I bring to you another teaser from the upcoming release; Concoction V2. This time a quote from one of Andrew Taylor’s short stories written for the prompt ‘Whisky.’
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.”
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.
A couple of writing and publishing projects are currently underway so I thought I would drop a brief update here.
The second ‘Concoction’ anthology is one which is scheduled for release December 2019. This time the prompts are most distinctly Scottish and will feature the same three writers as the first volume; G G Flavell, Natasha Sinclair and Andrew Taylor. As before it is open genre so we should expect a unique eclectic mix of stories. There is potential for a fourth writer to be added to the bill, will just have to see on that one. The initial story submissions have started coming in though and it’s looking pretty good! You can’t beat a good wee Ceilidh!
It is also very likely I will be releasing a mini collection of poetry and drabbles this year. These pieces have already been written, some have been published and some have never seen the light of day beyond the notebook. One again an eclectic little mix of material. Very organic in nature, as with my own style of writing. Themes running through those collected so far include; depression, relationships, politics, sex, freedom, nature and more.
Please look out for updates via here and on my Facebook page; https://www.facebook.com/NatashaSinclair/
Thank you, Natasha
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
This picture doesn’t look real…
Like there’s a filter; to enhance, to hide, deceive the eye.
Shielding a painful reality; it was a painful reality.
The mind, like the camera, does this all on its own.
This picture doesn’t look real…
A reflection of how it felt; a blue hew, a hazy dream.
Everything thrown out of balance.
A reality that swallowed you up, yet one that could barely be touched.
Spinning lost through electrical sparks.
A new reality at the edge of everything.
At the edge of all the mattered and all that didn’t.
A steady calm or frozen panic; so close to the same.
Something else on the edge; the blurred borderline where the unreal is real.
© Natasha Sinclair
Read more about our experience through NICU in my deeply personal memoir, ‘One Step Forward, Two Steps Back: A story of love & survival through NICU.’
Whisper they would; what harm is there in hushed voices?
Heard in the distance; with a smile towards my face, tightness around my throat.
To my door, each one of them would knock; in need of an ear, to shed a judgment free tear.
A closed mouth; their release and relieve.
Whispers feed whispers; taking wicked twisted form.
Filthy crooked fingers point in fierce accusation; neighbour and friendships turned sour.
Speaking in tongues; evil and lust for persecution, the execution.
Tales twisted unrecognisably; cures contorted to fatal blame.
It’s good to have a scapegoat and I’m one of theirs; purging their evils and guilt with gangland misdirection.
Trials fuelled by bloodlust and power; there was only ever going to be one verdict grown from whispers; “Witch!” “Guilty!” “Sentence her to death!”
Strung up naked, centre stage; a place I never wanted to be.
I only longed for peace, quiet, to be free.
Angry eyes burned back in hate; none of them seeing their burning Witch.
Inward looking desperate to purge their cruelties in my bodies destructive flames.
I am Issobella; their last Witch strangled and burned.
I am Issobella; their Wasteland Witch.
They claim to have learned but they still don’t see; times have changed them little, their Witch is still me.
(c) Natasha Sinclair 2019, All rights reserved.