Prose
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Bruised skin crisscrossing her wrists. A cigarette or two sat squeezing out a turd deep in a pocket of sleepy morning. In some faraway land, a guy ate a bat, and that was that. The streets stretching from her belly to her knee are neon black. They’re smooth and taste like milky vanilla. The kind… Read more
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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
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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
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They say he’s satirical. Perhaps parasitical. One thing for sure is that the road he walks is as long as the tongue of a toad. No, it’s almost certainly longer, but the tongues of the toads on these roads grow long indeed. It might be hard for a closed mind to believe, but these are… Read more
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There’s a guy who watches a girl who finds herself with mascara smeared across her face. Looks like claws; perhaps patterned butterfly wings. There are tiny constellations clinging to the hairs that populate her chin. You can barely see them, but he sees them quite clearly. In the store on the corner of the block… Read more
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The cymbals rush, and I bite my tongue. No blood. Some blood. Nobodies looking. I must stress that I am not diabetic. Not to my knowledge. If a part of my body displeases me, I soak it in tea tree oil until it goes black and falls off. I soak my cock in a glass… Read more
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In a bingo hall, near my old school, the outlines of people no longer around are visible at a specific time each day. It’s just after tea. Mid-afternoon. Tele and biscuits while the woman next door shaves her legs in full view of us kids on the brink of discovering the meaning behind our favourite… Read more
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“I want you to come on that man’s head,” she says. Open-mouthed while imagining what it would be like to play on the slide in my grandparents’ old garden again, I don’t hear her words. Well, I do, but they don’t register. “Did you hear me?” This time the words resonate. It takes a few… Read more
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Not vodka but pop. Neither cigarettes nor cigars, but rolled up post-it notes soggy after being chewed by soft, childish lips. Not the lips of the kids I went to school with, though. They’re all old now—old like forgotten oranges in a Christmas stocking—one that’s been tucked away for several months in a basement belonging… Read more
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Stroking me off with magical fingers that had her once touted as a child prodigy on the piano, I grind my teeth as she takes me to the precipice of a place she’s taken me so many times before. Shaking as the ground swirls beneath me, I hold onto the branch above with the tips… Read more
Author S. K. Nicholas 