"Hoot" by Francine Witte

Hoot

Let’s pretend this forest is you. That your paths are lined with lush green trees instead of arms that won’t hold me anymore. Let’s pretend the wafty scent of pine is your shaving lotion.
            I stand at your edge. I want to cross to the other side. On the other side is the blue of the future where I can take a breath without you in it.
            This is no simple crossing. I already know. I have packed supplies. Hunks of sourdough, wedges of cheddar. Even a flask of Merlot. I have all this, though I’m counting on hunger to drive me.
            Thing is, I haven’t eaten or breathed since you.
            I am halfway through. Scraggy pebble crunch, leafy brush whispers. All kinds of hoot owls. Go back, you know you want to.
            I know I want to. I know. But I’m counting on the sad comfort of a troubled hug. The kind you would give out of pity, out of just giving up. I like to pretend you mean something in those hugs.
            I edge deeper and deeper to the blue. I listen to the rumble in my stomach. Keep going, it says.
            I trip on some pebbles. Something I should have seen. The blue ahead keeps pulsing. I take a deep breath. The aroma of bread and cheese grows around me like a small tree. My lips are suddenly parched. I think and think about standing up.

Francine Witte

Francine Witte is the author of four poetry chapbooks and two full-length collections, Café Crazy and The Theory of Flesh from Kelsay Books. Her flash fiction has appeared in numerous journals and anthologized in the most recent New Micro (W.W. Norton) Her novella-in-flash, The Way of the Wind has just been published by Ad Hoc Fiction, and her full-length collection of flash fiction, Dressed All Wrong for This was recently published by Blue Light Press. She lives in New York City.

Headshot: Mark Strodl

Photo Credit: Shayne Schultz