Submitted Writing From The Good Witch

Writing is almost a form of meditation to me. When I feel my body start to tense or my muscles refuse to relax I know I have gone too long without putting pen to paper.

Writing prompts have been a wonderful source of creativity for me.  It’s just a small push, and nudge in the right direction.  Just something to get me started, and let my creative juices start to flow.

For the last year I have been posting writing prompts on my blog, and this past week one of my Twitter followers The Good Witch emailed me a short story she had written from one of my prompts.

I’d like to share with all of you now.

The air quickly left his lungs after hearing the truth. How could his father have lied to him all these years? How could he now reveal his true identity of being the man who raised him but not the man who gave him life? His lungs desperately tried to inhale but the weight of the situation left him drowning in air. His body felt heavy and just to lift his hand up to cover his mouth was as if he were stuck in a rip tide. He couldn’t control anything around him. He couldn’t move his legs in order to run away for they felt as if they were buried in cement. He could hear his heart beating in his ears and his throat closing up if only to prevent him from vomiting after the initial shock.

His eyes filled with tears as he closed them. How could this be the truth of his world? Everything he knew from before came crashing down. Now all he could feel was his body floating and drifting deeper and deeper down in a sea of air that consumed him.

Chapter 5

rottweiler1If you missed CHAPTER 4 you can read it here.

A big, dark Rottweiler was leading the pack, teeth bared, ready to strike. I took a frantic step backward, but I was trapped. There was no escaping this.

The Rottweiler sunk his razor sharp teeth into my left leg. The pain lanced through my body as I yanked my leg out of the beast’s jaws, ripping a hole in my jeans. I lost my balance and fell backwards into the dirt. With the rest of the pack closing in, I covered my face with my hands and curled in on myself.

I waited for the inevitable attack, for the moment when the entire pack would rip me to shreds.

I heard the growling and the snarling around me, but the attack didn’t come.

Suddenly, the growling began to fade, replaced by laughter.


“Mr. Peterson, what on earth are you doing on the floor?”

I removed my arms from my face and looked up. I was no longer lying in the dirt in my decimated neighborhood.

I was lying on the ground in the middle of my algebra classroom. My teacher, Mrs. Lewis was staring down at me.

“What happened?” This was apparently the wrong thing to ask, as the rest of the class laughed even harder.

“Evidently you fell asleep Mr. Peterson and fell out of your chair.” Mrs. Lewis gave me a pointed glare, though the corners of her mouth twitched, like she wanted to laugh but knew better.

I sat there stunned. It all felt so real. The run-down, abandoned town. The woman in my house.

The man and his pack of dogs. Had I dreamt it all?

“Mr. Peterson!” Mrs. Lewis yelled.


“Please get back in your seat so we can move on with the class.”

“Right. Sorry.”

I climbed back into my seat. The show was over and the rest of the class slowly returned their attention to the front of the room.

“You okay?” My best friend Will whispered from his desk beside mine.

“It doesn’t make sense.” I whispered back.

“What doesn’t make sense?”

“I fell asleep in history class, not math class.”

He looked at me like I was crazy, and maybe I was.

“Dude, you don’t have history until fourth period. You must have dreamt that.”


But I was certain, I’d fallen asleep in history class. I remember having this math lesson. I remember going to lunch. I remember going to history.

The two swollen bug bites were still on my arm and still itching.

My left leg was itching now, too. I looked down and my mouth dropped open. My pant leg was torn, just like it had been the Rottweiler attacked me.

I moved the shreds of fabric aside, already knowing what I’d find. Right where that dog had bitten me, was a circle of bright red punctures marks that looks an awful lot like teeth marks.

5 Lies Every Writer Tells

The first story that I can remember writing, I was 14 years old, and my family and I were leaving TX and moving to NC.  The house we had lived in was the first place that had felt like home, and I was very sad to leave it.  I remember sitting down and writing a story about walking through my home for the very last time.  It was sad, but I thought it was a good piece of writing.

Ever since that moment I have been writing stories, and often, like many writers, I wait for “inspiration” to strike before putting pen to paper.  This inspiration has, on occasion, given me the ability to pen some of the best writing of my life.  It has also been one of the biggest roadblocks to my writing career.

I, like too many writers, sometimes get caught up in the notion that we can not write unless we are struck with inspiration.  So as we wait our novels go unfinished, our blogs go unattended and updated, and our writing gets put off day after day.

If you search “writing advice” on google, you will be bombarded by a plethora of authors encouraging you to write every single day, no matter if inspiration has struck.  They all encourage you to practice your craft on good days and bad.

So in honor of their advice here are the lies all good writers tell themselves that keep us from writing.

  1. I Have Writer’s Block – In my experience, as I have mentioned before “writer’s block” is nothing more than an excuse not to write.  While you may have a problem working on a particular piece of writing like a novel, or article, you can always find something to write about.  Use writing prompts, journal, or just brainstorm on a notepad.  The point is even if you are not working on your main project you can always find a way to write.giphy
  2. I Have Nothing Original To Write About – A few months ago I was speaking with Cutter Slagle about writing, and I mentioned to him that as writers we will not be able to connect with everyone who reads our work.  But there are people out there who only we can influence.  Our unique perspective is what makes us who we are, and if we are honest and put ourselves out there, someone will read it, and it will touch their soul.  We have to put our writing out there to find those people, and it doesn’t matter if our writing touches 10,000 people or just one.  As long as our work resonates with someone we have succeeded.  tumblr_m9010sXDqf1qdhag9o1_500
  3. I Don’t Have Enough Time To Write – *Steps on top of soap box* OK this is just a flat out lie that all writers tell themselves at some point in their writing career, and it is just wrong.  A few years ago I started using an app called Rescue Timer.  It kept track of all the apps, websites, and time I spent on things like email and Facebook.  After only a month of using it I was able to see I could take back almost 2 hours a day by simply reducing the amount of time I spent on things like social media, and TV. That is two hours I could be writing and reading.  Everyone has things in their life that can be eliminated or reduced because they are nothing more than just time wasters.  Find those things and use the time to write.writer-moments6
  4. I Would Write If I Were A Better Writer – No one starts out as the perfect writer.  Everyone needs to practice their craft.  No matter if it involves writing, playing an instrument, or learning a skill like photography.  Practice makes perfect.  Write more and write often and you will become a better writer.giphy (1)
  5. People Will Judge and Tear My Writing Apart – GOOD!  As a writer we WANT to create an emotional reaction in people.  We want our writing to make them feel something.  Sometimes that is profound insight, and sometimes that is aggression and anger.  I have no doubt that when I publish “I Am Lucifer” there will be backlash and outrage at the notion of Lucifer being the good guy.  I am sure my writing will make many people question their own beliefs and understanding of religion, and many of them will lash out at me.  I welcome it, because it means that my writing made them feel something.  What would you rather have, a group of people talking about your writing, posting about your writing, and talking badly about your writing, or NO ONE talking about your writing whatsoever?tumblr_m98ok3Gyyk1rpwthr

No matter what the lie is we tell ourselves, they are just that, a lie.  So ditch the lie, drop the excuses, and write.  Write until you keyboard shorts out, your fingers bleed, and you finally get those thoughts and ideas out of your head, and onto the page!

Writing Prompt #17

His hands felt nervous and awkward around the handle of the gun.  He bought it at a pawn shop, but had no idea if it was a decent one.  He had never even held a gun before, let alone shoot one.

But here he was, tucked away, in a dark alley, watching people pass by.  How would he choose?  Who should he kill?

He didn’t want to.  But his time had finally run out.  The doctors gave him 6 weeks to live…on the outside.  He had to do this.  He needed more time.  Time to do all the things he had always wanted to do.  All he had to do was choose someone, anyone, and kill them.

Because in this world, if you killed someone, you receive all the time they would have had left.


We Can Become More Then What We Are

The last few years have been hard.  Sometimes I feel like a broken record saying that over & over again, but it’s true.  I have taken a beating from almost every single angle, and despite everything I am still here.

A few weeks ago I realized that something was missing.  A spark that I used to have was gone.  The fire inside me that once had driven me to better myself was gone, and I feared it had been extinguished.

I missed the old me that had once been so creative, and I want it back, so the last few weeks I have been doing a lot of reading.  Books that have sat on my shelf for years unread seemed to almost call to me, asking me to read them, and I did.

Here are a few of my thoughts on the things I have read over the last couple weeks…

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I firmly believe that where we are, right now in life, is a direct result of our choices.  Our choices, good or bad, have brought us to this exact point in life.  And if I, or anyone else finds dissatisfaction with our lives we have no one else to blame but ourselves.  Because our restless nature has nothing to do with our jobs, where we live, our relationships, and friendships, the car we drive, or anything else.

We are restless because of the person we have become.

If we are upset with the life we are living it is a  quiet dissatisfaction with the person we have become.  The person we became through the choices we made.

Now I can sit here and blame others for my life.  I can get angry or upset at the situations others have put me in, but if I really want to be happy I have to stop listening to others and start making better choices.  Choices that will help me to become a better person.

I can worry about my inner fire going out, but if I don’t tend to the fire, and add more wood, of course it’s going to go out.

Now I am going to be honest.  I have no idea how I am going to do this.  But I know I can.  I started Geek and Gamer Fitness from nothing (literally).  I wrote Lucifer despite enormous opposition from loved ones who were suppose to support me.

If I can do those things then I can get back on track and spark the fire within me, and get it growing again.

Writing Prompt #15

It was finally decided to relocate an old cemetery just a few miles outside of town.  The city was growing and the town needed space for new development.  But once the relocation began panic and fear set in.  Because it was discovered that each grave was devoid of a body, and all that was left was a tunnel leading straight down.


Writing Prompt #14

They buried me alive 23 years ago, hoping it would be enough to kill me.

It wasn’t, and now I’m back!


Writing Prompt #13

With that, she walked into the rain and didn’t look back.

That was the last time anyone ever saw her.


Writing Prompt #12


Write a short story about a conspiracy theorist or psychic who predicts something awful, but can’t get anyone to believe him.