Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be immortal?

Well, I can tell you. There are three main moods that I’ve experienced. Yes, just three, repeating in a sickening cycle for two hundred years.

The first is boredom, the evitable one. When you have so much of life, you tire of it.

The second, happiness, is the briefest, so easily snatched away.

And the third, the one I felt choking me on that fateful day, is panic. Crippling, desperate panic. It happened every time. Even though I should be used to this by now, I still don’t know what to do when I realise, she’s gone.

You see, my wife has always been the only thing keeping me sane. If I hadn’t met her, I would be raving mad by now, because I have been twenty-five for nearly two hundred years and it was dull enough the first time.

But then I met her and found my happiness for the first time. We met in the bar where I worked, back in the 1800s. She shouldn’t have been there; she didn’t belong there. That was obvious to me from the way she stood out in the crowd.

To start with, she was obviously far richer than our usual clients, being well dressed, well-groomed and incredibly polite. She was also enchantingly beautiful. Petite and pale with carefully pinned-up platinum locks, she was instantly noticeable and indeed, she attracted quite a crowd of admirers that night.

I didn’t just admire her for her beauty though. When I got closer to her, I fell in love with her mind. For she came to the bar, to order and, I think to escape from the crowd, I saw her bright green eyes, intelligence dancing in them and listened to her wit and charm as we spoke.

I’ve loved her ever since.

We were married not long after that, much to her parents’ horror. But we didn’t care much for social standing and approval. We simply got on with our lives together happily.

As I mentioned, such happiness is always short-lived. She died later that year, in childbirth. Our first and only child died with her.

And so came the wave of panic. The fear, what would I do now? The misery, how would I live without her? For days, my mind simply whirled with questions and chaos.

Eventually, of course, we were reconnected. I don’t know how this happened. To my knowledge, neither immortality nor reincarnation are common. I’ve oft had to move about so that my failure to age is not noticed and not once have I become reacquainted with anyone else I lost.

But she was different. I knew her as soon as I saw her again. Her eyes burned with the same brightness.

By now, we have lived out many lifetimes together. Each follows this cycle. I live alone, in boredom, until I meet someone with her eyes, her soul. Other details change each time, but those features stay the same. I would know them anywhere.

We fall in love and then I lose her. It happens suddenly and brutally. Once, she was murdered. Another time, we fought side by side in a war and ‘she’ – This time, in the form of a man – died in front of me.

It seems whatever force of fate has gifted us the chance to live again and again has also cursed me to see her die over and over.

And that dreadful day, I awoke to realise my wife wasn’t in bed beside me. The panic rose in my chest, creeping up my throat to strangle me. I wandered through the house, calling to her, searching for her.

The lack of an answer confirmed my fears. My wife was missing. I had lost her again. What could I do?

Then, for once in my long life, a sharp clarity rose up into my mind. I had to find her. The other times, she was already dead when I got to her. I had failed her because I had given into the panic. This time, I had a chance to find her and save her.

So, I abandoned my home, grabbing my coat as I passed the hook behind the door. Then, I ran out into the night, on her trail. I did not yet know where she was, of course, but finding her had been a lifelong talent of mine. Ever since I had realised that she would return to me, I had honed that skill and each time she was ready for me, I found her.

The hardest part was that she never remembered me, so each time I had to rekindle our love. And yet, each time it worked. Perhaps there is room for some goodness in this cursed world.

And that night, I had an advantage. If she was still alive, she would try to find her way back to me too. This time, it wasn’t just up to me to search for her alone.

It was still a struggle though. Mostly, the struggle was to keep calm, to push away the panic and focus on saving her. But there was also the practical struggle of actually tracking her down.

As soon as I left the house, I began to try and think where she might be. If she had been taken – Which of course she had, she wouldn’t take off and leave me like this – then they wouldn’t have gone right. That way was a dead end.

Straight ahead was the river and while I doubted, they would take her somewhere with only one way out, I had to check, because it would depend why they took her. If they wanted to escape, they would have gone left, but if they wanted to harm her, she may already be in the freezing waters.

So, I broke into a run until I reached the riverbank and looked down, dreading what I may see. But the moon shone brightly here and made it quite clear that the water held nothing but silvery reflections. After walking along it some way, just to be sure, I moved away. This had been a waste of time.

Left, then. That could mean anywhere, since that path headed into the heart of the sprawling city. I began to lose hope then, feeling the panic creeping back up on me, but I tried to stay strong. I had found her enough times before and lost her countless times too.

This time, I would find her and never let her go.

Moving through the city with this thought running through my mind over and over again, I hunted for any sign of her and saw it. Caught on one of the spikes of a nearby gate was the locket I give her in each of our courtships. Originally, it was a token I saved for months, now it is something I’ve gifted her many times.

I recognised it instantly and seized it, its golden chain jangling as I pulled it free of the metal gate and held it for a moment, feeling the familiar grooves on its smooth surface before sliding it into my pocket.

I had something of hers, at least, something to comfort me. And it was also a clue. Why would this be hanging from the gate if she hadn’t entered it?

With that in mind, I examined the gate and the place to which it led. It was a stout wrought iron gate in black, padlocked firmly. Behind it, stretching away, was a narrow footpath. It led to a large house of old grey stone with impressive bay windows, covered over with dark curtains.

I could clearly remember when such houses were in fashion, but what concerned me now was not trendy architecture, but finding my love.

There was, however, a problem. The gate still barred my path. I shook it angrily and made it rattle, but the lock held it fast. I exclaimed in anger, hardly able to believe I had come so close to be thwarted now, kept from my darling in her hour of need by a single piece of metal.

“Dude, just use the intercom!” Someone shouted at me.

Confused, I looked around, “The what now?”

The man, who I believe had been passing by when the creaking of the gate drew his attention to my activities, pointed to a panel on the wall. Of course, I always forgot about the modern age’s changes. Having lived so long, all ages blurred into one.

“Thank you,” I nodded to my helper, who shrugged his shoulders and wandered away, leaving me to puzzle out this piece of technology that was now vital to saving my wife.

I pushed a button and let out a frantic shout, “Hello? Let me in, please!”

For a moment, there was no reply. That moment felt like an age. But finally, I heard a woman’s voice, soft and nervous sounding.

“I’ll come down in a moment. Please, calm down.”

I wanted to scream at her that I couldn’t calm down and to accuse her of taking my wife. After all, how else would she have arrived here?

But I had to stay calm. I couldn’t make her panic and do anything rash. I couldn’t endanger the very person I sought to save.

So, “Thank you,” was my only reply before I fell silent and waited for her to arrive, pacing impatiently outside the gate.

The wait was probably not as long as it felt. Time is weird to me now. Years with her pass like seconds and moments without her are achingly long.

However, I was soon joined at the gate by a young woman of child-like appearance, about five foot at most and very slender. She had short, dark hair that framed her delicate, freckled face. She fixed her dark eyes on me fearfully.

“Are… Are you okay?” She asked, “You seem angry.”

Could a kidnapper really be so ignorant? Or had I completely misjudged the situation. I wasn’t sure. So how should I handle this?

I decided on honesty without accusation.

“My wife is missing. I think she may be here. Can I come in?” I tried to keep my voice as calm as possible, though I was close to panicking again.

“Your wife… Yes,” She nodded and again, I felt she was afraid of something, “She is inside, you can come in to see her.”

She unfastened the lock and let me in, watching me strangely as I approached her. She turned away when I came close and began to hurry back up the path.

I broke into a run to keep up with her, though I struggled. She was younger and fitter than me, lighter on her feet too. I was left panting for breath but deep in thought.

For this young lady puzzled me. Surely, she, so young and so nervous, was not a kidnapper? Why would she admit to me that my wife was here and invite me in, if she had taken my love and intended her harm? And that was the only scenario I could fathom out, for if my wife had left of her own accord, she would have woken me to say goodbye.

She hadn’t, she had vanished in the night and ended up in this stranger’s house. The stranger was not much of a threat, so how had this happened? Was there someone else involved? I could be being deceived, lured into the house by a mere accomplice so that the true criminal behind this could attack me too…

That must be it! But how could I handle it? I had to go inside to find my wife and save her! If I left without her, saving myself would be meaningless because my life would mean nothing anyway.

How to rescue her depended on what was waiting for me behind the door to which we now came. The young lady who had led me here was waiting outside the large, dark oak door as I ran to it.

She turned back to me and smiled in a strange, fragile way, like a child trying to impress a new friend but fearing rejection.

“I hope you will understand, your wife is safe. She has not been harmed,” She told me softly.

I should have been reassured by her words, but instead I was puzzled. Why was she telling me this? It sounded like a confession to taking my wife. Was it driven by regret, or was it another ploy to make me trust her and follow her into the house?

I had to try to work it out. The only way I could see to do that was question her. There was, of course, no guarantee that I could trust her answers, but I could at least stall her while I tried to read between the lines of whatever she might have to say.

“What do you mean by that?” I began.

“I mean I wouldn’t harm her. But I wish you to understand, I had a good reason for doing this.”

I am normally a placid man, but anger boiled in my veins at that. What reason could possibly justify this? How dare she imply that this had been for a good cause?

I held myself back. All I wanted to do was knock her down. Alas, I am a gentleman and wouldn’t hit a lady. Besides, the door to the house may still be locked. I may still need her.

“You better explain yourself then,” I told her coldly, keeping the full heat of my anger to myself for now, but not hiding my displeasure from her.

She sighed, looking down, “I know. I owe you that. And I realise this is hardly a way to repay your kindness to me, but I had to seek out the only people who helped me in the past.”

Now I was even more confused. Confused enough to temporarily forget what she had done, in favour of solving the mystery of her words.

Yet, I must be careful not to full into her trap. So I kept my tone of cold politeness in place.

“Ma’am, I have never met you before. If this is a trick, please stop it. Give me the truth, however ugly it is.”

“I’m telling the truth, I promise. I don’t want to trick you,” She shook her head, then something appeared to dawn on her, “Ah, of course! You don’t recognise me. One moment…”

She closed her eyes and concentrated. Then… Something happened that I don’t know how to capture in words. Can you imagine the horror of seeing someone’s appearance transform in front of you? Their body growing out and up, their face contorting with wrinkles and their nose lengthening. Hair turning grey over mere seconds…

It is quite something to witness, the image has stuck in my mind, and with it the confused sensation of my eyes tingling, unsure if they had really seen what had just happened.

It had worked though, revealing her identity to me. The memory was an old one, but it came rushing back as the old woman stood before me.

I remembered my love and I, back when we had only known one another a short while, fleeing our hometown together. It was a dark, freezing November night, but we were determined to be together and our families stood between us. So, she took what she could carry from her lavish home and I took what little I owned and we fled.

We made it to the train station, numb with cold, hopelessly tired but clinging to one another. When we arrived, an elderly woman who hadn’t the money for a ticket was being moved on by a station guard. She was weeping, saying she had to get to a friend who was dying.

My darling and I traded glances. It was hard to see. I ached to help but had only what little I had saved for our new life.

She, on the other hand, had some spare money. Her father had been doting up until he had learned of her relationship with me. His disapproval had made him hard and cold, but she had held onto the money he had given her in the past.

So, she bought the old lady a ticket when we bought ours. She thanked us gratefully, but we never saw her again and I had never thought for a second that she could still be alive.

But then, I shouldn’t be either, should I?

At length, I nodded to her, “I see. Now I recognise you, but I don’t understand.”

“I have a lot to explain,” She agreed, “The very fact that we’re both standing here now is a consequence of that night.”

Now she had my attention. Clearly, from her transformation, this woman – Who I had taken for a simple lost soul – had some secret magic in her. Could she be responsible for my and my darling’s accursed condition?

That seemed to be what she was saying. I had always wondered why we were different, why we were placed in this awkward situation.

But she claimed to remember our kindness, so why would she inflict this upon us?

“Tell me,” I begged her, not wasting words, just wanting to get to the point, to try to understand it all.

She didn’t disappoint, coming straight to the point, “My friend, who was dying, she was a witch. And my mentor. Now, please don’t think badly of us when I use the word ‘witch’. It’s often used as a sign of evil, but we were white witches. She taught me much, including the gift of a longer life, but her powers faded, and she passed away, leaving me as the last of our coven. I never really mastered magic, so I couldn’t teach anyone else. I simply went into hiding, changing my identity whenever necessary to lay low. But a white witch does not forget her debts. I paid you back.”

This was a strange tale, but I had witnessed her magic, so I believed her words. There was only one puzzle to me. She said she paid me back. I understood she was referring to my condition. But how was this thanks? Surely, if she had lived this long, she would understand it was a curse, nothing more!

“This is how you pay me back? By cursing me to live a thousand lives and to lose my beloved a thousand times?” I threw the accusation at her, my earlier anger returning, hotter than before.

She seemed distressed by my words, tears springing to her eyes, “I’m sorry! As I said, I never got the hang of magic, but I wanted you both to live a long and happy life together. I could only give the gift of immortality once, then I had to find another way. This was the closest thing I could do.”

I took a deep breath, trying to calm down before I told her, “I understand and appreciate what you wanted to do, but I wish you hadn’t. It’s been very hard for me.”

“I see that now. Not only have I lived a longer life myself, but I have watched over you. I have seen you suffer. And I’m sorry. That was never my intention. I didn’t think…” She looked up at me, her old eyes full of years of deep sadness.

I could not bear a grudge against her in such a situation.

“I will forgive you, but please, take back your gift. Let us live a peaceful life together. Even if it is not a long one, it will be a much happier one than any other we’ve shared.”

Her face fell, “I wish I could. But I’ve brought you here because I need your help.”

“With what?”

“It is I who have been cursed, by a rival coven. They have taken almost all my magical powers. I had enough strength left to cast a hypnosis spell, bringing your lady to me. In any case, that’s hardly a real spell. But it was enough to lead you both here. See, to break their curse, you must take and mix the blood of three unusual people deeply bonded.”

Her explanation was a puzzle to me. Until a few brief moments ago, I had not known that magic even existed. It was the stuff of fairy stories. Now, I was being asked to participate in a magical ritual.

All because my wife had once bought a train ticket for a stranger.

Still, I could hardly refuse. Not when this woman held the key to freeing my wife and I from this cycle of life and death, happiness and pain.

There was a snag, though, and I voiced my concerns to her.

“You are sure it will work with us? We are relative strangers,” I pointed out.

She bit her lip, looking nervous, “No. To be honest, I am not sure. But I have to try. I have no one else left, and besides, it is the intentions in our hearts, not what we know, that will make a difference. In my heart, I treasure the kindness you two showed me. And I know you two love one another, and also that your hearts are good enough to show me kindness. So, we must hope that that is enough.”

“Then I will help you with this ritual, once I have seen my wife again,” I assured her. I wanted to help, but more than that, I wanted to be reunited with my one true love.

“Of course, come in. I will give you two sometime together before we do the ritual. She has already agreed to help me, but I understand she is most impatient to see you again,” My hostess told me as she unlocked the door to her home and opened it, standing back to allow me inside.

I smiled. Of course, my darling had missed me as much as I had missed her. So, I ran inside. Normally, I would have allowed the lady to go first, of course, and I would not run in a stranger’s home, but I needed to find my wife and hold her in my arms again before I could even begin to consider such pointless things.

She was far more important than any trivial rule of etiquette.

And she was there, waiting for me as I charged carelessly into the living room. She was just as beautiful as I remembered. Her current incarnation was a little different to that perfect version of her I had first met. Her hair was a darker, honey-toned colour and cut quite short. She was a little plumper and slightly taller than she was back then. And right now, she looked a little dishevelled, standing there in her nightgown, with a coat hastily hurled on over it.

But her lovely bright eyes were always the same, and right then, they shone with happy tears as she looked up and saw me again.

She ran into my arms and I clutched her close, never wanting to let her go ever again. She threw her arms around me as well, flashes of red dancing past my eyes as she tangled her fingers in my hair and toyed with it, a habit of hers that always brought a smile to my face.

My soft grey eyes met her bright emerald orbs and she smiled too, leaning in. I’ll never forget how soft her lips felt that night, and how wonderful it was to be so connected to her.

I would have stayed like this with her all night, holding and kissing her until we both fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, but we couldn’t forget why we were here. Our hostess had graciously allowed us our reunion moment alone, but now I heard her footsteps approach and I sighed, pulling away from my beloved with great reluctance.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, Dearest, but we have something to attend to,” I reminded her.

She nodded gravely, “I know. Much as I’ve missed you, our friend needs our help.”

I was surprised by how serious she seemed about this. “You consider her a friend?”

“She’s tried to be good to us for many years, over one simple favour. That shows she cares a lot. Shouldn’t we try to care for her too?” she reasoned.

I smiled. Of course, I had forgotten how sweet and compassionate my love was. She would always want to help whoever she could.

And she made me want to do so too. She made me a better person.

“Of course, we should, Darling,” I agreed, “Let’s go.”

So, I took my love by the hand, still holding her tightly lest I lose her again, and stepped out into the corridor to meet the witch we had offered our help to.

She was waiting for us. She held a pin and a small vial. Tucked into the belt of her dress was a wand. I took it from these signs that she was ready for us to begin.

She looked to us too, asking, “Are you ready?”

We traded glances and nodded.

“Alright,” she nodded and opened the vial, “Hold this,” she asked me. I took it and held it steady while she laid her finger over it and sank the pin into her flesh, drawing blood. We all waited, watching the red drip as it trickled down into the vial.

The witch nodded, “That should cover my blood. Who’s next?”

I looked at my wife, expecting her to feel a little squeamish about this, to ask me to go first. She always seemed so delicate to me and suddenly, I hated the idea of having her do this. To spill her blood seemed cruel, even if it was just a drop to help a friend.

But she had no such worries and stepped forward, taking the pin from the witch, “I’ll do it,” she clarified, seeing the way I was looking at her, “Don’t worry about it, love, I’ll be fine.”

Despite her assurances, I shut my eyes, not watching this time.

A few moments later, the two women assured me the deed was done and it was my turn. I shoved the pin into my hand and let the blood fall. It was done.

“Thank you both,” The witch nodded to us as she took the vial from me and closed it, before shaking it up, sending our blood whirling around, the three drops mixing with one another.

She reached to her belt and I expected her to grab her wand, instantly beginning the spell to lift the curse, but instead, she showed her consideration of us instead. She pulled out a pack of plasters and handed them to my wife.

My wife patched up my hand first, gently covering the wound so that it didn’t shed any more blood all over the place. She then tended her own hand.

And while we cared for ourselves, the witch drew her wand from her belt and began to chant as she waved it over the vial.

Once our pricked fingers were taken care of, we turned to watch her, curious to see what would happen. The idea of magic was new to us, and now we had the rare opportunity to see it in action.

At first, there was nothing much to see and I began to think our time and blood had been wasted, but then there was a faint spark in the vial, growing brighter by the second. It soon burned like a flame.

The witch grinned hugely, opening the vial and tipped it back. I watched, amazed, as she swallowed the little spark and glowed from the inside out, right out to the tip of her wand.

“Yes, yes, it works!” She gleefully cried out, spinning around like a little girl in a new dress as she celebrated this victory.

I shifted impatiently, wanting to press her to now lift our curse and grant us normal lives, but my wife held my arm, restraining me. She had let us have our moment, now we must let her have hers.

It soon passed, in any case. She calmed down and remembered our presence, seeming a little embarrassed when she did.

“So sorry, it just feels brilliant to have my powers restored. Now, let me see if I can help you… Hold hands, please,” She directed us.

I took my wife’s hand again and waited for something to happen, while the magical woman stood in front of us and raised her wand.

I can’t begin to describe what happened next, because I don’t remember it clearly. I remember a glow of warmth and light, then it was all over.

Before I knew it, I was walking home, hand in hand with my wife as we wandered through the damp, grey early morning streets in our nightclothes and coats, ignoring strangers staring at us. What did they know?

I didn’t feel then that they knew anything worth knowing, for I had received one of the universe’s best kept secrets that day. The existence of magic.

Everyone theorises about it, but no one knows for sure. The only idea of it we have is in stories, never believed. Which is why I can write this down, guilt-free, knowing if this journal is found, no one will believe it. The ramblings of an old man, they will say.

For I have finally grown old, and I have done it in the arms of a loving family, raised by my wife and I. Eternal life is not a gift, a beautiful legacy is.

But I have it thanks to two very special women. The wife who loved me over and over again, and the witch who accidentally cursed me.

Hello and welcome back! For today’s post, I thought I would share some writing and a technique I use for finding inspiration when I don’t want to work on a long project.

Writing Prompts.

Tumblr and Reddit are my go-to sites for these (though I’m sure there are many other sources). Often, someone posts a scenario or sentence and writers respond. The response are usually short, but they are good practice. Here are some I did (with the prompt included for context)

Writing prompt #1:  You don’t have a shoulder angel and shoulder devil. You have an Angry Viking and a 50’s House Wife.

My response:

“Chop his head off!” The voice screamed.

It seemed to boom all around me, bouncing off the walls. I was amazed the poor man couldn’t hear it, but he seemed unfazed.

“Ingrid, please–” I whispered, hoping to reason with her.

“It’s alright, dear, she doesn’t mean any harm, I’m sure. Perhaps she’s just frustrated from the lack of a good man in her life. Maybe this gentlema–“

“Silence! How dare you insult my bloodline with such a suggestion? Look at this weakling, he couldn’t even lift an axe!”

The bickering began again, to the usual tune. I sighed and gave my lawyer an attempt at a smile. He was annoying, smug and had just suggested that I continue to share living arrangements with my deadbeat ex, because it was easier than going to court.

But he didn’t deserve beheading. Unfortunately, when you have a Viking with anger issues living rent-free in your head, it’s hard not to think such things. So far this week, Ingrid had suggested I behead my ex, a parking warden, two police officers and the lady in the corner shop who had trodden on my toe. It was only Tuesday.

Mind you, Mabel wasn’t a lot better. For one thing, she kept suggesting that my relationship issues might be down to the fact that my cooking leaves a lot to be desired, rather than the fact that my ex prefers cigarettes and porn to a job and regular dates. She also tended to pass comment on the cleanliness of places, and I could recall her being most unimpressed with my lawyer’s office.

She had a point. But then, sometimes Ingrid did, too. I still wasn’t going to chop anyone’s head off.

But I did need to come up with an appropriate response to this situation, preferably without anyone else’s input. I opened my mouth to formulate a polite response.

“Hon varr Draconian, gamla vis Hruga uskit’r!” Was all that came out, and it came out in a rage-filled scream.

“Oh my!” Mabel gasped.

———————————————-

Writing Prompt #2: 

“You want this love potion to save your marriage, don’t you?” the witch asks. “Yes,” you say “because I want to drink it to love my wife again.”

My Response: 

His hands curled around the bottle. “I need it. I need to love her.” He whispered desperately.

“Are you sure about this?” The witch watched him curiously.

He nodded, staring at the bottle in his hands. He finally had the solution to all their problems.

“May I ask why you need my help? After all, should you not love your spouse already?” She enquired. Her love life may not amount to much, but the witch knew the basic principles of romance.

“I did when I married her. But I’m afraid I can’t love her anymore, not without your help. Not without this.” He lifted the bottle.

“Why not? Does something stand in your way? Has your marriage been cursed in some way?” The woman leaned closer, concerned and intrigued by the man’s unusual tale.

“No, no,” He shook his head. “Worse.”

“What could be so terrible that it could destroy all natural feelings?” The witch demanded to know his burden.

“She…” He hesitated, unsure if he should speak the awful words, “She puts pineapple on her pizza.”

Writing Prompt #3:

It’s surprisingly useful having a real witch helping out around the village. Plagues, sicknesses and animal attacks haven’t been a problem ever since Old Mabel started practicing openly. So when some out-of-town witch hunters want to burn her at the stake, the villagers are none too pleased.

My response:

A crowd had gathered around the clearing where the stake had been erected. They were jostling and shouting. The witch hunters were used to this.

What had them uneasily conferring in a corner was the fact that they were shouting in the witch’s defence.

“Here, you can’t burn her! She cured my smallpox!” A peasant shouted.

“And what about our Timmy?” His wife prodded him in the back, encouraging him.

“Him as well!” The peasant nodded firmly.

Another man pushed his way to the front of the crowd, “He’s right, you know! My leg was gonna drop off, and Mabel fixed it!”

There were some doubtful mutterings at this point. This man was counter-productive, but then he was generally considered to be the village idiot.

Eventually, the witch hunters presented their own spokesperson. The woman was a feared bounty hunter, but at the moment, she looked nervous. No one had ever objected like this before.

“But look,” She began as reasonably as possible, “You can’t like her. She’s a witch! She casts spells on people!”

“Bloody good spells they are too,” One peasant nodded, “If she hadn’t cast a spell on me, I’d never have found my lost coins.”

“What about the potions?” She continued to confront the crowd.

A woman clutched her vial close, “Nothing wrong with some good potions! This will find me my true love, and you can’t take it, so clear off!”

This got some cheers. The bewildered woman turned back to her friends.

“She doesn’t appear to have actually done anything wrong.”

“I told you that. You just want to burn me because of the old trope that witches are evil, I said. You shouldn’t be doing that, I said. But did you listen?” Mabel started to object.

One of the hunters prodded her, “Shut up, you.” He was irritated. This had been his idea.

“But you’ve got to burn witches.” He protested. “It’s customary.”

“Not round here it isn’t! Buzz off!” A peasant threw a stone. The hunters reached for their swords. But the villagers found a lot more stones than there were swords, and were a lot quicker.

Writing Prompt #4:

“Technically, I used my head. Not the way you wanted me to, but I did use it anyway.”

My response:

“Headbutting the bully in the nose does not count! The boy is in hospital!” Her purple-faced mother thundered.

“You said using my head was the only way to get the better of him,” Mia pointed out again. She was quite calm about the whole ordeal, despite having blood on her forehead, being suspended and probably being about to give her mother an aneurysm.

“You know that’s not what I meant!” The woman snapped at her daughter. “You can’t just–”

The girl didn’t appear remotely flustered. She simply cut in. “He had it coming. I won’t apologise for giving people what they deserve.”

The older woman didn’t know how to respond to that. “Enough of this! Go to your room!” She yelled.

After her daughter had stomped away, she flopped down with a sigh and rubbed her temples. What was she going to do with this child? What would she become? Some kind of vigilante, perhaps, or something worse.

But at the moment, she certainly didn’t seem like she was going to become a normal member of society.

Writing Prompt #5: Write a reverse-murder mystery story where one person is reanimated and everyone else needs to find out who’s the necromancer.

My response:

“Goddamnit, who revived Grandpa? The man’s falling apart!” Sandra waved an accusing hand at exhibit A, an old man lounging in an armchair. His suit was filthy and bits of his weak, grey skin were flapping around loosely.

“Eh?” He questioned her.

Her sister shifted uncomfortably. “This is weird…” Cassie moaned.

“Oh, shut up, what’s wrong with him being around again? He’s not doing any harm and maybe he’ll help us find his will!” Their younger brother, Tom, was way too enthusiastic.

Sandra narrowed her eyes. “Did you do this? What did Mum tell you about borrowing her magic books for self-indulgent necromancy?” She scolded.

“It wasn’t me! I’m just saying, why not take advantage of the situation?” He protested.

Cassie let out another groan, “Maybe because he stinks! And anyway, he can’t tell us anything, he’s deaf!”

“I can still lip-read, you rude, ungrateful little tyke!” Grandpa protested.

Cassie flushed.

Sandra whirled around and subjected the old man to an interrogating glare. “So why don’t you tell us who did this? What did you see?”

“Well, it was Mary who dug me up,” The man revealed.

His grandchildren looked at one another, one question on all their minds.

“Who the hell’s Mary?” Tom demanded to know, voicing all their thoughts.

“Did your mother never tell you? Your half-sister, Mary.”

And just like that, they had another family mystery to solve.

I’m over you enough to not think about you every day,

And I’m over you enough to not flinch when someone says your name

I’m over you enough to not dream about your face

Every night.

I guess I’m over you enough because I don’t sit and wait for you to call,

And I’m over you enough not to lose it all,

Because of you.

But am I over you enough to just walk away?

Am I over you enough to leave with a little dignity?

And can I really say that I’m over you enough not to drop everything if you called?

I don’t know.

I know I’m over you.

But am I over you enough?

Hello, and welcome!

I’m going be sharing some short works over the next few weeks. Here’s this week’s story, called ‘Threads’.

I’ve always been self-destructive. The kind person who will pick at scabs and pull at loose threads, without realising that, sooner or later, everything will unravel, fall apart and leave me bleeding.

This is a final confession, a list of the stupid things I did and how they led to my death. A list of the threads I kept on pulling and how they fell apart.

The first was my mother. I tugged at her patience throughout my life and eventually, it unravelled.

You see, it was always just my mother and me. There never was any greater concept of family. We had one another and that was supposed to be enough. But of course, it wasn’t. I pulled at the threads of her patience, asking her endless questions about why it was just us. The kids at school all I had fathers, or stepfathers, or aunts and uncles that helped out. Why didn’t I?

Eventually, the threads snapped, and she lost patience with me. The alcohol didn’t help, it probably wore her patience thin. I remember her drunken yelling, the blows…

The neighbours must have been able to hear her as well, because someone called the police. There was a social worker, a strange, scatty woman who tried too hard to be my friend. She took me away from my home and I lived in a sort of orphanage for a while, but still, I insisted on pulling at a new thread. Well, in many ways, it was the same one, just a different strand. The strand that connected me to my unknown father.

I was adamant that I wasn’t an orphan, so I did as much research as I could and eventually, I tracked him down. At first, the man wanted nothing to do with me, but I’m nothing if not persistent. Especially when I shouldn’t be.

I kept in contact with him, stubbornly writing emails, texts and letters. As he blocked my numbers and email addresses, as I watched through the window while he tore my letters in two, I planned new ways to get in touch with him. Fake numbers I could use. Places where I could accidentally stumble across him.

Yes, in many ways, I became a stalker. But even as it dawned on me that what I was doing was insane, I continued desperately. Even as I realised that everything I had would fall apart again, I kept pulling at the threads, like some neurotic kid following their obsessive cycle, biting at nails and picking at scabs.

But the threads of my father’s patience didn’t fall apart as violently as my mother’s. He didn’t turn on me when they snapped, but instead, he seemed to take pity on me. He agreed to spend time with me.

We used to have our awkward little chats in a coffee shop near his house. For an hour or two, it would feel like we were normal. We’d sit down and talk. He would tell me about work and his – my – extended family. And I, feeling like I finally had everything I ever wanted, a complete and ordinary family, was careful, for once in my life. I kept the clumsy questions about my mother and their past together bottled up in my head.

The awkwardness soon passed. I felt like my father truly cared for me. If not as his daughter, then as his friend. And I cared for him. No, more than that, I worshipped him, simply for treating me with some dignity, after everything we had been through.

But what leads one to pull at loose threads if not curiosity? A sense that they shouldn’t, perhaps? I had both. So of course, it was inevitable that one day, I would ask the forbidden question, knowing as I did that I was throwing away everything I had spent my childhood dreaming of.

His face was blank and impassive as I spoke of my mother. I asked him all the questions on my mind. How had he met her? Did he still love her? Was she an alcoholic then? Was she violent? Did he know—

Eventually, he cut me off. He looked up at me with cold, empty eyes and told me it was time for me to leave.

I knew then, as I stood up with tears in my eyes, that I wouldn’t see him again. It was history repeating itself.

This time, I didn’t have the energy to chase him around and beg him to charge his mind. I hardly had the energy to do anything. And I certainly didn’t have the time. Because I was eighteen now, and that’s when the system stops caring about the children ‘rescued’ from homes. I had to leave the children’s home and since I had nothing and no one else left, all my free time was spent searching desperately for a job.

However, my rescue came in a completely different, miraculous form. While hunting for a job, I met Thomas. He was handsome, rich and, amazingly, interested in me. Within a month, we were living together in his beautiful apartment. I could hardly believe my luck.

But of course, I had to ruin it, like I ruined everything else. I began to pull at his life as well, with a kind of crazed curiosity. I was trying to find something to reassure me that he actually liked me. After all, we were worlds apart. He had no reason to care for me.

What I actually found was where he went when I wasn’t home. The hotel Nikti was an interesting place. There were always a lot of pretty young women there, for one thing. In his room.

Another beautiful thing destroyed by mindless pulling at threads.

There is another interesting thing about threads, you know? A thread is such a tiny, fragile thing… Like me. But when it’s wound around someone’s neck, it has the power to destroy.

My mother. My father. Thomas. I called them my threads. But the only threads in my life that didn’t snap were the ones around all their necks.