Poetry & Prose by Carol J Forrester
Each evening I begin unwinding myself,
searching out the teasing thread
that will lead to the knots
wrangled tighter each day.
As if I am a set of headphones
snaring pocket lint in my tangled nets
until I’ve frayed too far,
and simply snap.
The guidelines for those of you who are new are as follows:
The tavern was so quiet that Elias could hear the wind whispering through the gaps in the walls. When the serving girl brought him his drink he paid her with a whole silver, saw her eyes widen, and patted his coat pocket.
‘Keep ’em coming.’
She nodded and darted away.
Apart from one table near the door, every seat was taken. Elias counted the mercenaries, almost all of them Roderick’s, their necks marked with his brand. The King had called the practice draconian, but that didn’t stop him hiring Roderick’s men when revolts broke out.
That was why rebels had to hire Elias.
Stung between garden fences
twilight coaxed you outside,
to the square of wilding lawn
uncut from summer’s end,
the coils of wood smoke
streaked with petrol
rising above an evening glow
of light behind closed panes
as one by one they too
flickered out.
‘Take a ticket,’ said the man behind the scratched perspex glass.
‘It’s empty,’ said James, glancing at the busted plastic dispenser.
‘Huh?’ The man looked up. ‘Oh, so it is. Well, take a seat to wait and we’ll be right with you.’
‘We?’ asked James. The man didn’t answer.
Turning, James shuddered and stumbled as the room stretched like elastic.
‘Careful there.’
A set of hands steadied him.
‘The voodoo throws you at first. It’s how they fit us all in.’
‘Us all?’ James asked.
‘Yeah, all the demons,’ said the voice. ‘Sorry mate, looks like you got busted.’
With all the poetry I’ve been writing for ‘It’s All In The Blood’ I’m in need of a bit of fiction in my life tonight. It’s amazing how much focus it gives you to have a set word limit on a piece of writing. It makes you go back and think about each individual word. A very useful skill that transfers well into poetry.
