Claramond's Sight

I can feel it. Something is there. Something is coming.

It had been so quiet before, so I ignored it. It was a beat, a thrum. It pulsed through me far softer than a heartbeat – but cold. Why did I not pay attention?

It is not of the land – it is separate, but within. Sealed?

No. Trapped. I taste the suffering loneliness. The bitter tang turns metallic: blood. Echoing screams fade, and return as laughter. Red life decorates a child's lip, a child's fangs.

I struggle with the sensations. They are not mine, but they resound through me and I can't escape. There is an illness, it has been spreading across the land unseen and unheard and unfelt by everyone except the most willing to listen.

Hunters. Killers. They are the only ones that listen.

The priests, the scholars – fools.

The sun still shines. The fields still grow. The livestock are fat and the trade is good. All is well to them but not to me.

I am no killer – I am no hunter. I have sent some to their deaths, by my word – so by that there is blood on my hands that I cannot see. So I see the sickness – or is it that I am the sickness?

An image suddenly sharpens before my blind eyes. A dead human male, wearing a long, white coat. His throat is crushed, neck broken, the major blood line punctured. His attacker is shrouded in shadow, as if darkness itself is attempting to coddle the small figure – to protect it from my gaze.

I reach out, but a growl stops me. A warning. It is a sound I have not heard in centuries. What would such a creature – a monster – be doing there? What has that human male done? What did he bring upon us?

I blink and the image scatters. I see nothing. My heart pumps cold - pumps dread. We are too late.

A child will be our ruin.

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Rozzy Rozzers and Bloody Oiks

Leylia picked through the tossed office, her eyebrows furrowed. Renard looked calm, but she could see the fury written on the tiny details of his face. She began to sift through loose papers, trying to figure out which ones belonged to which folders and files. Bahamut popped out of her wrist, spreading tiny wings he had developed over the past two weeks.

He squeaked, it was toned with a growl that his small body barely managed to rattle out.

"I don't know," Leylia replied, then looked to Renard.

"Bloody rozzers," he suddenly snarled.

"Huh?" she asked. It was the first time Leylia had heard him use a voice that wasn't pleasant, and the first time she heard him use words that she didn't understand.

"They toss the place, no warrant, no writ of any kind," he continued, pushing empty folders around, gathering books and smashing them on top of each other with more force than necessary. "They were looking for Bahamut, or something about him."

"How would they even know of him?"

"Someone's pulling their strings, some yup."

"You're acting really paranoid you know," Leylia said.

"You should be too." Renard lifted his arm, and a dragon with an elegant body type materialized there. He had blue scales, the edged looked seared.

"What? Are they going to come after me next?"

"Yes."

"Want me to call them rozzers?"

"Try oiks."

"Will they even understand what I'm calling them?"

"Only if they've been to the UK."

Leylia was relieved that Renard seemed to have calmed down now, speaking in his usual tone. Clyde, the blue dragon, ruffled his wings, snorting. Steam issued from his nostrils.

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The Doctor's

"Oh," said the doctor, "so you found the little guy, did you?"

Leylia had thought his tone would've been affected, perhaps even annoyed or put out, but instead he sounded pleasantly surprised. His voice carried the same quality that her mother's did when she answered the phone having already looked at the caller ID.

"So you did put him in me," Leylia accused, setting the tin down on the desk and planting her hands on her hips. The little worm sat up straight. "When the hell did you have time to do that?"

"When I shook your hand before you left," Renard replied, smiling. "You are such a rare body type, so perfect."

"What? For worms? For parasites? What are you trying to pull?"

"Well," Renard said, reaching out with a hand to pat the worm on the head with a single finger, "yes, dragons are rather parasitic at such a young age."

"DRAGON!?" Leylia stared openly at the insane doctor as he pet the worm. That wasn't a dragon. "First off, dragons aren't real, secondly, they hatch from eggs, damnit! Everyone knows that."

"And that is precisely why they do no hatch from eggs as they used to," Renard explained. "That would be too obvious, too easy to find. Oh no, dragons have evolved their magic, and must hide in a sympathetic mortal now."

Leylia sank into one of the overstuffed arm chairs in front of the heavy oak desk. She slumped, and watched as the worm swiveled around and wiggled his way toward her, as if alarmed. Was he worried about her? Fearful there was something wrong with her since she had collapsed so suddenly? Or just terrified his home and meals was ill. She reached out her hand, and rested it on the desk. The worm put his strange, jaw dominated head on her fingers, then made his way to wrap around her wrist.  He pushed his jaw against the inside of her wrist, right over the major artery.

He was feeling for her pulse.

"My!" said the doctor, obviously pleased. "He has grown so fond of you so quickly. I am sorry for not asking you, but I had thought you would not discover him until he was in a form more readily recognizable as a dragon."

"So he will get bigger," Leylia said, lifting her arm to tuck it against her stomach, her fingers trailed down the worm's back. He felt somewhat furry. "How am I supposed to have him inside my body then?"

"That's where the magic dominates over the physical," the doctor said, turning his fingers into a steeple. "He will bind more with your essence, take sustenance from your energy, until you are in a safe place for him to be physical on his own. I'm glad you've decided to keep him."

"Damnit you gave me no fucking choice you ass hole!" Leylia snapped, feeling her irritation coming back. "He probably isn't even a dragon but fuck it. I'm not allowed to have a fucking puppy yet here you come waltzing in and gifting me a baby fucking dragon. How the hell am I supposed to explain this to my mother?"

"You aren't," the doctor said. "She won't believe you."

"Why the fuck do I believe you?"

"Because you've already been empowered by the dragon being in your system."

"---the fuck does that mean!"

The worm made an amusing squeak, squeezing his body around her wrist. Leylia breathed out hard, then pushed herself forcibly into the back of the arm chair.

"You wouldn't happen to be close to--" Renard began, but the livid glare silenced him.

"If you dare say that time of the month I'm going to rip your head off and make sure this little guy burninates this place once he is big enough," Leylia snarled.

The doctor smiled, and folded his fingers together to rest his chin on them. He looked to be a combination of amused and impressed. The way his lips were switched up just enough to portray a good humor but his eyes bored straight into hers as if to extinguish a fire that had come to life there.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked. "I'm certain I have the most delicious flavor of rose-hip and dragon-fruit."

"Oh fuck you," Leylia said, a sigh carrying her words rather than a breath. "Yes please."

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She's Here

The serpent coiled his body tightly then lifted his head up into the air. His gaze tipped his nose down to the egg, which wobbled and shivered. His tongue flicked out, tasting the air, the yearning that seeped from the slowly growing cracks appearing in the surface of the shell. He lowered his body around and surrounded the egg as bits and pieces flecked away, chipping and falling onto his scales.

A small hand pushed out of the shell, fingers spread wide, grasping and searching. The serpent lowered his nose to the palm, hissing as the tiny fingers curled around it. The top of the shell shattered. He gazed at a small, girl child. Her hair was blonde in front of her soft, sculpted ears, and behind them it was a fertile brown. Her left eye was gold, and the right eye a clear, cobalt blue.

She reached up with her other hand, placing it next to her first on the serpent's snout. Her dual eyes blinked, curiosity making them open wider, as if to see more or see more clearly.

The serpent hissed.

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An Origin

A serpent slithered through the tall grass. He was eight feet long, though had for the majority of his life been long enough to surround the land, some claim chasing his tail. His scales shimmered, reflecting light as water might when viewed from below the surface. Each scale was a slightly different tint of either white or blue, and his unblinking eyes gleamed like polished gold. In front of his triangular head was an egg, the shell a deep, earth brown with flecks that appeared as lightning. The snake flicked his head upward, and the egg rolled forward.

As it rolled out of the shade of night into the light of day, the serpent took a moment to rest. He hissed, coiling his body to lift himself into the air. It would only be a few minutes before the night would catch up, and he would move the egg into the day again. He had to keep it in the sunlight. He didn't know why he was so determined, no greater being tasked him with this. He had just found the egg, bigger than his head, wider than he was around, abandoned, quietly shivering in the night next to the great river.

He had been overcome. With what, he did not know. He had not slept, for seven days he had rolled this egg into the sunlight of day with the threat of the cold night constantly on the tip of his tail. When he started, he was miles long, and now he was only eight feet. He had not eaten, except for what had tried to steal the egg from his protection. He nestled his head next to the egg, and could feel the vibrations of life within it. It would not be long now.

The serpent lifted his head and rolled the egg forward. The sunlight made the flecks of gold within the shell glisten. He felt the vibrations of movement through the ground, and slithered out of the night.

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Crazy Dreams -> Inspiration

Leylia stared at her left hand, trying to decide what the hell it was she just saw. There was a small, brown dot at the joint between her thumb and first finger, not like a freckle or mole, more like a very, very flat scab, or a bruise. She decided it looked more like a bruise. Out of boredom, and a tick she had since she was in preschool, Leylia had squeezed that part of her hand. Out of the bruise-thing had popped what looked like a white caterpillar with a clamp like jaw. Freaking out, she had released and the worm had shot back into her hand.

It hadn't hurt. Leylia rubbed her fingers over the spot where she though the worm was but felt no bump of movement. It had been about the thickness of a pencil, so she would have to feel it moving. She thought she had seen dark purple markings on its back. Pursing her lips, she grabbed hold of her hand again and squeezed.

Out popped the caterpillar again. It spun around, wiggling all its legs, though rather than angrily Leylia couldn't help but think they were wiggling in fear and panic. Still, she squeezed harder, pushing more of the worm out. After an inch, there were no more legs, and when she turned her hand upside down and started to shake it back and forth while applying so much pressure it hurt, the worm popped out but latched onto her thumb with three little claws on its rear end.

"The hell are you?" Leylia asked as it swiveled around to look up at her with two, tiny purple eyes that she hadn't noticed before. She felt her stomach cringe, it was pretty gross, and there was now a trickle of blood coming out of the hole in her hand. It squeaked, pushing itself down so it became fatter.

Leylia saw that the markings on its back looked strangely like tiny wings. This had to do with that strange doctor she met last week. With a huff, Leylia dug through her bag for her tin of mints, dumped the three mints out, then held her thumb over the tin. The worm wiggled to look down, then looked back up at her.

"Look," she said, feeling crazier by the minute, "I don't know what you are, and so I'm going to find out. Get in there and I'll go as fast as I can."

The worm clicked its jaws together, then squeaked and pogo-hopped into the tin. Leylia blinked. Then, feeling guilty that she considered to snap the tin shut, left it slightly open, cradled it in her hand, and sprinted the rest of the way home. By the time she reached the doctor's house next to hers, she was only breathing marginally heavier. She looked down at the tin; the worm was peaking out at her from the space she had left open under the tin lid.

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Deidre's World

Papa said I was his most precious creation. As soon as I woke up all I could hear were screams.

Pain. Suffering. Denial. Rage.

I would walk around and look in the tubes with figures. They don't look like me. They were missing pieces, or had extra pieces, or only part of pieces. Papa said I look like a little girl. But I have furry ears, and a tail, and spikes on my arms, and on my head that curl above me. Papa did not. Do little girls look like this?

Papa said I am a hunter. A killer.

What does kill mean?

Papa said the figures are my brothers and sisters. I don't like getting close because the screaming gets too loud. I'm scared of the room with my family.

The lights here are cold. Is there warm light somewhere? Papa is cold. His smiles are like stone. I want to see a smile like the machines when Papa leaves them on too long.

Papa said I need to eat food. It is gray, and feels weird. It isn't biteable. I cut my lips and tongue because I have longer teeth. Papa called them fangs. I liked the color of my inside liquid, Papa called it blood. It is so different than white and gray. I don't like the taste, and it hurts.

Blood. Kill. It's ugly. Papa is ugly and I cry a lot because I want him to smile. Tired machine smile. But he is like the floor deep in the home.

It is wet down there. Dark. Papa said to not go down there, but I wanted to. The screaming is dull down there.

I found something. He is bigger than me, with fur all over his body. He has four legs. His ears are like mine. His tail is like mine. He has a long mouth that has fangs like mine, but it pushes forward out of his face. His nails are longer, and sharper than mine, but my fingers are longer than his. I can bend mine and grab with them. He has spikes on his head. He says they are called horns and his name is Cainus.

He says Papa broke him, and used him to make me. Cainus is white, but beautiful. He lets me hide in his warm fur to sleep. He tells me of places he has seen, with beautiful things called flowers and trees. How there are other creatures that would like me and others that would try to eat me. He says he wouldn't let them.

Papa said to stop being stupid when I asked him. Outside is a barren, dead world. I don't know what dead means. Or world. Is this my world?

Papa tried to take me away from Cainus one day. So I hunted him. I bit his neck and didn't let go until he stopped moving. His blood was the same color as mine, but tasted good. My tail wagged for the first time. The screams turned to laughter.

I know what kill means.

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Who's got the leash?

"I only take missions where I am guaranteed to have fun," said Bates. He landed on Wencelas' shoulder with just the ball of his foot, then pushed off into a back flip. The dark material of his cloak billowed around him as he took aim with his stylized flint-lock shot gun.

"Well, aren't you lucky," Wencelas' replied. His blond hair whipped around his face as he landed on his feet in a crouch, digging his toes into the rooftop. "So, who's holding your leash?" He shot off to the side in a wide arch, throwing in a jerk to either side. He used his runic great sword to deflect any stray shots that came too close for comfort, the rune-work flaring with each connection to bullet.

"You act as if my contractor has any control over me," Bates said as he closed the distance between him and his opponent with what appeared to be the lightest of pushes on the ground.

"No, I know you wouldn't hesitate to turn around and kill your contractor as well." Wencelas brought his sword to bare and knocked Bates' shotgun out of aim. He used the entire length of his sword as the weapon and sent the cross-guard - crafted into the shape of feathered wings that crossed extended into two additional blades that flanked the main blade - into Bates' gut. He seized hold of one of the wings and drew it out, also drawing the blade it was connected to and buried it into Bates' ribs. Gold liquid spilled over the blade and over Weneclas' brown leather glove from the puncture.

"You're better than I thought." Bates grinned, barely even doubled over from the wound. He pulled his shot gun back down and fired at Wencelas' face point-blank, giving the blond knight only seconds to dodge. The damage ripped into his left shoulder, forcing him to drop the dagger, but he stepped back and used his good shoulder to push his great sword into Bates' stomach. "Another good blow, too bad it's no where near enough."

Bates kicked his opponent in the stomach, knocking him backward and ripping the blade out of his stomach, causing more golden blood to fall from behind black leather armor. He looked over his hand, flexing his fingers and watching the blood crack and fall to dust already.

"I'm a bit bored now though," he said with a huff. "So, you'll have to excuse me." The roof beneath his feet rippled once, like water, then turned into a thrashing pool of red rimmed with black that Bates dropped into with a splash.

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Little bit of Inspiration

I never claim to be popular or smart. That way leads to drama and madness. At least I always thought so. It's hard to deny the test scores that my private school loves posting up on the ceiling high bulletin board that dominates the lobby. The upper half of the bulletin board is covered in decorations, as no one without binoculars or a ladder would be able to see anything posted up there except huge banners extolling the virtues that one of the many sports teams displayed while winning a tournament.

It's like the teachers want to breed jealousy, intimidation, and bullies right into the core of the student populous. As if that needed help. We already have the war between the "haves" the "have-nots" the "old money" and the "nuveau rich". It is really easy to vanish and remain invisible here, usually. If you have the highest scores in the school, and strange white hair, coupled with what would appear to be impossibly dark blue eyes, you stick out like the Lighthouse of Alexandria over an ink colored sea.

That's my name, by the way, well, almost. It's Alexandreta. Alexandreta Amelie. My mom loves the sound of it. It just flows out between the lips without the barest hint of effort, she says. This coming from the woman who speaks seven or eight languages fluently, including Ancient Egyptian and Latin. The bad news about my name is that "fluidity" makes it really easy to chant, which people tend to do when they want to get your attention for something you just know you won't want to do.

"Alexandreta Amelie," sings a familiar voice from over the clamoring crowd of students trying to see their scores, their friends scores, and, more importantly, the scores of their rivals.

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Another Way to Let it Out

Atlantis sat quietly in the middle of the den. There was a fluffy creature that looked very much like a miniature polar bear huddled at her knees, huffing and whining. Her features were pale, her expressive face dull, blue eyes drowning. Her hands coddled the small bear, Polaris, her shoulders shaking with the force of suppressed despair. She could still hear it. It rang in her ears and shook her from the inside out.

The door to the townhouse opened, and a blast of noise followed before the door clicked and everything became quiet again.

"Atlantis?" came a soft, worried voice. Into the den came the bear's real owner, Ivan. He had round, searching eyes behind oval framed classes, and a round face. He wore business casual, and a heavy, very worn leather jacket. He had come straight from work.

"Hi Ivan."

"You okay?" Ivan stepped over to the small girl and crouched down next to her, his arms resting on his thighs. He could see her face, and knew she wasn't. She had his heavy comforter he brought back from a trip to Canada wrapped around her, despite the warm temperature of the room. She was shaking.

"A very bad man was killed," she said as she wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "He hurt many, many people. He is dead now, and everyone is very happy." Atlantis fumbled her words, a smooth accent slurring her consonants and vowels into a constant lulling sound, drawing Ivan closer.

"But you are not," he said. He sat down on the thick rug with her and let her hide herself away in his chest. He rested a hand on her back, moving it up and down to sooth her chills and fear.

"I am not," Atlantis repeated. "I am... sad, and scared."

"Scared?"

"So much joy in the loss of life. It is scary."

"Oh, Atlantis." Ivan pushed his glasses up over his hair and placed a loving kiss against her hair. Despite her adult manner and gentle ways, to him, Atlantis was just a child with the body and knowledge of a woman. "All you are hearing are those that are joyful, they are really quite loud. Not all are rejoicing, it is alright. They must have just been, much closer to the hurt people than most."

"It is still scary," Atlantis said. "To have killing be the only solution that they can see. That all of them can see. That they feel it is the only thing left for them to be heard, to make it right."

Ivan let out a breath, lost within the honesty of her words and the weight of her tears. He squeezed her close again, Polaris resting his big, awkward paws on Ivan's knee and nudging a little, black nose against Atlantis' stomach with another whine. He did feel relief at the news when it came to him, but then just dread, knowing that it wasn't the end.

"You really are just a force of empathy," he finally said, his gaze locked on the ceiling fan as it slowly spun. "It's like the world's pain is right in your blood, in your heart, and it is not your own. You feel it anyway."

"If no one else will shed tears for a death," Atlantis said, curling herself up into him as much as she could. "Then I must. The events that made all this come to be, the feeling of being cornered, of having no other option, to feel the need to be so extreme to be heard, or taken seriously. That he felt the need to kill so many, then others felt the need to kill him, to rejoice. Tears need to be shed for the dead... and the living."

"Then cry as much as you need to," Ivan said as he rested a big hand on her head and started to rock back and forth. "Feel all the sorrow that the world will not."

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Just Let It Out

"Lay the fuck off Tim," Claudia said as she took one step with her long legs and stationed herself between him and Petunia. "I swear to whatever god there may be that if you don't fucking cool it I will show you something that I will celebrate about."

She watched as the pupils of his pale green eyes contracted, the superior smirk fading from his skinny lips that were set under a red nose. The kid constantly looked like he was sick, since his big ears were also red, satellite dishes on either side of a narrow face and set on a telephone pole body. Claudia was fairly sure she could wrap one of her legs around his waist and just break him in half with one, sharp twist.

"The fuck is this Claude?"

"Look, you can see I'm pissed, right? Do you think callin' me Claude when I'm fucking pissed, at you, is a good idea?"

"Cici..." Petunia said behind me. I felt her large hand take hold of my wrist, but not in a restrictive manner.

"'kay, whatever, bitch. PMSin', much?"

"Yeah, it's totally because I'm PMSin' and not because you're being the biggest douche-fucking cocktail I've ever seen."

"What happened was awesome! Fuck you if you don't agree."

Claudia sucked her tongue against the front of her teeth, her breathing steady but her knuckles burned, an ache to smash them into his recently un-braced teeth. Her knees locked back for a moment before she remembered to bend them slightly for better movement. She was sure he wouldn't appreciate her three inch heel jamming into his nose. Her shoulders were straight to face him, broad for a woman but she used it to her advantage in the clothing she wore and the looming anger she employed in her day-to-day business.

"What happened, happened," she said, aware that Petunia's breathing was stilted and nervous.

"It finally happened," Tim corrected.

Petunia shifted her weight between small feet, rolling her ankle a bit. She was never steady on heels. All her weight was in her hips. All her thoughts were on her face.

"Oh grow the fuck up," Claudia said. "We get it, you're over the fucking moon. You and all the other sociopathic turds who think you're all polished to a mirror finish. Go on and whoop and hollar for joy and I hope someone does the same exact thing when that shit happens to you."

"If you don't like it you can fucking leave," Tim said, throwing out his arm as if to make some point. His dumpy hoodie only made the motion look slow and unmotivated. Claudia knew that he had never been the target of one of her rages. He had always been an on-looker or on her side, now that she was against him he was lost. Lost in a forest that she was setting on fire at each corner and watching him burn with the flames reflected in amber eyes.

"How about," Claudia replied, "if I don't like it, I'll fucking tell you that I don't like it, and you can shut the fuck up or take it somewhere else." She lifted both her hands, breaking Petunia's hold and pinched her fingers together as if about to conduct an orchestra. She opened up all her fingers. "Because I, won't take that shit. I'm not Petunia." She closed her fingers and moved them to point at herself.

Petunia inhaled as she was brought back into the conversation, and not in a favorable light. Claudia was surprised she hadn't left the room by now, left the apartment. She pushed her arm back into the red-headed girl, shoving her away toward the door. Not that she had done it on purpose, but Petunia had instigated this fight, even though Claudia was fully supportive of her side. Celebrating this kind of shit was needlessly destructive, embarrassing, and repulsive.

"Ya'll complain but I don't see you doing anything about it!" Tim rolled his eyes, tugging his hoodie over his chest in some kind of masculine gesture.

"Oh. Do something." Claudia smiled, then hopped forward onto one foot and slammed her heel into Tim's soft stomach with all the force a ballet dancer could muster. It was a lot. "Fucking attacking your friends because they disagree with you and your actions. Fuck that shit. Get the fuck out of this apartment and don't come back. You'll find any of the shit you left here on the curb in an hour."

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Breathe

The room is tangibly cold. It makes me uncomfortable, and I keep swinging my tail as if to keep ice from collecting along it, even though I know it won't. To me, everything has a filter of gray, except the girl. Except, Elizabeth. She slumps against her bed, unmoving, a letter opener held loose between her fingers. The enameled handle appears to be a deep red wood with a black grain, and has clear crystals set around the base of the blade. There is no sweet scent of blood, and the blade is clean, though tarnished.

All beings have a light. Devils and angels can see it without trying, and sometimes mortals can as well. It sends pulses through the air, crawling along the skin of devils, angels, and mortals alike. Mortals' lights are weak, barely a match stick. They bleed together into a dull hum of sensation, in comparison beings such as myself send out a charge that allow mortals to feel hope or dread when we just step into their plane.

I can't see hers, I can't feel it, but she's not dead. Her entire body expands and contracts with the labor of her breathing, as if all her muscles are too weak to resist her lungs. Her head rocks, hair swings but continues to cover her face. She seems to be absorbing the rules of existence, like a black star. It unnerves me.

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Trying a New Voice

"It's 7:50 and they still haven't started," I said. "That's twenty minutes late." I stuffed my phone back into my bag. Even with the back-light on low it was obvious in the dim lighting of the cramped restaurant. "I'm out of here at 8:30."

Adam just smiled and shrugged his narrow shoulders. He was a pretty obliging guy, considering I basically dragged him here. One of my classes required that I go to a literary event, or something, so I just randomly picked a reading series to check out before the due date. I realized after I paid the five dollar entrance fee that it was for poetry and short-short fiction.

Great. My two least favorite types of writing. Now I would get to listen to people read them at me.

I tugged on a short piece of hair that kept poking me in the eye and huffed, using one long finger to trace the tip of my nose. It's really fucking rude in my opinion. They made this event, people came to this cruddy little corner of town - graffiti on everything outside and people whose eyes would take in the size of your bag before going to your tits - and now they're not even starting the damn reading on time.

The lady - she was actually really nicely dressed and made up, so she's earned that noun - that took my five bucks for the reading kept looking at me, then turning and talking to some larger guy then returning back to her neutral position. The fuck was her problem? Yes, lady, I'm over 21. No, lady, I'm not going to stay for the entire damn thing.

How the hell do I write a review for a reading series anyway? "Oh, the atmosphere was nice but the locale was creepy and killed it for me." "The first reader had some nice lines, but her voice made me think of a duck's quack. No tone, no pitch. Just QWACK!" "This particular reading series amounts to nothing more than allowing for writers to masturbate in our faces in a literary fashion. Pretty sure I got some abstract ejaculate on my shirt."

Sure, that would go over well.

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Moment of Movement

"What are you so excited about?" I ask as I step up behind two giggling imps. Their large ears bend and sway with their movements, the purple imp on the left has half of one of his missing. I think I did that, but I don't really care to try and remember.

They skip around a hole dug in the black dirt and chanting, bearing crooked and broken teeth in mockery of smiles, giggling and clapping their bony, clawed hands that were bigger than their heads. At my voice their faces shatter into looks of terror, the remnants of the smiles vanishing into the ground, wiggling and writhing. I brush my heal over where the malicious glee had been, digging it in a little bit. Stupid little insects, they get so excited when it's not even them doing the work.

"Well?" I make my voice snap and drop an octave, just to watch them cower and squeal.

"Ah! Master don't be angry! Zizil and Kirml doing good!" screeches the green one, scuffling around and clasping his hands together. "Zizil got the hole dug before the soul is here! Kirml has the seed ready already! We does good!"

I forget which one is Zizil and which one is Kirml. It doesn't matter much to anyway. I peer into the visually bottomless hole, and see that there is a tear in the air. Purple energy frames it to keep the breech from ripping through the entire plane. I can see a room, brown carpet, dull green walls. The image is still blurry.

So, another mortal is going to off themself. The imps are preparing the hole for the tree to be planted in that traps the soul for the rest of eternity. I have nothing better to do, that lazy Dexmes is taking his sweet time on getting back to me about the runework I need to find the girl Elizabeth. I think he enjoys it too much when I have to ask something of him. Damn bookworms. I will rip his head off at some point and bind it so I can use his information anytime I want.

So I might as well see what kind of tree this new idiot will make. If it's any good I'll stick around and break its branches to talk to it. See what it knows.

The two imps huddle behind my feet, occasionally reaching out to hug my boot and I swat them away with the flat of my tail head. I can't stand grovelling. Waste of time, energy, and pride.

The image grows clearer. The first thing to show up is a picture of pale, skinny ladies with butterfly wings bathing in a pond. Must be a girl's room. Mortal guys wouldn't have naked butterfly ladies up on the wall. Under that stands a desk, made of dark, solid wood, and it is drowned in papers, note cards, and an army of differently colored pens. So this person likes to write. Probably going to kill themself because they can't get anything published or they write some abstract bullshit that no one understands. They don't get me. What shit. If people don't understand then make it fucking clearer what you want to say!

No one sits in the armchair, which is set askew so the arm of the chair presses against the lip of the desk. The image turns to locate the soul. I'm right, it's a girl. She's tall, her legs are really long. Thin though, she must look like a stork when standing straight, especially with the round hips that they connected to. Good handles.

Her hair is messed all over her face, head bowed. I can't see her face, but the base of my spine tingles. My tail curls up like a scorpion's. Shit.

It's Elizabeth.

I whirl and snatch up the two imps by the necks. Their heads enlarge as I clench my hands and their eyes bulge out from their weird skulls. I toss the green one up into the air and swing my tail, slicing through his pointed nose and cutting him clean in half. He didn't squeal. He had no time to. The purple one gasps and chokes, clutching at my hand as my claws dig into the side of his neck.

"Master, master Kirml does good! Kimrl does good just tell Kirml--"

I stick my tail's blade into his mouth and twist it before pushing it through his small body into his stomach. I flick my tail to knock the twitching mess off and to the ground.

That takes care of the imps, buying me marginally more time. I clap my hands together to brush away the grimy feeling of imp panic. The tear is still open, but the energy fizzles now that the imps were rebuilding themselves in their spawning grounds on another plane. I launch forward and dive into the collapsing rift.

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Another Jump Start

She keeps a tranquil smile on her face as soothing as the rippling blue of her eyes. Just the edges of her teeth are framed by her lips, amplified only slightly by the pale rose color of her lipstick. She doesn't like a lot of make-up. She says it makes her sing poorly. I have never been able to make the comparison, having never seen her sing with heavy make up on. She says it makes other sing poorly as well, and I believe her, no one can sing the same way she does. No one can make the air fill with a invigorating electricity while setting everyone at their ease.

Her fingers are long, almost too long, but she wears gloves where the fingers only go to the half-point of her finger, hiding that. She wears them even when she's playing her lyre. Some say she was crucified for her voice, to make her cry and hear her scream rather than smile and serenade. That she wears the gloves to hide the scars. I won't tell them that's true. That I was the one to rip the nails out of her hands, lick the blood from her hands, seal the wounds and lay waste to those that would do it to her. Their corpses might still be hanging if I had not set the trees alight for her. Her smile is different now. It looks heavy, even if it still spreads to her eyes.

Her voice cringes. I look up. She has dropped her lyre. Her hands have started to bleed through her gloves. I race to her side on the stage and pull her into my arms, covering her with my cloak to hide her from the world that has abused her so. The room has gone silent, even the fire in the center of it all seems to die a little on the inside. The wood fizzles and whines, popping as if it had gotten wet, as if it was crying. The shields and coats of arms that decorate the walls fade into darkness as the fire retreats. The faces in the room are a blur, I don't care about them, I don't pay attention to them. I would rather kill them all and keep her safe, far away.

But she wants to sing for them. She wants to play even if she bleeds, for them. They that caused her such pain.

I have no right to stop her.

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Jump Start

He strikes a match, lets it burn, swings his wrist and snaps it to make the head die in a puff of pitiful smoke. It wasn't even enough to survive for two seconds in the scented air of the room. It smelled like lavender. Now it smells like burnt lavender.

He flicks the match, it strikes the wall, leaves a dusty black mark and drops into the garbage bin. The bin is full of crumpled and ripped papers that the girl has given up on. Half scenes, short scenes, single sentences and full exposition mar the once smooth and pretty paper. Failed words and writing, a disease on the sheets that never asked for anything but to be useful. They aren't useful. She made them useless. A word was wrong, it gets scratched out, a sentence is wrong it gets scribbled into oblivion. But what if it is wrong? All of it. The very core reasoning of the original thought that sparked to life a match in her mind that burns bright until it reaches her pen and then it fizzles.

She can't finish. She goes and goes, writes and writes and breathes life into people and worlds. They grow in her head, a forest, spreading wide and reaching high. Then a flame starts at the corner and she stops. She can't save it. It's the biggest moment when all is supposed to explode in a beautiful flash of acceleration. It stops. She closes her eyes and the forest withers into darkness. She puts her pen down and slides the notebook into her desk, where seven others sit, half full, full full, never finished.

He lights a match, he lets it burn. He lets the flame engulf his hand. It doesn't hurt. He's a devil. It turns black as it feeds on something not there, that it can never completely consume.

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A little more Serious

Annabelle played with the syringe between her narrow fingers. Her slender digits looked like flailing spider's legs as she spun the needle around as if it was a pen. It was a clean one, she paid extra for that, and even had a plastic cap on the end to protect the point. The liquid inside the graduated cylinder was a dull white, as if someone had collected it from a puddle where a child's chalk drawing used to be. For all Annabelle knew, someone had.

She wondered if injecting chalk-water into her arm would be as dangerous as injecting heroin. She tugged on a loose piece of frazzled, dried out hair. It was from dying and bleaching it too many colors too close together and not taking care of it. She was too lazy to wash her hair as often as she should, though she thought about it constantly. If she shot up would she forget about it? Would she stop constantly poking her thighs, watching the fat jiggle and regretting quitting dance? Ballet, of course.

Annabelle flipped the syringe around her hand again and looked at the curtains. She had made them over the summer, for her dorm room that had huge windows that anyone could see into. Idiot architect though huge windows around a courtyard would be brilliant, let all the other students have a clear view of your entire room. No where to hide unless you fucked around with the bent and broken venetian blinds. So she made curtains.

Green curtains, trimmed with a kind of tye-dyed green-yellow mish-mosh.

It reminded her of the forest canopy during the summer back home. It always smelled really clean back there, until they developed the big lot on the other side. Now she had to angle herself just so in order to not see any houses.

The room was dark, even though it was only four in the afternoon. She had the curtains drawn, sitting on the shag rug. Brown shag, it was soft and comfortable. Her suite-mate liked to sneak in just to lie around on it. Annabelle didn't mind.

She looked down at the syringe again when the cap popped off from a missed twirl. She picked up the cap and put it back on, then shook the needle so that the liquid spun around like a snow globe. She didn't know heroin glittered like that.

"Annabelle!" said her suite-mate, throwing open the door to the bathroom that connected their two singles.

Annabelle stuffed the syringe under the papers of essays, stories, and hand-outs that were strewn about near her ass. She put on a smile as she looked up at her friend's round, cheerful face. She was always so eloquent.

"I got an apartment!"

"That's great, Claire."

"You aren't going to be staying in the city after graduation then?"

"Nah. I'll probably end up going back to my parent's house for a bit until I get a steady job, then look into apartments back home."

"I understand. You never really took to the city like me."

Annabelle wasn't sure if that was an insult or not, but decided it wasn't because her friend just liked to state her idle observations.

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm going to grab dinner. You want to come?"

She glanced at the ruffled papers, tented over the hidden syringe. Annabelle got up to her feet and tugged her pj booty shorts straight. She didn't poke her thigh.

"Sure. Just let me get some real pants on."

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The "Garden"

When the sun set was when the President's garden showed just what made it unique. It wasn't the sheer size, spilling out from the buildings in every direction for miles. It wasn't that what appeared to be every plant on the planet coexisting peacefully and healthily. All the rivers, pools, ponds, and fountains that made their way in the wild sprawl of land became pronounced from the vibrant glow that was nearly impossible to see during the day. It wasn't only that though.

All the plants. All of them that fed from the waters of the spring beneath the company headquarters, started to glow as well with their respective colors. Veins in the leaves, steams, and flowers pulsed with what seemed to be a collective hum, every rustle of the wind or creature moving through it sent off harmonious chords and notes, each one slightly different from the neighbor beside it.

From years of living in a barren wasteland of a dying world, Frederick wasn't sure he could handle the view, the scents that mixed together and wafted their way up to his balcony. He gripped the banister tightly, refusing to look away, he would rather pass out from being overwhelmed than disrespect the beauty and hope that the President worked so hard to nourish and bring to the rest of this decrepit world.

"And I had been sent to kill her," he thought, and felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. Even after the attempt had ended in humiliation for him, President Rikkia Angelius had put him in this grand, comfortable room that was almost too comfortable for a soldier like him. With this view. This perfect view.

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From a Devil, of an Angel

        I know quite a bit about angels, a lot more than most can claim. I have felt the heartbeat, the skin, the breath, and have heard the sweet song of an angel in the throes of pleasure. You see, angels are not genderless, and they are not immune to the emotions of the mortal coil, just like us devils. She is the most beautiful of them all, and devils do not lie, we are just adept at twisting truths. I can not claim that I tricked her into my arms, not that I would wish to. Angels are protected from at least that sort of thing. They are passionate creatures, and they feel emotions quite acutely, a few in particular.
        Happiness, sorrow, sympathy, and love. Yes, she would know if I did not love her, no matter what I did. I am not such a tasteless monster to attempt complicated spells to try to fool her. Believe me, or not, I love her. I love her smile, her innocence that she retains despite my ability to claim her virginity. She is not naive, just innocent. She was willing to love me, cherish and comfort me, even when fully aware of my standing in these planes.
        I would be lying if I said her body meant nothing to me, and I will tell the truth that it was what first attracted me. I could see the lovely shape even when wrapped modestly, almost shyly, in elegant Victorian gowns. I only became more attached once I had approached in my guise, the one she easily saw through. This attachment, love, only increased when I had her, bare, in my arms. She is quiet, in all situations, but quick to smile and laugh when I do not have her head reeling, and not just from talented touches. I find I ache unless I have her enveloped close in my arms, but it is one I enjoy. I have proven, if only to myself and her, that devils can have a heart.
        I have never worked harder for my partner than for her, I want her to feel the highest levels of bliss each and every time. She responds well to my energy, my movements, and I keep very aware of how she moves to adjust us accordingly. Of course, sometimes the urge to pin her is overwhelming, she is just so adorable, but I will only do such a thing with my own hands. Her skin is far too precious to me to mar with anything that is not my grip, and the feel of her heartbeat in her wrists is an intoxicating pleasure I cannot deny myself. There is one position, however, that will never happen. Mortals call it "doggy style", I believe. It is vulgar and degrading to her, and I will not allow such a thing. Who would want to only see their lover's back side? I love her face, and the only time her back is to me is when her body is flush to mine, her head against my shoulder.
        Blushing? What did you think the conversation would be about?
        I am a devil.

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