Poetry

Sweet Pot

“As his shadow filled my vision,
fear washed over me and I braced
for what was to come.”

The vehemence in his eyes hit me like a brick wall. The chill that traveled down my spine only added to the sense of foreboding. I wasn’t sure what to expect. And I suppose that was the point. Ratcheting up the fear to sweeten the pot. It was something he liked to do. Part of the hunt in his ritualistic hunting grounds. There was no escape. So I was forced to wait and hope that this time, it wouldn’t be so bad.

© Sarah Doughty

I wasn’t always so lucky.
But it could have been
much, much worse.

8 thoughts on “Sweet Pot”

      1. “Ratcheting up the fear to sweeten the pot. It was something he liked to do. Part of the hunt in his ritualistic hunting grounds. There was no escape. So I was forced to wait and hope that this time, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

        There is a heightened tension, like a guitar string finding its note. Tightening until the tune finds and loses its octave in a desperate climb above its measure. Until finally the string snaps and there stands this tragic acceptance of the way things are. A sense of stupefying disappointment that hits the chest like the drop of a base drum.

        Powerful.

        Like

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