Jesus is my fuckbuddy.

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The blood in her cheeks was freezing. Lightning burst in the night sky, each flash casting a smash of light over Castle Bergens, sat high and far in the Carpathian mountains. It would appear so stark and bright before vanishing once again into darkness. It looks like it’s getting closer, Little Maxi said when the lightning once more threw up the mountain range. Lizbeth pushed him along, bade him comfort wee Tilda, who was inside, out-screaming the thunder. As he ran in, she stood there at the gate just a moment more, her red hair whipping in the water and wind, watching the storm play out. Continue reading


Every night, Bert. Every night, down to the river with ya little ‘barrow. Careful, Bert, careful with ya broken fingers. If y’upset the cart, if it poddles over and the wee’uns tumble onta cobbles, if the common folk see me ‘midnight littles’, then ooh. Then ooh, Bert. I might put you on the roof and let the cold take ya. Will I not, Bert? Will I might tell mistress Hopps who’s ferretin’ away her used flannels instead? Might I’ll just kick your bollocks clean away. An agony o’ choices, Bert. Continue reading


I feel bad for oranges. I’d hate to be crushed, just for my juices. People can be so cruel, slipping the oh-Jay down their throats, pulp and all, flesh and blood down the gullet. But, of course, why should we care? It would be insane. It just strikes me as weird that’s all, that something has to be crushed and devoured for it to be complete; for it to achieve, for us at least, its purpose. I think of this tonight, as she packs a suitcase. I don’t know why.


The seating plan was working, thought Jerome, bringing his glass of wine to his lips in order to suppress a giggle of godlike triumph. He was the creator, he was Brahma, he was Dr Frankenstein. After all, what else is an effective seating plan other than the assemblage of rogue limbs, individually useless and wanting, and stitching together these parts to make a creature of form and substance? Continue reading


Terms and conditions will apply,” said Grandpa jovially, just clinging to his cheer as my mother scrubbed at his foaming scalp with both hands. “They will app-ly”. His voice broke with pain as she turned the shower wheel and a spurt of boiling water burst over his head, but you could still hear his voice bouncing around the house. “Oh deary me,” it sang. “Oh dear.” Continue reading