Kathy Prokhovnik
Ricochet
Seaweed topples from the old man’s rowboat as she turns it over. She lets the boat rock on the stinging water, her bundle silent on the floor. Cold wind, cold heart. No! Brisk wind, determined heart. Heading into the harbour, the rhythm in the pull of the oars burns her arms, calms her staccato heart. Splash of wave on the bundle at her feet and the baby wakes. Deep water ahead. She’s dreamt of this from the day he was born, when his wail cut her dead.
She’s dreamt of this from the day he was born, when his wail cut her dead. Deep water ahead. Splash of wave on the bundle at her feet and the baby wakes. Heading into the harbour, the rhythm in the pull of the oars burns her arms, calms her staccato heart. Brisk wind, determined heart. No! Cold wind, cold heart. She lets the boat rock on the stinging water, her bundle silent on the floor. Seaweed topples from the old man’s rowboat as she turns it over.
Fragment of a Love Letter
He was a storyteller, telling me of Genghis Khan and Mongol hordes. I was a time-traveller, drifting before scenes of endless plains. The strong life of muscled horses galloping, their riders racing them. Rider and horse propelling each other. The thud of the gallop. The wind. The sunstreaked grasses. The enormous skies. Mountains behind, so tall and jagged and black. Huge bands of horses and riders blackening the plains filling the air. The swirling hordes the swirling dust the moving deserts. The sand and grit and pebbles. The men in coloured garments galloping, sometimes shouting long and echoing calls of exhortation; sometimes thudding in determined silence. Or the miraculous Silk Road. Now I saw sumptuous silks and elaborate festivals, the clear lines of a court receiving the traveller, inspecting the goods. The pale glass, the lapis, the mother of pearl, the mirrors with cloisonne backs. Maybe he like the Mongols crashed through my life in waves of conquering, crossing my streams when they were iced over and coming unawares on my heart. Maybe he brought cut-glass bowls fused with cobalt-coloured glass rings, for my silks, my masks, my marquetry with semi-precious stone inlays.
Kathy Prokhovnik is a writer of fiction (long form, short stories, micros) and nonfiction. She is the author and director of Seeking Sydney, a ten-episode podcast. Her short stories have had some wins, some shortlists, some publications. She blogs at http://kathyprokhovnik.com/.
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Here on Trash Cat Lit – ‘Only the Sky is Penitent‘ and ‘Singing a Song to a Different Tune‘
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