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The Stranger In Me

A ménage à trois produces strange undercurrents


I open a door to an apartment I know well, pretending I don’t know it at all. Her petite frame stands in the middle of the lounge, looking unsure, squeezing a glass of sparkling wine so hard, she’s at risk of crushing it in her palm.

You stand next to her. The room is illuminated by many lamps glowing with the dimmed purple light I know you like to fuck to.

“Lila, this is Eve.”

Erotic Review, Dec 2021

The Stranger in Me, Pablo Picasso, Angel Fernandez de Soto with a Woman

We're naked in the morning light, exposes to the air, to the leaves, to the gazing trees.


A  black crow jumps around a paper bark tree, pulling bugs out its flaking grooves in a morning light that has barely picked over the suburban fences. I watch the crow from my kitchen window as I wait. Its elegant, measured movements contrast sharply with the nerves ripping through my stomach.


My husband and the boys are asleep. Since you haven’t texted this morning, I’m in a raspberry-coloured nightie when you appear at my back door in a bike top and shorts that cling cleanly to your body.

“Give me a minute.”

Erotic Review, Jul 2022

No Kissing,
No Fucking

No Kissing, No Fucking, Pablo Picasso, Two Figures and a Cat

Carnival Of

The abuser has been observing you for a while. He’s seeking your attention.


There are many wondrous things in life worth celebrating. Among them is love. One of the most powerful and distinct human experiences, immortalised in stories, songs, and dramatic events as far as history can stretch. When I think of being in love, I think of rolling around in the sweet pollen of daisies on a sunny day. Like a honeybee. Or of falling through soft air laced with sparkling ecstasy that tickles every sense.

Unless that is, you are in love with a narcissistic abuser ...

OBSESSION anthology, Jul 2022, BSP

Carnival of Love, Catherine Weng, Leave

It’s past midday and the heat wraps itself around me like a serpent, pressing life out of the moving masses.


My hands hurt from the cold. The kind of cold that snaps at bones, as I stand among bright orange ropes and cones crisscrossing a muddy football field, tasting ash in my mouth. The mist around me lifts, revealing a scene that slowly washes into my consciousness. 


Children of about ten, gathered in groups, are whispering to each other or to adults. Others are running, weaving between bags and clothes scattered in piles on the frost covered grass. Wearing nothing but shorts and numbered bibs over thin singlets, their exhales manifest as whisps of breath in the air.

City Of Dreams

City of Dreams, Olga Tsara, Pendulum Staircase
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