Who knows why the black cat walked in front of us for two miles, occasionally looking back.
Not my cat, not yours. Just a black cat, late night walking down a three mile track.
And that disappearing trick with a mile still to go.
Eileen Carney Hulme lives in the North of Scotland. She has three full poetry collections published. See more at eileencarneyhulme.org.uk.
A black cat dashes across the busy highway. I slam on the brakes.
A siren chirps.
In my broken rear-view mirror, I see the fractured image of a police car. I pull over and the officer approaches my window.
I’m let off with a warning. Must be my lucky day.
The moon had been eaten again.
People glanced through the bullet-proof glass of their homes in the stratosphere, realised the time of the month. None of them worried.
The creature would regurgitate it again soon, bit by bit, its surface shining with saliva.
Perhaps one day it would admit defeat.
William Shaw is a student, blogger, and amateur journalist. He is slightly obsessed with the moon. You can find him on Tumblr, where he writes haiku poetry about Doctor Who.
I stand at the window, watching the trauma helicopter land. I perform the ritual: touch glass, touch wood, touch skin, and the wounded will live.
The nurse puts me back in my hospital bed.
All month the helicopter lands; all month I stand at the window.
I lose the baby.
Laura J. Frantz lives and loves outside of DC and blogs at laurafrantz.com.