Happy Halloween

I know it is November already but I was too busy being creeped out by beautifully scary street art at The Vaults under Waterloo Station to focus on creeping out my wonderful readership. But here, below, is a little ghost story I recently wrote, soon to be published in FantaSci magazine. Enjoy!

Lilac Kisses

By Tice Cin

They called on the lips of my mother when they needed escape. Her lips were like ashy tins, left on window sills in the rain, soaking up dripping debris. Tongues searched her cavities for answers to questions asked during the day. It was their pleasure to know that she would be a sloe gin and comfort their worries. They would bury their pain in her skin and pour lust into her. Knees grubby on the floor of her kitchenette she would receive them whilst she stared at the gap in her floorboards. It was in the corner of the room by the larder door. She loved to perform in that particular spot and look. She’d never look away from my two eyes staring back at her, encouraging her craft.

Mother knew of a transcendence that would help her to reach me again. Each time she felt the warm clutch of skin against her thighs she would be closer to me. It was as though she cleaved her skin to form a bond of cells that would call to me.

I loved to watch how her elbows would creep up towards her shoulders celebrating special endings. And the men would be fast and leave late. Rarely sober, always sated. Afterwards, hiking her legs up against the cupboards of our kitchen she would smile, either to me or herself and let the remains climb into her womb.

When I first told her you can have my baby if you want, the disgust on her face was beautiful. The way she cared. She knows I understand the decisions that she made. Her struggles were worthwhile as she made me fit below those floorboards. I was segmented but back to my original whole as she cradled my lovers dead child. Watching her was a tutorial on how I could have been as a mother. But she missed me and wanted to remake me. This time I would be reborn. She’d get a second chance.

For now, I would just have to watch her toil. Tonight. Gently she laced up her heeled boots again and blew kisses at me from her flaky lipsticked mouth. To find another. To try again.


Author: ticecin

Tice Cin is a writer and journalist based in London. She is currently working on her first novel – a story about growing up in Tottenham that explores the cultural boundaries affecting expression, the hybridity of identity, and the choices one makes. Tice’s work seeks to navigate liminal spaces in known history and explore the implications of defamiliarising fixed narratives. She blends sensuality and graphic detailing into work that explores wider themes, breaching the limits of reality in writing that has magical and surrealist elements. Tice completed her MA in English: Issues in Modern Culture at UCL, specialising in representations of the female body in avant-garde literature. She has an Instagram page where she shares her work as it progresses: @ticecinwrites

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