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

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | April 14, 2015

VisDare93: Karma


VisDare 93 Flash fiction Karma
149 words

My stepsister inherited the best of Dad’s looks.
We were beauty and beast in everything, not just looks.
In a rush to get to work, my sister pushed aside an elderly woman, I was the one who stopped to help the lady off the floor.
The lady heard me swear at sis, wish all sorts of awful things on her. Embarrassed, I apologised, and explained that it wasn’t the first nasty incident of the week, and refused to accept a gift for helping her.
‘You shall have your reward.’ The lady winked at me.
It was not long before I guessed what that reward was.

Screams from the bathroom, brought us all running.
‘I had a spot and now it’s gone!’
‘The spot?’
We saw a bottle at the side of the mirror, labelled, ‘Blemish Remover’ subtitled ‘ugly defects removed.’
Sis turned. We gasped.
‘No, my face!’

This is the abridged version of a longer short story written for Camp Nano 2015.

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | April 1, 2015

VisDare92,( unexpected.) Saved

150 words


Aeron carefully put away the saw. He paged his team. Caddoc was already there and waiting, his backpack bulging with supplies, adding to his bulk built up from weight training. The morning had been bright, but weather quickly changes in the mountains, and spring is the silly season for the novice. Within the hour, the team reached the area picked up by the helicopter, were Aeron quickly assessed the scene. Five teenagers, two older men leaning over a deep crevice calling down to a young man. Caddoc sprung into action. The rescue was more complicated than first supposed, but once the man was air lifted to the hospital, and the subdued group, led back down to safety, Aeron returned to his saw. His award winning totem, captioned ‘Saved. The Dangers of relying on GPS.’ showed the fifteen hands of the eight survivors, placed at the foot of the mountain.

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | March 30, 2015

VisDare 91 flash 2! The flip side of competing.

I had some time on my hands, and playing around with photo prompts, I wondered what would happen if I flipped the photo.
This is what happened…




The Flip Side of Competing.

The competition was canal themed.
I risked a dunking, setting up my shot. Weeks before I’d noticed the reflection of the warehouse in the canal, saw how the air vents stuck out over the water. I went back when the light was right, then rigged up my DSLR camera to look down on the air vents, and focused it ready. With the aid of climbing tackle, I managed to strap myself to the vents, upright over the water, using the remote control to take the photo of me playing the trumpet.
To my horror, the committee displayed the photograph flipped, to look as though I was lying down!
The trophy, went to the newest member, and her chance snap of a duck, standing on top of another duck, who was standing, on one leg on top of a lager can.
The caption read. If Carling did ‘Ducks and Drakes…

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | March 25, 2015

Warm up Wednesday flash fiction. Away With The Fairies.


Warm up Wednesday 100 words on the nose.

Flash: Away with the fairies.

“Dance” they said. “Dance.”
“What for?” I cried. “Why should I dance?”
“Look at the sky; the cerulean blues, blush pinks, ivory whites. See the spotlight from the sun, lay rich silver and golden sheets along the dusty roof tops.”
I looked, but still I didn’t dance.
“Dance!” The Fay urged. “Dance!”
“Because nature paints you an ever changing decor, from palettes of mountain lilacs, leafy sap greens, cool ocean cobalt blues, through to fiery sunset oranges. Dance, because you are alive.”
So I danced. I didn’t stop dancing until the heart slowed and the Fay said, “enough!”

Posted by: writingwitch2013 | March 25, 2015

VisDare 91: Borys’s finest hour


Flash fiction

Borys’s finest hour.

Like his forefathers, Borys had a special job, although his sense of duty wasn’t as deep rooted as theirs.
All he had to do was play a tune on the trumpet, on the hour, from 6am until midnight, in the town square.
The town hall clock chimed every hour, but because of some ancient tradition involving, watch tower, invaders, trumpeter ancestor alerting the villages and losing his own life, he was expected to carry it on.
It was the perfect job for lazy Borys’s unqualified, sloppy attitude. He couldn’t be bothered to walk up to the tower to play the trumpet, and was usually seen sleeping on a bench, waking only to play on the hour.
Yet amazingly he saved the town…
Not through heroism, but by not playing the trumpet. All thanks to bad timing and the stupidity of invaders, who slit his throat just before the hour.

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