The memories don't fade easily for her. When she least expects it they begin seeping back. The cinnamon bark timber of voice. The delicate colour of skin. Hair like flowing honey. And eyes, like mystical windows. Finally, the most perfect little ears in the world and she begins to weep.

Christmas Horror

Too soon the sky began to drip. A sudden red cloud covered the earth heralding the beginning of bloodletting season. From the thick filth the leeches and ticks crawled and beneath every Christmas tree they found a home. Drunk on Yuletide cheer, the families slept sound and the leeches came out of the woodwork. Literally.

Colour Contortion

She sat by the window dreaming of coffee as the raven drew near. It
perched itself on a branch and settled its' wings, dark as the thoughts
that unsettled her. The black coffee steamed and she poured the milk,
smooth as the skin of the girl she was thinking off. Porcelain white of
ivory bones, skin of delicate milk coffee and hair of honey brown. And
the sky dripped slowly, filling heavily with tears. The bird was as
sordid and damp as her mind. And the girl in her thoughts was bluer by
the minute.

"Say the word slowly", she said, as she nibbled his ear.
"And say it with feeling, like you really mean it."
"Wed Nes Day", he whispered, wincing in pain.