Fredrick was RIP 1800    Creak the floors drenched in screams, groaning cracks. What secrets do you weep?  He hunched, eyeing threads. Perfection, despite squalor. His sanctuary, near two years since his death.  Wicks reluctantly flicked light, spluttered glow. He remembers this one’s squeals. Almost climaxed, as he recalled the ether wafting, tangoing its way up her flared nostrils. Nasal hair recoiled, defenceless. Her eyes screeched till bulge. Burst vessels branched out, spread like skin-forest. He strokes. Inhaled that image deeply so it rests on inner fibres for nights ingestion. Soft flesh, rippling, his vice-like grip. The old machine quivered protest … Continue reading Polly Richardson – fiction