Wednesday, 30 November 2011


She held his hand and kept her eyes demurely down. She wore her shortest dress to draw attention.

Men pretended not to look but when they passed she heard their gasps at the purpling licks of wicked bruises. She knew they were hoping for a flash of lacy lingerie, not that mottled ladder leading to the whitest, cotton naivety.

All the more outrageous he had sullied such innocence.

Later, under the actinic illumination of the bathroom strip light, he would kneel before her and tenderly sponge the stage make-up from her legs. And she would laugh softly at his shame.

Wednesday, 23 November 2011


Jack watches Sam and Lea from the shadows.

Sam is telling her about the tunnels, and the weapon. Of course he would tell his wife, he’s excited, damn the non-disclosure agreement.

Jack clicks the safety off.

Sam’s talking about their one chance to win this war... and that’s when the back of Lea’s summer dress explodes in a shredded mess as chitinous, jointed limbs erupt from somewhere inside her.

Jack steps out, pulls the trigger, blows wet gobs of Lea’s brains all over her husband. He hesitates, then holsters the Glock and reaches for his shaking brother.

"Sam, I'm sorry."