Breakfast

It was never really a thing, certainly not a warm homely one. Definitely not when it was actually needed anyway. Just a cheap bar en-route to whatever institution one happened to be enslaved to at the time. Except on weekends, in those earlier years. The house would swell with the rotten sickening stench of animal fat disgustingly popping, spitting and bursting; angry, sticky and thick choking the atmosphere. It was a foul stench that took physical form and seemed to bind itself to my skin.

I could never srub the deathly remains of that off, a shower was never enough no matter how good the scrubbing brush reddening my skin, I can still feel it now. Murder victims at home in my pores.

Cheerfully they would chomp and grind down over fried slices of a processed baby cadaver. Some of which had been ground down and fused together with many other bits of cadavers. How many kills could be found in just one sausage?

I never got the idea of this breakfast. The weeks reward. Breaking fast with death, clogged up arteries, cancers, and the suffocating pores just for being in the vicinity. No one can say for sure what internal horrors are being born from this ghastly feast. The external ones, although denied, painfully obvious. All consumed with a smile and a misplaced, misrepresented sense of gratitude. I was the one being judged with disgust and distaste over a slice of dry toast and black coffee…

The irony of those who smugly declare, “Live and let live!”

We’re all ‘animal lovers after all, right?

Yeah, just as Dahmer ‘loved’ his meat…

I’m the abnormal one…

© Natasha Sinclair. All rights reserved.

Beta Call

If you’d like to be a beta reader for the next Concoction anthology release, scheduled for this Winter 2019, drop me a message via the contact form on this site.

Blue Hue

My Daughter in NICU, 2014

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 hue, 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.’

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

The Whisky Stories FREE

6th June 2019.

To coincide with today’s eBook release for ‘Concoction,’ you can also download Andrew Taylor’s ‘The Whisky Stories’ FREE from Amazon!

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