Author S. K. Nicholas

x and i: a novel

a journal for damned lovers vol 1-3

Poem

  • Mourning Star

    The movement of a body, bathed in crescent light. Light from the Mourning Star at four in the morning as it illuminates a garden belonging to a building that now exists only in memory. Laughing like hyenas, we puke on a floral carpet and then scoop the contents of our bellies into empty glasses of Read more

  • Squirming Virgins

    Clapping hands mixed with tell-tale moans and groans coming from an open window above a Turkish bar and grill. Not Dino’s, but Jills. There’s a Japanese ballet dancer. She has no feet, only stumps. She has hair down there, but you’ll never see it. She’s prim and proper; a champion sucker of gobstoppers. She has Read more

  • Myopic

    When he caught her, he washed her feet in soda water. She didn’t put up much of a fight. Not because she wasn’t frightened, but because she had seen his face before. It was mundane. Lacking in distinctive features, and above all, as harmless as a crippled kitten lagging two steps behind the rest of Read more

  • Broken Wings

    Scratching eyelashes sounding like the broken wings of a bird. Some scrawny thing scampering around in the gutter wishing for a boot to come put it out of its misery. Soon enough, the bird will be bones, and then the bones will be dust, and all the love in the world won’t be enough to Read more

  • With his mouth pressed against her ear, she slid her arms around his waist. To hold him close caused her to break out in goosebumps, and that poor heart of hers felt as though it couldn’t take much more. But it could, and it would, because it always had. “Every morning since I last saw Read more

  • The cover for A Journal for Damned Lovers Volume 3, due out late October. I’ve been editing the third and final volume of A Journal for Damned Lovers since March of this year. For me, it’s a more intimate affair compared to the last book and acts as a gateway to my most recent, narrative-driven Read more

  • Enola

    Sunflowers and Poltergeists. Bad writing and kisses beneath bedsheets soaked with lighter fluid. The minute we spark our cigarettes, we go up in flames like the victims of a car bombing someplace in Nigeria. I’ve seen the pictures; flesh melted to the bone + bodies stiff with teeth jutting out of dead gums with entrails Read more

  • Please

    Eyes in the fire. Virgin Mary. Breasts so tender. Fingers so itchy. Waking in the early hours to dreams of my hands being cut off. Bolting upright and sweating like a fucker. Harder and harder against the window. Rainfall so deafening. Your body should be mine. It should keep me warm on these lonely nights. Read more

  • Blood On Your Fingers

      Drinking beer while reading the Atrocity Exhibition, I remember the taste of their lips and the ageless love they held in their widened eyes. Hushed fears as they sighed beneath a sky of hidden stars. Leaves and death, in every breath that ever left their lungs. Now just an empty bedroom, the evening tastes Read more

  • Beneath A Sighing Sky

      Dreams of words that were never said, of places lost forever as one by one they stopped believing. You try so hard to keep the magic alive, yet it fades as others become just another part of an ever growing machine. Fleeing in the heavy rain, we hide in alleys and parks, soaked to Read more