The years advance and she backtracks, shrinking and shrivelling,

arthritic hips, knee-joints and feet, reducing her movements to the crunching

of a shovel, scraping upon gritted concrete.

She thinks that she is insignificant now, passing through middle age to a lesser existence,

to an existence of otherness.

Others, though, others see her in all of her otherness.

Not only do they see her, they fear her.

They see and fear the enormous shadow;

a shadow cast up by her diminishing frame;

a shadow angry, threatening and intimidating;

a shadow flaunting its all-knowingness at them –

taunting them!

What does she know?

What does she know that they don’t?

What has she seen?

What tricks does she have?

Does she have the power to unearth them?

Scared and fearful, they feign mock laughter.

Laughing still, they lash out and dig

deep –

seeking to undermine her, to uproot her, to boot away her shadow.

Inkedoffice-2539844_1920 (1)_LI

Well, it was either her or me, they would say to themselves, if they even ever thought

about what they had done at all, if they even






Copyright owned by Jay Cool, March 2019


Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: