luluchat
@luluchat.bsky.social
WIP: A Protest of Corpses. Dark medical academia set in 1820s Paris.
‘Gorgeous,’ he says, bundling it up, crushing Rudolph’s pom-pom nose. ‘You’re super talented.‘
Unfolding it, I hold it against his muscly torso. Perfect knit. Perfect man.
‘You can show it off at the Spinning Yarn.’
He stuffs it into a drawer.
’Let’s dine in. You’re all I need.’
Lucky me.
#WriteCBC
Unfolding it, I hold it against his muscly torso. Perfect knit. Perfect man.
‘You can show it off at the Spinning Yarn.’
He stuffs it into a drawer.
’Let’s dine in. You’re all I need.’
Lucky me.
#WriteCBC
November 6, 2025 at 8:20 PM
‘Gorgeous,’ he says, bundling it up, crushing Rudolph’s pom-pom nose. ‘You’re super talented.‘
Unfolding it, I hold it against his muscly torso. Perfect knit. Perfect man.
‘You can show it off at the Spinning Yarn.’
He stuffs it into a drawer.
’Let’s dine in. You’re all I need.’
Lucky me.
#WriteCBC
Unfolding it, I hold it against his muscly torso. Perfect knit. Perfect man.
‘You can show it off at the Spinning Yarn.’
He stuffs it into a drawer.
’Let’s dine in. You’re all I need.’
Lucky me.
#WriteCBC
I pull.
Lured by my hand, like a cobra it rises. Fangless yet fatal, the silk weave a mesmeric new skin.
I taught you how to knot your first.
Not too tight, Mum.
Never, never.
This was a birthday gift. Designer. Always the best for my boy.
Your favourite tie. The one you used that night.
#WriteCBC
Lured by my hand, like a cobra it rises. Fangless yet fatal, the silk weave a mesmeric new skin.
I taught you how to knot your first.
Not too tight, Mum.
Never, never.
This was a birthday gift. Designer. Always the best for my boy.
Your favourite tie. The one you used that night.
#WriteCBC
September 4, 2025 at 5:55 PM
I pull.
Lured by my hand, like a cobra it rises. Fangless yet fatal, the silk weave a mesmeric new skin.
I taught you how to knot your first.
Not too tight, Mum.
Never, never.
This was a birthday gift. Designer. Always the best for my boy.
Your favourite tie. The one you used that night.
#WriteCBC
Lured by my hand, like a cobra it rises. Fangless yet fatal, the silk weave a mesmeric new skin.
I taught you how to knot your first.
Not too tight, Mum.
Never, never.
This was a birthday gift. Designer. Always the best for my boy.
Your favourite tie. The one you used that night.
#WriteCBC
Yes, great fun. An appealing writing task this time too.
July 4, 2025 at 10:41 AM
Yes, great fun. An appealing writing task this time too.
I thought your imagery was the best. The hearts say it all!
July 4, 2025 at 10:22 AM
I thought your imagery was the best. The hearts say it all!
On splintery shelves, the glass jars are cold. My fingers flinch. Here, among sick pickled hearts we met. I pass black lungs, fallen angel wings, to the gallery where a wooden cylinder rots. The first stethoscope, you told me then. I pause at the foetus in utero. A teardrop frozen in time. #WriteCBC
July 3, 2025 at 10:52 PM
On splintery shelves, the glass jars are cold. My fingers flinch. Here, among sick pickled hearts we met. I pass black lungs, fallen angel wings, to the gallery where a wooden cylinder rots. The first stethoscope, you told me then. I pause at the foetus in utero. A teardrop frozen in time. #WriteCBC
Her vision’s misty nowadays. She discerns a looming hooded figure, hollow-eyed. What’s in his hand? Some sort of tool. Gnarled handle, glinting blade. The terminology’s lost in her woolly brain.
‘I don’t need a gardener.’
She pulls the door shut. He enters anyway.
‘But you need a grave.’ #WriteCBC
‘I don’t need a gardener.’
She pulls the door shut. He enters anyway.
‘But you need a grave.’ #WriteCBC
June 5, 2025 at 5:05 PM
Her vision’s misty nowadays. She discerns a looming hooded figure, hollow-eyed. What’s in his hand? Some sort of tool. Gnarled handle, glinting blade. The terminology’s lost in her woolly brain.
‘I don’t need a gardener.’
She pulls the door shut. He enters anyway.
‘But you need a grave.’ #WriteCBC
‘I don’t need a gardener.’
She pulls the door shut. He enters anyway.
‘But you need a grave.’ #WriteCBC
Happy birthday, she says, her hug tentative. I reel her in. There it is: hard, craggy where her heartbeat should be; the reason she’s the super-thin sister with hair so glossy it looks unreal. I don’t ask how long. That lump’s a mountain between us. Even in childhood, insurmountably there.
#WriteCBC
#WriteCBC
May 8, 2025 at 5:23 PM
Happy birthday, she says, her hug tentative. I reel her in. There it is: hard, craggy where her heartbeat should be; the reason she’s the super-thin sister with hair so glossy it looks unreal. I don’t ask how long. That lump’s a mountain between us. Even in childhood, insurmountably there.
#WriteCBC
#WriteCBC
An eggy cologne engulfs me before pumice slits my cheek right down to gummy pulp. Soot shrouds my larynx. No chance to scream. Not then. Not now, when hot rocks break my skull with a biscuity snap. In my fist, my amulet cracks. Vesuvius erupting is a Brutus stab. #WriteCBC @cbcreative.bsky.social
April 3, 2025 at 6:59 PM
An eggy cologne engulfs me before pumice slits my cheek right down to gummy pulp. Soot shrouds my larynx. No chance to scream. Not then. Not now, when hot rocks break my skull with a biscuity snap. In my fist, my amulet cracks. Vesuvius erupting is a Brutus stab. #WriteCBC @cbcreative.bsky.social
His footsteps echo in La Morgue’s vaulted hall. No prod of elbows today, no swish of silken skirts. Just the sail-like flap of uninhabited garments, the ploc-ploc from open faucets. Her frosty mouth gapes below lustreless eyes. He is transported to the poissoneries. She too is merchandise. #WriteCBC
March 6, 2025 at 1:01 PM
His footsteps echo in La Morgue’s vaulted hall. No prod of elbows today, no swish of silken skirts. Just the sail-like flap of uninhabited garments, the ploc-ploc from open faucets. Her frosty mouth gapes below lustreless eyes. He is transported to the poissoneries. She too is merchandise. #WriteCBC