Short Stories

Some stories are short, some stories are long. Whatever they may be, I have found them in me.

Where have the wild things gone?

Me oh my but it’s been a wild path!

Somewhere between words and the world, and a perpetually curious heart, life has unravelled and the wind carried me in so many different directions. It’s been the most beautiful adventure and it’s only just beginning – but it calls me to abandon some darlings.

So this is my blog’s swan song; that final breath before the end.

The exhibition can now be found and followed on Facebook (for more journalism and traveling tales), as well as on my Fine Art website (a bouquet of canvases and stained surfaces) … so pop across and let’s go on another adventure.







a note to the writer going to war

You are going to war, my friend.

No matter how soft your step or tender your touch; no matter how kind your words or hard your helmet – you are marching into the depth and darkness of despair. You are going where the rain is red and wounds are washed by weeping widows. (more…)

The War in the Sky

SRdeVilliers_WarInTheSky_2I watch the lightening explode the sky and scatter shadows and light with a shattering clap of growls and rumbling clouds.

Whatever did the first people think that this magnificent spectacle meant?

The sky thunders and the soles of my feet feel the earth’s reply.

How did they explain it? What stories did they tell?


Dark King

The only thing darker than the writing was the ink used to print the words on the page.

The girl finished the chapter, closed the book and placed it on the bedside table.

She reached for the light switch. Click. The room was drenched in nothingness.

The book fell from the table and she flinched as the paperback hit the floor with a muffled thud. Burying herself in the blankets and squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to escape her writhing imagination. But shadows licked the walls and the darkness smelt of horror.

She sat up, switched the light back on and snatched the book from the floor.

With her index finger, she traced the cover of the shabby paperback and quietly chanted to herself.

Stephen King. Stephen King. King Stephen. The Dark King.

She opened the book again – but it had changed. It was blank. There were no words or printed stains. The dark marks were not there.


Once upon the end

Once upon a time, when the day was still and the lonely sun hung quietly in the sky, I stole away to the old book section of the local library. I wanted to desert the world for a place where books lined the walls, were piled in corners and covered patches of the floor. (more…)