Hoss My younger brother’s trundling up the path upon his wooden horse. It’s quite a climb; his little legs are working very hard to reach the top. Then Mum calls, Dinner time! and bangs a pan and lid. He hears and turns; he starts to ride back down again. So fast! He laughs, I laugh, and then he hits a kerb, falls backwards off the horse. I hear Dad’s Blast! as everything goes upside down. Graham runs to fetch me as the blue wheels spin and spin. The Herald roars. Mum trips over a shrub while rushing to the car. Once Adrian’s in we have to hold him tight. He seems asleep as I count all the freckles on his face. We stop, get out. Dad carries. Mum’s saying, Please. I don’t know where we are. A spooky place of rows of chairs and tiny tables. Toys, but frightening things, like giants, staring eyes, a white-coat man, he’s talking, Dad’s annoyed, then pictures, Adrian’s head, and then his cries from just outside the room, but then he laughs and laughs, and so we head back home again. We play I-Spy. He tells us, H for Hoss! and Graham says he hasn’t got a brain.
Felicity Teague (Fliss) is a copyeditor/copywriter by day and a poet/composer come nightfall. She lives in Pittville, a suburb of Cheltenham (UK). Her poetry features regularly in the Spotlight of The HyperTexts; she has also been published by Lighten Up Online, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Snakeskin, The Dirigible Balloon, The Ekphrastic Review, The Mighty,and a local Morris dancing group. Most recently she was a finalist in The Ekphrastic Review‘s ‘The Sound of Music’ contest. Other interests include art, film, and photography.