BODIES - A Zine

I can only write stories about haunted houses. I don’t mean to. They just come out that way.

Before long, the fish-out-of-water-woman-centred-sci-fi takes a spectral turn for the worst.

I cleaned my actual house, as procrastination and protection a deep clean, burnt sage and feather dusters.

The nightly ritual, the banality of Nytol, spilling across flesh pages, blotting blood ink.

Waking with a start too aware of my finish. I am trying so hard to be effortless.

But happiness haunts me. My most treasured possession. Something slips into bed beside me and my body convulses with its presence.

Tonight, I fall from my tree. That gristle crunch, just once, and I can’t leave.