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Getting to her feet, she downs the last of the coffee before lighting a cigarette. She’s not supposed to smoke inside the house, so she opens the window. Sucking in and then blowing it out, the smoke escapes only for the wall of mist to hurl it back at her. If she squints, she can Read more
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And the choice of black coffee… No, it certainly wouldn’t do. The old woman who once owned this house who may or may not have existed would almost certainly have been a tea drinker. She would have drunk tea poured from a kettle adorned in one of those brightly coloured cosies, the kind her grandmother Read more
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Holding the cup in both hands, she blows upon it with a gentle breath. Through the window, a sharp breeze comes in uninvited, playing with the curls of her hair. Bopping up and down upon her slouched shoulders, the jangly movement resembles a puppet on a string. Ironic really, as she sees herself as a Read more
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The orgasm sucks her in, chews her up, and then gobs her back into the bathroom. For the merest flickers of existence, she’s out of this place—as out as she’ll ever get without dying, that is. Gawping open-mouthed at the smoke-stained ceiling, the shit slips out of her arse, leaving her feeling as light as Read more
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Originally posted on Gregoria Green: Smell of home-baked bread and red wine, Who will be here, watch my hair turn grey? No moment like the next one In my kitchenette of tears. Who will breath into my bosom While I lullaby them to a sweetest sleep? A little one heralding noble beginnings Why are lilacs… Read more
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Sure enough, the cheese hits her in the guts before the kettle has time to boil. Clutching her belly, she has the sudden urge to rush to the bathroom, and yet the shapes in the steam have her captivated. She’s not religious—much to her mother’s eternal disappointment—but the imagery is biblical. It always is. From Read more
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The thought of that cup of black coffee makes her naughty bits tingle in the most delightful of ways. Peering over the edge of the bed, she knows it’ll be an awful thing to step foot on the cold floorboards, but also knows that she has no choice. Kicking off the duvet, she leaps through Read more
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She’d set the alarm for ten in the morning, but it was far too early. I mean, what kind of art student wakes up before midday? Not one she’d ever encountered. Certainly, not one that was ever worth remembering. As soon as the thing beep beep beeped into her shell-like, she switched it to snooze Read more
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Symbols, and exotic details, cooking in the folds of her squidgy, vanilla flesh. If I drink enough wine, she turns into her mother. If I put the right amount of stones into my pocket and walk the length of the creek, at some point, I’ll find myself in a river, and down down down, I’ll Read more
Author S. K. Nicholas 