Southeast Asian Fantasy

I came across this open call, quite near the end of closing, and I couldn’t pass it up. After a busy day with the family, that night, I could not sleep, which is fairly typical once an idea slithers through my head; the worm in my ear. Giving in to the noise, I fired up the laptop and tried my hand at writing Southeast Asian Fantasy Drabbles.

I wrote and submitted two; ‘Unity’ and ‘Dragon of Krakatau’ to Insignia Stories enticing call and both were accepted. I’m pleased to be included in this line-up of multinational Drabblers, including and compiled by Kelly Matsuura!

Release date to be announced very soon.

More details of Insignia Stories work, open calls and future releases can be found on their site; https://insigniastories.com/

Door Number Nine

Halloween was dead-quiet in the morgue, just me. Tonight, a treat behind door number nine. I didn’t need to know why she was exhumed. They were done with her now.

Doors wide open, the dark creeped in around stark light. The sound of night magic dancing through the dead. Waiting; my rotting beauty lay on her steel gurney.

Moving inside her was a sensational treat. She was underground long enough for the crawlies to move in. A localised thrill of erratic movement around my hard dick buried inside my frozen cold seductress.

I always bag up, of course, I’m no sicko.

© Natasha Sinclair. 2019.

Lost Shadows: A collection…

My first mini collection has been published and is now live. Paperback and eBook available worldwide.

Link below.

‘Lost Shadows’ – Cover Reveal

Small poetry collection being released very soon, currently just awaiting the printed proof for final review before it goes live!

“This is a small eclectic collection from an Independent Scottish writer.

If you’re looking for inspirational poetry, words of deep wisdom, even good poetry, this book is probably not for you.

The contents are inspired by various topics including; mental ill health, relationships, lust, consumerism, commercialisation, veganism, family, death, politics and history.

While this collection is admittedly somewhat disjointed, it is also truly organic.”

Damaged Goods


Discarded; damaged goods.

The lone whore bore foul, tainted, bastard fruit.

Shunned while still stunned from her whalers desertion.

Black lamb of the snow-white flock.

Abandoned for the call of the sea; another she.

Betty bid to follow suit with that ill seeded fruit.

As waves began to pour down her choking throat; peace called in tortured unforgiving song.

The final forbidden promise.

Lungs of fire burning; as blackened shadow blotted the sun.

A selfish rescue placed her back in hell; pulled from the mother’s largest well.

Need the ruined to give rest their good grace; a blinding disgrace.



© Natasha Sinclair. 2019.

Freedom

The illusion of freedom. The delusion of independence. This land is beautiful but it’s fucked no matter who the keys are handed to. Check the blood. Tick the box. Bend the knee. Wave the flag in servitude. A throne is a throne, no matter where the seat sits. By the Unicorn, by the Lion. Just as much a myth. Bow! Bow! Wave that flag with false pride, false hope and eat this pack of filthy lies! An unoriginal phantasmagoria. Throw coin at the mirage. Take this fairytale and make it your life! By the sword, by the knife! BELOW the flag!

© Natasha Sinclair 2019

Always Tomorrow

It was always tomorrow;
‘I’ll show you tomorrow.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘I’ll love you tomorrow.’
Youth melted away in lost tomorrows.
Wrinkled drying paper skin.
Tear tracks embedded as scars.
Black hair gone brittle broken grey.
Still, nothing or tomorrow.
Ruptured seams fraying.
Tomorrow was too far gone.
Lost in history; no catching it as it caught and dragged in the gale.
On black feathered wings, broken promises held in a wrecked heart.
Skipping beats and racing to catch up with itself; inadequate muscle.
The Crone took that tomorrow to the grave.
Cold, alone.
Still all’s said, ‘maybe tomorrow…’

© Natasha Sinclair

Venom for Men

“I wouldn’t piss on one if he was on fire.”

She hissed with such venom on each syllable.

That hate was imbedded deep; Men, what was the issue?

Those women married them, bore children to them, birthed them, raised them…

Copulators and mothers of abusive bastards.

Of course, it was her fault. It always was, that doomed double XX.

Such hate being passed through generations.

The kind of hate that rose your heart rate, made your bones grind, made you sweat.

Venomous and bitter more than mere words; the flames licked the air in forked tongue.

Man’s kiss; woman’s curse.

(C) Natasha Sinclair, all rights reserved

Snapped

Laying the last body down on the bed, I studied them both, side by side. My beautiful loyal white pups. They looked as if they were peacefully sleeping. Dreaming still. You’d never know by this sight that I had snapped their necks. Still warm, the serenity of death. My wrist hurt. It was almost over now. There was nothing left to hold me back. I stepped up on to the vintage blue weaved wooden stool. Reaching above I put the prepared noose over my head to my neck and jump forward. Swinging and choking, why didn’t my neck just snap?

©Natasha Sinclair