"The poems in this collection were created using fairytales from The Red Fairy Book, edited by Andrew Lang and available through Project Gutenberg. Font size varies, but the constraints of each poem were that they could each use the words contained in a single page of the book. Material included watercolor, acrylic paint, cutouts from old magazines, and playfulness."
Amy Marqueshas been known to call books friends and is on a first name basis with many fictional characters. She has visual art, poetry, and prose published in journals such as Streetcake Magazine, MoonPark Review, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Chicago Quarterly Review, and Gone Lawn and is a returning contributor to Raw Lit. amybookwhisperer.wordpress.com
Falling
Non-Fiction by Katherine K. Wilson
CW: Mention of Illness
My shoes scratch along the path that runs under a cluster of trees along the river—the path you led me down the first day. I pause at the spot under the weeping willow where you snapped that photo of me with my mouth wide open and my eyes squeezed shut from the force of my laughter. “You’ll look back at this photo one day and remember this moment,” you said. You weren’t in the picture, but you created the moment. That day, the sun, strong and fervent, peaked out from behind a chartreuse canopy. After you snapped the photo, I took the phone out of your hand and, reaching around you, slid it into the back pocket of your jeans. Your arms wrapped around my waist as you pulled me into your chest. Your woodsy scent enveloped me. You dipped your head down; your lips touched mine. I plunged into our kiss. You tasted like water—like nothing and everything all at once. I pulled back and met your eyes, their color matching the river. “Are you going to look at that picture and remember me if I don’t make it?” I asked. “You’re not going anywhere,” you said, unwavering. I wanted to believe you. You sounded so sure. This time, upon my return to the path, the ground is carpeted with leaves—maroon, orange, and mud-brown—that obscure much of the path from view. The leaves don’t crunch under my feet; instead, they leap tentatively in the wake of my shuffling feet—at least the ones that aren’t weighed down by mud do. There are a few green leaves among the fallen. My head tilts towards the sky; the trees are nearly bare, with just a few green and golden leaves hanging on. I wonder about the green ones on the ground. Why did they fall? Did the wind wretch them free from the branches? Or did they simply give up while still in their prime? They remind me of myself, still green but falling before my time. It isn’t the wind wrenching me free from a future I so badly want; instead, it is a constellation of mysterious multisyllabic maladies. My heart is literally broken. It isn’t fully clear why or what, if anything, can be done. I walk alone on my return to the path. It wasn’t the wind that carried you away; we fell and then fell apart. It wasn’t fully clear why or what, if anything, could be done. The sharp smell of decaying leaves infuses the air. I pull in a deep breath. You were wrong. I don’t need to look at that picture to remember the moment. The wind picks up, and a handful of dry brown leaves lift into the air and dance above my head. I notice that the leaves that are the most damaged catch the wind easily; they float the highest and stay in the air the longest.
Katherine K. Wilson is a writer living with multiple hidden disabilities. She’s a fervent nomad passing her days on both sides of the Atlantic. Some of her recent work appears in Santa Fe Writers Project Quarterly, Pile Press, Grande Dame Literary Journal,and Iris Literary Journal. @katherine_kwilson (Instagram)