Ingloriously Us

These parents were not made for kids like me: Godless bastards are we, with no faith to call our own and no Hells to fear. “Infidels,” they cry, weeping at altars and prayer mats. “Guide them,” they beg, to powers Unseen. They see us as fallen angels, toppling backwards with our mindless lacklustre. But we... Continue Reading →

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Pale Imitations

This can go one of two ways: either I break or I survive. This depends, not on the strength of my backbone, but its flexibility. It depends on how far I can bend over backwards (how many times I can bend over backwards) without breaking. My lungs will inhale sweet air - but only if... Continue Reading →

The Wheel

Albert takes a step, his shiny black shoes squeaking against the pink pavement. He walks, then runs, always heading in one direction. Suddenly, he stops. Time for a break. He waters himself, chews on some nuts, and then he’s back on the move. The path seems repetitive, and Albert can hear the creaking of plastic... Continue Reading →


Mother wept sorrowfully into my tear-soaked jumper. “Mama, she’ll be fine,” I reassured her, with about as much certainty as the old man sat opposite me had teeth. My father paced angrily around the waiting room, his forehead gleaming with dotted beads of sweat. I snuck a handkerchief into the pocket of his coat, hoping... Continue Reading →

Daily Prompt: Jolly

via Daily Prompt: Jolly   Here’s an ode to the jolly who intoxicate themselves, dipping dizzily into brews of forgetfulness.   Forgetfulness makes eyes shine brighter, makes cheeks burn hotter than cigarette-smoke breath.   Breath forgets to come easily to their lips; air crystallises to ice inside their moist lungs.   But the jolly do... Continue Reading →


These are the objects of my affection: an old soldier toy, boy for too few years, man for the rest of his days. His hair has started to grey, and he is fearful; though the war has ended, he sees danger in every corner. A pretty doll, with three sets of clothes: a doctor’s outfit,... Continue Reading →

The Murder of Sydney Rose

The question wasn't who had killed Sydney Rose. The question was, why hadn't it been done earlier? The murder of Sydney Rose had always been an inevitability. She was hated wherever she set foot. The woman at the post office spat on her letters. Other children at school sneered behind her back. Even her parents... Continue Reading →


The sun’s glare is missing now, so it marches to drink the juices dripping from the mango in my hand and the Coke on her lips. It creeps, unnoticed, into the small space between us, claustrophobic, even for an ant. It bundles up the crumbs from the crust of my sandwich and the edges of... Continue Reading →

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