Forks

Forks by Katrina Carmichael This time it starts with a dinner party and the subtle discomforts such parties cause. I tell a Margaret Thatcher joke to slice the silence before the salads come. Stark lettuce crunch: not too painful. But the bottom of the bowl, where metal hits china, that hurts. The soup is a relief: mild slurping meets my ears gently. But the main course—steak! Oh the cutting, the slicing, the serrated sawing as the biters prepare! They hush, lift, maws spread for the gift as molars graze light; the sharp piercing frightens me, each ping as new as … Continue reading Forks

Through the Back Window

 Through the Back Window by Katrina Carmichael Only the first of September, yet there in the dumpster behind our new home, a maple leaf, brown and cracked, like a man who had lain too long in the sun. The leaf leapt from the tenth story of the tree, without looking down to spot the dumpster’s open arms waiting. We saw it tremble, then jump, its veins plump and wet. Now stiff, stuck on last week’s celery stalk, dead and blood warm. Continue reading Through the Back Window

Katrina Carmichael

Katrina Carmichael was born in Atlanta, Georgia, where she first fell in love with the arts. She started her artistic career at the ripe age of three when she discovered dance and theatre. Since then, Katrina has written numerous plays, poems, and short fiction pieces. She holds a B.F.A. in Theatre Arts from Boston University and an M.A. in Professional Writing from Kennesaw State University. She is currently pursuing the wonderfully inane art of finding a day job.   Katrinia’s contrbutions to The Write Room are linked here: Forks Through the Back Window Continue reading Katrina Carmichael