Category: Prose
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Strawberry Blonde
TW: Pedophilia By Chloe Payne The shit and piss soaked rug burns into my nostril hairs late in the night. It gurgles and splutters lively out of its host — before setting into a burgundy crisp mess on the wooden floor panels. Crimson specs can be seen on an orange left alone. I begin to…
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Teatime
TW for unpleasant eating experience/gagging Harry held his pinky out as he drank, pursing his lips to sip a shy mouthful of tea. He smiled and set the cup down on its saucer, careful not to let it clink. ‘How’d you like it?’ ‘Delightful, madam.’ ‘Try the spaghetti.’ Harry hummed. This moment had happened once…
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Clingin’ in the rain
The storm is chaos. Flashes of light streak sporadically through the creases of your blinds – shining the tiny shoebox of a bedroom ivory. In between beams of light, the thumping and pounding of thunder force you awake. Every fragment of your flesh bumps up in a shiver at the noises and sights you can…
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Fatherland
Family portrait 1 by Helen Norton, from the series of paintings “ Once Upon a Time there was a Man”, published in 1995. Part 1: “Hey Marcus!!! What’s up with you?”, a voice echoes from the back of the bus. Marcus turns his back and scans the bus, faces and faces pass through…
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Familiarity
I know those eyes. The cold unfeeling blue. I know that malicious smile. The grinding and retching of the teeth. I know those freckles. The splattered pattern like a bleach stained dress. The blonde hair. The gaunt cheeks. The vacant stare. I know those features. Because they are features of me. I slowly reach out…
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We Need a Pianist
I arrive at the Pavilion at 7:30pm in my best maroon suit. Stressing about my fingers. I’ve parked, engine’s off. Unfurl my fingers, staring, and thinking, they’re not broken anymore, and there won’t be an accident tonight that changes that. So, I go inside. The Pavilion is one of those old and grand buildings that’s…
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Siege
The Quaint residence abides around a cold street corner at 92 C Gosemer Rd, Meralvile, where tall apartments tower over a red door. The porch angles so slightly to the left, leaving an embellishment of chipped paint on its corner where the timber meets the concrete. This is where Mrs Quaint returns home in the…
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Doomsday, Man
I’m no blushing bride when it comes to a good snog sesh, but someone’s stank ass breath can really kill the vibe. This gaping maw throws an absolute rancid gush of air at me, landing like a wet sock across my cheek. I am not breathing that. Not chill, dude. Their little liver-purple tongue is…
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Nigredo
Truong wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing, unwilling to touch it. He tries to ignore the sound and turns his body to the wall side. Consistently, it keeps ringing, beat after beat after beat. He awakens angrily and proceeds to pick up the phone. “Who is this?” he says with a high-pitched…