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

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

Concoction – Haunted

Exciting Summer Anthology of shorts release!

Concoction – White Sugar

‘White Sugar’ will be featured in ‘Concoction,’ this summer.

This short was first published in ‘The Whisky Stories…A few years on it and still going, a drunk love story’ by Andrew Taylor.

Wasteland Witch

Whisper they would; what harm is there in hushed voices?

Heard in the distance; with a smile towards my face, tightness around my throat.

To my door, each one of them would knock; in need of an ear, to shed a judgment free tear.

A closed mouth; their release and relieve.

Whispers feed whispers; taking wicked twisted form.

Filthy crooked fingers point in fierce accusation; neighbour and friendships turned sour.

Speaking in tongues; evil and lust for persecution, the execution.

Tales twisted unrecognisably; cures contorted to fatal blame.

It’s good to have a scapegoat and I’m one of theirs; purging their evils and guilt with gangland misdirection.

Trials fuelled by bloodlust and power; there was only ever going to be one verdict grown from whispers; “Witch!” “Guilty!” “Sentence her to death!”

Strung up naked, centre stage; a place I never wanted to be.

I only longed for peace, quiet, to be free.

Angry eyes burned back in hate; none of them seeing their burning Witch.

Inward looking desperate to purge their cruelties in my bodies destructive flames.

I am Issobella; their last Witch strangled and burned.

I am Issobella; their Wasteland Witch.

They claim to have learned but they still don’t see; times have changed them little, their Witch is still me.

(c) Natasha Sinclair 2019, All rights reserved.