My Brother's Keeper.
June 27, 2017
October 10, 2016
Angels And Demons.
October 5, 2016
I Will Listen.
October 4, 2016
September 17, 2016
August 13, 2016
The Ghost of Veterans House.
July 7, 2016
July 3, 2016
Son of a Witch.
June 18, 2016
They lie a bit.
June 7, 2016
My Grandad’s old school held an exhibition in remembrance week, focusing on all the old pupils who had fought in the armed conflicts of our country. I...
"REMEMBER LAST NIGHT." A short story.
November 11, 2014
Did I tell you witches are real,
little children their souls to steal.
Look out the window darkest night
see them wheeling for the fight.
Flying out of copper clouds
pick the vulnerable out of crowds,
who are weak, you might ask
steal them for their gruesome task.
The witches fight among themselves,
children’s fear they easy smell.
Like sheepdogs kids they separate,
wheel and herd towards their fate.
When they have them at their feet,
thoughts turn to, which one they’ll eat.
‘What’s your name little dear?’
says a red witch alighting near.
‘Tommy miss,’ a young one sniffs,
fear comes off his shorts in whiffs.
‘Well Tommy this is the deal,
If I eat you, your soul I steal.
I like you with a little salt,
don’t cry child it’s not your fault.’
‘But miss I’m crying not for me,
look behind see what you see.
The witch wheeled round gave a cry,
as I stabbed her in the eye.
Did you know witches explode,
Into red dust on the road.
If they’re a red witch, blood is red,
If they’re green pus instead.
I bent to Tommy whispered to him,
‘Thanks young man, can you go ag’in.’
‘Sure I can’ his chest puffed out,
‘love to see you witches clout.
What’s your name I didn’t hear?’
I said, ‘witch hunter, Titus Fear.’
‘Well Mr Fear here I goes,
he ran at speed o’er gloomy hedgerows.
Out into the silent night,
Helping me fight the fight.
Children’s scent is strong to witches,
when sweat’s coming off their britches.
Invisible child fumes filled the air,
drawing hells bitches from their lairs.
Up into the tumbling skies,
on bone-yard broomsticks favoured rides.
Why bone-yard not wood instead?
because they’re made of bones of dead.
Strung with little children’s scalps,
power the broom sticks in and out.
And then they came thundering down,
Tommy crouched low on the ground.
Spitting bile and snot and fear,
sniffing hard smell Tommy’s tears.
As usual fight to get there first,
satiate the unquenchable thirst.
I quivered with anticipation as I saw,
land by Tommy on the floor.
Queen of witches dressed in gold
from her cloak a knife unfold.
‘Hello little one my name’s queen,
bow before I pierce your spleen.
Toast it over embers white,
eat it with such great delight.
Cut ‘em off, your arms and legs,
eat them with some putrid eggs.
Pluck your eyes out, in the pot,
love it when they finally pop.
Then throw your bones in the cemetery,
curse you for eternity.
‘Have to catch me first,
think you’ll find its your eye that bursts.
‘What did you say’ she screamed,
‘talk to me as if you dream.
That you might escape from our kind.’
Tommy said, ‘look behind.’
Works every time.
Results in slime.
From golden blood.
Here comes the flood.
She looked behind.
Stab, she’s blind’
The queen of witches blew to dust,
proud of Tommy placed his trust.
‘Come young fella’ I picked him up,
time for you your milk to sup.
Take you to your mothers home,
tuck you in n’er alone.
‘Thank you Mr Fear’ he said,
glad you made those witches dead.
Are there many more to see?
Thousands from that family?’
‘It’s true’ I said many more,
sorry to show you so much gore.’
‘I like to help you Mr Fear,
how do you know how to witches clear?
How do you know ‘bout witches red,
where to stab them in the head?’
I said ‘I was born to a golden bitch,
guess that makes me a son of a witch.’