Concoction – Haunted

Exciting Summer Anthology of shorts release!

“Just One More”

Early flight; foreign daze too bright.
Night draws with a bang.
Curtains closed, skirts up.
Old streets buzz with pimps and cheats .
Sex in the air; for a fair fare.
Her tired mouth, his wallet.
A classy bar, a sleazy toilet.
Part of the play, trip away.
Any old dud feels like a stud.
Pussy on the wind.
Setting up for good grind.
Getting low so you can’t go.
She lays her head to rest.
Holiday urge starts to spread.
He pushed her ‘til she was sunned down.
“Just one more."
Pretends he's not off to score.
Whore behind another door.
Sleepy head all tore with gore.
Slips in hours too late...
Stinking and slick from a professional date.
“Just one more,” he said.
Wet with mixed sweat.
A foreign scent had him spent.
Deceit on the forgotten receipt.
Deceit cheat never sleeps.
It’s always just one more…
Score.

© Natasha Sinclair 2019

Falling Seas and Espionage By Andrew Taylor

The Snow is not done with us yet. Not enough of you have been out to feel it and allowed it to creep close. It will return day after day until it is satisfied and like almost everything else in the world, satisfaction is not a state reached quickly. Few exceptions exist, but their acquisition is painful and consuming. You cannot have one without the other.

Time is an awful mistress and she will bend for nothing on this earth. Work is an expression of life, whatever you occupy yourself with. Everything is corruptible and you only have to look at the coast line for a good example; nothing stands the test of time. Values, cultures and beliefs change, die out, are reborn, become a shadow of themselves and disappear. Things take the place of other things. You change your furniture, change your clothes, rearrange your desk, realign your point of view, forget something, cheat yourself, hurt somebody, hurt yourself, swear you’ll never do it again, make a resolution, break a promise, fall down, pick yourself back up, gaze at the reflection in the mirror and think, “Am I……………?” Forget it and let the water rush in.

A beach is a beautiful thing, the canyons under the oceans are said to be some of the most wonderous mountain ranges on earth and the oceans themselves are as yet vastly uncharted. Who doesn’t like a mystery?

©Andrew Taylor 2019, All rights reserved

From, ‘The Whiskey Stories…A few years on it and still going, a drunk love story’

Mindless Motions

Those rusty cogs turn, yawning inside that thick skull; a dying hamster on a creaky wheel.
Quietly waiting for the cruel rotations to complete their sedate lap around the globe.
Knowing there’s nothing of use to be churned out; still I wait, always, for you.
Waiting for that spark to catch; only crumbs of life left.
Wondering how much of you is still in there; amongst the rust and fumes.
Once it was astounding, fresh with abundant wonder and curiosity; almost dormant now.
Stuck mindless motionless.
Baby, do you even know your name?
Does such a thing even matter anymore?

© Natasha Sinclair 

Concoction – White Sugar

‘White Sugar’ will be featured in ‘Concoction,’ this summer.

This short was first published in ‘The Whisky Stories…A few years on it and still going, a drunk love story’ by Andrew Taylor.

Wild Flower Weeds

First, the dense green leaves; push sunward from between the cracks.

Sprouting from the over nurtured, the ill valued; prisons of possession.

The Dandies bid for life, to bloom, be free; prevailing through destruction and control.

Neighbours spray them relentlessly; Killer with killers.

Down on pristine knees; a homicidal mission.

One never understood that murderous desire.

Holding admiration for their persistence to live; punching through suffocating concrete.

Taking back the malnourished earth; grey to green.

Converting the controlled over preened to wild and free.

Children blow wishes into the ether from their seed heads.

How can one not appreciate the beauty, innocence, thirst for life and freedom mirrored in the Dandelion.

It offers much, this humble wild flower weed.

The regard of wild things as weeds, one may never understand.

Like unruly children and nonconformist adults; weeds of society.

Pests of the pretentious empty garden; still they persist.

They bloom.

(c) Natasha Sinclair 2019, All rights reserved.