Clownhead

A Drabble

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.

One Shake Too Many

A Drabble

Mothers of sons are queer — boundaryless.

I should’ve known when she barged in, unapologetically, when we were screwing. Kidding myself — it was just another funny little accident? She couldn’t have heard me moan…

It was never going to work while she was still ramming the teat into his wide, open mouth. 

The final straw came at Christmas. I walked into the bathroom to see her shaking it off — too pissed to piss on his own. Marking her territory with pride of her homemade produce; one shake too many.

She’ll do anything for her boy. Quite frankly, she can have him.

A drabble written a while ago. Reading it again made me want to revisit the cast of ‘Psychoville’ . If you know the characters, you know.

Penumbra

Shadows engulf mother Earth, shade and still-cold stretch through half the globe as Batara Candra embraces her most impossible love, Batara Surya. Two halves of a singular coin. Coming together only briefly once every eighteen years. A passing lingering embrace that ripples waves of darkness, causing tides to threaten to turn, waves of anarchy and torrents of cold panic; what if they never let go?

Doomed love or doomed planet by total eclipse — an impossible love where no-one truly wins. Love must pass through the penumbra, saving this world from suffocating darkness or burning light.

Until next time, my love.

Cookie-Cutter Lane

Claustrophobic, locked in.
Mirrored headstones line the grey road. 

Buried alive, suburban death-row.
‘Did you hear about so and so?’

Blurred race of parallel lines standing still.
Masking — one fanes will.

Mimic gimmicks with lacklustre flare.
Another unforgiving snare.
Teeth scraping bone.
Smile while blood flows soaking frozen toes.

A trend-setting bush, a coat of paint.
‘Oh, look together we’re dammed saints.’
The season of outdoing the clone next door.
Marching down the line of uninspired duplication — snore.

Bored.
Trapped.
Locked down on cookie-cutter lane.

Painting beige with grey, painfully mundane.
Disgusted with one’s own disdain.
It really is insane.

© Natasha Sinclair

Frozen Slack Still

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