straygod

He couldn't wake up. Stuck to a badge of grey flesh, a clump of fur floated in a brown puddle.  Twisted metal ribs reflected against the skin of flat water, jags of broken concrete scattered around the bases of wrecked buildings.  Laz's neck hurt.  Moss grew behind his back.  A woodlouse shivered on his knee.  The armchair in front of him was a splintered mass of greasy hair and his mum was sitting in it speaking to someone he couldn't see, grinning. Their house was a ruin and Laz couldn't be sure if it was really their house because the roof was open to the sky and the sky was purple like it had been abused and the top floor was displaced,

My first bone clock was made from a stray dog.  I found him flea-crawling, skin crumpled and raw where he had gnawed away clots of fur.  Rib-thin and limping, he dragged himself into a scrawny copse and lay on his side panting.  Miserable thing, close to dying.  For a while I sat on the dirt and watched his skinny chest heaving and collapsing and swelling as if every breath was his last.  I pictured bees with broken wings, rusted cogs and leaking wires, kitchen lights flickering, batteries dribbling acid.  Little machines continuing lopsided. Such grim purpose.  I felt a type of sad. I wrung his neck until it snapped and cradled his body ho

violently sick, threw up all over Gordon Ramsay. it wasn't the DiSarrono. I'm puking into the phone and you tell me the next day I was screaming about demons and I was a five year old boy and I was laughing like a hyena. holding the phone like a hot water bottle; you're still talking and I can hear you against my stomach bleating -what?   -don't you remember? this is the amnesia, struggling to fill itself; it stretches out like an empty leech flailing its black body - a dehydrated tongue rolling around between my teeth. the bedroom is howling like a forest and the sky is a bruised woman collapsing through the roof and your voice is

They found her standing naked in the playground, hair ripped down to the roots.  This time moths had poured through, she said, thousands of them - a swarm of starving children scrambling towards the light of her bedroom window. Seth didn't recognise her.  She looked exactly the same as his mother, but he had never met this woman. Last time, she'd crawled under the bed and refused to come out for days, convinced there were rats chewing holes in the ceiling... but these rats, she said, they weren't normal - these rats, they walked on their hind legs and wore waistcoats and their skin was translucent, and like baby birds you could see all thei