Author S. K. Nicholas

  Crawling to the water’s edge, I produce a glistening flute. She says my drinking habits are unsocial, and not only that but worrying. Finishing my beer, I tell her not to be so stupid before smearing the flute with vaseline and slowly inserting it inside of her. My actions could be considered strange, possibly… Read more

  A woman in the shadow of a man. A flower in the shade of a mountain. Lovers. Fathers. Themes for disappearing and a voice that breaks whenever he’s not around. Sit in the bathroom sobbing. Break down and curl into a ball but you’ll never leave even though you promise it every night after… Read more

  It could be an Indian Summer, or maybe nothing at all. It could be love, but seldom is. It could be so many things, but even though we try so hard, it keeps crashing down leaving us with only handfuls of sand slipping through our fingers to be carried away with the breeze. Sometimes… Read more

  There are no lights, only the smoke that drifts through the open window and the ever present fear of cancer. Sometimes testicular, sometimes bone and marrow. There are no lovers, either, only phantoms and mouths that beg to be kissed in the early hours of the morning, only when you go to kiss them,… Read more

  I’m afraid of the 80’s, and even though the decade doesn’t exist anymore, somehow it does. I’m a relic of a grotesque time- a product of a damned generation spat out from its mother’s womb into a world undeserving of anything other than oblivion. As a grown man, I know that flowers and women are beautiful,… Read more

  She came into my life like a comet, ripping apart the days and setting fire to what didn’t fit into her way of seeing things. With rain falling and leaves sticking to our worn out faces, we left work and walked back to mine down darkened streets that appeared so different from how they had… Read more

  Moving up a spiral staircase that never seems to end, the urge to piss myself is almost too strong to resist. Taking two steps at a time, I leap to the top and push open the red door. The walls within are red as well, red like the walls of her womb. Shaking the… Read more

  There are tiny scars on my hand where pet rats used to bite me as a child. There are more scars from barbed wire escapades and where shards of glass sliced the tips of my teenage fingers on the tops of storage containers climbed in the search for doorways made of American dreams from… Read more

  Life is a hangover. It’s the mental image of a nude woman on my bed being replaced by that of a landscape consisting of dog walkers and kite enthusiasts. Oh, the light hurts my eyes; it makes me feel too human, and above everything, I wish never to feel human. Pour me some wine,… Read more