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!

3 Things Only Writers Will Understand

Just as with any profession, hobby, sport, or group there are just some things that only those on the inside can understand.  Writing, being such a solitary occupation, has many, and I think it important that we illuminate some of those funny little quirks that come with being a writer.

  • Writing is NOT easy – Writing a story or novel is one of the hardest things I have ever done. Sure, occasionally I have moments where the words flow easily, and my fingers dance across the keyboard.  But the truth is most of the time feels like I am chipping away at a block of granite with nothing more than a tiny hammer and nail.writers+block_fed465_5042647


  • Checking Facebook/Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram/GoodReads Instead of Writing – Need I say more? Writers can get horribly distracted, and have been known to spend HOURS avoiding writing by spending the same amount of time on social media.635782344443617711-1829239976_1417189252-indecisive-penny-big-bang-netflix


  • Trying to Find An Idea For A New Blog Post – Not every blog post was gifted to us as a wonderful idea.  Sometimes we have to go looking for ideas, and figure out ways we can rewrite something for our own audience without plagiarizing someone else’s work.  Unfortunately all this searching can sometimes lead us to falling into checking social media…see above.tumblr_navhxu2vEH1rdh9azo1_500


What are some things YOU think only writers would understand?  Post them in the comments below.

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.


Chapter 4

If you missed Chapter 3 you can read it HERE

I stood there unmoving.  I just started at him.  My eyes focused on his, and I did my best to project authority and confidence.  Which is why I probably didn’t see them coming.


As the morning sun peeked up over the horizon we discovered that we were surrounded by a pack of vicious looking dogs.  There were at least a dozen of them.  All different shapes and sizes, from a dark and scary looking great dane, than all the way down to a chihuahua.

The dogs emanated a low growl as the inched little by little closer to us.

Why was this happening?  Where was my family? My friends?

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! I kept telling myself over and over again, but nothing happened.

I looked at the vicious pack of dogs inching closer, and then at the strange man I had just met. I was expecting him to show the same look of fear as I am sure I had, but he didn’t.  In fact he had a broad grin on his face, and what looked to be an old rubber duck in his hands.

I stared at him in confusion, and he seemed to notice my expression for the very first time.

His smile quickly disappeared as he said “I told you we needed to move.  Get to shelter before the dawn.  Now look what you’ve done!”

How could he blame this on me?  I just wanted to know who he was.

“Ummm, maybe we can skip assigning blame till after we get out of this mess?” I said.

“Oh there is no getting out of this mess son.  This here is a hunting pack, and they look mighty hungry.”

The dogs took a step closer, and to my surprise the man walked straight towards the great dane.  Without even a pause he stood beside the massive canine, and scratched it behind the ears.

“You see son, this here is my pack, and they do as I say.  I am afraid you didn’t listen to me when you had the chance.  Had you, this might have ended differently.”

Then without warning he took a step back, looked at the pack and said in a loud voice “sic ’em!”

And the dogs leaped.

Read Chapter 5 HERE

Chapter 3

30036a1433ecddeec1ed73b21c63e767Read chapter two HERE

Those piercing purple pupils bored into mine, I couldn’t tear my gaze away.


The moment she spoke I felt my blood run cold. Her voice echoed through the silence, but there was something more. Her voice sounded like gravel and dust, yet somehow ethereal.

I tasted blood in my mouth. I’d bitten through my cheek. But the metallic iron taste woke me up.

I didn’t wait for one more second. I didn’t even think. I just turned and ran.

I ran down the stairs, across the hall, and out the door. And I didn’t stop there. I kept running.

It wasn’t until I reached the end of my street that I dared glance over my shoulder. No one was following me. The street behind me was as run down as the rest of the town, but empty.


I turned the corner a hurtled right into something, or more appropriately, someone.

I screamed. Like a little girl. I couldn’t help it. My nerves were shot. I screamed until I ran out of air. Then

I took a deep breath, and kept right on screaming. Like I said, it had not been a good day.

“Woah, kid, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I looked up into the face of the large man standing in front of me, and my strangling scream turned into laughter. Crazed, relieved, borderline psychotic laughter.

The man standing in front of me did not belong in this environment. He wore a neon yellow and turquoise Hawaiian shirt, green denim pants, and Crocs. Purple Crocs. His hair was an unnatural shade of red.

The man squinted his eyes and tilted his head to one side. I don’t think he knew how to react to my insanity.

“You laughing at my clothes kid?” He said, sounding stern, yet amused.

“I’m sorry, It’s just, if you knew how my day was going, you’d understand.”

He nodded, seeming to accept my weak explanation.

“What’s your name kid?” He asked.


“Well Declan, we better get going, the sun’s about to come up, and we don’t want to be caught out here when it does.”

He started walked down the cracked street, away from my house. He moved so quickly I had to jog to keep up.

“Hey, hey.” I hollered at him but he didn’t stop.

“Who are you anyway? What is going on?”

He stopped then. He sighed and ran his fingers through his crimson hair.

“Listen Declan, I know who you are. And I can explain everything but it’ll take too long to explain here.

We need to get to safety, away from the sun.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me your name and who you are.”

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!