Speed-Meat

Bumbling sedate-like, a year on, rotters are no different to the local junkies. Except, the rotter isn’t coming at you with its drooping face, skin pulling down at the darkened cavernous eye-sockets, hanging loose off the jawbone, slurring; “Any spare change pal?”

They’re still using that old line, except by change they mean anything that can be offered to dealers in exchange.

I prefer the real dead-walking — even they won’t touch a junkie for their fix. Shame, maybe that’d help us all; thin the heard. Though, I’m not prepared for the sight of the dead on something like speed-meat.

This drabble was first published by Reanimated Writers Press in their anthology 100 Word Bigger Zombie Bites.

The Macabre Ladies – Drabbles of Dread

Upcoming release from the Devilishly Devine ‘Macabre Ladies’ is their Anthology ‘Drabbles of Dread.’

As listed in my Books page, it is live for Pre-order from Amazon now, for release on the 15th July 2020!

This will be the 4th Anthology from the talented duo – Eleanor Merry and Cassandra Angler, and I’m excited to be a contributing author in 3 of these; Dark Valentine, Dark Solstice and this upcoming Drabbles of Dread. From all accounts this one promises to be the Darkest yet! So, if you enjoy dark micro horror check out this collection (and their back catalogue!)

If you’re a writer and have a dark drabble you’re itching to share with the world, then submissions are still open for a few more days – check out their website or Facebook for details on how to submit!

https://macabreladies.wixsite.com/website

Cusp of Power

Wide eyed, helpless he gazed through his new mother’s entranced steel-grey orbs. The cosmos mirrored in the sacred water on this Samhain night, bathed in magically majestic blood moon. Reflected as it was in both their souls; ripples through stars, each one a gift. A single birth and death on the very cusp of the veil, a perfect way to live forever. Thought the power-hungry young witch.

Laoghaire’s meticulous scheme to dispatch and consume the making of her body, radiant new life, was in veracious ritual motion, void emotion. Mothers natural selection.

The tiny infants body wriggled, gagged and choked; crystal fresh water, stars and planets rushed down his throat. The deep iridescent fairy pool of sparkling emeralds consumed new life with the boundless universe. Laoghaire’s fevered eyes drank in every detail of her secret sacred bairn.

An exchange with the realms of darkness, immaculate life for multifarious transcendent power.

© Natasha Sinclair. 2019.

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.

Tease

She’s a tease.

The femme fatale disease.

Gaming with sultry eyes surprise.

Rose lips of fast lies.

Moaning ecstasy in sweet cries.

Throbbing sex lullabies.

She’s a tease to best please.

No sad begging of cheap release.

Call her out, she’ll flagrantly deny.

No longer look you in the eye.

© Natasha Sinclair

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

Bomb Shelter

Word prompt for this was ‘Subway,’ in 50 words. Still very much practicing writing such shorts.

Bairns rest in makeshift hammocks between metal tracks, fearful. Grown men and women create desperate distractions amongst the warmth and terror of strangers; bound as war family. Card games played between trembling silence. Disused subway trains; motionless ghost stills in the dark. Buried alive to survive the relentless bombings above.

© Natasha Sinclair

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

Organic Steak

Firm steady grasp, I pulled the trigger. Proud and shaking from this first stun. The bolt punched hard at the confused bovine’s thick meat and skull. Dopamine rush from power. It’s a man’s job this; the provider, the killer. I’m the modern hunter in my murder house. Pupils dilate, silent screams from its desperate dying mouth. Just reflexes. Much too dumb to feel. Electrical impulses explode through this soon to be cadaver as it collapses. An almost dead weight thuds to the opening side of the cold steel box. Sticked, skinned, and disembowelled. High welfare organic steaks. It’s BBQ season.

© Natasha Sinclair