Thursday, 3 December 2009

Can I Get A Witness?

Somebody, somewhere; tell me this ain’t fair but it seems to me that what you write in a song has a nasty way of turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Take it from me, Kurt Cobain did have a gun – denying it even as he sang Come As You Are. Amy? Well… Rehab was just waiting with open doors.

I sat there, thinking about the late, great Marvin Gaye; his smooth moves, his velvet voice - begging for a witness. When his own father blasted him away, no-one saw a thing, ‘xcept Mama.

The pen twitched in my hand. Sod it. I wrote it down anyway.

“She wouldn’t tell me what they’d said.
‘You lied’ she cried.
She slammed the hilt against my head.
‘I tried’ I lied.
She shot me dead.”

Clare stood at the kitchen door, moist mascara blackening beneath sad eyes. The pistol in her snowy-white hand didn’t surprise me. I knew she hated my lazy, cheating arse.

I stood, and shrugged. What was there to say? The lyrics fell from my lap to the floor. I took a step towards her, not bothering to say sorry.

You know the rest…

(c) Lily Childs November 2009
This story was the winner of the November 2009 'One Word Challenge' from Writing Magazine's online forum 'Talkback.'
Writers are given a single word and must produce a piece of flash fiction in 200 words or less, or a poem in 40 lines or less. November's word was 'Witness.'

You can see my poetry entry at


Lily Childs is a writer of horror, esoteric, mystery and chilling fiction.

If you see her dancing outside in a thunder storm - don't try to bring her in. She's safe.