Posted by: writingwitch2013 | August 15, 2016

I’ve been busy



I started writing a novel in February to submit to the New Writers Scheme of the Romantic Novelist Assoc. I finished the first draft in June and sent it off.

The critique that came back pointed out the grey areas, and improvements to be made, but overall was very encouraging.

I am now in the process of editing, altering and hopefully, improving it.


Watch this space!



Posted by: writingwitch2013 | May 26, 2015

Burden (7) VisDare 98


Burden (7)

‘What in the heavens is all that noise?’

She questioned the tall man in front of her, dressed in a long robe with a wooden coffin strapped to his back.

‘Will yer stop banging that headstone with the stick and hollering like that, it’s enough to wake the bloomin’ dead!’

‘That, my dear, is what I am attempting to do.’

He surveyed her dress, a ragged outfit and almost translucent. Her skin was pale to the point of invisible, and he thought she almost hovered above the ground, she appeared so light.

‘This gentleman paid me to carry his burdens so that he could live life to the full. We had a contract. At the point of his death he was to take it all with him, but he has left me to carry it. I want him to honour his word.’

’Him?’ She howled. ‘Mr D’Evil never honoured nuthing.’

150 words

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | May 26, 2015

Burden (6) VisDare 98


Burden ( 6)

We all have baggage we carry around with us, some more than others. Some find ways of offloading their baggage, only to build up more.
Old Jim was one of these, he found a way around it.
He discovered a phone number in the local telephone kiosk.
He often phoned up to chat to her, he unburdened his soul, told her all his woes and she listened patiently and sympathetically, to all his problems. He felt much better after each phone call.
He called her his angel.
He knew he wasn’t the only one who phoned her, ‘Angel’ Brenda had an open phone line for any soul in distress, nevertheless it helped him offload his burdens.
Then the phone line stopped. Jim was no longer able to chat to his angel, and when the world became too much, he left it.
The Samaritan, Brenda, now carries that burden of guilt.

150 words

A note about the above inspiration.
In the 1990’s, the Samaritans opened a phone line called the ‘Brenda’ Line to deal with people having problems of a sexual nature. Any person joining the Samaritans at that time, would be given a different name to be known by if their real name was Brenda. The line closed when it was thought that men were using it as a cheap alternative to a chat line.

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | May 26, 2015

Burden (5) VisDare 98



They say we burden ourselves with all our past baggage, we carry it around until it suffocates us, wears us down.

Imagine having my job.

I love my job, I am a baggage collector. I take on baggage when people leave it behind. I carry it around and add to it daily. 
Have you never wondered where people leave their baggage when they die? Their souls fly after death, but need to be free of the weight of the living to do so.

That is where I come in. I collect it. 
Do I care that it is all negative energy, thoughts, and wrong doings? Baggage is never positive, but in my job negativity is a good thing.
Think of what you all call me, a psychopomp, The Grim Reaper, Death, Father Time, call me what you will, my job objectives are always the same.
I always unburden the dead.

150 words

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | May 21, 2015

Burden3 . VisDare98


The volunteer sat in the chair opposite and opened his book.

Jean liked Ken, he was a stocky man with little brain, but he was a friendly face in this prison called a nursing home.

‘What are you reading, Ken?’

‘Travels with my aunt. It’s about a quiet man and his eccentric aunt, who gets him into adventures on their travels. I wish I could have travels and adventures.’

’I’d love to have one last fling before I’m bedridden.’

‘You’ve got the money, why don’t you?’ 

Jean sadly pointed to her walking sticks.

‘Only way out of here is in a coffin.’

The next week Ken beckoned Jean to the door. Standing there was a homemade coffin, like a papoose.

‘I’ve put straps on it an’ everything, Jean. I’ll carry you on my back. Let’s have some adventures.
Jean chuckled with delight.

’I’ll get my purse. Where are we going?’

150 words

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | May 21, 2015

Burden 2 : VisDare 98


Burden 2

My life had certainly not been as my father had expected.

I wasn’t a company director, a top lawyer or, God help me, a footballer. In his eyes a man was judged by success and wealth. I was a struggling artist. Enough said.

It wasn’t just my lack of ambition, but my acceptance of my lot, that aggrieved him. 
This time, I would be able to have the last say in our war of differences.

‘My latest project is a walk, with a coffin strapped to my back.’

‘Call that art?’

‘Art is what makes your soul happy.’

Our usual war of words.

It’s not the walk, but the destination that will be my final piece.

No grand funeral, like my mother’s. With only the hole I’ll dig in the ground for the coffin, and a bottle of tablets, I’ll beat the tumour and my father in one brush stroke.
150 words

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | May 21, 2015

Burden. VisDare 98




Now that I am dead,
do not look for me at a grave
I am not there, I died.
In that grave is only a shell,
a body I borrowed for my time on earth.
I am not in the next room.
Do not look for me there.
that is someone else’s poem.

If you know me at all
you will look for me
in the leaves that rustle on the trees,
in the birds singing and soaring,
in the waves that rush upon the shore,
or the water that falls over into a river.

If you look for me in a cemetery
you will not find me there,
and I will know you did not understand me.
If you find me on the breeze at the top of a hill,
in the quiet of the forest, or the green of the daisy field
then I will whisper to you.

150 words

I wrote this from the prompt, but it sat so well with me, that I will be asking for this to be read at my funeral. I will just add another line or two … Maybe.

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | May 18, 2015

Almost (2) VisDare 97


Almost (2) 149 words.

He swore, cursing himself for being conned out of fifty pounds to stay in the dark, damp, stinking, foresters home.
The story had been interesting enough. A murder over ninety years before, left a restless spirit and a headless woman, roaming around at night. Lights had been spotted glowing through the cracked windows. Strange noises reportedly emitted from the walls, locals gave it a wide berth.
The organisers,, had set up infrared cameras, microphones, and gadgets for detecting electromagnetic energy, and temperature changes, but the only temperature change was from the hot air generated by know it all’s, not spooks.
As he reached his car, he heard crackling, then saw a strange light inside, the engine had started and it was pulling off down the track.
To his horror he saw a headless spirit was driving, the other was messing with the stations, causing static on the radio.

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | May 13, 2015

Almost. VisDare 97



149 words

It was a mild spring evening, the birds were singing and as I walked away I thought how smoothly it had gone.

The money was in the bag, hidden in the second cubicle of the toilets, the back door unlocked exactly as per the instructions, it could hardly have been an easier job.

The message said to jump the bus to the coastal road, where a car would be parked with its bonnet up. Stand by the car and thumb a lift back. I would be paid when I handed over the bag.

The driver sympathetic and chatty, dropped me off.
I thanked him profusely, and casually sauntered off, swinging my arms gently by my sides.


Oh no! The bag!

I turned. Too late. The car was already speeding off down the road, with the bag still in the car, and did I hear the driver laughing?

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | April 22, 2015

One Fine Place. Visdare special edition.


One fine place,
That’s all I asked for,
A room to sleep in,
A kitchen and a lounge for rest;

Just a garden to call my own.
A fine place to call my home

A toad I rescued
And gave a kiss to,
Became a prince
In front of my very eyes.

Then with me being too old to marry
Granted my wish and left in a hurry.

One fine place
Too big to manage
All by myself
Too much to clean.

Huge house, acres of land to tend
So now, with live in staff I depend.

Too many people
All I want is privacy.
Too much to run,
No rest for me.

For sale: would suit a prince’s palace,
All I want for myself is one fine place.

129 words

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