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

Through the slits of her beady eyes, she sees a cock transform into a tree, and then a sleeping dog morph into a leaping fox. The fox is leaping over the moon, or could it be a lone pebble on a sandy beach? And is it really a fox, or instead a magpie flapping its Read more

Licking her lips like a greedy kid, Gretchen takes a step closer to the blood-splattered canvas. In the splatter, she sees an abundance of crimson shapes, shifting as if made of sand. Many of them are sexual. Those that aren’t remind her of death, which is the same thing, more or less. The radius of Read more

In a daze as the blood flows with no sign of abating, she has the thousand-yard stare as the images in her head explode as if her skull’s on the receiving end of a shotgun blast. Bringing her fingers to her bottom lip, she touches the claret as it pours like a fine, red wine—one Read more

Opening her eyes as wide as they’ll go, the moon gently dissolves from her mind like a snowflake melting in an open palm. Gazing intently at the spot where her brush is pointing, she stalks the canvas never losing sight of the area where she’s to make her first mark. Will it be a gentle Read more

Her fingers tingle intermittently as she points the brush at each of the four corners of the canvas. As she does so, paint drips from its bristles, splashing her toes so it appears she’s coloured each of her nails a different shade of blue. The feeling of it as it slides over her flesh reminds Read more