A Witch Looking for a Friend

(c) Barbara W. Beacham

From her small balcony, the witch watched the world go by.

The world she’d been living is like a cotton, soft and calm. At least she lived in a small village and very far from hustle and bustle. But she didn’t know if there’s any kind of her living nearby. It was sort of problem. Her family had died and left her alone as a witch in this normal-looking world. Even her husband. Now, she was a “normal” person even though sometimes doing magic like making the kettle itself preparing her meal.

She was a witch and looking for a witch friend to talk about their secret world.

One day she was at the minimarket, and heard a man murmuring, “Sooh-var-ar.”

She couldn’t do anything but rose her smile and said, “Tar sooh-var-ar.”

The man looked at her and smiled as big as her.

Sooh-var-ar was a code to find out if someone’s a witch. And Tar sooh-var-ar was the right answer.

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Ghost Story

(c) Barbara W. Beacham
(c) Barbara W. Beacham

“The family had no idea that little Luigi would grow up to be a…” Peter was telling a story to his sister in their hut. He did not know how to continue it, for he only thought about one word.

“What?” Cybele asked.


“You mean he died?”

“He was actually becoming a ghost without facing the death.”

“Liar!” she exclaimed.

“I’ve been telling you stories. That’s all lies.”

“You know I hate ghosts,” she frowned and pulled the blanket over her head.

For a moment, the two orphans didn’t make a sound.

“And you’re afraid of them?” Peter knew the night became colder now.

“Y-yeah…” She sounded starting to weep under the blanket. “But you said there’s no such thing. I’m trying to believe in you.”

Peter froze. Since last week he had tried not to look bloodless and pale, and made sure walking right on the floor. For he had already died.

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A Tree’s Longing

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

I saw absolutely everything. It was nice to be a tree in the middle of a misty forest, even though I couldn’t move except while the wind rushed my foliage, or the birds danced my branches. But once upon a time, a black stallion came from the fog with a maiden. The maiden sang melodiously with a clear voice as if it’s a flowing water in a river. The stallion trotted towards me. They definitely were before my eye.

Then, they’re gone.

“This is lunatic, dear friend,” said a bird. “Are you kidding?”

Unfortunately I wasn’t. For the first time in my life, I wanted to run. It’d been a hundred days and I still wanting the maiden to come back and sing to me her song. Saddening days made my leaves fell to the forest floor.

The birds had always told me that people usually hurt each other. They also could hurt a tree.

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