Grabbing hold of the packet of cookies the way a monkey in a zoo might snatch a bag of peanuts from the hand of a child, Gretchen shimmies back along the counter the way she came. The drop to the floor wasn’t huge, but one wrong step and she might land face-first, smashing her teeth… Read more

Gretchen’s parents knew all about the chair trick. Anything sweet and sugary had to be hidden out of sight the best they could manage, and yet the two of them knew it was a thankless task. Other than locking the food in a box, nothing was safe from their only daughter’s insatiable hunger. This time,… Read more

It wasn’t unusual for her father not to be in bed early in the mornings; even during the week when he had to be up at the crack of dawn for work. For one, he was a restless sleeper the same as her. Secondly, he had a penchant for falling asleep before the TV in… Read more

She remembers the rain. It seemed to pour forever. There had been no snow that Christmas. Only rain. The streets outside were flooding by the minute, and each time she sat at the window in her bedroom watching the world go by, the water crept so high that in her tiny mind, the threat of… Read more

I am a crustacean; a variant of a strain of flu found in a bog on Old Woolworth Lane. The bog is no more; they filled it in many summers ago and erected a shiny shopping arcade which is now overwhelmed by an abundance of vacant fashion boutiques full to the brim not with the… Read more

Moving in for the kill, she growls and huffs in excitement as the droplets of paint inch closer to the canvas. Any second now, they’ll hit. She’s excited to the point where she’s getting wet. She knows she’s getting wet because she feels the waters from her womb seeping through her panties and dripping down… Read more

Holding her breath as if she were sinking to the bottom of the ocean, time grinds to a halt. In the moments before the paint from her brush hits the canvas, it seems to stretch forever—both the canvas and time itself. Blinking her eyes, she sees a plethora of moments lifted from her life. From… Read more

Cursing her mother’s name, she swipes the brush as if she were slicing a razor across the throat of one of the ogres outside who had heckled her in the mist. Watching in awe as the paint flies off the bristles, it reminds her of cum shooting from a dick, or a comet flashing through… Read more

Inspecting her wiggling toes, her mind wanders further afield. Soon, she forgets all about the tug of war between sex and death. She even forgets about Pollock, and how one of his last paintings titled The Deep is the only painting she’s ever masturbated over—drunk on pink gin and sambuca after a night out in town doing… Read more