Carol J Forrester is a writer and a history geek. Her debut collection 'It's All In The Blood' came out November 2019.
She has a 2:1 BA degree in history from Bath Spa University, enjoys judo at least twice a week, and tries to attend poetry events around the Midlands when she can.
Her flash fiction story ‘Glorious Silence’ was named as River Ram Press’ short story of the month for August 2014 and her short story ‘A Visit From The Fortune Teller’ has been showcased on the literary site Ink Pantry. Her poems ‘Sunsets’ and ‘Clear Out‘ were featured on Eyes Plus Words, and two of her poems were included in the DVerse Poets Pub Publication ‘Chiaroscuro’ which is available for purchase on amazon.Her poem ‘Until The Light Gets In‘ was accepted and published at The Drabble and her poem ‘Newborn’ was published by Ink Sweat & Tears.
She has been lucky enough to write guest posts for sites such as Inky Tavern and Song of The Forlorn and has hosted a number of guest bloggers on her site Writing and Works.
It feels as if we are introducing you to Autumn. Slowly, and with care. Small hands, fingers fisted before bursting open like early fireworks. Breath-taking. Quite literally. Little face, big eyes, shadows for brows. All of these things change as the season steps in, lifts you from your bassinet, pinks your cheeks.
Look– at how much you’ve grown, at how the leaves have turned so quickly, these layers forming one over the other. Breath, and breeze, across your vocal chords. Outside a storm is cooing through the branches, changing notes, the strength of it lifting tree roots from their standings. When the winds settle, we sweep all the chaos beneath carpets, smooth the lines till their crisp. Pat you stomach. Tell you, that this fire is good.
The sky is beaten grey, the metallic sheen of swords unsheathed and waiting.
Pretending to linger I make a show of standing on the threshold one shoulder inside this room we’ve filled with moments, cheeks smooshed against windows limbs spilling, grasping from cupboards unclosed and floorboards lifting loose to show the bodies no longer hidden, buried beneath.
Time tests all things, makes steady work of wearing out these old duds, till they fall off and run like sand along the length of your hourglass, or come back into fashion, following along worn grooves and ever turning cycles deepening down each mark.
They were all odd dancers. Up on their toes, jittering ballerinas, twisting in an old wind. Shifts turned to ragged sails from long wrecked ships still trying to take their home. Spent nights wrapping their bone fingers tight into abandoned symbols. Gathered at last on the hearth, faces pressed against soot and ash, begging for the strings not to pull them up again. Up onto their toes to dance like strange, dying flames, guttering the last of their wicks.