Fairytales, Flash Fiction, short stories, vampires, witches, writing

Dreams from the Witch-Tower.

The hands of the great clock face in the tower ceased to count time. She heard the whispers of a melody on the breeze; a soft tinkling of wind chimes furled with the slow and sombre notes of piano keys. The grandeur of the room lay only half lost behind the crumbling sandstone and fallen leaves blown in through the roof, from which, bars of dusty sunlight filtered down; illuminating the past. Illuminating what once was. What now is.

Continue reading “Dreams from the Witch-Tower.”

creative writing, Drabble, wicca

The Marriage of True Minds

Lilac-blossom clouds against a translucent sky, lazily drifting; the passing of time. Sunsets like these seen only once in a lifetime, a glass of something in one hand with your other hand in mine.
Breeze in my hair: a rustling of leaves: the gentle rushing sound of the not-too-distant stream… Dusk wraps around us, and you wrap your arms around me. With half-laden eyes we await the sunrise, when suddenly you look at me and the voices of the night
are drowned in a whispered dream:

“Do you take me—”
“For all that you are. And me?”
“I do.”
“Then so it must be.”

©2020 H. M. Smith, All Rights Reserved.

creative writing, love poetry, poetry


He was both darkness and light wrapped up in a sombre smile; sometimes I saw flashes of pain in those honey-brown eyes. I was aware of my own pain when I lay with him at night, but only because his touch stripped it all away; helping me to breathe again. With gliding fingertips and every drawn-out kiss, he caused the ache to subside.

(The moment that we collide
is the moment I know I’m alive.
So take these love notes
and keep them forever safe;
never to forget
our last embrace.)

©2020 H. M. Smith, All Rights Reserved.

in the ‘Love Notes’ collection.
creative writing, dreams, love poetry, poetry, witch

In the Cradle of Creation

Could you hold me tonight,
my love? Because it feels so
right in the middle of the night
I think about when we first met
on the train: the feel of my hand
in yours, and the huskiness
of your voice. There was a
kindess in your eyes, yet
a shyness to your smile.

How can it be that our paths
have criss-crossed again,
and again? Maybe
there is a flame that
burns eternal, deep
in the Cradle of Creation?

Continue reading “In the Cradle of Creation”