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

Gemma’s Teddy

The breeze wafted through the thick deep orange curtains. Bathing the drab third floor flat. Manky midden air from the rising summer heat mingled with the rising damp of the crumbling tenement walls. A fresh lick of paint only tricked the eyes. Festering rot just beneath that thin surface. Gemma sat in the corner of the living room, face blotchy red in desperate tears. Huddled into her baby wrapped in his pale blue teddy blanket. Dead. Still. Rocking back and forth quietly sobbing; “I just needed you to stop screaming, just for a minute.”

“You can wake up now, Teddy…”

(C) Natasha Sinclair 2019.

Previously published by Writingwriters.net for Drabble #5

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 

Devil between the Lines

Sifting through tatty scrawled notes.
Desperately furious hand; pouring forth perpetual cocktails of mind toxins in blotchy ink.
Heavy watery explosions; dried time.
Tasked to beat the drugs, the sad drab clinics, psychologically challenged specialists.
Yeah, they sure were special all right; paid listeners who couldn’t shut up.
It’s too easy to turn the tables on the professionally needy; care couldn’t care less.
Unfamiliar hand between his own; Did I write that? Did I reply to myself?
Goading himself to take the leap; the devil between the lines, teaser.
The years trickle on; he somehow survived himself…
For how long?

© Natasha Sinclair