoover.’

The Part Of Me I Didn’t Like

I wasn’t who you made me, I turned myself into that girl who threaded her fingers into the gaps between yours.   Lingered longer than should have outside of cafes, and pocket shops, between cobbles and walkways where we strolled away afternoons until the bus table declared enough was enough.   She who returned whenever she could because you made her feel wanted, told her she could be and would be if you weren’t already taken.   Like I said, she wasn’t her because of you. I managed to make her all by myself. Unmaking her was the part I’m still learning how to do. This is a poem I’ve written out a few times in various forms and never been quite happy with but tonight’s poetics prompt seemed like the perfect time to have another go at it. Still not sure I’ve got it right but I can always try again another day. Feedback as always is greatly appreciated if you have the time to spare.

Between Tides And Hurricanes

Caught I clung inside you. Pendent between each aching inhale. Cautious you might breath out and send me spinning upwards. A helicopter seed whirling away as if I’d never been there, the hollow I’d leave unnoticed by you.   These were never wing, they were always sails. Filled up with questions I asked myself, to keep my feet from touching down on lands unfamiliar, filled with strangers like me always pulling at something unseen, pretending they knew love. If you want to know more about this form of poetry then check out Colleen’s handy post on how to write an Etheree. I’ve not come across them before, though the form reminds me a little of Fibs which are great fun to write. The two words for this week’s prompt were ‘Mystery’ and ‘Attraction’ so I went with ‘pulling’ and ‘questions’.  

Until The Light Gets In

By Carol J Forrester She’d stuff the teapots with carrier bags. Oranges, blues, yellow, and pinks, sunsets wrapped in ceramics, perched on window sills. Later they came to pieces in her hands. Plastic wilting like dried up roses, shuddering beneath soft touches and wasting away to dust. We took turns choosing, turning them over, shaking the remains loose from the curved bones of these empty shells. I keep carrier bags in my teapot. Oranges, blues, yellow, and pinks, sunsets wrapped in ceramic, perched on a window sill.           Carol J Forrester “plays around with words too much to say for sure which are her favorites.”

Vanity In Reptiles – A Quadrille (Entirely Jane Dougherty’s Fault)

The size six snake three trees over, slithered past here last Saturday. The iguana on fern saw her by the pool. Think’s she looks better in the water. Told the croc by willow he should swim on. Big boys like him stand no chance. This is what happens when poets start commenting on other poet’s work. You end up down the rabbit hole with snakes, iguanas and crocodiles. (It didn’t end well for the rabbit.) To check out the writer who provided the inspiration for this quadrille, and then joined me in the madness, hop over to Jane Dougherty Writes. There you can find more of her work like the poem below: Whip snake resplendent in green and black beading, striped vicious as a wasp, terrifying as braided headdress, twisted and entwined with feathers and human teeth, squirms and twitches and sloughs, aghast that this shrugged off apparel, skin of skins, must be how he looks.

Chameleon

Do chameleons ever forget how to change? Do they lose themselves in the backdrops. Forget skins on tree branches, upon broad, flat leaves? Where water pools in stills, catching light like a trap. Do they see themselves or just the skin they wear shifting. So I’ve just had a bit of surprise while scrolling through the wordpress reader! My poem ‘Until The Light Gets In‘ has been accepted and published on The Drabble. They did email me to let me know but I hadn’t check my email this afternoon and happened on my submission mostly by accident. I do believe the dVerse Poets Pub Quadrille night is the perfect way to celebrate.

#SundayPhotoFiction: Stranded

Isabelle watched the foam settle as the speedboat winked out of view, scurrying its way back to the city. The old man hadn’t been keen to take her, counting her money twice before letting her aboard and then lingering for longer than necessary when she leapt out into the shallows. Her skirts were damp, but she’d kicked her shoes free before getting off the boat. Her feet had dried while she waited. She checked her watch and scowled. The glass was cracked, had been since earlier that morning when a cyclist outside her apartment careened into her. It was her own fault. If she’d not spent so long on land, she might have noticed him before he had chance to get close. Instead she’d been thrown from her thoughts by the bite of handlebars into her ribs. The wind picked up and threw the waves higher along the beach. Isabelle waded out, shivering as the water closed around her ankles. ‘Please,’ she cried. ‘I’m sorry. I have learnt my lesson!’ Above her a seagull cried …

#WeekendCoffeeShare -Happy Poems Are Still Not My Thing

It’s Sunday already and so far this morning I’ve managed to procrastinate and avoid doing any sort of constructive work. To be fair there’s quite a bit that I could be getting on with. I have an exam on Thursday and another the following Tuesday, there’s a submission deadline for Barren Magazin. today that I wanted to have something written for, and I still have a number of poems that I wanted to go over and redraft. Instead of doing that though, I’ve decided to write this post and fetch myself another brew to see if I can kick my brain into some sort of functioning gear. This week life has gone back to its normal routines. This has meant that my evenings were a little busier than usual and I didn’t get the chance to post as much to my blog as I wanted to. This year I’m trying not to get myself down about that. I know it means that I don’t get the same rate of stats on the site but I’m …

Loose End – #FlashFiction #writephoto

‘Do you think there’s a body in there?’ Baz asked. He held his pocket knife with both hand, blade pointed downwards as he scratched ‘Baz woz ere’ into the breast plate of the knight carved onto the tomb. Goria pursed her lips and swung her legs. From her perch on the railings around the pulpit she had a pretty good view of both the knight and the top of Baz’s head. She considered spitting on it. ‘Don’t know,’ she shrugged, feet thudding against the wood. ‘Suppose she’d be all dust by now anyway.’ ‘She?’ snorted Baz. ‘Knights ain’t girls Gor. You gotta be a man for that sort of thing.’ ‘She so is a girl, look! You’re leaning on her f’ing boob you moron.’ Baz paused and pulled away. ‘Huh, guess you right. She is a chick.’ Gloria sighed and hauled her legs up to her chest. ‘Hurry up and let’s go,’ she said, turning around so she could climb back out of the pulpit. ‘Your mum might realize you’ve got her key.’ ‘Not likely, …