Old Belladonna Green watched as the moon rose. It was full and glowing tonight. Just the right time to be abroad for some witchery…..

She stood on top of the hill looking down at the old town. What enchantments could she weave to change people’s lives tonight?

She was a solo witch. A bit like solitary bees. Not part of a coven, but quietly making a difference where she could. The world was too modern for her really. No apprentice had been to see her for twenty years and her stock of charms had worn out long ago. Yes she could go to the local magic shop, but the stuff in there was mainly tat. Who wanted to buy a whoopee cushion to help indigestion?

And the Internet? It spread such falsehoods that no one knew what to believe anymore. When texting arrived she almost gave up. As it was she had to be very circumspect about what she did. All those satellites and droney things. She was good at weaving invisibility which she needed to keep out of sight of CCTV! More than once she had been forced to take the form of a black cat to avoid detection.

She looked over at Larch Street. A small row of terraces which were humble but cozy.

Oh yes. Mr Hughes, he needed some help, he was losing his hair rapidly…. She climbed up the drainpipe. She was still quite nifty at climbing even though she was 74… As she had thought, the bedroom window was open to let the cool moorland air in. She pushed the sash window open and deftly stepped through. Her soft shoes made no sound… She had a pouch of green herbs on her belt and she moved over to where Mr Hughes was sleeping. Gentle fingers massaged the green goo onto his head, he snored and turned in the bed, putting an arm round his wife. Belladonna stood back, approving her own work, then swiftly left the way she had come.

As the alarm clock went off the following morning Mr Hughes went into the bathroom. He was rather shocked to see in the his face in the mirror… A full head of hair…. But why was it blonde?




You sparkled as you flew

high above me

a tail of fire,

comet like,

Greens and Golds.

Cold fire flew from you wings,

Hot fire your breath.

Feathers of glass or crystal

tied with silver wire

Shreak of sound

high register like a whistle…

Then a shrinking bloom of fire

like time-lapse in reverse

your feathers folding in

wormhole like

creating a single golden glowing egg

Once created, to hatch and grow again.




I sometimes start a blog on one theme and for some reason meander off in a completely different direction. Like a river meanders randomly, curving one way then the other.

Curving frequently, tributaries joining,

Increasing the flow, sinuous,

Like a snake, swallowing its own tail,

In places becoming, forming  through sediment,

A famed oxbow lake, a tiny part of the whole, trapped and landlocked.

When it reaches the sea all its strength is dissipated.

Numerous streams wander a delta down to the water.

Seagulls trim their wings

And fly fiercely overhead.

My story meanders again,

As a gull steals my chips ……

I started at point A, wove around and ended at point B. Strange how like a journey we can be transported by words, drift along into a story or a song… .



Late last night I stared to write a little story about this woman I had drawn, it was called Charlis and it was about her rescuing her village from a flood using powers that she did not realise she had. It was not meant to be a superhero / comic type story, I was hoping it would be deeper than that.

I had got about half way through   (it was only short) and was concentrating on the plot when my tablet ran out of battery power and closed on me. This morning the story has gone.

I find it difficult to write stories, to put myself in other people’s lives. Doing something like this is quite daunting, would it be too verbose?  too convoluted? did it make sense, could I take people with me into the story?

I can’t remember half of what I had written, and I don’t want to inflict something on you that might not be any good.

So what should I do, recreate it, is it worth the hassle?  I tend to write things spontaneously, without any planning.  Late night writing when you are tired is not the best way of going about things. I don’t think I’m much of a writer, I don’t feel my words flow, I am just learning. At least I have age and some experience to fall back on.

I will ponder on this. …




I thought I would try and write a quick story for you….

Extruded tubes appeared before me, alien, moving like snakes towards me. Garish colours assaulted my eyes. Where was it from, what was it?

It flowed down from the sky one summer night, plastic, solid, opaque. Hidden from view in the forest until dawn light caught its curves. Like a gigantic chrysalis the shell began to split. Each tube containing an arm or a leg. Crawling out from its cocoon.

The weight and mass of the creature made the ground shake and tremble. Trees toppled around it as it raised its glistening body up to the sky. Woodland animals fled from it as its huge bulk shrieked as it moved. Yellow fluid steamed and it oozed from the monster. No shape like this had ever stood on Earth  before.

I cannot describe it, it did not resemble anything I had ever seen before. The only conclusion I could guess at was that it might be part of an invasion ? But what could it want?

The massive bulk moved closer to me. I had the intense feeling that it was trying to communicate. A gap opened in the side closest to me….

“Got any cheese?” It asked…..

The headless tram driver


There is a toy diesel tram  (narrow guage) that my husband has put a figure in, which is  nice until you realise it is missing its head!

I wanted to try and write a story about something that might have happened…

WARNING this story is badly written!

Dark night, fog slowly gathering along the old London Road, all is quiet, still, any noise is folded into the mist. The cold wet atmosphere envelopes you as you walk along the street. It’s just after midnight and what traffic there is has crept slowly home, cars parked in side streets, or pulled over onto pavements.

Many times I have walked along that road, the orange street lights shining on damp pavements. People walk by, very rarely speaking. Tonight there is no one about, no click of heels on pavements. I feel alone, I don’t know whether to be calm or nervous. The street isn’t normally spooky. There are old and modern shops on either side and wide pavements, no hidden alleyways for anyone to step out of.

Slowly a shape emerges from the shadowed street. A bright light shines from the front if it. What appears to be tram lines suddenly appear on the ground in front of me….metal wheels clatter on the tracks, juddering as they hit a set of points, jumping sideways, moving faster and spinning towards me…I can see a figure in the cab of the tram now, the harsh light in the cab shines on a figure in a dirty blue boiler suit, hand on the brake lever. I run to the doorway of a shop to get out of the way. I try to see the drivers face, but there is an empty space where it should be…

Their tram rushes by, red lights gleam against the swirling fog, and then it is gone.