Strolling through the city of ghosts Mine and others Life lessening; remnants many The only commodities exponentially growing The less-ness and the dead Faces curl by, mighty and mellow Jesting jesters Secret stalkers Smooth and lined Chiselling the face of ages Charcoal sketches in a dusty book My neck cranes from the tarmac To sandstone stretching skyward Behind blacked shades I hasten a look Faces carved into stone statues Corrosion of time changes their masks And I see you there Dancing among the gargoyles Faces I’ve known Faces I’ve kissed Faces long dismissed Echoes of ancient conversations Undertows hidden behind music Soothing ears and fears with every pluck and stroke Muffling hyper consternation Rapid beats in the throat Lost words imprint the atmosphere Bare toes curl into the black cracked pavement They keep remaking it Covering the splits The old tracks; spectre paths Undertows ripple underfoot Soon only remnants shall remain Ruptured I’m one of them; a mere echo In this Undertow City.
FILTHY FREE FICTION
This is our second story to be featured by HST — we both had a blast writing this one. Check it out for a free fix of sexy, sleazy horror fiction. As with our last one, Milked — tissues and lube are appropriate condiments to have on standby!
Live and free over on Horror Sleaze Trash today is a new filthy little flash story, Milked, from Natasha Sinclair and David Owain Hughes.
Check out our story and the many other dirty little words over there — tissues, lube and a sick bucket are reasonable condiments to have close by.
She was the most beautiful burlesque dancer to join their travelling freakshow; mesmerising. Clownhead couldn’t believe his luck when she reciprocated his sleazy advances.
As he drove his shaft in and out of her moistening pussy, his balls began that familiar thrum. Twin clown-heads hardened inside his sack, swelling and stretching skin; teeth chitter-chattered.
As his orgasm built in the pit of his rolling jelly-belly, with every enthusiastic thrust of his hips – electricity. The sharpening, lengthening teeth tore through his slop sodden sack. Clownhead’s weight pinned her as the twins erupted to enjoy their long-awaited meal in vivacious violent victory.
Time was not a construct in existence for the great Anantaboga. Her presence always was and always would be; aeons of sacred serenity. Beyond ‘time,’ beyond language — she the source of many a cosmic destiny. Hers was of pure, concentrated magic. Weaving and swirling through the universe — a serpent’s dance of divine grace; goddess in motion, the essence from which worlds would emerge. Moving in timeless transitions among spinning rocks of magnificent technicolour spender, among black holes that fractured into other universes from the booming demise of stars. Magic surrounded her — a goddess of gliding splendiferous, viridescence. Diamond-tipped scales adorned her muscled physique, wisps of feathered flame framed her face — Anantaboga sailed through infinities of dark, accented with pocketed explosions of monumental colour flanking her sophisticated dance of eternities.
In the pit of the great Naga Jawa’s incandescent, glowing soul…forlornness of being the universal guardian gnawed. A profound ache for which no language could ever convey. Drawing on her effervescence, a poison ebbed in, speckling her colour with despair. Furious to fill the void slowly sucking at this exquisite being, transcendent meditations intensified from new desperate obsession, splitting the deity from herself. Sonic eruptions thundered through the universe from the Naga Jawa as her soul ruptured. Tremors cracked, tearing the ether pouring a new gift into physical being; Bedawang Nala, The World Turtle — Anantaboga’s offering unto herself. Baring a world upon his back, a blue globe — the delicate marbled sphere complete with its own underworld and heavens — a living breathing entity in its own right, teeming with yet more life.
All the gifts of balance were bestowed upon this new world, including precious creation itself — immortality through soul and seed a generous promise to all. An embodiment of the heavens it would thrive in cyclical motion. Each organism imbued with unique qualities to contribute essential elements to the delicate bountiful ecosystems. Time was created within the confines of the precious orb and so it turned. Light and shadow graced the blue and green, atop the ship of gods guiding her among the cosmos.
Man quickly lost his way. The Deities warned in quakes, rumblings, heat, clearing out pockets, gifting opportunities to shift course, begin anew.
Alas, the little marble spiralled so very far, flagrantly destroying celestial given serenity, waging wars in the face of peace. Greed drained. Even as it still perched upon Bedawang Nala’s shell, the rising tumult permeated through to her, corroding. Corruption reigned on the back of The World Turtle. Warnings were given no hied; dismissed by the ever plundering populace of man. As his neglect runs rampant as an infection perfusing the little globe, Anantaboga sees she must release her beloved Bedawang Nala of the burden of the marble.
The Naga Jawa meditates encircling her creation, jaw stretching around the new rock; within, discomfort rises — her scorching breath quickens the heat rising. Sporadic bouts of flood, fire and new disease litter the green and blue. The great serpents jaw is closing in, no more warnings.
© Natasha Sinclair, 2020
This piece was inspired by the fascinating and magical stories of Javanese / Indonesian mythology. The Javanese creation theme was blended with the devastating environmental damage being caused to our planet. How would our actions be seen through the eyes of gods?
Thank you for reading! If you would like to read more Asian inspired fantasy and horror fiction – check out Insignia Stories, who are presenting and hosting Horror Matsuri throughout October 2020!
A daughter held him, frozen. Imitation of new dead still; only air flowing through functioning lungs. Numb dumb in thought, inaction. Painfilled love for this new grieving orphan. The fallen favourite of a Mothers beloved brood. There would be none of us had she not been; none of his Fatherhood. A tangled barbed root from which we each came. Some blessing amongst much insane. Now there she lay, dead in a bed; frozen slack still. An empty shell; once wishing well. Dead in a bed, not even her own. Eyes pouring in great damming floods; others uncomfortably dry as desert bone. Through strangers’ hands she passes, between arctic fridges of steel. Upon the final spin of the great Mothers wheel; scions on the side-lines awaiting the final reveal. Embalmed, freshly robed in white; encased as a doll in her satin lined box. A gift to the soil never to spoil. © Natasha Sinclair
Four of my publications are currently available for FREE download from Amazon worldwide. The offer runs for three days through 17th, 18th and 19th June 2020.
Please check them out and if you do read – a review is always hugely appreciated, especially by Indie writers like myself, Andrew Taylor and G G Flavell.
Sharing with you a new short, free, here on my site!
Check out ‘Unicorn’ via the new ‘Short Stories’ menu. Enjoy!