what up i’m katie and here’s a list of things you might want to know

  1.  this is a blog
  2.  it will contain all of my writey things
  3.  i like to write short fiction, poetry, occasionally reviews and maybe one day i’ll write a real actual book
  4.  most specifically i like to write about feelings
  5.  i also like to hide the feelings in works of fantasy so that’s probably a defense mechanism none of us need to address
  6.  when i’m not writing Very Important Things i like to write in lowercase it’s like a stream of consciousness from my mind do you see
  7.  if you find that annoying this may not be the place for you
  8.  feedback is very much appreciated, i promise i won’t let it hurt my fragile feelings (much)
  9.  you have nice hair
  10.  peace ✌🏻

enquiries: get @ me via social media links in the sidebar or the following email, kate.e.mcelroy@gmail.com

pinecone tea

She picks up her baby brother at age eight and cradles him close to her like the mother she is sure, one day, she will be. She bumps him around the garden in his pushchair while they do their shopping, bags and bags of pinecones purchased with chocolate coins from the supermarket tree at the bottom. They go home to their wendyhouse and make dinner: fried pinecone, with a side of pinecone tea.


he wanted to kiss her
but not kiss her

because kissing someone was mechanical and practiced and well thought out, kissing someone was roses and rings and dinner and the light catching on the back of a flipped coin

he wanted to devour her

wanted to feel her fingers digging like icicles into his back, wanted to taste the same sweet fire in her mouth that he already could in his, and the feeling was sudden, like the flush of relief following a near death experience

it was innocent and
primal all at once

innocent because somehow it remained in this moment, this world, they’d built here for themselves out of their own destruction, away from power-hungry politicians and smoke entangled in the rungs of a freshly erected ferris wheel over the trees of the village

primal because he wasn’t a man that often experienced this feeling of rawness for anyone, or anything.

wolf boy

He is a dirty little boy, always grimy, with matted curls of brown hair and sleep-caked green eyes.

“Bathe him, would you?”

His uncle’s voice is firm, riddled with disgust.

The housekeeper’s is kindly. She takes him upstairs by the hand, not even minding when his dirty fingernails leave a smear on her pale clothes as he trips halfway up the stairs. He isn’t used to stairs.

In the bathroom, he plays with the clawed feet of the tub as she undresses Lucian, his cottons and silks whispering against the tiles, far from the defeated whooshes and plops of his own.

They sit opposite each other in the bath, Lucian’s end bubbly and white and Cullen’s a sad sort of yellowish grey as the filth seeps from his pores.

“Did the sheep have their babies?” Lucian asks eagerly, stroking the neck of a plastic Loch Ness monster toy.

“Yuh,” Cullen replies, face beaming with pride.

“That’s so cool. I wish I lived with you.”

Home is muddied paths and footprints so colossal Cullen can jump from one to the next with both feet; it’s sheep bleating and endless abysses of fields and shadows from huge calm cows, cast at sunset, his face against their velvety sides as he hugs them.

Home is a barren bedroom, grey and dusty, with only Lucian’s hand-me-downs to offer it some colour. There’s a comic missing the last page that Cullen adores, and the smallest dragon from Lucian’s ancient dragons set. Cullen draws him, and all the others, on his yellowish duvet cover, and his mother knocks his teeth out for it.

“S’alright,” she says, shaking. “They only babby teeth. He’s alright. You’re alright. Up y’get.”

Home is violence, and eventually Cullen learns that this is bad.

the end

she took the champagne with an analogy that made him think of formal visits to the her estate, drop-ins to her lingerie shop, mail requesting to meet her at the finest cocktail bars and restaurants all over the city of london. when he thought of those occasions he tasted dry wine on his tongue, heard string instruments, smelt clean late night air and felt her shoulder, her waist, her back beneath a guiding hand. they’d had a luxurious friendship, the both of them. unplanned, unstructured and wild. a tentative tightrope between truth and lies, between facades and true intentions. when he’d been with her on those scattered evenings he’d wanted her forever, but only like that. only in that dress and those heels, smile just so, drinking the champagne (the wine, the gin, the vodka) that he bought her. this, somehow, was one of those times. the last time.


She is sweet and gentle, inquisitive and kindly; a sensitive disposition quick to cry.

A curled hand around her mother’s calf.

She is the firstborn, blue eyes with flecks of gold in them. Gold, like sunshine.

Sunshine follows her.

It drips into her step, always a skip, bleeds into her smiles, always forceful, always focused.

It blossoms into her hair and then fades, giving her a sun-kissed childhood that darkens into an ashy, dirty teenhood.

A fortune-teller might call it foreshadowing.

But until then it is a brightness that is inherently her.


he’d had a handful of moments in his life where he felt a situation truly hang in the balance. there with her, sharing her breath, feeling her hands on his shoulder blades, they could have stayed there infinitely. for seconds, for minutes, for hours, his drunken spirit lifting from his body and encircling them, watching them, frozen in this torturous tableaux. the moment had an overwhelming sense of importance – we aren’t coming out of this alive, said a voice in his head – but then it was passing, the time fluid and impossibly fast again suddenly like someone had changed the settings on the scene, her hands firm on his back as she dragged him down.