The Black Forest, by Mary Wallace

In every direction lies a forest of black legs. I keep pace, refusing offers of ‘a ride’ or ‘a carry’. I like walking and the legs are walking slowly; very slowly.

A stray sunbeam creates a path of light in front of me. It is out of place, highlighting the gloom. It is the gloom I seek.

Soon I will be encouraged into the spotlight. Showered with grief and words. I know this. No one has warned me, but still, I know this.

Here, within the black forest, I am cocooned in love, protected. Walking slowly, I follow the hearse.


From: Friday Flash Fiction


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