Author S. K. Nicholas

  On a frozen lake you dance. There’s music. Something dark. A soundtrack to murder, or perhaps your first undressing beneath the watchful eyes of a man much like myself. When you move your hips with that vague smile of yours, there are so many urges that threaten to overpower me. Others have been in… Read more

  There’s penetration, but not the kind that goes both ways. There are indentations on your shoulder left by my teeth. You can tell they belong to me because of the gaps made by my mandible. The dentist pulled out four in one go because of overcrowding, you see. This is the reason I don’t… Read more

  There are words and there are hangovers and one without the other never seems quite right. There are women and there are relationships but it’s only ever felt like some kind of game and the older I get the less I feel like playing. And so I lock myself away and write and when… Read more

  Out on the moors in the middle of the night, we dance with the ghosts of Heathcliff and Catherine, and when the wind blows just right, we hear the victims of Hindley and Brady having risen from their infant graves by the cries of our childish hearts. With their laughter ringing in our ears as… Read more

  We could spend the night drinking those bright blue cocktails that turn our piss a funny colour and we could smoke cigars and instead of savouring the taste just swallow the smoke until it burns our insides like crispy old newspapers left beneath the boiling sun during those long summer months where nothing happened… Read more

  Lactating lovers on the brink of an epiphany and the bliss of sleeping in until midday without trace of a hangover. Kiss me beneath a Ferris wheel- hold me as the bus we’re on careers off the road and plunges into the lake we’ve spent so many hours stood around feeding the ducks no matter… Read more

  Wine and Pixies and the way she spreads herself wider than I could ever imagine and even though we’ve been drinking for twelve hours straight I’m still hard and her body is melting and when my tongue touches her plastic lips it drips drips drips and even though her parents think I’m nice there’s… Read more

  Sleeping, breathing, stuff like that. Sunlight through the blinds. Dried seed on the insides of her thighs and bedsheets that should’ve been washed the week before last. She smells like butter, or maybe Battenberg cake. Her body will one day wrinkle and sag and there will be a time when it will be as if… Read more

  She told me her name was Amelia, and she looked like Medusa, y’know, snakes in her hair that writhed around her body drawing attention to those child-bearing hips of hers. She was lost in the moment, zoning in and out as the music took her some place she’d been trying to claw back to ever… Read more