It was a stubborn stain of a unique complexion – a blush pink mark which spread across the surface like a growing contusion. ‘No pain, no gain’ she whispered as the bleach bit at her hands and seeped into microscopic cuts at the fingertips. Gritted teeth bared the signs of stress as the ritualistic cleaning continued.

The circular motions of the sponge steadily infused the pink of the stain into the transparent cleaning solution, forming a palette of varying hues. Coral, magenta, and salmon mingled with no distinct boundaries into an abstract work of art. The towel used to mop the mess took on a psychedelic pattern.

The last of the stain surrendered to a final rinse and bitterly descended the drain. Slow movements eased the rigid muscles in her fingers, relief at the completion such an arduous task making the motions more durable. A well-deserved bath was long due.

She lowered herself into the filling bath, allowing the water to lap gently at her body, the numerous bubbles bringing childish enjoyment to the serene joy. Eyes fell shut as the bath reached its maximum capacity. Breathing slowed to the hushed sounds of slumber.

The water surrounding her took on a familiar pink tint, each breath forcing out a ripple of the colour. Molten skin slowly sloughed off her forearm, the gelatinous lumps buoyant in the bath water. The tell-tale sting of bleach-treated skin was no longer unpleasant, but a titillating sensation.

Stubbornly waking, she withdrew herself from the bathtub. A faint red ring remained as the water drained away, depositing the gelatinous skin fragments at the base of the bathtub. Rummaging through the bathroom cleaning cabinet, she removed a more petite bottle of bleach. Using the remaining contents, she liberally sprayed the tub before rinsing the scene away.

Slipping on the silk dressing gown that hung from the door, she let the sleek material sooth the wound. Within a month she would be the human embodiment of purity – perfection. Her fingers ran the length of her thighs, body thrumming at the thought. The surface was textured but the patches of skin no longer gooey to the touch and, like patchwork, the scars wove together into a discoloured quilt of flesh.

I have no idea if this makes sense, and it is semi-finished, but a late post is better than no post.

My Child

My child. My. Child.

The words, so unnaturally they form in the depths of my throat. Yet as they slip from my tongue… So right.

That is my child.

Her black curls cradle her face oh so perfectly, each spiral moving of its own accord in a stunning resemblance to the Medusa who tempted Zeus so. And how she tempts me.

I wish to possess her deepest desires and anxieties, to be the breast she rests upon in times of need. To be the symbol of beauty and love that shapes her future. To be her mother.

A giggle bubbles from her throat as I approach. She knows – senses – that her mother is near. That I am near. Oh, my child. Worry not. Our time is soon. I cannot care for you just yet. I need just a few more moments to prepare.

There’s not long left, now.

Don’t worry.

My hands are contaminated, I know this. But how you tempt me. My hands, though tainted, shall envelop you in the warmth of my love.

Do not cry my child, mother is here now. The bad people are gone. They can no longer keep me away.

Do you see that? That hand print is a sign of my love.

Every day I watched you – I couldn’t leave you unsupervised in their care. Everyday I rested my hand against that window pane, preparing myself for the day I could rest it against the curve of your neck.

Hush those tears. I know you are too young to understand, but just know this.

I love you, my child.

They’re not here to tell you lies anymore.

Mother. Father. Cruel lies. Evil lies.

You are mine and no other’s. I have known this since the beginning of time.

You are mine.

My child.


[This story is a previously written one, in which I attempted to take on a different style of writing from my usual one. It is a very open-ended text that could be interpreted as you wish, however it was written with one specific idea/concept in mind. Maybe some day I’ll share my own interpretation of the text I’ve written]

Hunting; Snow

The soft swirl of snowfall fell before his eyes, distorting the landscape ahead of him. Each step left its mark; an indent quickly masked by the fall that threatened to blind him. Lulls in the wind gave view to the red trail that dripped between the trees, the snow transforming the rouge drops into small crystalline structures. It was injured. That was for certain.

Forearm as shield, he swept the pine branches aside, the thick of his jacket protecting his already wind-bitten skin. Pause. Tension built in the branch as it was held, sending a ripple through the leaves. The tree ahead trembled. Slowly, he released the branch, allowing it to slide soundlessly back into position.

His foot rolled through the snow, an attempt to mute the sound of his steps. Pause. The tree trembled once more. One more step placed him before another ruby of snow. He crouched down, finger running across its surface. He removed his finger to reveal a streak of sticky red. A fresh mark.

In one smooth movement, he pulled the weight across his shoulder; the palm of his left hand moulding to the barrel of the gun, the right hand balanced around the stock. Index finger trained over the trigger, he took aim.

The quiver of branches marked its fall. A soft grunt disturbed the quiet of the forest, a strained silence falling in its wake. Lowering the barrel to the floor, he stepped towards the sound’s origin. He brushed the branches aside, vision no longer obscured by snow nor trees.

Using the snow as leverage, his prey attempted to claw itself away. The soft shush of its body dragging through the snow met his ears. At the sound of his footsteps, it turned; the white of its eyes blood-shed and fearful. A red stream trickled over its bare skin, oozing from the entry wound just below its shoulder. Its eyes searched through the trees, before meeting with his own. He watched as its desperation grew.

“Please?” she whispered. “Please…” She stared intently at her captor, tears escaping from her eyes before her gaze fell to the floor.

He smiled steadily, raising the barrel of his gun. With one squeeze, her head was snapped backwards by the force of the bullet, torso dragged to the floor by the weight. The subsequent blood seeped from the new entry wound, staining the white of her skin a deep red.

Slinging the shotgun back over his shoulder, he plucked a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and stooped down momentarily, swabbing the splatter from his boots. Taking his exit, he allowed the soiled handkerchief to fall from his fingers. He produced a phone from within his jacket, placing it against his ear. “Another successful hunt,” he chuffed. The bluing skin of the girl’s body was no longer visible as he laughed down the phone.

The snowfall picked up again as the distance between the two grew; a desolate tomb of snow forming around her body as he made his escape. His voice rode along the winter breeze, barely a whisper by the time it reached the body. The soft chuckle rolling over her grave as he continued to speak down the phone.

“Release the next one.”

The Writing Process


Spontaneity is not a skill of mine, of that I can be certain. The initial momentum of creativity leaves me feeling invincible to the forces that may hinder the writing process, for I am an even bigger force of nature that refuses to be abated. Words flow smoothly across the screen and continue to piece together into an intricate work of art. But wait. Is that a spelling mistake? Fingers pause above the keys, an eye twitches at such an amateur mistake but it is an easy one to make and the forgiving character of the backspace button appeases my perfectionist mind. Prepared to wield my literary devices once again, I reach for my sword – only to find the holster empty. In trigger happy frustration, jumbled words and nonsensical sentences worm their way along the screen. My indestructible casing had slumped off and lay sloppily at my feet. Wrists tied and mind encased in a serious infliction of writer’s block, I can do no more than stare into the unfinished void that is my laptop screen. A tear slips from my eye. I close the lid of the laptop in shame. I am defeated.

The writing process has been obstructed once more. A cycle to be inevitably repeated.