Poetry & Prose by Carol J Forrester
When the trainer asks
‘did you forget to breath’
it sounds stupid,
and unfortunately true.
A little like thinking
too much about the doing
so the thoughts twist knots
into your limbs.
The panic welling
in much the same way
as your lungs swelling up
against your rib-cage.
You were sure you were,
then you’re not sure,
suddenly so unsure
you can’t even breath
without counting
each gasp.
In…
out…
in…
in…
out..
out..
In…
In…
In…
Out…
Out…
Out..
…
I followed your path,
at a distance.
You like the sun,
or any volatile star
burning a streak
towards the horizon.
A scorching vision
to those of us
watching, waiting.
Aware
that you would set
before us.
Terrified of dusk.
Sensing its arrival
anyway.
The peas have podded. I’m not sure if it’s the snap, or your bog standard, good old trusty garden type, but they’ve podded first with the white petals of the flowers still stuck to the green of their shells.
Inside the crop is still too small, too young. I checked today. Popped my nail into the seam, slit through the flesh, cracked it open. New growth, old book. They both sound the same.
They are not ready for harvest, but when you bite down they explode. They taste like spring, or summer, or something else that’s hot days and sudden rain storms. They tasted like they should do. New and fresh.
It’s been a wet one,
this spring, this downpour of water
thickening the green.
When far away, an interrupted cry is not something you need concern yourself with.
Catherine repeated her grandmother’s words softly enough that the room wouldn’t hear them.
‘Pah!’
Her father threw his cards on the coffee table.
‘You cheated!’ He jabbed a fat finger towards his wife.
She shrugged and gathered his cards in again.
Outside the cry echoed.
‘Catherine! You play the witch, God knows she already has all my money.’
Catherine nodded and slid from the widow seat.
It doesn’t do to dwell on lost souls. Her grandmother had said that too.
The cards were split and dealt.
Two queens and a knave. A house leaking secrets. Another cry. Closer. Louder.
‘Pass or play?’
Catherine shook her head.
‘Pass,’ she whispered.
Shadows gathered by the fireplace.
She could ignore them, but the play would continue.
‘Pass,’ she whispered.
But ghosts never listen.
If you would like to join in the dVerse Poets Pub new link up ‘Prosery’ then click the badge above to visit their site.
The challenge is to write a piece of flash fiction, a maximum of 144 words, using the line ‘when far away an interrupted cry’ somewhere in your work.
Fire-dwarfed we all sit,
stand, wait,
drawing along timelines
scythe-eyed for news
or perhaps revelation
that this is all
just a dream, a joke.
Dust-tongued our words
dry up like sand
through an hour glass.
All gone and past
leaving only empty air.
A promise
cracked apart.
History pour out,
breaks the damn of grief
and dark-vowelled words,
replacing now with then
as what will be
already spread its roots
in the tear-culled.
