Every witch needs her black cat, but I’m allergic. Continue reading
Wooden planked floor,
soaked in decades-old urine.
Emily new friend soaks in the bath.
I hide behind the mirror.
Straighten my plaits,
appear as she pops soap bubbles and giggles.
She gasps. I laugh. Finger to mouth to hush,
usher sounds her mother’s steps, closer.
Single hair left on the mirror.
Back behind the glass, I shiver.
Marie Lightman is a poet and writer, with poems appearing in I am not a silent Poet, The Fat Damsel and The Linnet’s Wings and has been published in The Rat’s Ass Review’s Love & Ensuing Madness and StepAway Magazine. Her first pamphlet is coming out with Indigo Dreams Publishing in 2018. She runs the Newcastle based The Writers’ Cafe, running drop-in creative writing workshops. In 2015 she published Writers for Calais Refugees and Writers Against Prejudice in 2016. She is also three times British Othello Champion and has recently started gigging stand-up comedy.
A splash, followed by a giggle and those baby blue eyes lit up. Continue reading
After the first, my star still north and rising,
they patched his purse of blood-burst skin,
my sleeping bud and starless. Continue reading
Dearest Harold Greene,
You will note the package that accompanies this correspondence odd and query why it is I have sent such to you, allow me to endeavour to elucidate upon its discovery, circumstance and point. Continue reading
Eric taught me on the spot
to wear brush, but not too much,
to wear greasepaint even on my hands. Continue reading
Tranur appeared in a ring of fire, large, black and ominous. He immediately saw the one who summoned him, kneeling just outside the circle. Continue reading