Writing
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She’s curled up on the sofa in her pajamas. Or maybe she’s in the garden, sprawled on a blanket looking up at the sky. Light years and sunshine; comets and the taste of summer. Flies buzzing around her head, the hangover from the night before slowly sweats out of her. Sunday, the day when life and… Read more
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intimacy born in drunken wonder bathed in flashing lights her mouth your mouth dissolving with passion the sounds of sounds as we dance bodies, stars birth the lust of touch the hush of desire those endless moments when the atoms in her heart burst leaving her in a state of sheer fucking bliss Read more
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The sun sets solemnly, visibly indifferent through the trees upon the hill. Light is fractured by an abundance of leaves that sway in the breeze. It’s warm outside, and the day is old. Hours pass, comforting, mocking. Dust settles upon tired skin. Yawning, collapsing and daydreaming whilst everyone moves on regardless. Colours fading, thoughts succumbing.… Read more
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the night should burn with fire and wine it should make you feel as if there’s nothing left to fear the future shouldn’t exist cigarettes and soon to be forgotten words spluttering from your brash mouth lights and bodies glowing alcohol flowing without end this is the magic hour when all is within your grasp… Read more
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the way she rests her belly next to mine sighing, hushing always dead elephants and the fabric of time coming apart like my weary mind war inwards and outwards don’t stop trying never give up despite everyone that tells you to stop the exile is worth it solitude, isolation savour every second be the king… Read more
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disappearing moments swirling like cigarette smoke above saddened heads the past clings leaving a scent that always reminds you of what used to be sometimes it makes you smile sometimes it makes you wish with all you had that you could get back somehow get back to the sunshine that always shone so brightly and… Read more
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ink across the eyes floating like clouds drifting like carrier bags in the wind the mundane lives of the british all the dead insects wasting themselves like it were something meaningful they spit at the sky raging at the emptiness that never seems to leave these barren lands full of supermarkets and office blocks buildings… Read more
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It’s early sunday evening. The sky is blue. It’s warm. A plane flies high above me, unaware of my watchful eye as it passes from one side of the window to the other before disappearing from view. I’m laying on my stomach, on a blanket on the floor. I like being on the floor, makes… Read more
Author S. K. Nicholas 