Spores

Hand in hand we crisscrossed forests where birch trees wore jackets of fur and shivered, conjuring fairytale weddings, winter wonderlands. But it wasn’t snow. Nor was it the cotton wool he claimed I wrapped our children in. “He’s a good man,” my mother insisted. He blocked her number, told her I was unwell. Days collapsed inwards until I lived for those afternoon walks through the milky forest, in the grip of his hand. “Our own little paradise,” he whispered. I smiled, clinging hard to that pristine white and pretending the trees weren’t riddled with fungus.

Twilight Flurries

It's 4:59 p.m. and my throat hurts from screaming into my pillow—twice

Snowflakes as big as cotton balls dance in my window

join us, they whisper

luring me with their hypnotic waltz to the other side

Soon the earth is crunching beneath my boot-clad feet

and the flakes float like goose feathers all around me

squirrels make tiny sounds as they rummage through the ground-level clouds

breaking briefly from their concentrated gathering to chase one another up trees

All is still and quiet amid the twilight flurries

for once, even the deafening clatter in my mind

Escape

In my mind I see a hundred dragonflies, swinging through tall blades of grass, dipping down to tap the surface of the lake. A bright blue and delicate one lands on top of my knee. I lunge forward to catch her between my hands, but she escapes. I watch the tips of her wings mark two black eyes against the sky. I’m pulled back by the touch of his fingertips tracing my neck to my shoulders. His breath is hot. His body heavy, sweaty, sticky. I close my eyes again in search of my blue dragonfly.

Painting

Cold light washes the room.  All colour has drained into one canvas square, where sunbeams dance among red-gold leaves and a girl dips a toe in a stream which runs nowhere, forever.

Footsteps on floorboards; the smoky cologne you don’t wear for me.  Skin on skin; your fingers on my neck; your breath in my ear: “I love it.”  You never say ‘you’.

I bite the end of the paintbrush; it splinters against my tongue.  I plunge my hand into treacle-thick paint and feel the girl’s relief as I smear her face, her dress, right down into the blackening water.

If Only

When I was five, I had dreamt of Hot Jupiters and Super Earths. If only, I would sigh, if only I could explore myriads of galaxies above my head; look into the dark of a dark hole; feel the pulse of a pulsar.

When I was fifty, I woke up to snow melting before hitting the ground. I saw snow-white turning sulphur-grey, pea-soup fog that had made us blind to the sparkling islands of rubbish and pearly yellow flakes that overlaid our lungs.

And I understood: there’s only one Earth; only us; only here.

If only I’d seen it sooner.

Escape

Heart beating, cowered in a doorway until the danger is gone. She hears their footsteps falling away until the alleyway is silent, animated only by splatters of rain like applause on the wet street. She releases a breath, clouds of steam dancing on the icy air and peers around the door. He’s so close; she can hear his watch ticking.

“Thought you’d escaped did you?” a snarl, there’s a pride in his voice, the fox that has outsmarted its prey. His nearness is a shock; hairs stand upright on the back of her neck. All she can do is run.

Cut and Run

It’s obvious the girl didn’t want her photo taken. She has been immaculately styled; school uniform spotless and pressed, long blonde hair curled, a little gloss on her lips. But the face that stares out from the Missing posters, the newspaper reports, the television news - where her parents sob to camera, praying for her return - is wary, unsmiling. 

The boy stares at the image on the television then smiles. He knows their prayers are useless. She will never come back. He reassures himself, running a hand over his crew cut where the long blonde curls used to be.