Author: Carol J Forrester

It Isn’t The Princess Who Needs Saving #DVersePoets

In the market they are talking about last week’s linens, still strung across the garden beneath skies dazzling blue.   The butcher’s wife does not like the cats with their black cloaks, stalking the briar patch at night, bright eyes like guttering candles.   Her husbands claims superstition, but distrusts the foxglove purple swords, the nightshade, the mistletoe, the cut stems by the hedgerow.   Forgets who birthed their last child, almost blue and so brokenly quiet. Breathed that first cry into him when they though him too far gone.   But there’s the girl and her tears, and her husband raging for some sort of explanation as to why the seed won’t take.   And why this year’s harvest failed, and the Harlow’s pig got sick, and the men from the church came and hung a witch out.   I’m going to admit, this poem got away from me somewhat, and I’m really not sure how I feel about the ending. Still, I hope you like where I took tonight dVerse prompt. I only …

In The Dark Of Things #DVersePoets #Prosery

‘Eddie! Stay awake!’ ‘Ah- what the’ Eddie flinched forward, the back of his skull throbbing where it had cracked against heating pipes. ‘Come on Gripes,’ he groaned. ‘What’s your problem.’ ‘You know what!,’ Gripes scowled. He was crouched down in front of Eddie, his phone light throwing his shadow along the length of the corridor.. ‘His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream, remember! You go to sleep and we’re both in big trouble.’ ‘That’s just a story Gripes. No one believes it.’ The torch on Gripes phone flickered. Eddie plucked it out of his hands and switched it off. Darkness swallowed Gripes’ face, but Eddie could smell his breath. ‘Erg mate, you need to lay off the cheese and onion.’ The darkness stayed quite but Gripes’ breathing picked up. He placed his hand on Eddie’s knee. ‘Ed,’ he whispered. ‘You need to wake up!’    

The Butcher’s Poleaxe – #VEDay

Somewhere there is a poleaxe, your sweat worked into the staff from unbroken nights, where the pig must not squeal. Milk bottle spectacles but no flame or light catching in the glass reflection. All of it done in the silence that cannot be broken, unlike the rules you’re cleaving with each precise blow.   Hands returned to steering wheel, on dark lanes winding home, nose to windscreen foot light on the accelerator, you mouth curled in prayer. May they not come back this way with the fat bulbs unsown on London, or Crewe, or elsewhere deemed vital. May they not discard their leftovers on these field tonight. Let the silence be unbroken. VE Day 2020 Not long ago my mother told me about the poleaxe my great-grandfather kept in the garage. He used it during the Second World War to slaughter pigs, as it was more effective at killing them quickly before there was chance for them to make any sound. This was during rationing, when there were limitations on the slaughter of livestock. My …

Water Song – #DVersePoets

I want to sink bells into the pond. Plant them just below the waterline, where the ripples look like scales lifting out of the shallows slowly on the back of an endless snake. Then at night when the moon lifts, turns her face to watch, I’ll slip out onto the decking, strip down to my silver skin. Drop like a stone or a witch into the quiet cold of a place not quite what I wish of it. Wonder as the bells ring out if anyone else may be listening. There’s a lot of Shropshire Folklore about women and water. The River Severn is often characterised as female, and there are tales of women (or women-like creatures) inhabiting lakes and ponds. Another image in Shropshire folk tales, is that of church bells falling into water and being lost forever, but the sound of their ringing being heard at night. I’ve always been in love with myths and legends, but more often than not it was the classic Greek, Egyptian, and Norse myths that I turned …

Sunsets Over Sleeping Cities – #DVersePoetics

Syrup thick the evening slides in, through an open window, past clinking blinds left low.   Settled in the heat of floorboards, today edges towards tonight uncertain of any other name.   Could be Sunday for all its softness, its lifted underbelly showing to a glow on the horizon.   Even the birds seem distant, their swooping songs drifting deeper into the quietness.   In other poetry news, guess who finally had time to work out kindle publishing! ‘It’s All In The Blood’ can now be purchased on kindle through the amazon store. Feeling more than a little smug with myself I must say.

April Speculative Fiction Prompt

The guidelines for those of you who are new are as follows: Speculative Fiction: a genre of fiction that encompasses works in which the setting is other than the real world, involving supernatural, futuristic, or other imagined elements. [Oxford Dictionary] Use the image below to write a story, poem, perhaps even a script. There are no rules about form or style. If you would like to create a piece of art in response that is also welcome. This prompt is about being artistic and creative in whatever way suits you best. Please keep entries PG as this is open to all. (i.e no erotica) The prompt is open from the first of the month to the end of the month. Use pingbacks to link up to the prompt or leave a link in the comments section. Whichever you prefer. I try to at least read every entry in the prompt and I’d love to encourage anyone taking part to try and check some of the other entries if they can. As always, re-tweets, re-blogs, and …

Take Stock – #NaPoWriMo Day One

It’s best to count inwards from the outer rings, all these layers of bark around my bite too often gone unseen by those deserving of my sharp teeth or even sharper words.   Evening is the best time for taking stock. When sunlight settles softly across my back and you have to really look to find the lost marbles rattling loose in drawers.   I can reorder the library as much as I like. It will be out of place soon enough. Each new volume stacked into shelves I will never truly fill.  

End Of The Garden #DVersePoets

There are no apples left for picking, only leaves caught up in the sunlight and a slow breeze passing through. Back between my molars sticks a pip that my tongue cannot pry loose no matter the shapes it twists, the times it risks my bite. A sparrow in the branches sings, tells me there are more trees, more apples, but they are behind walls, and gates, and men with bright black guns. They tell people which trees are good, which ones are bad. It doesn’t matter about the apples so much, it’s more about the hands.