Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?
We both know your heart is hollow
with a lining of artificial sweetener
and a crust constructed from the ashes
of all the victims who came before me.

“How nice to see you again.”
Your smile hides the snarl
that will wither me, I know
’cause I’ve been here before.
I’m the idiot who comes back for more.

The chase ends here, my fake friend.
You’ll fool me no more with your saccharine ways
The jig is up
and I’ll bury you alive
before you slither back into my life.


There are a few things I’m very good at, but I wouldn’t call myself an expert at anything. For instance, I can fly a helicopter and rescue people from the ocean, I can paint a landscape and sell it for six figures, and I can stand on stage and sing to crowds of thousands.

You can see for yourself, I’m good. I think not calling myself an expert at anything is what makes me so humble.


You come back. You always do. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were a moth and I am the flame, but no. An insect doesn’t draw all that satisfying ego-boosting boot-licking luxury from a candle. You don’t burn up. You suck.

I wish you could grow up. Take responsibility for the debts you have created. But you act as though the world is your playground. You swing upon the chains that society links together and not surprisingly, it bears your weight. We are a forgiving bunch, me and the other plebes.

But you and me, we’re more personal, aren’t we. How many days and nights and weeks and months and years have we spent in each other’s company. Giving and taking is our history. I’ve plucked from you your essence and you… you have leeched my heart, drop by bloody drop, replacing just enough to keep me alive.

The light in my heart flickers each time we talk. You squint and through my eyes you see the workings of my brain – you analyse and I can actually see your “aha!” moment when you find that thing, that crack in my armor, and you’re like a vacuum. Resistance is futile.

You will never let me go. Even if you die before me I will always wonder if there is more I could have done. More I could have given. One more drop of blood; one more spark of light.

You were my love and now, now you kill me slowly. You always come back.

SoCS – Death Wish (96 words)

My eye brushes gently ‘cross your death note; the taste of it sweet upon my lips. If I thought you weren’t kidding I would surely be afraid for you. But this is you, as you are. As you have always been. The kingdom of Dramaland resides within you – it echos softly as your blood drips on the floor in a tainted half-hearted effort to end it all.
I laugh, straining not to shed tears upon your page. When I look up you are smirking at me. And now it is I who wishes my end.


This post is unedited and written as part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday – a fun prompt that anyone can participate in! Find the rules here:

badge by Doobster @ Mindful Digressions

badge by Doobster @ Mindful Digressions

It is also part of Mr. Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction challenge.  This week: 100 words only. Check it out!


I shall lay naked
upon a bed of white snow
and watch it turn red
with the blood of my children.

All you need do is ask.

Ice Queen

The Ice Queen sat upon her throne and twiddled her thumbs. Her silver rings clicked together – the spectators could hear them in the back row, so quiet was it.

“You call that a performance?” she asked the man in the hat, who had just kissed a woman in a trenchcoat?

“I…I’m…” he stuttered.

“SILENCE!” She breathed through her nose. Someone in the back row coughed and with a flick of her wrist, off came the spectator’s head.

“Come here.” She curled a finger at the actor.

He staggered forward, the fear in his eyes all but thrummed.

“Kiss me,” the Ice Queen whispered. She puckered her lips.

The actor leaned forward… and vomited his dinner into the Ice Queen’s lap.

The Ice Queen screamed and the guards murdered the audience. Every last one of them. Only the Ice Queen, the actors and the guards were left standing.

She stood from her throne. She decreed that there should be a new audience.

The performance would be repeated the next night, as it had been every night for a year.

Tomorrow, perhaps the actor would get it right.