The Red One (a fuck affair)

5 A.M Decisions

I wrote something today. I haven’t done that in a long time.


After a while, he’d make the coffee himself. Not before giving her one last fuck, though. Hard. Cum. ‘Good morning’.

Then he’d get out of bed, stroll naked to the kitchen, still sweaty. Put the kettle on, plug his phone into the charger hanging from the table. Cupboard, mug – always the same one, the one she’d first made him a coffee in, the one that meant the least to her. Coffee powder, 3 teaspoons of sugar, boiling water, fridge open and then, ‘Jeez…the red one. I’d forgotten about the red one’.

Once, a long time ago, she’d tried to explain The Red One to him. But he didn’t listen. He never listened. He wasn’t able to listen, or care, about anything, or anyone. Maybe that’s why he was such an incredible fuck. He fucked like nothing…

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Kneeling In Jumpers


She told me; stop picking at my food.

Chomp, mutter, cough, clink, the exciting sounds of the restaurant.  Can’t relax next to the window.  Taxi cabs beaming across my face, the room flicking yellow as they indicate to go either or.  I drink too much wine, too quickly.  Not even at dessert and I’m glued to the chair.  I cannot move because that’ll give everything away.  I feel like the floor is rolling surf, and I am trying not to capsize.

She told me that God was like Apple, whilst flicking her phone.  Deliberately creating things that were inherently designed to be flawed and eventually fail, just so they can be replaced, and the users punished.  Hacking away at a piece of steak, a rhetorical question meanders over the candles; why create something just to be adored?

I tell her television careers have been built on less, and she doesn’t laugh.


It’s the black dress that does it.  Her little black dress drives me crazy.  When she is at work I remove it from the wardrobe and slash it to ribbons.  It’s a ritualistic execution, death by 1000 slices, just so the fucking thing knows how I feel.


One morning I can’t find her.  The bed is empty and colder than usual.  In a purple dawn I rush to the beach and find a trail of clothes – and a slashed dress – on the seawall, followed by her unique instep.  I follow.  The footprints end where the tide breaks on the sand.

Ants On A Log


His lips moving is all I can see. I told him I wanted ice cream and that my thoughts aren’t the way I’d like them to be. He just squeezes my hand and says something that goes through me like he never said anything at all. When I was a kid, my mom would let us make Ants On A Log and I just loved them. I couldn’t eat enough of em. And I thought it was so funny we were eating something that had pretend ants on them. These days she cries and smiles and nods encouragingly at my poetry even though she kinda doesn’t agree. or maybe she does. She’s a real lady. Polite and smiley. Speaks up against immorality and goes to church every Sunday. Always the last to leave. I’ve never had that in me. I yell and scream and left church as a teenager when…

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It’s me

” My house is my sanctuary and people are coming around less and less. It’s me. I’m pushing them away as far as I can. Living in solitude, growing a healthy fear of what’s normal.”

Daffni communicating my thoughts better than I ever could.


There’s been a hawk circling my house. And around the corner, a brunette threw up in the gutter while her boyfriend went off somewhere with his friends. That’s never been my type of crowd, but then again, I was always a weird kid. It’s only getting worse. My house is my sanctuary and people are coming around less and less. It’s me. I’m pushing them away as far as I can. Living in solitude, growing a healthy fear of what’s normal. Tiny hands reach in and out in a rhythm I’m coming to terms with. I still think about it though, how to show them writing is my thing, my only thing, and nothing else. Along with love of course. But they already know I’m the soft kinda crazy. I personally like to call it passionate. Anyway, no matter how hard I fight it, my bones look just like his…

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Life right now, is like a panda getting its belly rubbed with the end of a bamboo stick. Who’s the one with the bamboo? I don’t know, probably some panda loving human who found a really long bamboo stick. My boobs hurt, apparently it could take up to 6 weeks from the miscarriage for things to go back to normal. But I only feel normal once in a blue moon. January 1st was a full moon and for some strange reason I thought that meant someone was going to do all my work for me. But, the end of the day comes and then a wee bit of the morning and still, the screen stares at me wide eyed and bushy tailed. Have you ever seen children who blink at you with that innocent beam of light in their eye? It can be a lot of pressure, those bushy…

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Hold You

S. K. Nicholas


You’ve got the huff and the puff and you keep trying to lose me but I’ve a hold of your hand and won’t let go. You tell me you’re going to leave, that you’ve had enough of me, but you’re just hungry and I know by the look in your eyes that once you’ve eaten you’ll be fine. So we head to the McDonald’s near the second-hand store where I buy my games. By the time we get there you’re dragging your feet and I pretty much have to carry you. Head lowered and hair covering your face, you think I can’t see you grinning. Think that you’ve got away with it, but I can see your games from a mile away, girl. Tickling you under the arms as we head inside, you spring back to life and hit me with your handbag. Laughing as you stamp your feet, I put…

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