Author S. K. Nicholas

x and i: a novel

a journal for damned lovers vol 1-3

DamnedLovers

  • Moby Dick

    It’s a slow day, but Sundays always are. The town is busy. Millions of years ago, it was underwater; now, it’s bonedry and a hive of supermarkets and charity shops. Nature reduced to nurturing the meek and mild—that kinda thing. We drink coffee, and people watch. The people here are very strange, but then again, Read more

  • Nowadays

    The land rises. I am a lamb, hung from a black tree. Legs kicking. Arms thrashing to the sound of distant memories crashing against the rocks of history as yet another hangover cuts me down. I’ve lived and died so many times. Life is one long Groundhog Day; only I have no Bill Murray to Read more

  • Tiny Suns

    The smoke from the cigarette sweeps around the room like the remnants of a dream. My fingers smell of her, as does my pillow. Notebooks litter the desk. The desk I made a few weeks back. Feels longer. Months. Perhaps even a year. I still think about the dogs, but things feel cloudy. Real, but Read more

  • Linger Like a Fart

    When the words don’t flow the way you want them to, all you’re good for is hibernation. It’s all I’m good for, anyhow. There’s all the intent in the world but no finger on the trigger. When there’s no finger on the trigger, all you do is linger like a fart, aimlessly drifting about the Read more

  • Sushi Bar

    There was a guy in the bar straight out of a magazine, flexing his muscles to all the girls fancying a taste of his ne’er-do-well meat. Everyone was out of a magazine. One of those free ones they give away with Sunday’s newspapers. They performed on a stage on which I had no part to Read more

  • Spit and Sawdust

    The beach scratches my face. The waves. The wind. They attack my senses. Against my better judgment, I light a smoke, and this narrow belly begins to rumble the same as the sea. Stones tumble beneath my feet. I am a giant. I am a dream. Old cafes slide into the swirling waters on either Read more

  • Cosmic Plughole

    Half-formed memories take the shape of water before dripping down my forehead like I’m in the throes of a fever. The duvet has me buried. The more I twist and turn, the more delirious the situation. The more the sweat pours out of me. Sadness rises through the floorboards; lodging behind my ribcage like the Read more

  • Anything Less

    Tick tock. Tick tock. The clock is hypnotic, yet altogether pointless. It counts down my life, but it too will die. By the time I wake, it’s already afternoon, and by the time I feel alive, the town is bathed in moonlight. A hangover makes way for hunger, and hunger is drowned by wine. Peering Read more

  • Black, No Sugar

    More dreams. This time of a house on a hill resembling a nipple on a tit. It unfolded like a movie. Something by Hitchcock. The scene in psycho where she’s driving with a headful of memories and heart of sharpened knives. Even as it faded upon waking, my mouth salivated as the imagery that seemed Read more

  • Bottom of the World

    These dreams have been feverish for weeks now. The end of the world. The victim of a shooting. Public embarrassment and doppelganger dogs. Like in life, I don’t know what’s going on, yet towards the end of each nocturnal hallucination, the two of us are in the throes of fucking. She’s digging her fingers into Read more