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.

Falling Seas and Espionage By Andrew Taylor

The Snow is not done with us yet. Not enough of you have been out to feel it and allowed it to creep close. It will return day after day until it is satisfied and like almost everything else in the world, satisfaction is not a state reached quickly. Few exceptions exist, but their acquisition is painful and consuming. You cannot have one without the other.

Time is an awful mistress and she will bend for nothing on this earth. Work is an expression of life, whatever you occupy yourself with. Everything is corruptible and you only have to look at the coast line for a good example; nothing stands the test of time. Values, cultures and beliefs change, die out, are reborn, become a shadow of themselves and disappear. Things take the place of other things. You change your furniture, change your clothes, rearrange your desk, realign your point of view, forget something, cheat yourself, hurt somebody, hurt yourself, swear you’ll never do it again, make a resolution, break a promise, fall down, pick yourself back up, gaze at the reflection in the mirror and think, “Am I……………?” Forget it and let the water rush in.

A beach is a beautiful thing, the canyons under the oceans are said to be some of the most wonderous mountain ranges on earth and the oceans themselves are as yet vastly uncharted. Who doesn’t like a mystery?

©Andrew Taylor 2019, All rights reserved

From, ‘The Whiskey Stories…A few years on it and still going, a drunk love story’

About the Author;

Glasgow based writer who began fictional writing while studying Sociology as a way to merge learning and art. Themes of “work,” general distaste for society and a dystopian world prevail. Andrew finished Uni over 10 years ago and let writing fall away, but has recently began engaging in it again. A fan of the current “flash fiction” genre as well as short stories. His favourite writer is Charles Bukowski and he’s tried reading Hemingway on several occasions, love it but just cant seem to finish. Burroughs is another favourite and he enjoys the cut up work.