Stressed Out



, , , , , , , ,

Twenty One Pilots – Stressed Out


She stood on the stage, sweating under the sweltering lights. A red microphone was thrust into her hand, echoing her slanted breaths and nervous coughs. The anticipating audience gazed up at her with charcoal eyes and wide-lipped grins. Misshaped heretics waiting to hear why she was here, in hell.

It was time to give her confession.

Amongst her muffled weeping, she told the story she did not tell anyone. In all her years she had kept this locked up inside her, the story she thought of when she first woke up and when she first went to sleep. The story which made her who she was, and was bound up irrevocably into her very essence of self. And she hated it.

They sat with bated breath while she told the story of her first murder. How the love-struck boy took her into his heart, and she festered there, silently but surely, eating away at his very core. Then she left. And he could not take it.

She told of the hand around her throat, the tears trailing down his cheeks, the inane grin plastered over his sculpted face, as he ripped out his heart from his hollow chest and showed it to the trembling girl.

And in place of a heart, was her.

But she was afraid, and so she ran. Running to the oppressive silence her room, she hid under her covers like a child, crying into her pillow and begging for some sort of release from these relentless emotions.

The next morning she gazed at the calendar. The ninth.

The ninth, she told herself assuredly, would be a better day.

The ninth, he had said to himself that very night, I do not care for the ninth.

And so the towering bridge seemed a welcome release.

Back on stage, she finished her story. It was over, she had said it. Said the one thing which must never, could never be said.

For the people would realize that she was not a good person, she was not even a person. She was a filthy, rotten thing that must be flung to the ground with distaste, crushed into the dirt and stomped underfoot for what she did. It was not fair that she was simply allowed to continue with life as if nothing had changed. She remained unscathed, and that was not real justice.

Silence. Indeterminable silence. She swallowed, and her fear echoed through the auditorium.

Then the laughter began.

Hundreds of wide-lipped smiles warped into sadistic grins, grins raising the skeleton roof and turning into hysteric cackling. Tears ran down their shapeless faces, as they laughed and laughed. They set the hall ablaze.

‘D-did you hear that?’ a shrill voice cried, ‘she killed him!’

Their squeals rang in her ears.

‘To feast on a person so completely, to drain every essence of his being… to render him so totally obsessed then just leave’, they cried between jagged breaths. ‘It is perfectly poetic!’

‘I bet his blood still stains the very ground she treads on!’ another voice screamed, spittle dripping down their fangs.

She looked down at her crimson stained hands, and it all came flooding back.



Read the rest of my musically inspired series, A Tendency for Bitterness, here! There’s more Twenty One Pilots on the way!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt


New Book Cover – Hydraca!



, , , , , , , ,

I’ve created another book cover with Richard Kefford!

After working together on covers for his two texts Two Boys from Brighton and Distance, Richard approached me with his idea for a story in a similar style to the Beast Quest novels that are so popular with young children today.

Richard created a brilliant monster, called the Hydraca and asked me to bring it to life. And whats better than a fluffy dragon residing in the mountains?



Although this book won’t be available on Amazon, you can check out Richard’s other novels on his Official Amazon Page.

Check out his blog, as well as his group blog, The Moving Dragon Writes. I’ve also written some work on there, it’s full of all sorts of different writing!

Interested in your own book cover? Want some illustrations done? Check out my Commissions page for more information, or drop me an email at:

Check out more of my artwork here!


It’s Inevitable



, , , ,

He reminded her of the man who had left so long ago, and it hurt her.

It hurt her so bad her throat would seize up and her eyes would sting, and she would have to leave all flustered before she said something she would regret. She would rush back to her room next door, closing the door with a resounding thud. Slowly, silently, she would turn the lock. She could not leave it open, for the fear she would wander back out and she mustn’t do that. No, no, such a thing should never happen.

She would stand there for several seconds, staring at her mismatched socks, twitching her toes in that erratic way she does when she’s in deep thought. She would think back to the man from all those years ago who she missed every day and every night.

He was an essential part of her being, her very core that simply didn’t exist without him. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to consider the similarities between them. She would choose to ignore the way they both had the same crooked smile, the same long, nervous fingers and that very same way of doing simply everything. From confessing forbidden feelings to anything as simple as saying goodbye at the end of a long day.

It made her want to curl up into a ball and cry. She had worked so hard to move on and forget, yet here he was. Back again. He had risen from the depths of that fast-flowing river, his broken body fixed and glued back together with her fragile hands. She had pulled him away from that dangerous bridge on that stormy December night and brought him back, hand in hand, into her life again.

But it still wasn’t him. She knew she would have to let him fall back down into the depths again.


Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

Mystery Blogger Award!



, ,

I’m a little late here, but thank you to Brandy for nominating me for the Mystery Blogger Award!   🙂 This is my second award, and they always make me feel super happy to receive them! ^^


The ‘Mystery Blogger Award’ is an award for amazing bloggers with ingenious posts.Their blog not only captivates, it inspires and motivates. They are one of the best out there and they deserve every recognition they get. This award is also for bloggers who find fun and inspiration in blogging and they do it with so much love and passion. – by the creator of this award Okoto.


  1. Put the award logo/image on your blog
  2. List the rules
  3. Thank whoever nominated you and provide a link to their  blog
  4. Mention the creator of the award and provide a link as well
  5. Tell your readers 3 things about yourself
  6. You have to nominate 10-20 people
  7. Notify your nominees by commenting on their blog
  8. Ask your nominees any five questions of your choice; with one weird or funny question (specify)
  9. Share a link to your best post(s)


3 Things About Myself:

  • I’m currently finishing up my undergraduate degree in ‘English Literature and Creative Writing’, and am excited to soon start a Masters Degree in ‘Gothic Literature’
  • Alongside writing and illustrating, another job I’d love to find out more about is animation, particularly animating music videos. I think that could be really interesting. I love anime music videos, like Madeon and Robinson’s Shelter or Daoko’s GIRL
  • I love my video games, and can’t wait for The Last of Us Part Two and Borderlands 3. Claptrap is my baby  ❤


The Answers to the Questions I Was Asked:

  1. What is your favorite social media platform?

I’m not a huge social media hog. I use them to be nosy, but rarely post stuff. I guess Facebook is what I use most, but I like Tumblr too.

2. If you could go back in time to any era, what would it be?

I think the 1920s would be interesting, with the whole Art Deco, Gatsby-esque aesthetics. But my first choice would still be the early 1800s, just to visit some spooky castles and creepy old back alleys, very Gothic and snazzy indeed.

3. What is your favorite book and why?

I have a few different ones. I love Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber, cause that’s the book that got me into feminist theory and Gothic literature back at college. But before that the Princess Diaries series by Meg Cabot was my favorite. The narrative voice is so informal and humorous, and the stories are so heartwarming. As soon as I finish my degree I’m re-reading all of them books again.

4. If you could fly, where would you go first?

Probably Akibahara in Japan, since that’s considered the city for anime and manga fans. I’ve never been abroad, so anywhere would be amazing. But Akibahara, and Japan as a whole, would be great to visit!

5. Why did you choose the blog title you chose?

I wanted something vaguely Gothic sounding, and elegant. I’d had this name in my head for a few years, so I thought I might as well use it. I like overly long names for pieces of fiction, but not for brand names or blog titles. They’re better short and sweet, I think.


My Top 3 Blog Posts:


Goodbye to a World

Do Not Think of It


Who Am I Nominating?

I’m gonna try and nominate different people, so I’m not cursing the same unfortunate souls every time.

1. KindaDotWrite

2. CrumpledPaperPlanes

3. MaryLandPoetBlog

4. VikasChandra

5. EmotionsofLife2016

6. EmmaBaird

7. ForrestPasky

8. TheHerdlessWitch

9. TheSarahDougty

10. RavensRoad


My Questions for Those Nominated:

1. Who is your favorite literary author and why?

2. What do you do to relax after a stressful day?

3. Why and when did you start your blog?

4.What musicians have you seen in concert?

5.What is your favourite animated film or television show?


Thanks again to Brandy for my nomination!    🙂

Goodbye to a World



, , , , , , , ,

Porter Robinson – Goodbye to a World

You trip and stumble, cutting your one fleshy hand on a jagged piece of machinery. Blood spurts down onto your jumpsuit, labelled R-3417. Your original name was lost so long ago, you can’t remember it.

The R, you presume, must have meant something to you once.

It stings. Your bandage barely covers the wound, as it seeps down your arm a strange green colour. It’s been so long since you’d last seen blood. Since the invasion, since the Solaars arrived, the machinery grew so vast and endless, nobody ever retained enough humanity to bleed. Not blood anyway, a fluid instead; an oozing, pulsating green fluid what corroded away through your very core, slowly ebbing away the last of your humanity.

But I am still human, you declare to the silent world around you, as the smoke makes your eyes water and stomach churn, even if I am the last one.

I’m still human. They cannot take it away from me.

You say that, but you can already hear the cogs winding in your chest. The process has already started to take shape, as it did with everyone. Once your heart stops, the machinery takes over. Fusing bone with bits, you awaken, revitalised and reprogrammed.

You do not want this to happen. Not while you are still searching for her. You know she is still here, waiting for you. She won’t give up, because she is the most kind and loving person you know and she will never succumb to them.

So you press onwards.


You reach the city, blinded by the lifeless, sterile whites and greys of the senphine walls. Patrollers fly to and fro, red lights traipsing between the shadowy buildings. Any intruder will be shot immediately through the skull, left to bleed to death on the fibreglass pavement. Then mere seconds later, they would be reconfigured, and would traipse across the land once more. Sargasso eyes and flooded machinery merely masquerading as their former selves.

The fenced-off building on the left must be where she is, you muse. But how will you get in there, past the patrollers?

They had increased the security since the last incident in the city. When floods of humans escaped, they had to resort to drastic measures to keep the remainders in line and subdue the riots. There was simply no way of stealing your way inside.

You sigh, staring at your hand. Not the one still bleeding, but your right hand. The one that doesn’t bleed anymore. The hand who’s flesh was eaten away by the cannibalistic circuitry over years and years of exposure to the xixine rays. It was heinous and disfigured, but it had its perks.

The throbbing display in the back of your hand lit up, with a list of binary code you used to be unable to decipher, until your brain fell to the same predator as your arm, and you felt the code beginning to make sense, with its eerie, wavering numbers shifting into familiar letters and symbols. So slowly and subtly, you barely even noticed it.

The screen displayed a variety of useful functions, from grenades to flashbangs, you could even alter your own genetic code and render yourself invisible for a limited time.

This would be the only way inside, you think, but it must be done.

Every time the display is used, your body alters that much more, accelerating the process by, well, who knows how long? The first few humans who got their implants used them so much, it took mere months for their vulnerable, fleshy hearts to stop and for starving circuitry to replace them. The rest of humanity soon took the hint and considered them curses, to be hidden away and used only in the direst situations.

But this was dire, you had to get to her. To check she was alright, was still… human. She had to be. Without her…

You get as close as is safe to be, the relentless humming of the patrollers making your frail, human heart race. A machines heart would never race like this. The patrollers would sense this, and recognise the threat approaching.

But there’s no choice. You can feel it as you press the button on your display and mutate just that extra inch further. You don’t have long left. You must see her. Know that she’s safe.

The pain surges through your every cell, as they receive the influx of chemicals.

Fuck it, you think.

You press the display once more, triggering the enhanced speed button. In this state it takes mere seconds to bypass the security and jump over the fences to the front door. Getting closer, the pristine ivory city has grown murky and dismal. Frayed wires, pumping crimson smoke through the atmosphere, lay tangled on the floor. The sooner you are inside the better.

The doors open with utmost silence. Not a creak or squeak. In fact, as they close and leave you in the dark, you realise just how very silent the entire facility is. Nobody is left. Broken machinery and flesh blend together in heaped masses on the floor, you traipse over them with haste.

It hurts still, the mutations are taking longer and longer to recover from.

You start to panic. This feels different. There isn’t much time left. You call her name, your voice breaking. It echoes in the abandoned facility. Running through the empty halls, you cry out for that special person you have spent so long searching for.


You hear her voice. Down the hallway. Those sweet, sultry tones from the tender lips you remember kissing as the sky grew dark and the invasion came.

Your eyes blur, then suddenly sharpen. Human tears fall from your robotic eyes as you zoom in to see her down the hallway. She turns around, mousy hair swinging behind porcelain skin. The same two scars running down her cheek. You could never notice it before with your human eyes, but there is in fact a third scar. It trails down her nose to her upper lip, and it’s beautiful. It’s her. You desire to rain little kisses all over her perfect face.

The tears won’t stop. But they aren’t clear, salty raindrops anymore. They are oozing and green and they blur your vision and corrode away at your polished skin. You try to run to her, but your legs collapse under your weight. Flesh burns away, sticking to the filthy floor, resulting in a foul burning smell. You know it should hurt, but everything has stopped hurting. You can’t even remember why you were crying anymore. But you keep looking at her. You gaze at the figure running towards you and you can’t stop. If you close your eyes they won’t open again, and you want to see her one last time.

She is with you. Motioning her arms around you, but as you choke up more oozing bile you wrench yourself away. Spitting it out onto the melting ground, you try to call out to her. But your larynx is no longer there. It is all burnt out.

She moves close to you, crying real, human tears. Human snot running down her nose and into her mouth along with human spit and drool trailing down her chin. She is human.

Your last mortal sensation is that of utmost happiness and contentment, as your vulnerable, fleshy heart gives off one last beat, and the machinery works its way through your system.

This is one of my first real sci-fi stories, and I’m pleased with it! I’ll have to try writing more of these later ^_^

This story is based off Madeon’s song Goodbye to a World. You can check out the rest of my musically inspired stories here!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

A Casual Observer



, , , , , ,

The green light across the bay illuminates the putrid, smoky sky.

‘The sky does look so very putrid and smoky’, she says to the man upon the balcony, over the clamorous cacophony inside, ‘I really must go out and see this glorious sight.’

But he seems bored already by her lack of attention in him, his arm already around a buxom blonde in a tight, red dress.

‘What is that dear? Oh. Oh yes, absolutely. A glorious sight.’ And he is gone.

The mansion, with all its luxurious excess, bores her. The golden stairwells and diamond chandeliers reek of sweat and overindulgence. Pulsating jazz music pelters out of saxophones and trombones, making her ears bleed. But, regardless, the audience are enthralled.

‘Mr Jay Gatsby’, they coo over the screams and squeals of delight, ‘what a delightful young fellow Mister Gatsby must be!’

They say nobody has ever even seen him, she muses. He must be an irrevocably dull man to throw such splendid parties for all the nobodies of West Egg.

She descends the glittering balcony, out of the arms of drunk, slovenly men with quivering moustaches and drooling lips. With a domineering authority, she parades past the singing gentleman on the piano, past a gorgeous brunette talking of golfing with a remarkably ordinary looking man.

A casual observer at the best, he seems. But he stares at the brunette with such a look of intense wonderment, she supposes he might have his own story one day.

Outside the air is cool, the sky still putrid and smoky. In the courtyard she hears the sweet sound of laughter. A man as golden as the gaudy mansion stands under the patio, with a similarly golden woman. Her platinum locks trail down her shoulders, as they whisper in each other’s ears and he caresses her shoulders. His eyes seem rooted firmly in the past and it is clear he can’t fully comprehend what is happening, as his lips touch those of the miserly woman’s beside him.

The dock is calm and quiet. At the very end resides a wrought-iron bench, perched atop it a pair of binoculars and a writing pad. Over the bay, you can perfectly see yet another glorious estate. Beautiful, lush green gardens twinkle over the water. The rippling waves give the illusion of progress, like you are almost floating towards this beautiful home.

Which home is the best? She wonders. I suppose it is difficult to tell. The sky is so putrid and smoky after all. Maybe on a clearer day, it would be easier to decide.

She suddenly feels immensely tired, laying down onto the bench, feet splayed up. The sound of waves, ceaselessly borne back, lull her to sleep.



As you probably noticed, this story is based off of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby! I was listening to the soundtrack to the Baz Luhrmann film, and it got me writing the story of another soul at one of Gatsby’s illustrious parties.

I hope you liked it! More of my flash fiction can be read here!


Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt, (adapted from ‘The Great Gatsby’; copyright © 1925 F. Scott Fitzgerald).

Car Radio



, , , , ,

Twenty One Pilots – Car Radio


A shrill octave followed by the life renouncing coda.

Music awoke him from the car radio.

Something cool was dripping down his forehead, trailing along his nose and into his mouth. He coughed up metallic spittle, several teeth caught in the crossfire. Everything was red. A deep crimson and submerged in melting metal.

He picked his head up from the driving wheel, shards of glass rustling through his hair to fall onto his lap. His left arm was unresponsive.

He turned to his right. A woman he once knew well was hunched over, hair fused with gore and vehicle. Motionless.

Coughing up another tooth, he weakly called her name.

No response but the furnace of heat roaring from the car engine, and the soothing sounds of Chopin playing on the radio.

Could he even dare to turn around, to look behind him at the scene in the child’s seat? A brief look in the rear-view mirror proved his worst fear true.

It was all his fault. His vision blurred as tears mixed with blood, but he couldn’t hear anything over the blissful tunes of the violin on that damn radio.

So he returned to sleep.



You can read the rest of my musically-inspired series, A Tendency for Bitternesshere!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

Russian Roulette



, , , , , , ,

Rihanna – Russian Roulette


‘Just close your eyes’, he whispers into my ear, ‘sometimes it helps.’

But it doesn’t.

It just brings my attention to the heavy, musty cigarette smoke drowning my voice out in the cramped, dismal room. And how intensely cold the barrel of the gun is against my quivering temple.

I take in harsh breaths, panicking. I can’t do it, I can’t do it.

A broad hand encircles my timid waist. I melt amongst his cedar wood cologne and sweet lips on the nape of my neck.

‘Come on’ he mumbles, ‘just pull the trigger, it will be fine.’

It won’t be fine. Four rounds already delivered, all empty. Two left. A fifty-fifty chance.

I feel the gaze of his dirty companions, burning into my shivering body, keeping my eyes closed doesn’t hide the excitement in their eyes, the sheer thrill coursing through their throbbing veins.

They want to see the bloodshed.

It’s been so long, I hear one murmur in a husky voice. The squeal of a young woman assaults my ears, as she’s forced onto his lap and groped violently.

I lower the pistol, I can’t do it.

A hand pushes it back to its former place against my head.

‘My love’, he whispers, ‘my love, please. For me.’

I cannot deny him. I can’t do it.

I pull the trigger.


Listening to some old-school Rihanna brought this one back. I’d forgotten how much I used to like her music.

Read the rest of my musically-inspired writing here!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

For Want of a Brother



, , , ,

Part OnePart Two

As part of a challenge with Auri, we’ve both sent each other three photos and are going to write three pieces of creative writing based off each photo! All of my stories are connected, and here is my final piece, based off of the following photo:

street dogs in a city.jpg

Simon was a trusting child. He had always been that way. A blissful childhood full of strawberry kisses and warm, sun-showered hugs tended to do that to children.

He was so trusting, that when the strange woman asked him to take her hand and follow her someplace fun and exciting, he didn’t even question it for a second.

Simon remembered how very warm and strong that woman’s greasy grip was. The way she forced him forwards, with not-so-tender pushes towards a very scary, very dangerous alleyway what Simon had never gone down before.

Wayward needles, bin bags and rotting rubbish littered the street, leaving an unpleasant smell Simon couldn’t pinpoint, spreading through the smoke and ash. His brand new red trainers, which he had so pestered his mother to buy, were already filthy from the caked mud spread over them. He had tripped twice, his grazed knee burning. But the woman wouldn’t stop, no matter how much Simon now began to plea.

Please, missus, please. I’m hurt miss, I’ve hurt ma’ leg real bad and I think I need a plaster on it.

His cries for help were silenced by the howling of the sharp-toothed dogs in the street. They raced round, growling in a way that reminded Simon why he was so scared of dogs. Connor had always made fun of him for it, but as he watched the two feral creatures reach for each other’s necks, fighting over the last remainder of a rats carcass, he realised his fears weren’t so stupid after all. At least he wasn’t scared of frogs, like Austin was.

Now that was a stupid fear, Simon thought to himself, I wonder where Connor and Austin are, right now.

By this point, the woman was practically dragging Simon along the floor. A shred of thin plastic had gotten caught in the knots of his shoes, making an uneasy scraping noise as it danced above the ground. But she wouldn’t stop. She still kept pulling Simon along, the urgency growing only greater as her breaths deepened and the sweat dripped from her brow.

Simon decided in that moment that he didn’t trust this lady anymore.

Excuse me missus, he began, trying to pry her fingers from his arm one by one. I really need to go. My brothers are probably wondering where I am. We were busy playin-

The woman snapped her head around, her watery eyes and bulging cheeks made Simon feel sick. She never even said anything. With one fatal swoop, she picked him up into her arms, and dashed to the dilapidated, black Honda in the shadows of a closed off motel.

Simon, his parents would later find out, never came out of that car alive. Simon was not given strawberry kisses or sun-showered hugs in that dismal, blood-stained car. No amount of strawberry kisses or sun-showered hugs could make up for the monstrous things that took place in that claustrophobic torture chamber. What happened to Simon is unrepeatable.

And Connor and Austin would not find out the exact details of what happened for a long time, not until they were well into their adult years, and thought together on one sad, grey day, when the rain hung listlessly in the sky:

What exactly happened to our favourite little brother?

Thanks again to Auri for the challenge! I really enjoyed doing this ^_^

Auri’s also wrote some brilliant work based off of my photos: Part OnePart Two

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

For Want of a Distraction



, , , , , ,

Part One!

As part of a challenge with Auri, we’ve both sent each other three photos and are going to write three pieces of creative writing based off each photo! All of my stories are connected, and here is my second one, based off of the following photo:

Read Auri’s work too: Part OnePart Two

All of my stories are connected, and here is my second one, based off of the following photo:

through the trees.jpg

Straying from the path usually led to exciting discoveries.

Austen did not think this would be the case today.

Everything in the forest had a resounding


Even the harvesting cicadas

hung listlessly

like the rain









On that sorry day

When Connor told him

that Simon was no more.

The clementine that day tasted


It tasted like the                    rotten flesh            drowned in the rotten river

Where he was found




His very



Read the final part here!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

For Want of a Clementine



, , , , , , ,

As part of a challenge with Auri, we’ve both sent each other three photos and are going to write three pieces of creative writing based off each photo! All of my stories are connected, and here is my first one, based off of the following photo:

shoe on tree.png

It fell onto his face with a resounding thud, knocking him back into the dirt.

Connor wiped the cold mud off his chin, staring up at the trees.

The perpetrators filthy pair was still hoisted up above, nestled in the trees. Waving to and fro, as a mother rocks her baby to sleep.

It whistled to him with a surprising stillness.

Bet’cha can’t reach me. Bet’cha can’t reach me.

It reminded him of the way Austen would tease him, in their back-garden every summer, as he clambered his way clumsily up the coarse branches into his makeshift treehouse.

I want to come up too, Austen! Help me up, help me up!

But Austen would merely smile, pick a bruised clementine off the nearest branch, then slowly peel off its skin and bite down on what Connor could only assume was the juiciest, most delectable fruit in existence.

Connor would grow indeterminably angry, kicking the tree trunk and crying exclamations about what a cruel big brother he was, what a very cruel person he was to treat his sibling this way. His fists scrambled at the grass, tearing it apart and throwing it up into the air, only for it to slowly trail back down into his mouth.

I’m your only brother, you should be nicer to me! He bawled, crumpled down into the dirt, ripping the fallen leaves into bite-size pieces.

He shouldn’t have said that. He really should not have said that.

The fragmented leaves ascended into the air with a resounding flourish, as Austen jumped down to the ground, grabbing Connor by the scruff of his neck.

Don’t you talk like that, he roared into Connor’s ear, don’t you talk like he’s gone and never coming back!

A violent push shoved Connor to the ground, the sound of heavy footfalls growing quieter and quieter. His last brother, gone.

The rain hung listlessly in the sky.

Read part two here! And part three here!

Don’t forget to check out Auri’s writing, based off of the photos I sent her!  Here is her first poem! And her second part, a story,

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

Coming Down



, , , , , , , ,

Halsey – Coming Down


She found God in a lover.

With auburn hair, and those confident strokes of his bony fingers.

He would love her for her wrongdoings, and pray to the demons beneath that she would remain a monster forever, a beacon of the very sin he had seduced womankind to commit.

Every evening, sopping wet from the rain, he would come.

Violently, uncontrollably, relentlessly.

And so would she.

Obscured pleasures before unknown would open up to her, and those maroon eyes sparkled alight, with every new receptor finding itself awoken and aflame, as the rain played against the windows.

Loudly, furiously, relentlessly.

Then, as it neared its conclusion, there would be one, solitary kiss. A reminder that this did not, and could not, mean something. It simply wasn’t allowed, for something so all-consuming would destroy them both, leave them festering from the core until they were merely hollow shells.

Then he would leave, and she was left to process what she had done. Regret and guilt would pierce the empty place in her obsidian soul.

And so it would continue, endlessly, even after December came, and the life expired from his mutilated body.


I’ve written quite a few more stories based off of Halsey’s music, you can check them all out here!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

We Think Ahead



, , , , , ,

A merlot tablecloth

Bottles of scotch

Cigarette smoke

And tearful eyes.


Around the table

Stained with tears

And lovers juices

Juxtaposing characters.


His garnet shirt unbuttoned

Women’s glossy hands

Spread over his chest

Caressing his cheeks.


His brother, they say

Cigar betwixt plump lips

Staring at me, unrelenting

Stripping rosen skin with reptilian eyes.


The beautiful sister,

Modele ou une femme

Sangria dress full of

Puckered breasts, heaving breaths


The gun loosens rounds

Knocking stray chips along the

Whiskey sodden table


Contemplating the instrument

Pressing it to the head

Of the girl in his lap

Pulls the trigger.


She smiles and

Falls to the



‘Nevermind’, he coos

In his lovelies ear.

That’s why we all

Wear red.


See more of my poetry here!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt




, , , , , , ,

Tokyo Ghoul OP – Unravel

In the familiar coffee shop

He recollects her

Slim pianist fingers

Tracing down

Ivory keys.





Be afraid.

Don’t crack

Your fingers that

Way he used to do.




Mournful, swollen eyes

Smudge crimson

Mask donned

Tongue lolling






Raining down

Forming a juicy puddle

You feed relentlessly now

As bones crunch between your teeth.



Thanks Auri for this request!   🙂 I love Tokyo Ghoul‘s opening, but this got me really into the acoustic version *^*

This reminds me that I still need to finish watching series two of the anime…

You can read the rest of my musically inspired series, A Tendency for Bitternesshere!

Auri’s 100 Follower Challenge!



, , ,

Well done to Auri for reaching 100 followers and 1000 blog views!   🙂 It’s an awesome achievement, and I’m sure her blog will only continue to grow!

She also set up a cool challenge for her followers, so here’s my mine!   🙂


  1. Start with the first post you ever wrote. Talk about how it felt writing it and your feelings about it now.

My first post was And we Begin! which was a sort of general introduction to what I’d be doing on my blog., My first real piece was rather my short story Lavender, which I think suitably set the tone for my monstrous standards of writing and heinous morals.

2.Give a shout out for your first follower. Are you still in touch with them? Do you have something to say to them? Here’s your chance!

My very first follower was Kent at DirtySciFiBuddha. I don’t contact him all that much, but generally, whenever I see his posts, he always looks very professional; he seems very much into the self-publishing game, which I always find impressive! I wish I could create a large enough project to create a full book and be able to publish it, that’s definitely a goal I’d like to complete one day!

3. Your first like. How did you feel?

Awesome! It always feels nice to see how my posts are gradually getting more and more popular. For the last interview I was tagged in by R L Tierney I went back to my past posts and remembered being so happy when they got about 5 or 6 likes on them. Now I’m averaging between 30 and 40, which isn’t much to some but it makes me feel so accomplished that I keep improving!

4.The day you felt it was a terrible idea to start blogging.

I’ve never really felt that way, to be honest. It’s led to me starting my art commissions company and I’ve met some great friends online. Admittedly, when I’m drowning in commissions, uni work, and then I have to keep writing and drawing to keep the blog updated, it can get quite stressful, but I’m a workaholic, so generally its a nice feeling! I suspect this exam season I will be struggling though…

5. The blog you felt was your inspiration to write.

There wasn’t really any particular blog which inspired me… I was just sat around all summer and thought that I don’t want to be sat around doing nothing like I do every other holiday! But I suppose all the millions of little blogs that post regular comics like PDL and EatMoreBikes were an inspiration. I’d love to do some short comic strips like that, alongside my writing!

6. How you designed and formatted your blog.

That was horrific. I’m still very much getting used to WordPress, and I remember almost giving up after a week or two because I just couldn’t work out how to get anything working. I still don’t know how the ‘Blog’ button works. What’s the difference between a blog post and normal post? Help me. >,< If anyone knows, please comment and tell me!

I basically just messed around and hoped for the best! I keep meaning to draw up a new header for the site too, cause I have much better pens and materials now. Over time I just added new stuff in, like Projects and widgets etc, but it all takes time to get used to. I should really learn how to use HTML codes…

7. The first comment on your site.


8. First blogger who became a friend.

That would probably be DeanJean, its a really nice feeling when you read each other’s work and learn from it. Her poetry is great, I wish I could write like that!

9. The very last follower until today.

My latest follower was Faithless Paladin. I’ve just had a nosy at their blog and they seem to write some great poetry!    🙂

10. A blog that made you feel your site needs serious improvements.

All of them. Every blog ever. Hmm… probably just those blogs that post a new article literally every two seconds, it’s like, how?? One post every 3-4 days is about the best I can manage!


There will be no nominations except for your first follower.

Ok then, looks like you’re up, Dirty SciFi Buddha!
And thanks again for the challenge Auri!    🙂

Young God



, , , , , ,

Halsey – Young God


The sun rose with tremendous speed, blinding the metamorphosing girl as she emerged from her cocoon. She shrunk back instinctively, a hiss escaping from her sharpened fangs.

She thrust herself out into the sweltering heat, diving into the pool beneath. Drowning her thoughts out. The water burnt her new, unadulterated skin, but she knew she deserved it. She knew what she had done, and it was sinful. If only she could stay hidden down here forever.

Then his hand gripped her firmly, thrusting her upwards into an explosion of syntheasia. Lavender clouds and chirping flowers brought her back to life, as she rose out of the golden, humming waters to glare at him.

Harlequin eyes gazed back at her, dilated pupils scented with copper and onyx. He leant forward, caressing her stonework cheek. As he did so, she felt her auburn hair sense her new body. It grew fluorescent and effervescent, rendering itself crimson and cardamom. The colour of the sins she had committed.

Opening her mouth, she tried her best to speak. But no words came out, only a dozen strawberry butterflies, caught in the web of her song. They flocked upwards to the marmalade skies, disappearing from her vision.

He offered out his hand, never smiling nor offering any words of comfort. She knew what she had accepted when he made love to her underneath the blood moon.

And so they ascended upwards, stumbling through heaven, as young gods.



Halsey’s music is always so easy to write to. You can check out the rest of the writing I’ve done based off her music here! There’s also other artists such as Twenty-one Pilots, Aphex Twin, and soon it will be inundated with monstrous amounts of Lana Del Rey!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt


Scrutinise the Scene



, , ,

She caressed and fondled

The plush toy


And it

Sung her

Sweet songs

Of when they were

Blissfully, ignorantly, together.


Its round, marble eyes

Would trace her form

Gliding throughout

The empty room

And she felt

His gaze





Then the day came

When they knew

Why it remained

And the secrets

Would never be

So secretive anymore.




You can check out more of my poetry here!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

My Immortal



, , , , , , , ,

Evanescence – My Immortal


The castle battlements were filthy. Their bare toes gouged their way through the sodden moss, revealing cockroaches and glistening slugs on the crenelations and turrets. He would occasionally grimace, grow startled, quivering from side to side.

She would reach towards him, ready to save him should he fall. The sound of the crows chirping and wind ricocheting through the barbed branches up above was the very essence of childhood for the duke and duchess.

But this was adulthood. Things were not so quaint as before.

The battlements were slippery. Tracing their way past drowned corpses of rats and lacewings, they did not care for the rotten carcasses crushed underfoot.

She walked behind him, as always. Watching him trace his way along to the western arch. When he slipped and tumbled, she would no longer hold her arms out, she did not even flinch, and nor did he.

This was why they were here, after all.

As they climbed the jagged stonework, the twilight moon rose in the sky, and rain fell in blistering sheets. Her ivory nightdress, now sullied with dirt and grime, grew caught on loose ironwork. It tore, leaving her open to the elements.

Crow caws signalled their progress. They were almost there.

He paused, turned around and stared at his sister. He reached out for her bruised hand.

They traced the final steps together, silently, assuredly.

Brother and sister had arrived. Upon the parapet, they were in a place they had never dared approach, even as adventurous children.

Her emotionless eyes conveyed just one message.


He was.

And they jumped.


She awoke with a throbbing pain in her side, her right leg swollen and crushed.

A shrill, unpleasant voice rang in her ear. The household doctor, and the local surgeon. Chattering at top speed, asking her a million and one questions, which she didn’t dare answer.

Her ears were cloudy and waterlogged. Instead, she looked to her right.

His bed was empty.

A miracle… a sheer miracle, she heard from above the water.

She sighed, feeling familiar eyes digging into her.

I will have to try again later.


How very cheerful.

Want to read more depressing tales? My Gothic tag is absolutely full of them!

Or if you’d like to read more from my musically-inspired series, A Tendency for Bitterness, you can do so here!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

Writers Interview



, , , , , ,

Thanks to R.L.Tierney for tagging me in this writer’s challenge! 🙂 I feel honored *bows*

Her blog is full of some great stories and poetry, so I strongly recommend giving her blog a look!     🙂

1. Name?



2. Five words that describe your writing?

Emotional, passionate, ambiguous, cynical, tragic.


3. Literature / art / films you’d recommend?

Books: The Bloody ChamberA Series of Unfortunate Events and The Princess Diaries
TV: For me, this has got to be anime. So… KiznaiverMadoka Magica and I recently watched Magical Girl Raising Project, which was pretty good!
Films: Shinkai’s Your NameKill Bill and at Christmas I watched Me Before You, which was horrifically depressing, but great.

4. Images, symbols, and settings you associate with your work?

Flowers are key, especially lilies. May have stolen that from Angela Carter    🙂   I also frequently use settings such as forests and bridges in my stories.


5. Themes / concepts you are hesitant to write about?

I’ve never been a big fan of using dialogue. I’ve noticed in my creative writing degree that seems to be the case with a lot of people though…

Also, when I write fast-paced action sequences I’m pleased with them, but I still rarely ever dare write them >,<

6. What would you tell someone who’s nervous about starting out?

I’d say to use other media as key influences when starting off writing. Whether it’s music, or thinking about a book/film, if you’re struggling for inspiration it really helps. And not everything you write will be amazing, but it gets easier the more you write. You start to learn what you’re good at and keep improving, till you’re a writing ninja!

7. Three of your writings you’d recommend to people who’d like to know more about you?

I think:

Murky WatersThe Erl Queen and Idle Curiosity

8. What pushes you to keep writing?

It sounds silly, but I like to treat running this blog almost like a job, or extra part of my uni work. That way I keep it updated regularly, and reap the benefits from it. So much work from here has come in useful, whether for my dissertation or masters applications.

Also writing about personal stuff really helps me understand my own feelings about things. I used to write in journals a lot, and this is now my new way of letting out my own frustrations and feelings, which seems more productive and interesting.


Time to tag some unfortunate souls!

In the Name of Love



, , , , , ,

Martin Garrix and Bebe Rexha – In the Name of Love

Thanks to R L Tierney for requesting I write about this song!   🙂   I’ve gotten ever so slightly addicted to it now.


His hands cover my eyes, a smooth caramel voice urging me forwards. The cool air blows my crimson dress up, exposing my shivering legs.

What are you doing? I enquire quizzically, I hope you’re not leading me anywhere dangerous.

He chuckles, nuzzling his face into my chestnut hair. I shiver, and he holds me close.

His scent drowns me and I allow myself to be swallowed up.

Don’t you worry, he whispers in my ear.

A few more stumbled steps, as the cold marble floor. He lets go of me.

Open your eyes, darling.

And I am bathed in light.

A skyline of limes, tangerines and cherries. I look down, my body a myriad of iridescence against the night time sky. In the mirrors I gaze at my distorted body, painted into a nameless palette. I am a canvas flecked with all the colours of the rainbow.

His fingers intertwine with mine, pushing me through the mirrors, raining candyfloss shards upon my face.

I fall down the endless storeys, wind slicing my fingers where his warmth still resides. My hands smudge coral, then crimson, then ivory once more.

Lungs fill, full and heavy, with chromatic water as I delve into the pool. My limbs are sore, but he is there, at the very bottom. He extends out an arm and I reach out, chlorine stinging my eyes.

We bathe in the lights, staring up at the water from the endless expanse beneath.

But still, something isn’t right…

I turn around, and in the despairing depths my voice makes no sound as I choke out.

Shouldn’t you be…?

He stares at me, solemnly placing his hands over my eyes once more.

And we are once more back home. The shrill beep of your dialysis machine at the same, monotonous pace. Where the sadness leaves you broken in your bed.


I hope you like it! This one went a little weird…

Have a song you’d like me to write about? Drop me a request here!

And read the rest of my musical series, A Tendency for Bitterness, right here!


Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt




, , , , , , ,

Halsey – Haunting

It had been a year. One excruciatingly long year.

She had never thought she’d have managed it. But here it was.

December again.

And how things changed. Sat in a dingy flat, listening to the distressed moans echo through the paper-thin walls of the apartment, alongside the whimsical whistling down the hallway.

Things were just as confusing now as they had been last time.

The smell of vomit still permeated the room.

She crawled into bed silently, holding her nearest toy for comfort.

In the morning her eyes were still swollen and red.


I have many more pieces of writing inspired by Halsey, which you can read here!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

Polite Formalities



, , , , , ,

He would simply invite himself into her room unannounced.

Gripping her forcefully against his sheltered body, she could feel every bone, folding itself into her every crevice and nook. Hands, unwanted and violating, tracing their way down from her shoulders, forming stone mausoleums taking root between her breasts and legs.

He was glaring at her, she could feel those accusing eyes burning her scalp.

Why do you make me commit such disgusting sins, you filthy pig?

This is all your fault, you little whore with your slutty body and deliciously tearful eyes.

No, she would be determined to look down. If she kept her eyes on the ground, on his bare, hairy little feet, then he would not force himself upon her, then in the morning cry out feeble protestations of

But she wanted it, she wanted it! The way she looked into my eyes, you should have seen it! The fat cunt wanted me!

She was too afraid, so she merely stood there, solitary, letting him touch her. Hoping he would get the message through her shivers and stutters.

The sound of television penetrated the thin walls of the flat. She could cry for help, but after all, she didn’t wish to cause a fuss.

And so she waited.

He left.

Climbing into the shower, forming a huddled mass on the floor, she wondered why she simply didn’t say no in the first place.


Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt




, , , , , , ,


Windowlicker by Aphex Twin

The sweltering music made his eardrums burn and bleed. His eyes watered in the fluorescent smoke and neon lights.

He was afraid but tremendously excited. The crumpled mass of bodies excited him, and so he soon gave way to the pleasures that trembled his tender frame.

Breasts pressed against his chest, perfumed bodies heaving against one another. Two intoxicated women crashed into one another, giggling several octaves above human capabilities. They swatted each other away playfully, before sinking their lips into one another’s palpitating bodies.

His member began to twitch, his virgin cheeks flushing at the transgressive sights laid before him. But no matter, he was soon distracted by other such sights, even more controversial and stimulating than the last.

Men, women and everything in-between emerged from the psychedelic fog, catering to his every pleasure, his every desire. As his pure flesh was caressed and fondled, he lost all sense of reason.

He soon lost where his body began and everybody else’s ended. They were one heaping mass upon the sticky floor, eardrums still burning, his eyes bleeding from the sour taste of the strangers atop him.

Salty music and throbbing heartbeats blended until he was nothing but a distortion of colours and music. He felt his soul transcend that hollow shell, floating upon the ceiling, looking down at the amalgamation of corpses beneath him. Between the ivory and caramel heaps of flesh, he faintly discerned his own face, blissful and senseless, as he fought his way into the barrage of figures.

Crescendo, accelerando, coda.

He spat out a tooth and felt the crater in his mouth. The fingers he removed from inside a nearby woman festered away. Nothing was left but the shallow bone, as her acid left him mutilated and rotten. His screams were muted by the throbbing music, and she gave another inhumanly sinister giggle.

Then those around her began to giggle until the whole club was cackling and laughing with reckless abandon. It was so funny, this man with the bleeding ears and the toothless grin and the rotten fingers. It was hilarious.

Faceless figures cackled and spluttered, their saliva decorating his face as it mixed with their sweat.

Their faces turned to him, and it was his. His own bushy brows and misshapen jaw and toothless grin. It stared back at him hundreds of times, on the misshapen bodies of a thousand strangers.

The music wouldn’t stop, it only grew louder and the bodies rocked harder and faster.

He was submerged, compressed, until nothing remained. He was merely a disfigured mess on the sticky floor.


Well, this one went weird, but then again, Aphex Twin’s music videos are always somewhat traumatizing.

Check out the rest of my musical series, A Tendency For Bitterness, here!

I hope you enjoyed it!    🙂

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt

Patience is a Virtue



, , , , ,

When she stepped inside the dimly lit hallway, she feigned ignorance. She pretended everything was fine. Words didn’t matter, feelings didn’t matter. It would be just for a few short weeks.

But the door closed with a thud, a heavy thud that echoed her false confidence. It didn’t even creak in the moth-eaten wood. It left her alone and unprepared, basking in the oppressive silence of the house.

Nothing could be heard but the ticking of the grandfather clock.


So she proceeded to unpack.

Clothes in an assortment of morbid shades; pewter, slate, charcoal. A shade for every throbbing pulse within her, unwinding her very core. As it unwound she felt herself losing all sense of reason. A few childhood toys, a bedraggled owl and grimy shark poking out from under her dress.

The evening dress still had flecks of blood on its collar.

She perused the calendar, labeled the ominous December ninth. She had exactly twenty-seven days to go.

Smoothing out her skirt and running her hands through her hair, she began to wait.



You can read more of my flash fiction here!

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt




, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Thank you all for 500 followers! This is a great achievement, especially considering I only started this blog back in June!

I’m always telling myself I need to do more sketches for my blog, but ever since I began my art commissions, I’ve been so busy that I rarely have time for any other sketching. But hopefully that will change and I’ll start posting sketches more regularly, especially seeing as I got a drawing tablet for Christmas, so hopefully I can start delving into the world of digital art!    🙂

For now, I’ve been playing lots and lots of Overwatch, so please enjoy this fan art!



It’s Soldier 76’s birthday! And what could be a better gift than his own baby pachimari?

My most played characters are and Reaper, along with Soldier 76, Roadhog, Junkrat and a few others, but I’m slowly getting more into playing as Mei (mainly because her robot is so damn cute), Pharah and Tracer.

Zenyatta is my favourite healer, he’s such a cutie.


And I love a particular voice line of his…


Reaper will always be my little baby though:


Wait, why have I drawn him as a little potato, I hear you ask?

For Christmas, I also got this adorable little plushie of him, perfectly round, soft and potato-esque!


He’s available at Japanosaurus. Pretty pricey, but I thankfully got him on sale. He’s a great quality plush though, and surprisingly big! And look at those rosy little cheeks    ❤


So yes, thank you again for 500 followers! I’m hoping this number keeps on increasing, and my blog grows even more!

You can check out more of my sketches right here!




, , , , , , , , , ,

Ghost by Halsey

The shower was cold and unwelcoming. The shampoo stung her eyes and poisoned her mouth, she spat it out into the cubicle and remembered how he would do the same.

As she scrubbed her swelling breasts, she recalled how he would hold her, the running water dribbling over and above them, but never between them. No, that was simply impossible. They were one and the same, they would never separate.

You should try short hair, he would say, water dripping down his sculpted nose, his broad hands resting on her shoulders.

She would smile in response, afraid to speak.

Turning off the water brought her back from the fragmented memory.

Bending over, she gazed at her knobbly knees and twisted toes, feeling the water drain from her shivering form.

She dried herself then stepped outside, immediately confronted by the body length mirror in her apartment.

This was her customary time to judge herself, according to the strict regimen of today’s society. Listening to the music resonating through the walls, she would examine the growing stretch marks along her thighs, spreading down her arms, along to her breasts.

And she would be happy, that she had finally lost her stick-thin apparatus, but also afraid, as the lightning bolts swamped her body with their ugly, blotched deformations.

Her cropped hair stuck out in a frenzy, dripping the last of the water down her quivering shoulders.

And behind her reflection, she still saw his.

This is the first story for my new series, A Tendency for Bitterness!

There are quite a lot more Halsey songs I’d like to write about, so no doubt you’ll be hearing more from her.

Let me know what you think!   🙂

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

Blogger Recognition Award



, , , , ,

I’m a little late here, but thank you to Acacia Aurora for nominating me for the Blogger Recognition award!   🙂 I’ve never had any award like this, so I feel honored *bows*.


I also strongly recommend checking out Aurora’s blog, she posts lots of fun lists about anime and manga, as well as the odd creative writing piece! I’ve also shared a poem or two of hers, which you can see here!

Rules for the Nomination:

  • Thank the blogger who nominated you
  • Give a brief history on your blog and how it started
  • Give two tips to new bloggers
  • Nominate up to 15 fellow bloggers


Brief History of my Blog:

Over the summer of 2016, as I continually procrastinated doing my creative writing dissertation, I thought I should really put myself out there and do more creative writing. I’ve always enjoyed the idea of it, but other than writing done specifically for university I’d never really bothered to write anything else. But since I was full of ideas, I thought why not make a blog for it?

Then after a few people enquired after my drawings, I ended up starting my art commissions business, and I’ve already made 3 book covers, and hope to do much more! 🙂 The money I made from them has paid for an art tablet, so now I can learn how to do my sketches on the computer ^_^

And it’s only been, what, six months? And I’ve just reached 500 followers, so thank you!


Tips for New Bloggers:

  1. I know Aurora said the same thing, but it really can’t be stressed enough: get talking to people on here and socialize! If I hadn’t contacted as many people as I had, I probably wouldn’t have ever started my art commissions service. And having regular friends who read each others work is really nice. You learn from each other’s work and its such a lovely, supportive atmosphere!
  2. Erm, another I’d probably say is one more specifically aimed at creative writers. One of my friends, DeanJean (who’s blog is also worth checking out) said she felt the pressure to post writing regularly meant she felt like her work wasn’t of a great quality. In fact, she felt like she was rushing work out just for the sake of posting it. I’ve also felt the same, and its best to avoid that! Don’t go rushing out work just because >,< Take your time and make sure each piece is something you’re completely happy with, you’ll get so much more out of it!



Well, there’s no way I could think up fifteen whole people, but here we go!

AcaciaAurora (Since you’ve just had to write a million of these I’m gonna make you write one more, muahahaha!)







New Project: A Tendency For Bitterness


Yes, since its now the new year I thought I might as well start a new collection of stories!

Well, this one isn’t so much a new series as it is a name to give all the stories I write based off of music.



Image not mine!


Everyone uses music as an influence when writing, but this series will involve me listening to one song on repeat, and simply writing whatever comes into my head in relation to the song in question.

I love thinking up music videos and stories behind songs, so hopefully this will be a really varied, interesting collection! And I love discovering different people’s interpretations of different songs and music videos, so I’d love this to be a project that really engages with people, whether it’s sending me in requests for me to write based off of certain songs, or just discussions about what different songs mean and how we interpret them.

At the moment, all the pieces I’ve written are just based off of ungodly amounts of Halsey and Lana Del Rey, but there will be all sorts of different music and writing up soon, so look forward to it!   🙂

Check out the portfolio page as it keeps updating here!

Don’t Take This Away From Me Yet



, , , , ,

Although she liked him, it felt wrong to have his arm wrapped around her.

It was secure, inviting, protective, but nonetheless there was something sinister there which she did not want to comprehend. There was an obligation as she accepted that arm, an obligation to pay up and give, in return for these small acts of kindness. This unnerved her, and so she would sit up, running her hands through her hair so it covered her face, and wander off briefly to get some air.

The heat of the room was stifling when she returned, after some deep breaths and collected thoughts. The dragon on the mantelpiece was perfectly content, whilst she sweltered under her harlequin blanket.

But she would not remove it, for this was her protection, her bubble. It prevented contact from becoming too human, too real. She was afraid what she would do without it. Once skin impacted against skin, she would feel dirty and immoral, and would simply want to leave.

The carefree whistling of the roommate outside would put her at relative ease, only half her attention on the television placed before them. Her body was buzzing with electric disquietude and simply wouldn’t stay still. She would try to channel it into her left foot, hanging absentmindedly off the crimson bed sheets, but then her leg would ache at the sheer effort of it all, and ceased its compliance.

As she hugged him goodbye, her stomach tumbled and twisted. In this moment she wanted a multitude of events to occur, but in something new beginning, something old must die, and she knew the cycle would return anew another day.

So instead, she coolly bid him farewell and returned home. It took mere seconds before music reverberated from his bedroom, and she could silently let the singing lull her to sleep, determined to stay in this uncertain state for as long as humanly possible.


You can read more of my flash fiction here!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

Everlasting Like The Sun



, , , , , ,

The meadow glistens, as the sun warms your silky feet. Columbines and cowslips dance in the sun. You watch the sun rise, lustrous and luminous. The squirrels rustle through the fallen leaves, a single, solitary hedgehog tickling your bare arms.

The place remains devoid of any human life, you the sole occupant. And why, you can only wonder. This place is perfectly heavenly, so why are you the sole occupant, drowning in this sublime view?

Lying down in the meadow, you gaze up at the milky clouds, seeing the perfect figure of a woman, those perky breasts and supple thighs.

That would be the only way for this to be more perfect, you muse, eyes closed, listening to the hummingbirds whistle.

Before you know it, the sun is setting in the sky. You awake, rubbing your eyes. A den of butterflies were rested atop your chest, soaring away into the sky as you rise. They join together in the sky, a blinding light rendering your eyes closed. You open them, and she is here.

The grass stains a deep red, as she lowers onto the ground. A blissfully beautiful young woman, utterly bereft of all modesty, with two iridescent, emerald butterfly wings sprouting from her bare, silken back.

As one would expect, you sit silently for some time with little idea of what to do. Her eyes are closed, head bent over. Lustrous, lilac locks hide her face, trailing down to the ground, merging with the lavender now blooming from underneath her pulsating flesh.

You approach her slowly, tentatively poking her ivory shoulder. Where you touch, the skin blisters, stirs into life. A single stalk blooms from her flesh, a sole, lemonade carnation blossoming. It quivers, startled, like a new-born fawn, before turning to the setting sun, absorbing the last of the life it can gain before the stars rise in the sky.

Then she erupts with life. Shamrock, juniper, pine. Her arms, coated with moss and lichen, sprouting myriads of petals. In her hands, a single venus flytrap sprouts. You kneel down, underneath her supple breasts, and touch the plant.

It quivers, sparkles, before delicately opening up its mouth. Inside, a capsule. One half red, the other half blue. Round. Empty. You pick it up, an unpleasant, foreboding sensation rooting deep in your chest.

And she awakens.

Her seafoam eyes turn to you, those slits of pupils conveying a torrent of melancholy and resignation. She smiles a hopeless smile, then climbs atop of you, caressing you in kisses.

You quiver, like the vines cascading round her body. You blush, the same scarlet hue as the sunset. But she is even more beautiful than this picturesque meadow, and so you do not resist. You give in to temptation. Her soft breasts caressed, her russet lips bruised, her knotted hair ensnared.

Entering her, the flowers atop her body rocket into life. They open their petals, admitting forbidden entrance into their stigmata’s. All mysteries are now open to you. Nothing is unknown.

The wind rocks the meadow as the stars begin to raise in the sky, the chameleon flowers cascading in the sky, as their petals rise above, forming a garden of pigments amongst the stars.

And you both are perfect. The moon rises in the sky, and it is red. A sublime blood-moon. It erupts, shattered and destroyed.

You are empty, hollow. All you are and ever will be has been transferred to that succulent warmth betwixt her legs. And she smiles.

You close your eyes once more, returning to your sleep. The warmth of the sun no longer bathes your eyelids, but her warmth is enough, it will always be enough. She kisses your forehead, and you give in to sleep.


Your back aches, your forehead throbbing. It’s cold, freezing even. Where did your lover leave you?

And you open your eyes, to a lifeless wall of red and blue. Utter nothingness. You are nowhere.

From outside the capsule, she giggles, and the flowers laugh back to her.

This one was especially delicious, she coos.

She tosses the capsule back into the vending machine and starts over.


Happy New Year!   🙂

I hope you like this, I’m really pleased with this story.

I’d recently listened to Viva Forever by the Spice Girls, and I remembered the great music video for the single, which involved fairies trapping a girl in a rubix cube, which is then placed in a capsule machine. So I thought, what if I adapted this idea into something more mature and creepy?

It was a little difficult ensuring this piece was different from my previous Gothic tale, Erl Queen, but I like to imagine these two girls are sisters!

Check out the rest of my series For I Am No Lover of Lilies, here! Its full of dozens more seductresses like this!

Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt

Screws Loose



, , , , ,

You hurtle above, the aqua fields disappearing amidst the pistachio sky. A currant sun hangs low through the horizon.

Fish soar through the clouds, and the birds sigh, resigned to the dirt-trodden ground.

You gaze at the mismatched houses, stray bricks forming into makeshift shelters. A bolt of thunder claims it as its own, putting the kettle on for a relaxing cup of tea.

The taste of periwinkle foreshadows the oncoming storm, the lemonade clouds already sweeping the skies downwards, upwards and sideways.

A crow caws, its scales quivering as the rain begins to rise. And your hands bleed as the hail tears through your fingers.

There are people below. They scream and sing in equal measure as the electric tempest causes their umbrellas to dance and prance amongst the candy pebbles.

You blink, moistening your lips. You can see your eyes, painted scarlet, watering and streaming streamers. Blinded, you lose your grip and fall.

The tea leaves catch your mangled body, compiling you back together, one screw at a time.



Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt

Check out more of my flash fiction here!




, , , , , ,

#FFFFFF cannot compare to the sensation of being #000000

Those men look at you, with those #FF0000 eyes.

#FFFAFA is not good enough.

Nor is #FFFFF0.

They want more.

Your skin tinted #555D50.

Now you have their attention.

Your legs spread open, #F88379, #FFC0CB, #CD5C5C


That’s my 100th blog post complete!   🙂

Hmm, so this is a weird one.

Well, whenever I write, I’m constantly googling different names for colours. This led to me noticing the names for all the different colours on the colour spectrum, but instead of names they are a blend of letters and numbers called Hex Triplets.

So I thought, why not write about that?

If you translate some of the codes, they spell words out which help give an idea of what the poem is about. But I thought it was a pretty cool experiment.

Read the rest of my, slightly less weird, poetry here!

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt

A Most Unusual Cup of Tea



, , , , , , , , ,

The young girl expanded her virgin wings.

Raven feathers of ink and soot spread out several metres to each side of her fresh, pale skin.

In the mirror, her hair curled and smudged dark, her eyebrows forming thick, bushy feathers. Nails were sharpened and grew to a rotten, murky grape. Even her eyes formed a shade of dusky merlot.

She motioned to stand up, but alas, those legs of hers had grown weak and fragile. Years of being confined to a wheelchair had rendered her legs ineffective, unusable weights. But that did not matter anymore, she had new legs. And they were beautiful.

She shuffled on her sore bottom, through the worm-eaten doorway and outside into the darkness.

The world was cold, rendering her breathless. When had she last been outside? Many years ago.

A barking from over the fence startled her, sending her plummeting up into the air with the beat of a thousand feathers. The clouds watered her eyes, obscured her newfound vision of the world.

She was so terrified, she stopped beating her wings, collapsing onto a neighbour’s roof with a resounding bang. The lights turned on, a gruff voice shouting expletives from the bedroom, followed by a gunshot.


So her first experience with flight hadn’t gone so well. She delicately clambered down from the house, before clawing her way back inside.

It had taken her several days to build up her courage, but she eventually felt it time to return outside. Her feathers had grown lifeless and grey whilst she remained inside, fingering yellowed pages of novels and peeling back the wallpaper in the lustrous mansion.

This time would be different, she silently determined.

And so she flew.


As days turned to weeks, she learnt how to best make use of her skill.

The timid girl soon developed into an illustrious phoenix, soaring up above, sat upon towering flats and watching the people below having drunken brawls and exchanging bodily fluids behind an ill-placed bush.

She did not understand many things, even the words the people below exclaimed as they drunkenly ran through the streets. Being shut in alone for fifteen years did tend to rend one socially awkward.

Our poor heroine did not even notice when her feathered kin flew away in droves, flocking somewhere safe, away from the mulberry clouds approaching from the West. Even those few resigned onto the ground would grumble and moan, as they fled inside to shelter, calling their children’s names in palpitating voices.

In fact, it was simply too late by the time our protagonist was aware of the oncoming storm. Flying back home amidst the pounding rain and moissanite hail, it took only one mere lightning bolt to send her plummeting downwards.


The exceedingly handsome young man was immensely surprised to discover a literal angel in his garden when he woke up the following morning, after his customary cup of tea.

He proceeded to poke her wings for several seconds, on the damp grass. They were lustrous and softer even than her reddened skin. But it worried him how her wings were such a dark, midnight blue. She was so beautiful, as he was told all angels were, and yet she was so oppressive and foreboding. He had learnt at church of those sultry vixens with shadowy wings from hell, those liberated women who must be destroyed, before they steal your heart and trap you in the underworld for the remainder of your days.

But thankfully for our sweet protagonist, this boy was simply too besotted to care.

She was breathing, heavily at that, so he brought her inside and placed her onto the sofa.

Her ragged clothing had been almost completed destroyed during the storm, and the young man was simply unable to control his lingering eyes as they traced over her still-forming figure.

But still, he had learnt that lust was an unforgivable sin. He went upstairs, fetching his softest blanket, placing it over her luscious body, his hands lingering over her tear-drop shoulders.

Yes, he would decide what to do about her after his classes, he thought, finishing his cup of tea.


This idea came about after reading the manga Black Bird, which was a really good series at first, but then quickly went crappy, in my opinion at least. But I like the idea of a girl with birds wings, rather than the stereotypical angel wings I wrote about not too long ago in my short story Fraudulent.

Want to read the rest of my Gothic series For I am no Lover of Lilies? Read it here!

Or you can have a nosy at all my fiction over here.

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt





, , , , , , , ,

He was nervous; apprehensive. The poor boy wouldn’t stop shaking. And when he blushed, the room lit up a startling scarlet, to the extent that you felt your eyes burn; shrinking away from the stark light. Hiding behind his wavy locks, he was a startled fawn in a den of tigers.

So she took him in. With coercing and coddling, he would come to his angel, with stuttering tales of awkward incidents and flustered pauses which spoke more than his words. He would come to her, in a way that no one else would. Like she was a light and he the moth, flinching in the heat of the all-encompassing flame. Her silken wings wrapped around his malnourished form, the ultimate comfort.

Soon opening up was no problem at all. The problem was his own problems. Anxious and unstable, he would call up to the sky each night, calling for her help, the help only she can give, he would mumble, I need you here.

She would consider, debate, contemplate. Should she go?

Could she be the mother to this trepidatious lamb, a learned but very much timid creature, who knew so much of the world, and yet so little than it made her heart throb. He knew her as his virtuous protector, and yet she felt the blackness of her heart, throbbing and sweltering under her white, dewy skin.

When the stars rose in the sky, they would talk of this and that, things and nothings. She was not overly fond of company, but he was so happy, the way his face would lighten up and how he would hug her so softly, so fondly.

In that selfish way, she would feel loved.

She fed off his love, until her blood pumped ebony through those aliceblue veins.

She was his angel, the true beacon of kindness and hope. She could do nothing wrong.

Until that corrupted, forbidding daemon arrived. And he told of all the sinful acts she had committed.

And he would sit there. Listening.




And he would notice the light around her beginning to fade.

And she would notice the shine in his eyes beginning to fade.

Then he would leave, disappointed, disgusted. That even such a monstrous thing exists, he would say, is a crime against nature.

And her ivory, porcelain wings, held up by fragile tape and glue, would crumble.


I hope you enjoyed the story!

You can read the rest of my fiction here!

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt


We Make Little Progress



, , , , ,

His eyes traced over her, watching her lick her popsicle

She gazed to the sticky-handed child over the riviera

And pitied her, for the burden that it is of womanhood.


The stained mirror was cool on her breasts

Splayed out, anaesthetised underneath him

A warmth trickled down her legs, and she wept.


The clock stood still

She caressed her form

Antique and rotten


Could there ever

Be hope for those

Who replace, discarded?


His juices covered the glass, staining, tainting

Friction burns and bruises scaling her ribs

Eyes dried before she turned around to smile


The child gazed down at her dropped ice cream

A mother’s tender hand led her away

But she would remember it later.



You can check out the rest of my poetry here!

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt

It Always Was So



, , , , , , ,

She began with the basic features, mapping them out tentatively, delicately, lovingly.

Moving into intricate intricacies, precipitation, destruction, humanisation

Progressing onto specifications, a house, village, vast cities.

Staining paper iridescent with beauty, rage, lust

Childhood lore, daemons, faeries, nymphs

Time sails past, seconds, minutes, hours


Her fingers bled with the pressure, her eyes leaking

The room grew stale, pungent, a rotten fruit

Her skin withered, mottled, moth-eaten

The masterpiece was finished.

And it was him.



This is pretty much how horrible it is drawing every day. You feel like you’re bleeding, and slowly rotting away xD

Check out the rest of my poetry here!

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt

It Still Bothers Me



, , , , ,

There was a Christmas tree placed upon the table when she returned to the flat. Coated with faux snow, it perked upwards at the promise of attention, its plastic leaves waving, beckoning for affection.

December had barely started.

She turned absentmindedly to the calendar taped to the fridge, gazing at the curved number nine.

Before Christmas, there was still something else to do.



Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt

New Book Cover – Distance



, , , , , , ,

Yes, I’ve designed another book cover for Richard Kefford!



Distance is a poetry collection, featuring some brilliant writing, varying from themes such as nature and childhood, to science and history. There is something for everyone to enjoy in his collection, and I loved creating this book cover for him!

The book will be available on Richard’s Amazon page soon, along with his other diaries and short stories. I thoroughly recommend checking it out!    🙂

Fancy some artwork of your own? Have any questions you’d like to ask me? Have a nosy at my commissions page here.

At the moment of posting this, I’m currently engaged in another project, but feel free to contact me if you’d like to be placed in a queue or would like any burning questions answered!   🙂

Acacia Aurora



, , , ,

Two sides of the same coin
Broken glass and sparkling light.
Solemn face and earnest eyes

A fluttering heart.
A broken will.
Lost hopes and unfound dreams.
A silent melody in the midst

of fire, ash and burning mist.
A beam of light in the sea.
Sudden snow and pretty rain.
Wonder why and cry again.
A trembling hand.
A shivering form.
Sun in sky and birds in flight.
Dark clouds.
An un-pretty sight.
The world sleeping.
Someone weeping.
A beat of wings, a silent night.
Somehow. Somewhere. Sometime right.
A muffled cry.
Another lie.
Blood red. Skin brown.
Hair black. Fallen down.
Broken girl in a broken world.

Forgotten resolve. Lost courage.
A dead bird in an open cage.

Love lost. Found rage.
One wing. Two lands.
A fallen angel.
A supressed hate.
Maze of emotions. Ocean of tears.
A twisted mind is what is here.
Bright flowers. Grey tombstones.
On her knees. Alone again.
A final reality.

A fate of pain.
Un -existing choice. False promises.

Life. Death. What are they but
two sides of the same coin.

-Acacia Aurora


This poem was written by my snazzy new WordPress companion, Auri!

Her blog is full of awesome articles and opinions on manga, anime and popular culture, so you should definitely check it out here! She also shares her illustrations and fan art. Hopefully there’ll be more creative writing showing up too 🙂

So make sure to go check her blog out! ^0^


Perhaps its Best to Remain Inside



, , , , , , , ,

I’m freezing my fucking tits off, Rosalba cried, rubbing her bare shoulders erratically. How much longer is this queue? We’ve been waiting for hours.

It’s hardly been hours, Matt argued. Never mind, we’re almost in now.

They grew silent upon a third person’s abrupt squeak. The unnamed protagonist in question felt a sudden, probing warmth between her frozen legs, in the form of some unsolicited fingers sneaking up her sweltering dress.

She blushed profusely, holding back tears. This sort of scene wasn’t her. She never went out drinking, clubbing, or anything of the sort, and there was a good reason for that.

But being a fresh-faced student came with certain requirements, not including her excessive grade point average. If she wanted any friends, she would have to learn how to live dirty; feeling woozy from third-rate vodka, throwing up from her first, irreconcilable experience with pot, and, of course, the invasive sensation of manhood piercing her ripened flower bud. Even if it meant losing some degree of self-control.

After all, she was nineteen. It was about time she had some fun, her friends cooed, although her idea of fun was something remarkably more questionable and solitary than the average student.

The club’s music blared out as they waited in line for the remaining fifteen minutes. Upon entering the bustling orchestra of hormones and stimulants, Rosalba and Matt pushed through to the middle of the dancefloor, leaving our heroine instantly lost in the polychromatic ocean of intoxicated faces.

But not to fear, a quick grope of her right buttock soon sent her reeling forwards into a most alluring, handsome young man.

What gorgeous eyes… or rather, what lovely blurry orbs, she thought. She was discovering for the first time how very useless the lights were in squally clubs. It was indeed perfect for people to engage in casual copulation, as you could either be fucking Dorian Grey or simple, old Podrick from the Warlocks society down the road.

He opened his mouth. She couldn’t hear anything over the blurring bass.

I see why Rosalba loves the men here so much, our heroine noted.

He took her by the waist, drawing her towards him. She felt herself humming with joy and unexpected pleasure, in places which formerly received little to no attention.

Our pure little maiden was coerced to the bar, where she was sat down most unexpectedly in his lap. Her stomach twisted and turned at the growing bulge pushing out underneath her plump bottom.

Young women in such situations, experiencing lust for the first time, we must remember, often feel a mix of both euphoria and utmost disgust.

This particular young lass had read many a tale of men who were so gentle and kind, until they hypnotised the fair virgin to the nearby, dingy toilet, before growing savage and frenzied; crushing the fairer sex into committing to whatever sinful act they placed upon them.

And so our sweet heroine did not know what to do. She was in a rather hard conundrum.

Her friends had vanished. If their stories were anything to go by, then they had already left with an anonymous figure, fleeing to a nearby hotel or bench, to express their negligible level of devotion.

But this strange man placed a drink on front of her, and well, it was simply rude to refuse.


The gutter reeked of excrement, but her head was still pressed right against it regardless.

Where was she? How did she get there? She had very little idea, fair reader. These beasts can sniff out an inexperienced virgin miles away, and it only turns them on more. The fear in their eyes as they commit heinous acts only increases the pleasure, the excitement.

Looking up granted her just a blurry, submarine image of a naked figure towering over her. She felt a throbbing pain between her legs, a wetness trailing down her legs.

It was too late.

Her scraped feet, blended with gravel and dirt, tenderly brought her to a standing position, as she faced the grinning man.

He laughed. You enjoyed that didn’t you? You dirty little whore. I’d like to see you to explain that to your precious rich-girl daddy! And the laughter continued.

Then she felt it, the dirty hunger in her throat. It was knawing at her, robbing her of the little reason she had left. And she was always so careful…


The fingers dropped to the floor one at a time, drained and succulent.

He had brought her to a pleasantly secluded spot, at least, she mused, eroding away on the last remaining thigh.

And then she was finished. Picking up the tattered rags of clothing, she covered her immodesty, and started on the long walk home.

Yes, there was a good reason why she never went out to social gatherings like this, she thought.


Is this not what happens in clubs? No? Ok.

Click here to read the rest of the stories in my Gothic series For I Am No Lover of Lilies! Or alternatively, my Gothic tag is full of mermaids, vampires and pretty much any unpleasant phenomenon you can ever think of.

Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt