Author: Carol J Forrester

Shadow Of A Sin

In the calm of an empty room I found Pride behind the mirror glass, and coaxed it into daylight. I fanned flames from ash with a slip of red silk, slashed open white to the skin, bared like orange pith, small defense against an outside world. Like water, Pride slipped from me at a doorway and in the mirror was only sin the colour of shame. Grey again in the ruins of an inferno, I told myself no one was looking at me anyway.  

Poems Of Power – A Poetry Link-Up

Last Monday I threw out the idea for a weekly poetry link-up where you write a poem based on a line from another blogger’s work. I can’t speak for everyone, but I often find inspiration in some of the fantastic pieces here on WordPress and I know we have all probably had that moment where you read something and find yourself thinking ‘I really wish I was the one who’d written that.’ So once again I’m inviting you to go onto your reader, hunt through the poetry tag, and find a line that sparks inspiration in you. Make sure to credit the original writer in your post and revel in the wonder that is the fantastic mass of poetry at our fingertips. For me this week, it’s the following line that’s caught my eye. Viaducts were built by the conquerors Auf Wiedersehen by cirque de la nuit Please make sure to check out the poem it came from in full, it’s a fantastic piece that I fell in love with immediately. The poem just seems to …

If We Were Having Coffee: Novel Redrafts And Flash Fiction Competition #amwriting

It’s been a while since I’ve written a Weekend Coffee Share post, months in fact, but I’m currently supposed to writing an entry for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Competition so this seemed like the perfect way to procrastinate. I signed up late for Camp NaNoWriMo this month. At the start of the month I was debating whether or not I was going to have a crack at it and decided not to because I tend to find that writing purely for word-count goals make it even harder for me to get myself into the right frame of mind for writing. That said, having  a goal in mind does help drive me forward on projects so when I started rewriting my Shadow Dawn novel around the 10th July, I decided that I’d set myself a 30,000 word goal for the month and use Camp NaNoWriMo to help me hit that target. I’ve got more time to focus on my writing this month as  I’m still waiting for the result of my last AAT Level 3 …

A Poem And A Blog Party All In One!

Dream State Darkening “Slowly we slept into our fears” Ritwik Some nights the dreams slip past like minnow, dark and shadowy in the water. I am frozen, mud stuck and slow with limbs like old trophies bent, broken, scratched, the polish flaking like old paint till the wooden skeleton is left with all its pitted fragility, no more than a twig shivering in the storm. When I wake, I am still the scarecrow. Clothes tacked on in mockery of skin. Here I know the birds do not fear me. Instead they will come in flocks to peck at what is left when the last of me is withered and gone to dust. Some nights the dreams slip past like minnow, dark and shadowy in the water, and dawn is brought on by blinking, slow and succulent it bleeds through the glass, an orange splitting from its skin. In an echo of better days the dreams swim deeper, far enough that I can pretend to forget. These are the moments of peace between the nightmares. We’re …

Summer Ashes

The sun has turned most of the garden crisp, stems crunching to dust between fingers when I dig in between the leaves. Still, the lavender stands as it should, scent sticky on my skin, determined to be carried home into the house. Its flowers haven’t faded yet. It doesn’t seem to bow to heat the same. But between the lemon tree and dahlia, the herbs have taken refuge in the shadows of a water butt. There the decking still burns my feet by afternoon and moisture only lingers a little while upon the soil before vanishing. One by one they will succumb, no matter how often I tend them. Eventually night falls across this place and time, soaked in the day’s heat. Still this garden will shiver, weeping for the storms not come.

Afternoon Shallows

I found the pip between my teeth an hour after the bitter bite of garden currents had faded from my tongue.   In the middle of a meeting, too close between collegues to spit or pick the pith from my mouth.   Instead I chased it from cheek to cheek along the ring of my lower lip to the hollow beside my molars.   The presenter lost his place, tapped again at his laptop, muttered a word , asked someone to call IT.   I swallowed by accident. Choked, drew a worried glance, waved it away with a glass of water.   Outside the cleaner checked bins, roll of bags at her hip, quick, quiet between the desks, she whisked any evidence away.   The Summer heat has been making it difficult to sit down and write. Nowhere feels comfortable and I’m constantly shifting position to try and ease that sticky, gross feeling that comes with trying to do anything at all during hot, summer days. I’d really love to hear people’s thoughts on this …

How Not To Write – Doing Battle With Perfection

Have you ever sat down and written the first three lines of something, only to hit the backspace like a maniac a few moments later? It’s so easy to throw out work if it doesn’t seem to be going in the direction that you want it to, and often that can lead to us spinning in circles, rewriting the same sentence over and over again. I know this because it’s something I do repeatedly. For example, I’m currently holding my 70,000 word manuscript over the metaphorical bin because I can’t see how it will end. The plot is rambling and half-baked, I’ve got characters that aren’t where they need to be, the whole thing feels like a failure. In short I want to throw it away and start from scratch. But! If I do that there’s a good chance I’ll never actually get finishing the damn thing because next time I hit a snag in the draft, I’ll want to start over all over again. Instead I’m going to remind myself of a Neil Gaiman …

Valley Bound

I could sleep here, belly warm against the stone arms splayed, wings, bent at the elbows, reaching perhaps to hold but for now still, warm, cheek pressed to rock sun baked, lazy, stubbornly forgotten long ago when this place was ice long from melting. Since there is no Quadrille night this Monday over at DVersePoets I thought I’d write one inspired by my recent trip to Snowdonia National Park. The views were utterly stunning and it really does feel like you’re escaping the modern world. A Quadrille is a poem written in exactly 44 words. The DVerse Poets Pub runs a fortnightly Quadrille prompt for those who fancy having a go in the company of some wonderful fellow blogger/poets.