Author S. K. Nicholas

  A Japanese girl with a soft and shapely bosom slides her fingers in. Watching but pretending I’m not, she spreads herself as my tongue glides over my cracked lower lip. Her pubic hair is a forest, just like the one where the animals play. They continue after all these years of neglect, and although… Read more

  As birds fall from the sky, and things fall apart in my hands, the light of temptation caresses my weary bones. In my electric skull, divine intervention is still a thing even though I should know better. In her mirror, she sees beauty, and yet a pretty face is neither here nor there. They… Read more

    Near to the woods where she lost her virginity, smoke rises from the lake and wraps around my ankles. She wants me to drink from the furry cup, but I’m tired, so I tell her my tongue is covered in ulcers I got from eating with unclean utensils. She doesn’t believe me, but… Read more

  Listening to love songs from the 90’s, my headache is bettered only by my need to drain the bottle dry and fix the holes that keep on letting in the rain. There are blood blisters in my mouth, and as the skies continue to darken day after day, summer slowly fades without so much… Read more

  The city stinks like a beer shit; one of those you squeeze out after a night of heavy drinking. It floats within my brain like signs of the stigmata or the image of a brunette reclining on a sun lounger that’s slowly slipping into the mouth of a sinkhole. The city is a stranger… Read more

  We’ve been drinking since late afternoon, and now well into the early hours, we’re flat on our backs looking up at the ceiling. The fan goes round much the same as it has done for years, even before I knew her and where she resided. Yanking down my trousers, she slides her hand around… Read more

  My love is to be found in the garbage disposal among soiled nappies and used johnnies. My love isn’t a warning shot; it’s something far more obscure than that. They say a touch becomes a kiss, and a kiss becomes a fuck. Well, it’s something like that, but I’m not sure which. You come… Read more

  There’s an old, plump lady playing the fruit machines. She’s in her sixties; bland haircut, bland appearance. The room is like a shoebox; no window, just several fruitys and a small table placed in the corner with nothing on it. I’m watching what’s about to happen on CCTV while listening to Nick Cave and… Read more

  Your husband seems like a good man. He’s got a sweet smile, and in those photographs of yours, he holds you as if he means it. Oh, but the things I would do to you knowing how it would make him feel. I’m not a writer, I’m just a man with trembling hands and… Read more