Free Books

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.

Writing – 2020 so far

It’s been a little while since I’ve posted an update here so thought I should swing by!
The writing priority for 2020 was really to release Concoction V2 and focus on submitting pieces to other anthologies.
Subbing out is still very new for me, it’s been going well, considering all the hurdles 2020 has thrown so far!

Below are titles published in 2020 containing some of my short stories and drabbles. I’ve, naturally, been writing predominantly in the horror genre this year, and loving it.

Out with the already published works, including the 19 within the anthologies above, I have another 14 accepted pieces and 4 awaiting a response. A few of these are drabbles which will appear in Iron Faerie Publishing’s Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse series and a flash fiction dark fantasy tale in their Hexed Anthology.

I have also been dipping back into two ongoing pieces that seem to be continually evolving, so will have to see how they play out – they may evolve into an interconnected collection or novel. Their journeys are still being designed to the crazy soundtrack in my head!

Posts are more frequent on Facebook and Instagram, so feel free to pop over there; https://www.facebook.com/NatashaSinclair or https://www.instagram.com/clan_witch/

Natasha x

Cusp of Power

Wide eyed, helpless he gazed through his new mother’s entranced steel-grey orbs. The cosmos mirrored in the sacred water on this Samhain night, bathed in magically majestic blood moon. Reflected as it was in both their souls; ripples through stars, each one a gift. A single birth and death on the very cusp of the veil, a perfect way to live forever. Thought the power-hungry young witch.

Laoghaire’s meticulous scheme to dispatch and consume the making of her body, radiant new life, was in veracious ritual motion, void emotion. Mothers natural selection.

The tiny infants body wriggled, gagged and choked; crystal fresh water, stars and planets rushed down his throat. The deep iridescent fairy pool of sparkling emeralds consumed new life with the boundless universe. Laoghaire’s fevered eyes drank in every detail of her secret sacred bairn.

An exchange with the realms of darkness, immaculate life for multifarious transcendent power.

© Natasha Sinclair. 2019.

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

Alarm

The obnoxious screeching tore through consciousness, wrenching from some distant dreamy place. One far more appealing than this. 6:00am screamed as heavy eyes flew startled open, red and dry. The Dead arm fought to shut that raging thing up. Fucking 6:00am!

Quiet now but that wasn’t to last, it never did. Soon I’d hear the echoes of other bellowing alarms chasing other slaves from sleep. Got to get the magic paper or the idea of it anyway. Pay service to the authorities, whoever the hell they were and contribute! To what, I don’t really know.

It’s all lies…

Lies that we follow almost mindlessly if not completely. Following until there’s nothing left.

I had only been sleeping two hours if I was lucky. Less in fact, I recall 4:00am, as I always do, so definitely not the round two. Desperately trying to empty my stupid head on to scrap pieces by my sunken bed. Open door at four. Evacuating this mad racket noise so I could sleep. The paper was completely drenched in scrawlings that made perfect sense at the time. Now appeared as if they were written by some foreign ghost. It was me though, it’s always just me. Even with the ghosts clambering and scratching at my exhausted soul, they couldn’t tell what was what. Scrambling for desperate scraps, something to cling to, or let go of. They weren’t the only ones. At least they were dead.

I never sleep enough, never was programmed for the job. Maybe that’s what came of all that screaming in the night or was just some missed connection before even then. It’s harder for this mind to shut up when everything else does. So much echo within echo bouncing off metal over and over again.

When will the 6:00am screeching be done with me? Maybe one day Death will cast her final shadow before it starts. Stuck for an eternity in that dreamy place before the alarm excitedly bellows; a surprise whip lashing my back raw. That will surely be more than two round hours…

Or I’ll be stuck somewhere else, scratching at your soul…

I hate alarms.

(C) Natasha Sinclair, all rights reserved

Out of Colour

She was so incredibly vibrant, effervescent even. Life cascaded over her and she soaked it up; osmosis from grey to all illuminating colour.

They couldn’t know of the tortured girl hiding behind long straggly hair in the corner depths of her soul. Trying not to breathe, holding her head still between her hands and knees; frightened little anchoress within.

She painted the outside with hypnotic kaleidoscopic colour. Energy was electrifying and luminescent. Rich from living, a friend to everyone, my love.

After the years of youth though; too much mayhem and noise, too much of that painted face. Too many troubles to keep buried behind a smile, she ran all out of colour.

I see her try sometimes. Try to paint it on. Her skin only soaks it into the dead grey; cracking, peeling, painful and raw. Hermit grey, only shade in the shadows.

There’s barely any precious life left.

(C) Natasha Sinclair, All rights reserved

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

Subway

One cannot avoid eye contact when entombed within the old musky tube. Dank, dark. As if being underground wasn’t torture enough. Everything so close. Restricted air flow, foot flow, low flow. All so close to burying you alive. Suffocating amongst concrete, dirt, strangers and metal. Any second it could all cave in and one of them could catch my eye…

© Natasha Sinclair

“Just One More”

Early flight; foreign daze too bright.
Night draws with a bang.
Curtains closed, skirts up.
Old streets buzz with pimps and cheats .
Sex in the air; for a fair fare.
Her tired mouth, his wallet.
A classy bar, a sleazy toilet.
Part of the play, trip away.
Any old dud feels like a stud.
Pussy on the wind.
Setting up for good grind.
Getting low so you can’t go.
She lays her head to rest.
Holiday urge starts to spread.
He pushed her ‘til she was sunned down.
“Just one more."
Pretends he's not off to score.
Whore behind another door.
Sleepy head all tore with gore.
Slips in hours too late...
Stinking and slick from a professional date.
“Just one more,” he said.
Wet with mixed sweat.
A foreign scent had him spent.
Deceit on the forgotten receipt.
Deceit cheat never sleeps.
It’s always just one more…
Score.

© Natasha Sinclair 2019

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