Author S. K. Nicholas

x and i: a novel

a journal for damned lovers vol 1-3

Creative Writing

  • Sunday Sun

    In the park, a dog squats with a strange sense of grace. There are bees and flies, not to mention crisp packets dancing like ballerinas as the blades of grass beneath my feet beg me not to crush their hopes and dreams. The dog grins at me. The park sings. As his knees knock together, Read more

  • Born Dirty

    Fiddling with my balls, galaxies merge like two lovers drunk on rum and Turkish coffee. Then comes exhaustion. A sorta fugue state delivering me to a place where the picking hands of modern life are no more than blades of grass beneath my dancing left feet. Sleep is my favourite thing. So is the creation Read more

  • Female Form

    The evenings are made for spaghetti and meatballs. Red skies that shimmer like blood and stars as juicy as a cosmic tit belonging to some long-forgotten god birthed on the shores of a time we will never know. Breathing in, I taste memories of greasy fingers around tightened throats. The smell of Autumn in my Read more

  • Whale Blood

    At four in the morning, the lines disappear. There’s indistinct radio chatter. Conversations circling my head like cartoon birds. I’m somewhere, but don’t know where. On a dot of dust floating through space, but also in her arms, on a rainy day where the streets flood and the bones from my past rise until they Read more

  • Mirror

    In the mirror, I contemplate my limbs. If I were a woman, I’d be a Walter Sickert nude. All crude and ready for the knife. Y’know he was Jack the Ripper, right? I read it in a magazine. If I tuck my junk between my legs, I look just like Buffalo Bill from Silence of Read more

  • Days Flicker

    The days flicker on and off. I squint from a headache. Stood in the rain trying to remember my name, a cat darts between my feet. Black and white. Soaked. There’s a distinct lack of sunlight in the sky which worsens my already worsening mood. The air is light, yet heavy. Dry, like wet sand. Read more

  • Singed Hair

    I dream of an old café that once lingered by the side of the road. I dream of its menu and what it felt like to savour its culinary delights as the rain pissed down on the grey town outside. The café has been gone for years. Non-existent. Full of shadows and mispronounced words as Read more

  • Arc

    The morning brings coffee and the waft of dead cigarettes drifting from crushed beer cans. The day before me is a blur, as is the week, the year, the blah blah blah. The stairs leading to the kitchen are narrow. I stumble and almost trip. In the kitchen, a spider crawls over the toes of Read more

  • Not A Man

    It’s an age of skin fades and genital maintenance. If you don’t agree, they label you less than a man. But that’s okay because I’ve never been a man and never will. Every day, I’m bombarded with adverts telling me I should be trimming my balls and shampooing them with carefully selected products. Not only Read more

  • Come Quicker

    It stands where man passes away. It follows and waits, like shadows on a summer day. In this weather, I’m a boiled turd. Not merely dead but dancing an agonising dance, squirming as the heat smothers me like a deranged mother intent on snuffing out infant life. There was one in the paper only yesterday. Read more