New Order Disorder

Stuck in the mud; the heart is a-thud.

Another dud.

The tightening throat; tangled in knots.

Edit, revise, delete, repeat.

Sticking in loops; nauseating mud soup.

Shattered mind in broken tongue; where had it all begun?

Shards slashing on the way down.

Dead letters nestling in; stinging nettles grow within.

Type again, reply, no don’t…

Wait, that’s wrong!

Too much? Too little? Too dam late!

Let it go…

Letters in the grave; need to be ‘brave.’

Stick a label on it; Depression

Change the address.

Oodles of mess; time eclipsed by so much ‘missed.’

Misrepresented, mistimed, misdiagnosis, misunderstood, missed.

Return to sender 30 years later…

Wrong label, here’s a new one; ASD

New order from the so-called Disorder.

(C) Natasha Sinclair, all rights reserved.

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

“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

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 

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.

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