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Similar Deviations
Pravite Detective!EnglandxReader part 3: the end

It wasn't hard for (name) to figure out who did it. He was there all along, or so she thought. Backing out
of the bathroom, Arthur noticed the fear in her eyes.

"What is it, love? Do you know who could have done it?" Arthur asked. 'It all makes since now! The way
he acted, the flirty attitude, the tea leaf, and he had just taken off muddy shoes! Oh no! I-it was Arthur!'
(name) screamed in her head as she took off down the hallway with Arthur close behind.

"Wait (name) why are you running?!" Arthur asked confused.

"You killed him!"

"Wh-what?!" Arthur grabbed (name)'s hand and pulled her to him abruptly stopping her.
"What in the
bloody hell makes you think I did it?!"

"Just think about it! I'm stupid! You knew I would come to you for help! You knew that I would trust you
and never think you would do it! Why Arthur?! Why did you kill him?!"

"I didn't! I would never want to hurt you! I-I…I bloody well love you!" Arthur gripped her arms holding
her so she couldn't run.

"Y-you love me? That gives you motive to do it!" (name) struggled to get free. A dark chuckle came from
behind Arthur. Arthur and (name)'s eyes both widen as they turn to see a hooded figure at the front
door. Arthur turned pale at the site of the figure.

"N-no, i-it couldn't be!" Arthur let go of (name). "Love, run…"

"Who is that?!" (name) was frozen in place.

"You don't recognize me, love?" the figure had the same accent as Arthur!

"Shut up you bloody fake!" Arthur snapped at the figure.

"How can you call me a fake without calling yourself that?" the man took off his hood. Time nearly
stopped. There were two Arthurs in the room.

"I-impossible! How can there be two of you?!"  (name) was looking from one to the other.

"(name), I guess you could say…he's, how do I put this?" the Arthur (name) had been with was starting
but couldn't find the words.

"He's the so called 'good' half and I'm his 'bad' half, as he put it to me. You see, he found your fiancé
cheating and started having thoughts of killing the man, but he couldn't tell you love," the arthur by the
door smirked.

"Cheating?! There is no way!"

"But it is true, this weak pathetic excuse for a man didn't have the heart to tell you in fear you would
hate him and lose you. His hatred for your fiancé grown until he couldn't take it, so he used a spell to
make the hatred leave. That's where I came in. You see, I AM his hatred for that man. The Arthur you
stand by couldn't kill me, so I escaped," he Arthur by the door started walking towards (name) and

"So you killed him," was all (name) could choke out before tears started to fall.

"I-I'm sorry, I tried to find him, but I didn't know where you lived, but" the 'good' Arthur lunged at the
'bad' one a pinned him to a wall. "I'll be sure and stop him now!" the 'good' Arthur pulled out a pistol
and pointed it at the 'bad' Arthur's head.

"You can't kill me without killing yourself!" the 'bad' Arthur yelled.

"I know," he shot the 'bad' Arthur, but the 'bad' Arthur's body just disappeared.

"Arthur…" he turned to see (name) crying.

"I'm sorry, love," he pointed the gun to his own head. "I thought I was protecting you, but I was wrong,"
with tears in his own eyes, Arthur shot himself.  (name) screamed and fell to her knees sobbing
uncontrollably. Soon, a car was heard parking outside. (name) rushed out only to find Ian, Arthur's
eldest brother there.

"Aye lass, what's wrong," Ian said as he got out of the car. Even if (name) has never met him in person,
she knew he was kin to Arthur by those eyebrows and the sexy green eyes. (name) through herself at
him, luckily he caught the sobbing girl. "Lass?" (name) just pointed at the house. Ian nodded and sat her
in his car. "I'll be right back." With that he walked into the house. Ten minutes later he returned, pale,
and a bit shaken up. (name) has calmed down enough to explain what happened. Ian found it hard to
believe at first, but after thinking about his 'weird' brother, he figured it was possible.

"What do ye' need lass?"

"T-to bury them a-and a place to stay," (name) stumbled over her words. Ian nodded then went off to
bury the poor men. (name) placed flowers on their graves.

"Arthur, I'm not mad at what you did to (fiancé name), but I am pissed at you taking your own life,"
(name) kissed Arthur's grave marker then left with Ian. Ian took her to Arthur's house first. (name)'s
eyes widen as she saw a little boy, who looked almost just like Arthur, ran out to greet Ian.

"Hey ya' Ian!" Peter yelled running to the redhead. "Where is the mean ol' jerk?" (name) was close to
tears. She didn't bother to move or get out of the car.

"Well, he's gone away for a while, ye' goin ta' be livin' with me and tha' lass ov'r there," Ian nodded
towards (name).

"She's pretty!" Peter yelled as he and Ian went back to the car.

Months after everything, Peter had almost nearly healed (name)'s heart. She adopted him as her little
brother. Ian couldn't help but feel he did the right thing, but he is hiding something: he's falling for
(name) just as his brother did. Ian decided it was best to leave it alone. If she wanted to date, she would
let him know. Gilbert and Mathis found it odd that their drinking buddy suddenly showed up less and
hardly talked to them.

"Hey (name)!" Peter ran up to the girl. She was in the kitchen cooking. After all, who wants Scottish
food? Some of it can go head to head with English food and scary the poor boy.  

"Hm, yes Peter?" she hummed.

"When are you going to marry Ian?!" (name) could hear Ian choking on his drink in the living room.

"Uh, what?" (name) looked down at the small boy.

"Ian said that I can't marry you because he's going to!" Peter pouted.

'No wonder Arthur did his best not to strangle the brat,' Ian thought as he entered the kitchen. "He's got
one hell of an imagination, hehe."

"But you sa-"Ian cut Peter off, "bath, NOW!" Peter stomped his foot and walked away. Ian sighed.

"Lass, I was goin' ta' wait a while to tell ye', ye' know, after what all ye' been through," Ian rubbed the
back of his head looking down at the floor. (name) smiled and kissed his cheek.

"Thanks Ian," she went back to cooking. Ian looked shocked but went off the bathe Peter. (name) could
only hope he didn't kill the poor kid. (name) suddenly felt like someone was hugging her. She turned but
no one was there. 'Strange,' she thought. Little did she know that she had an angel watching her.

~~~ (two years later) ~~~

(name) ended up marring Ian, without Peter's approval. After a few months Peter became over excited
and ran up to Ian.

"What?" Ian looked from his newspaper to the boy.

"(name) said I'm going to be an uncle! " Peter yelled flailing his arms around running in circles.  

"Eh?" Ian looked at him weird, until it hit him. "(name)!"

"Yes?" she walked to him looking ever so innocent.

"A-are ye'? Really?" Ian's skin was slightly pale. (name) nodded and Ian passed out.

"Is he ok?" Peter poked Ian's face. (name) giggled.

"He will be."
well, here is the end! it was kinda crappy v_v' I'm so sorry for that! hope you liked the rest of it!
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i wanted to write a poem for you.
so i sat down,
quietly - pen in hand -
and wept. because i cannot
contain the ocean in a paragraph,

i can't shape your eyes
in a stanza. and even
if all the world's birds were singing,
it still would not compare
to the symphonies of your kiss;

and this makes me sad!
through wild and happy fields
i've ran, only to discover:

tears can be captured,
but love is always free.
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It was two weeks ago now. That day, the one that made your world fall apart.

You were still in the hospital, not really for the physical injuries you'd obtained in the crash, but more the mental trauma.

The images still replayed themselves over and over again in your mind. Like a broken record, doomed to repeat itself to the damnation of time. Broken. Just like yourself.

You shuddered, wrapping your thin, bandaged arms around your cold body. You started rocking yourself, tears threatening to fall.

"Ma chérie, how are yo-" a familiar voice started to say, but it cut itself off quickly. Immediately, you felt yourself being cradled in Francis' warm arms. You buried your face in your knees, trying and failing to hide your sobs from him. Your lank (h/c) hair fell forward, obscuring your face from his vision.

Your brother's grinning  face appeared in your mind, generating more tears from the sobbing wreck you'd become.

Your tears chocked you and you didn't want the Frenchmen to see the weak, the vulnerable you. He took you on his lap, pulling you as close as possible and held your face in his warm hands. He pulled your face up, forcing your (e/c) tear-filled eyes to meet his ocean blue ones. He kissed the tears from your eyes, rocking you back and forth, rubbing comfortable circles on your back.

All the while he whispered sweet words of comfort and reassurance in that wonderful accent of his, in your ear.

He remembered the horror of that day, the sight of the smoking car in front of him, the smell of burnt flesh. But most of all he remembered ____'s blank filled eyes, as he'd dragged you out of the fuming remains of the car.

Your parents and brother were dead, they'd been killed immediately by the crash. You were the only one left.

Actually you were lucky to be alive, not that you wanted to be of course.

"F-F-F-Francis," you were able to whisper in between sobs, "What good am I here? There's no reason for me to still be here, not without them." Your eyes were pooling tears again.

"Why them and not me? Why? Why? Why...." you repeated and repeated, as if if you asked the question enough, an answer would present itself.

"Your parents and your brother, they wanted you to live. That's why you survived. Look,"
Francis pointed at the darkening sky through the window, "See those stars there?" You followed his finger and saw a group of bright stars in the sky.

"That's them, they're watching you. Your family wanted to protect you and Lady Fortune granted their wish. You're still here."

You watched the group of stars, closely. There were three of them. Your face softened into a sad smile. "I'll do my best, mother, father, bro. Watch me, I've decided to live." Your waist got a little squeeze from Francis.

"Thank you, Francis." You dried your tears and gave him a weak smile. "Pas de problème, ma mignonne." He smiled and kissed your forehead. You, in turn kissed his cheek, and turned back to the window, watching the stars growing brighter and brighter.
Okay, a bit angsty but it's getting quite late so it's off to bed for me!

Please tell me what you think of it :blowkiss:

EDIT: changed the spacing
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I don’t know what I hated more: myself, or the fact that my crying woke him up. It couldn’t be later than two in the morning, I had woken up from another nightmare and I found myself huddled in the same spot I always went to in times like these: the bathtub.

It was a bad habit I got myself into since childhood, but the coldness of the tub gave me a comfort most things couldn’t. I had been good about keeping my pain hidden from the rest of the world, but by night it came crawling back to me in the form of dreams and flashes of guilt.

The tears would come before I could stop them and I always found myself in this tub. He never knew, and I never told him. What was the point? I’m a girl stuck in reverse who can’t seem to let go of yesterday and take in the joys of tomorrow. My whole life was like a damaged tape, repeating itself when it shouldn’t and having a hard time moving forward. I always could repress my sobs, and I wondered if I was louder than I had thought or if maybe, just maybe...he knew this whole time.

His footsteps creaked against the wood and I didn’t have to look up to know he was at the door frame. The air buzzed with silence, and a moment crept by before he took a few more steps and was at my side. He stepped into the tub opposite of me, causing my smaller frame and his larger one to press together, our legs entwining.

He didn’t say anything, but his green eyes never left my face. I finally looked over and rubbed at my face, hoping he couldn’t see the tear stains on my cheeks or how red my eyes were in the dark. “Hey,” I whispered.

“Hey,” he whispered back. His voice was gentle, and it made me choke on a potential sob that I swallowed. We stared at each other for so long, I couldn’t tell if it were just the longest minutes of my life or if time really had ticked by.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out.

“For what?”

“If I woke you.”

In the darkness, I could see him frown. “Even if you had, it’s nothing to be sorry over.”

I looked away. “No, but I should be sorry for other things.”


“Nothing and everything. The way I am.” I shrug, feeling myself lightly shake. “Not telling you anything.”

He didn’t say anything, he just took my hands in his and brushed his thumbs over my knuckles. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want.”

“I know...but this is something you deserved to know...” I looked up at him and a jolt of realization hit me. “You knew all along, haven’t you?”
He paused and he searched my face and eyes for nothing and everything at once. “...yes, I’ve been waiting for the right time to approach you.”

“But why?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to come to me. Whatever drives you in here is something I knew I couldn’t pry. I knew I could ask at any point, but I knew it wasn’t the right time. Hell, maybe even now isn’t. But I don’t like the idea of just leaving you in here any longer. I hope you don’t hate me for that.”

“I could never hate you. You know that.” Silence filled the air once more, though louder now that it buzzed with some odd anticipation. “I...really don’t know what to say other than there are a lot of things in my life that I’m not proud of. I had a sister, and I never got to say goodbye. We had a fight, and I was too stubborn to have talked to her myself. She passed away before I could say I was sorry, and I’ve never forgiven myself for that.”

“That’s not your fault, though.”

“Yes it is. Maybe not her death, but I could have turned around and done something. But I didn’t. There’s not a moment where I don’t see her face in my dreams, where I don’t feel a pain of guilt, where I don’t miss her. Even after all these years it’s like the pain never went away. And to make it worse, no one gets it. Everyone always pats me on the head and tells me it’ll be okay, and then tell me to be happy that I knew her like that would suddenly make all the pain go away. It got to the point where I couldn’t talk about it without people changing the subject in hopes it would make me feel better, but it only fueled the pain and guilt. People say time heals all wounds...but I’m still waiting.”

“And that’s okay.” His voice came out strong and jolted me out of my thoughts.


“It's okay to feel that way.”

I stared at him and he smiled his crooked grin, a smile I fell in love with when we first met. I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s one thing I hate about society, no one wants to deal with sadness. It’s taboo, like no one is allowed to feel anything other than happiness. It’s okay to feel sad, and it’s okay to feel this way. To be honest, I doubt you’ll ever fully heal, and that’s okay, too. When a plate breaks, saying sorry to it doesn’t make it go back to normal just like when a snake sheds its skin, it doesn’t go completely back to the way it was before. That’s why we have scars, it tells stories of a painful time for all of us where when we look at it, we cringe but in the end there’s nothing we can do about it. It happened. It’s not like you can erase it as much as everyone would like that, but it is okay to feel this way. I know it’s hard to not let it consume you, but the key isn’t to get better or happy by ignoring the problem, the key is understanding that you are not and never will be alone.”

He squeezed my hands and gently brushed his fingers against my cheeks. I didn’t realize I had started crying. When I did, I began to cry harder. He gathered me in his arms and held me, not caring if I got his shirt wet or if I was loud or not. He felt warm and real and for the first time, I really didn’t feel alone with this.

He rubbed my back and brushed my hair with his fingers. When I calmed down, he helped me up and led me back to our room where he tucked me in our bed and kissed my forehead.

“Thank you,” I heard myself whisper. He looked at me with surprise and confusion written on his face.

“For what?”

“For nothing and everything.” I smiled up at him and he smiled back.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

For the first time in years, I felt lighter. He crawled into bed with me and I immediately snuggled into his arms and closed my eyes. I felt tired, and I never felt as tired as I did right then. I was able to drift into pleasant dreams for the first time in a long while, where I didn’t see my sister’s face on everyone’s face I met nor did I feel the strong sense of missing her like I had. And for the first time in my entire life, I knew I could learn to love and forgive myself. If he could, then I knew I could as well.
W-what? What is this? A..Daily Deviation?? Really??? I've always dreamt about this but never actually thought I'd see the day. I've been having an awful week and this is the best birthday present a girl could ask for.

I'm really touched that all of you like this. I wrote this back in October after talking to one of my best friends about losing a friend back in September to a giant misunderstanding that I know probably will never be solved, a friend I considered my family and I guess still do. My friend consoled me with the pain, and he was the one to tell me that it's okay to be sad and if wounds don't heal. I wanted to capture the essence that is my best friend and all the amazing things he says and does in the form of a story. Whether you're in the man's shoes, the woman's, both or neither, I hope you can all relate and find peace within you all that things will get better and it's okay to hurt as long as you know you are not alone and never will be alone.

A special thank you to :iconofonesoul: and :iconirrevocablefate: for making this happen for me. I can't thank you both enough, you've turned my week around and have given me the best birthday present anyone could ask for. So....thank you. :heart:


Thoughts inspired by a conversation with someone I really care about.

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The Selkie by IlweranMirime
This short poem explores the lore of the Selkie
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A poem about the importance of having a home.It also
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The package had no label or return address.  It was just left on my front porch, wrapped in layers and layers of packing tape and cardboard, square and slim, about a foot and half in length.  It was heavy as I picked it up and rather than open it there on the front porch, I brought it inside, and sealed my doom.

Inside, I found a clock.  It was clearly old, the rim ornately decorated with motifs of vines, and while I was no expert the material was suspiciously reminiscent of gold.  It had to be valuable.  I was bewildered as to why I'd find such a thing left on my front porch.  I turned it over, inspecting each side of it, and that was when the note that had been tacked to the back slipped off.

'To the person who receives this,' the note read, 'I don't know you and I'm really sorry, but I had to get rid of this.  It's killed both my husband and children and now it wants me.  I'm sorry.'

For a long moment, I just sat there, the note in my hands, staring at the clock sitting on my kitchen table.  Outside, I could hear cars and birds and some kids playing down the street, but inside my house it was completely silent.  The hands on the clock were moving but there was no ticking, no click of gears, and I felt like I was froze in place.

“This is a joke, right?” I whispered.

And every door in my house slammed shut.

I screamed.  Fell out of my chair and scrambled away from the table on hands and knees until I fetched up against the wall, my back pressed against the drywall.  My breath was coming in quick, hysterical gasps and only after the house remained silent for a tortuously long few minutes did I find the composure to speak again.

“Okay,” I said, my voice high with terror, “someone left a cursed clock for me.  What – how – can I keep you from killing me?”

It seemed like a reasonable thing to ask.  There was a clatter from the kitchen and I flinched, but after a moment things grew silent again and I pushed myself to my feet, staring through the archway into the other room, ready to bolt at any moment.  The closest exit was the front door – but if it could control my house – would it let me out?  I didn't want to go into the kitchen either though, as there were... well, I hadn't any interaction with supernaturals yet, thankfully, but I knew the stories.  There were lots of ways to die in a kitchen.

Something moved.  I watched as a piece of paper fluttered off the kitchen island and landed on the floor.  I could see lines of ink on it.

“Oh,” I squeaked.  “I uh, I need to go read that, I guess?”

Silence answered me.  I gave the clock one more look, then forced myself to stand, to put one foot in front of the other.  In my head, I was screaming that this was ridiculous – that I'd just gotten home from work and was going to fix dinner and enjoy a quiet evening and now I was trapped in my house with a haunted clock that might want to kill me.  Eventually.  I sucked in my breath and held it as I stepped through the entryway into the kitchen, stooped, and picked up the note.

'You can't,' the note read.

“Oh,” I said quietly.  “Okay.”

There was scratching to my left.  I shrieked, dropped the note, and spun, putting my back to the wall.  The pen on the counter was moving on its own across a pad of paper.  I exhaled and forced myself to walk over, watching the knife block by the stove out of the corner of my eye.

'Well, I suppose you can give me to someone else,' the clock amended on the paper, 'but do me a favor and at least have the courage to make it someone you want to die, rather than a random stranger.'

“I don't want anyone to die,” I protested, “not even a random stranger.”

'Then you may have a problem.'

It paused and the top page of paper ripped off and drifted to the side.  It wasn't done talking, it seemed.

'I'll refrain from doing anything permanent until you give away your pets,' it continued.  'I like animals.'

“But not people,” I replied.  

I exhaled.  It didn't seem inclined to answer that and remained ominously silent.

“I could find someone to banish you,” I said.  “I could contact some mages.”

'Hahahahah good luck with that,' it wrote.  'Make sure to tell them my name is Renfield.'

I walked away, in something of a daze.  I went to my study and turned on my laptop and started searching for names.  As the clock had predicted, it didn't go well.  Some of the mages at least had the courtesy to apologize and wish me well once I said the words 'clock' and 'Renfield'.  The rest just hung up without another word.  I was starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and I turned my attention to research instead, as it seemed the magical community wasn't wanting to get involved.

There was a lot of information out there about Renfield.  The clock was listed as the most dangerous cursed objects in existence, responsible for hundreds of deaths in the current century alone.  They'd tried to exorcise him a handful of times, which only resulted in the deaths of everyone involved in the attempt.  They'd tried to imprison him with varying degrees of success, but somehow he always managed to get stolen and returned to circulation.  The latest attempt had lasted ten years until the building he has housed in simply exploded.  Gas leak.  The clock was presumed destroyed, but now here it was.  On my kitchen table.

I sat back in my chair, numb with shock.  Why would someone do this to me?  Dump a murderous artifact on my front porch?  I understood the desperation – but why not throw him off a bridge?  Was this some sort of appeasement, hoping whatever was imprisoned inside wouldn't come back for her?  If she fed him my blood instead, he'd leave her alone?  I ran my fingers through my hair.

“This is bullshit,” I muttered.

Something grabbed me from behind.  I went over, the chair topping and throwing me to the floor, and I was pinned there on my back, something tight across my neck.  I clawed at the pressure and my nails only found skin.  I kicked, I wrenched, I struggled in blind panic as my oxygen grew thin and spots danced in my vision.  Then, finally, my muscles started to shut down and a black haze settled over my mind and I went limp.

I came to with my dog licking my face.  The sun had set, plunging the room into darkness, and I dizzy and hungry.  The golden retriever was laying just beside me, and from the sticky feeling of my arms, she'd been licking every inch of exposed skin for some time.  Dazed, I sat up, feeling around my neck.  The only mark was the scratches I'd left with my own nails.

Renfield wasn't going to kill me just yet, it seemed.  He was going to have his fun first.

I kept my dog close while I fixed dinner.  I ate at the kitchen table, glaring at the clock sitting there at the opposite side.

“So,” I finally said, “what can I do to keep you from killing me that doesn't involve giving you away?  Surely there's something.”

I'd brought the pen and paper in with me.  It didn't budge.

“C'mon,” I persisted.  “There's gotta be something you want.”

'My freedom,' the clock said, the pen finally stirring into motion again.

“But you killed the people trying to exorcise you.”

'That wasn't me.  That was the curse that imprisoned me here.'

“That's a powerful curse,” I whispered.

'Yes.  Humans aren't sure they really want to break it and my own kind have been unsuccessful.'

“Your own kind?”

A pause.  The glass in one of my paintings cracked in two and I winced.  It seemed Renfield was disappointed in me.

'Did you think to look up what I was?' he wrote, and I thought the handwriting looked annoyed, if such a thing was possible.  'You were in front of the computer for hours, what were you doing, updating your Facebook status?'

“Hey-”I protested, but he kept writing.

'I'm a demon,' he continued.  'At least, that's the name you gave us.  I don't know about all those crazy religious connotations you lot tacked on, but you got the evil and preys on humanity part right.  And I was so powerful and then some asshole comes along and imprisons me in this stupid clock and all my allies back home are like... well, sucks for you Renfield.  Bastards.'

The windows behind him cracked as well.  I winced.

“Can you please stop destroying my house?” I asked quietly.

A pause.

'This is the first conversation I've had in centuries,' he finally said.  'I'll think on what you asked.'

And the pen spun away, flying across the room to embed itself in the drywall like a knife.  I quietly returned to my dinner and tried not to look at anything other than my meal.

Nothing untoward happened for the rest of the evening.  It took a long time to fall asleep, even with my dog sleeping next to me in the bed, but I finally managed.  I had nightmares.  I dreamed of dying, over and over, in a myriad of ways and through it all the clock watched.  How odd, to be afraid of an inanimate object.  But Renfield left me alone through the night and through the morning.  I went through my day at work in a daze and I accomplished a lot, for it was easier to focus on my work than to let my mind wander back to the problem waiting for me at home.  I could leave, I thought.  Just grab my animals and not come back.  Abandon the house and have a chat with the bank and police and see if we could just... leave it there.  Leave it alone and not let anyone on the property.  That was what I'd do, I thought.  I'd go home tonight and talk to Renfield and see if he'd thought of a bargain, and if not, I'd leave.  Just get up and walk away.

I didn't want to leave my house behind.  I liked it.  But it was better than staying.

The door opened for me when I got home.  I stood there on the stoop for a moment, listening, but it seemed my security system had also been disarmed.  Renfield was welcoming me home.  Tentatively, I stepped inside, and the door swung peacefully shut behind me.  Locked.  I swallowed hard and went into the kitchen.

There was writing all over the table.  Chalk.  I couldn't read any of it, just lines and symbols in a pattern that was unmistakably magic.  And there was a pocketknife set out next to it, along with writing along the pad of paper.  I walked over and picked it up.

'So I've got an idea,' the note said.  'I can't get my freedom back, but you can give me a semblance of freedom.  I'm already bound to this house and the surrounding property and as the homeowner, you can grant me permission to manifest inside.  You just have to spill some blood on the spell here and recite the words I've written out for you.  But that's not all I want.  I've been trapped inside houses and warehouses and vaults and all kinds of shitty little buildings for centuries.  I want to ride shotgun in your head.  If you leave the house, I leave with you.  Think of it like having a roommate.  A very intrusive demonic roommate that'll kill you if you don't comply with these demands.  So hurry up and get on with the spell.'

“You've got to be kidding,” I said, putting the note down.

In answer, the pocketknife unfolded and floated over to hover in front of me.  I hesitated, lifting one hand and then freezing.  I didn't want to die – but -

The knife moved.  It snapped down, like a hand had driven it towards the table, and the blade went right through my hand and slammed into the wood of the table, burying itself through skin and muscle and pinning me there.  I screamed and my knees collapsed.  There was a chair waiting to catch me and for a moment I just lay half on the table, writhing in pain, gasping and sobbing.  I felt like I was going to pass out.  I felt sick, my guts twisted up with pain and my head was spinning.  My body felt hot, impossibly so, and I just pressed my cheek against the table and swallowed back nausea.  A piece of paper floated to rest just before my eyes.

The spell.  If I said the words, if I finished this – then maybe he'd release me -

I stumbled my way through them.  My voice was shaking with pain and when I reached the last word, I spat it out and closed my eyes, finally giving in to the weakness that was stealing through my body.  I felt nothing except for the pain in my hand and I thought, that maybe, the darkness closing in felt very inviting.

Something wrenched the knife free.  I screamed, convulsed, and then I was aware that I was on the floor, laying on my back on the carpet with something holding my hand.  I felt fingers.  Blearily, I opened my eyes and saw a figure leaning over me, humanoid, and he had his hands wrapped around my wounded palm.

“Almost done,” he murmured.  He sounded... pleased.  “Let me in your head now.”

He reached out and pressed his fingers to my brow.  I shook my head, trying to dislodge him, and his grip tightened.

“It's fine,” he said, annoyed.  “It's not like I can possess you.  Demons can't forcibly take control of someone, that's only something ghosts can do.  I'll only be riding along with you.  Getting to see what you see and feel.  Just a tiny measure of freedom from that damned clock.”

I heard the anticipation in his voice.  The yearning.  What would it be like, to be trapped for so long?  I felt some of his anger, just on the fringes of my subconscious, and I exhaled into it, trying to find some measure of calm.  There was a door, I realized, inside my mind.  I couldn't see it but I somehow knew it was there and I reached inside... opened it... and something settled inside me.  Just beneath my sternum, warm, and heavy.  Then the sensation faded and everything went still and quiet.  The pain from my hand even faded away, the last vestiges of agony traveling up my arm and then dissipating.

I opened my eyes.  I was no longer alone in my house.  There was a man there – not quite human – stooping in the doorway to the kitchen and petting my dog.  Her tail was waving enthusiastically.  That's the problem with golden retrievers.  Sure, they're big and can sound scary, but here she was consorting with a demon with her tongue hanging out and hind legs twitching in joy.

I studied Renfield for a moment while his attention was elsewhere.  His skin was a strange shade of gray and the shadows along his body seemed more pronounced, somehow.  He had hair, black, and it started from a peak higher up on his forehead and fell past his shoulders.  There were horns, a pale ivory, that curled back over his skull and then tipped upwards into a point.  And he had wings and a tail.  The wings were thicker than I'd expected, less like a bat and more like a dragon's, the sheen of something like scales along the backside, and they were tipped with a single claw at the joint.  His tail reminded me of a whippet's, but devoid of fur.  And, thankfully, he was dressed in jeans, but nothing more.

I looked down at my hand, afraid of what I'd see.  There was a mark there, an old scar, on both the back and palm of my hand.  I traced a finger over the tissue and then I began to shake, violently, and I began to cry.

“So while you have your panic attack,” Renfield murmured, his voice smooth and liquid, “I'll be looking around.”

And my traitor dog followed him out of the room.

As promised, Renfield rode along inside my head when I left the house the next day.  Briefly, I'd considered calling off work, but the demon had appeared at that moment and declared he'd be very unhappy if I did that.

“I've been trapped in a clock for centuries,” he snapped.  “I can't remember the last time I saw the sun.”

I just stood there, mute in shock, with my towel wrapped around my body.  Then he was gone.  Just – gone.  While Renfield's body was corporeal enough, it seemed he didn't have to obey the laws of a physical body.  I sensed, somehow, that his physical form was simply an extension of his consciousness, a sort of enhanced version of the control he had over my home earlier, before I'd done his ritual.  I didn't know how I knew that.  I just did, like it was sitting inside my mind, like it'd bled over from Renfield.  It was a disturbing thing.  

The demon was sitting quietly in my head as I pulled the car of the drive.  I could feel him there, an alien presence, and even a silent as he was I could still tell he was there.  Like a little part of my thoughts had been partitioned off for him to reside in.  

“How is this going to work?” I asked quietly.  “Can you read my thoughts?”

'Sadly, no,' he answered, the voice in my head.  Like I was talking to myself, there inside my own skull.  My hands tightened on the wheel.  'I can feel – I know the texture of your clothing, the warmth of the sun...'

I felt... joy.  Inside my head.  And he remained quiet for a little bit, just processing this.

'I can see and hear, all these things, but there's no further access,' he finally continued.  'Try not to get into the habit of talking to yourself.'

As it turned out, this wouldn't be a problem, as my first day at work with Renfield also turned out to be my last.  It wasn't anything the demon did.  As he'd promised, he had not ability to influence or control my actions.  Rather, I worked with a couple mages and they were able to tell pretty quickly that something was... amiss.  And they went to HR.  And HR cited hostile work environment and fired me.

“You've got to be kidding me,” I said to the HR lady, my tone flat.

“Well, we just can't have a demon here at the office,” she replied nervously, unable to meet my eyes.

“What was I supposed to do, let Renfield kill me?  Or better yet, pawn him off on some other person?  Wouldn't that make me an accessory to murder?”

“We just can't have this here,” she repeated.

'I could kill them,' Renfield purred in my head.  'It won't solve the problem but it might make you feel better.'

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Fine,” I said tersely.  “I'm going.”

“We wish you luck with your future endeavors,” she called after me, her voice wavering.

I gave her the finger as I walked away.

Renfield didn't want to go home, so I compromised and took us to a bar.  This pleased him immensely, as he was excited by the variety of available alcohols that he'd been missing out on.  I chose a spot at the far end of the bar, near the wall, where hopefully people wouldn’t take too much notice that I was muttering to myself in an undertone, staring glumly at my glass.

“I have a mortgage,” I told Renfield.  “How am I supposed to keep my house without a job?”

'It's not like they can evict you,' Renfield offered helpfully.  'You've got a demon tethered to the house and I won't let them oust me so easily.'

I thought of the failed exorcism rituals, the ones that killed everyone involved.  I took another drink of the scotch.

“I still need to eat.  I need a job, Renfield.”

'You just need to find someplace where having a demon along is an advantage instead of a liability.'

“And what sort of job would that be?”  I didn't try to keep the irritation out of my voice.  I was past being polite at this point.

'Organized crime, maybe?'

I didn't deign to answer that one.  Maybe I could get a job that allowed me to work remotely.  As long as I got through the initial interviews, no one would need to know that I was carrying a demon inside me.  Eventually, I stopped thinking about my job situation entirely, and just focused on what I was drinking.  Renfield, as it turned out, was a terrible influence to come along.  His sheer enthusiasm was contagious and I wound up staying longer than I should have, to the point where it grew late and dark outside.  Neither of us noticed.  Renfield was too excited to actually be able to taste things again and I was in some sort of shock, too numb to care.

When I finally pulled myself out of my stupor, I had run up a bit of a tab, and was a bit unsteady on my feet.

“You're not driving, are you miss?” the bartender asked as I paid.

“If you’re asking that, then I guess not,” I sighed.

“Need a cab?”

“The buses are still running.  There's a stop within walking distance of my neighborhood.”

I was jobless now.  Taxis were expensive.  That was my logic, such as it was.

“It's a couple blocks to the bus stop.”

I knew what he was thinking.  Woman, drunk, walking alone.  I just shrugged, signed my receipt, and walked away.  Renfield sat in my head in a happy haze, still reveling in his new-found freedom, such as it was.

He snapped to alertness once we got a block down the sidewalk.  The street was dark and there weren't many people out, as it was a Tuesday, and the city wouldn't come alive until the weekend.  I was just focusing on putting a foot in front of the other and it took Renfield urgently yelling my name into my skull to bring me around.  It kind of hurt, like an ache between my eyeballs.

'Do you smell that?' he demanded.

I paused.  Something... metallic, I thought.

“Yeah, so?” I asked.

'It's blood.  Coming from that alleyway.  A lot of it. Fresh.'

I froze, paralyzed by sudden terror and the urgency in the demon's tone.

'Give me control of our body,' he urged.  'Hurry.'

“What – no!”

'Just do it!' he commanded, his voice so loud I winced.  'This is the closest to freedom I've had since I was imprisoned and I'm not going to lose it.'

Something clattered from the alleyway.  I heard something like a snuffling and my blood ran cold in my veins.

'I need control now,' Renfield said tersely.

And I relinquished.  It was like breathing out and not breathing back in.  A very simple transition.  I could still feel my body and had connection to all of my senses, but I couldn't reach out to them.  I could only take in.  I – Renfield – walked towards the alleyway, eyes focused on something near the back, in the shadows.  There was a body in the middle of the narrow walkway, twisted at an obscene angle, with thick loops of slick intestine spilled out across the concrete.  I would have thrown up, were I in control of the body.  But as it was, Renfield just stepped over the growing puddle of blood and continued down further into the alleyway.

I'd thought – I'd hoped – he'd just get us away from the danger.  Keep it from coming after us.  I didn't think he'd go after it.

“I'm a demon,” he whispered, using my voice.  “This is what we do for fun.”

The werewolf was crouched at the exit of the alleyway, hesitating.  Uncertain if it should bolt into the next street or face us down.  The moon was not full, which meant that this one had shifted deliberately.  A murder, then.  This was murder.

“Here boy,” Renfield crooned.  We stooped, gesturing for him to come closer.  Mockingly, like one called a dog.  “C'mere boy!”

The werewolf growled.  That settled it.  It lunged for us and I caught a flash of teeth, of fangs, and we laughed.  We gestured, sharply, and then stepped back and the werewolf's lunge went past us, further back into the alleyway, and I heard it impact the ground with a strange snapping sound.  Then it screamed.  The sound was only half animal, a human's throat twisted up inside there as it writhed on the ground, limbs flailing uselessly.  We stepped closer, minding the claws, and gazed down on it.  There was frothy blood at its muzzle and its eyes were rolled back in the skull.  Its neck was taut, the muscles quivering, and it gasped and choked and more bloody foam poured out from its jaws.

I felt, from Renfield, an intense pleasure, so sharp it ached.  Like being given water after days of thirst in the sun.

“I collapsed the ribcage inwards,” Renfield murmured.  “I suppose we should let the authorities know so they can come collect the bodies.”

And he reached into my purse and pulled out my cellphone.  I screamed at him to stop, that this was going to cause problems, that I didn't want the police involved, but he dialed 911 anyway.

“Trust me,” he whispered.  “I might have been imprisoned in that clock, but I still know how things work in your world.”

There werewolf was dead by the time the police arrived.  They got the body loaded up and into the back of ambulance, then turned their attention to the victim.  We were taken out of the mouth of the alleyway, over to one of the police cruisers.  The man talking to us had a special badge on the sleeve of his uniform, denoting him as one of their mages.  He seemed... uneasy, to say the least.

“Think of this as just saving time,” Renfield said demurely after he finished relaying the sequence of events.  “We could have called you, you'd have chased the wolf down and then been forced to shoot him about a half dozen times because that's how these things always end.”

“That's not how this is going to work,” the mage replied tersely.  “If you tell us where your corporal body is, we'll just exorcise you out of this girl into it.  Otherwise, we send you back to your homeworld.”

“My body is trapped inside a clock,” the demon said quietly.

The mage went still at that, his eyes fixed on our face.

“And my name is Renfield.”

And the police officer swore.  Put a hand to his forehead and stood there a moment, then turned and walked away.  I saw him take out his radio and talk briefly into it.  The exchange went on for a while and we waited.  I thought, I could take control back of my body – surely.  Take over here.

“You can,” Renfield agreed in an undertone.  “You always have that level of control.  But let me handle this.  I have an idea.”

Finally, the officer returned.

“Okay,” he said, heaving a sigh, “we're not taking you in.  You're on the list of things we don't touch.  Ever.”

“You just perform damage control wherever I wind up,” he replied coolly.  “I'm aware.  But – I've been making bargains lately, which is a change, and I’m finding them agreeable.  My poor human host here has just lost her job.  Does your office do independent consultants?”

“Shit.”  He ran a hand over his mouth.  “Are you serious?”

“It's not the first time demons have worked for law enforcement.  You've made bargains with our kind before.”

“Yeah, but – shit.”

“It's always been a good arrangement for both sides.  Demons love to kill and you have people that need killing.  All those monsters out there that can't be taken in quietly.”

“But you’re Renfield.  You've killed a lot of humans.”

“I have.”  We gave a thin smile.  “That's what demons do.  Think about it, and let us know.”

Then, like that, I was handed control of my own body back.  I staggered, my eyes going out of focus, and then something in my stomach twisted.  The police officer was polite enough to not say anything while I was throwing up in the gutter, at least.

A few days later they called and made an offer.  It was a generous one, enough so that I suspected that it was partly to keep Renfield satisfied with our current arrangement.  Trying to keep him here, with me, so he wouldn’t be passed along to the next victim.

“This is going to be so much fun,” Renfield sighed after I hung up.  

He was in the kitchen with me, organizing the pantry.  It turned out that Renfield had something of an obsession about the territory he considered his, and didn't tolerate anything out of place.  He was going room-by-room and setting everything to his standards and I didn't have the nerve to stop him.  Besides, things actually did look a lot nicer once he was done.

“I know nothing about police work,” I said, sitting down on a bar stool.

“You don't have to.  You just have to let me have the keys to your brain when I ask for them and I'll do the rest.”

I remembered how easily he'd killed the werewolf.  Just... gestured, and sent the ribs all snapping inwards like spears.

“How did this happen to me?” I moaned, burying my face in my hands.

“Bad luck,” the demon replied cheerfully.

And that was how I wound up working for the police with a demon in tow.
This was my dream from last night.  Renfield was incredibly amusing.  He rearranged the entire house and even put a garden out back, though he warned me not to eat the black tomatoes.  

Update:  Thank you for the DD!  I won't be able to reply to all of you until Sunday/Monday as I will be leaving for a funeral and then going on to a SCA event, but I'll get caught up when I get back.

Anyway.  I have a book!…  It's self-published, based off a short story that got a DD some years back.
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I make a HALO jump from 35,000 feet out of a Raptor, and the ground looks no different from the sky.  Above and below, there is only an endless expanse of black, dotted with tiny twinkles of light.  Gravity shows me which way is down, and I keep an eye on my altimeter as unseen Brazilian soil rushes up towards me.  I'd feel more comfortable about the whole thing if I could at least see the ground, but I dare not risk detection.
I dive in alone, with no traditional weapons to speak of aside from my knife and wits.  I'm this country's worst nightmare, and I don't need guns or bombs.  My technology is older than all of that, and far superior.  Even the Nazis looked into it, though their work pales in comparison to what the American government has done with the idea in the past decade.
The altimeter begins to blink in the dark, and I deploy my parachute, drifting slowly down into the barren fields of the Amazon wasteland.  My feet touch upon the charred soil, and I thank my Gods.  If I made it to the ground, they must not know I'm here yet.  I fold and drop my chute, cutting loose and trucking forward.  
I carry no map or compass, but the stars and the breeze guide me better than GPS.  Within an hour, I make visual confirmation of Rio, a tarnished jewel sitting on a coast that was once more beautiful than any in the world.  Even in its golden age, it was a den of thieves and con-artists.  Since the White Party moved in, it's only gotten worse.  Massive barbed-wire fences encircle the city, topped with search lights and guard towers.  Below, men with dogs patrol the perimeter, automatic weapons propped on their shoulders.
This is as good a place as any.  I kneel to the ground, unwrap my survival kit, and withdraw three black candles.  A jut of rock blocks the dim glow from the guards on the towers, but I can see just well enough to draw the necessary glyphs in the dirt around the triangle of candles.  I spill a bit of Dove's Blood in the dirt between them and spit on it, muttering into the flames with a tongue older than any civilization on earth.  Maintaining the chant, I draw my combat knife and prick my finger.  The blood wells easily, and I feed a drop into each candle before I hear the crunch of a boot behind me.
The metallic click of a gun cocking silences my lips, and I raise my hands above me, slowly standing.  The guard shouts something at me, but I don't speak Portuguese.  He repeats himself, and I slowly turn to face him.  I can make out enough to guarantee only that he's not alone.  This doesn't concern me, as neither am I anymore.
"Just a moment too late, Senor," I smile behind my tactical mask.  The sting in my index finger is spreading through my forearm like hellfire, and I seize the pain.  The candles still burn behind me, and within their glow, I'm at the epicenter of their power.  Flexing my mind, I make The Call.
On either side, a black hole slowly opens in the ground, rimmed with undulating violet flames.  No two people react the same way to witnessing this, and my every muscle tenses, ready to dodge gunfire.  Instead, my ethereal friends are greeted by terrified prayers as they claw their way out of their infernal prison.  In the near-perfect dark of the moonless night, the demons are nigh invisible.  
The first lunges forward, barely more than a shadow given motion, and the man in the lead is reduced to ribbons before he can finish praying.  The second guard opens fire, but it's too late:  my other pet relieves him of his face before he can squeeze off his second bullet.  The Hellions devour their kills greedily, chewing and slurping, while the last guard flees screaming into the night.  I should chase him, but it won't matter in a few moments.  Standing over the candles, I reach down and bury my fingers into the ashy soil.  The hands within my hands can feel the leylines of raw energy under the earth, and I grasp them with all my power, pulling and twisting.  All of the life that once flowed through the Amazon Rain Forest pours into my body, and I send out another Call.  Easily the largest Call ever made by a mortal man.
The ground begins to rumble, and I whisper softly into my headset.  "HQ, we're in position."
I cannot see the two dozen shadow-portals that begin to materialize around me, but I can hear my friends.  And oh, are they hungry.
"Agent Black,"  a cold voice replies, "you may commence."
~Flash-Fic-Month July 15th, 2011

Used ~Weaponised's prompt: "Tactical magic"

And thank god for that prompt. I'm pretty happy with this, and may very well need to work on more stuff in this world at some point. Maybe this is the same world where actresses channel Sekhmet and whatnot.
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The moon's envious glow,
is nothing more, than the suns bright rays
shinning back from a gray face.

The loneliest person in the world,
she can only reflect what others disperse
and never show her own light.

Sometimes though, she gets her desires
to change the light she reflects
and becomes orange or red.

It never lasts though.

She finds solace in her reflection
to know that she is actually there,
and to feed what little pride she has.

And the moon sits alone
never to have company.
Only her mournful shriek her only sound.

She can never be the one
who provides light and comfort.

The most she can do
is give off a little reflected light,
that isn't even her own.

Everyone loves the sun,
that warm, life birthing parent.

And everyone ignores,
the pale envious moon.
Who wants nothing more
than to be loved.
Hey, so...ya. I love the moon. Even thought that's probably not what this poem conveys.

Like my writing? Then like my facebook page!
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The sound of a dull knife
hacking, hacking, hacking
through a daughter's vertebrae,
her face pressed firmly against the cutting board,
her screams escaping as only yellow butterflies
somebody told her lies

An infant died playing Russian roulet
Ten bottles on the table
five of milk,
four of water
and one of poison
somebody let the noise in

A fisherman's child found my only lover
in a garbage bag cradle, muddy mouth gaping,
vines embracing her moldy wrists
mother nature is an artist
she'll paint your corpse deep black
somebody held me back

somebody held me back.
sleep tight.

Poetry courtesy of my fucked-up nightmares. Oh, fuck. Why. T^T

Also, you can listen to the recorded version on my youtube channel here: [link]
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“No.” It was all I could say, taking in the carnage of what had just last night been my pristine kitchen. I wanted to collapse onto a chair, but they – and our spacious table – were covered in miscellany. Cleaning supplies, random knick-knacks from the living room, a thermometer, a scale. It was all there, strewn about.

My legs were shaking, and I fought the urge to cry. So messy. So dirty. No, no, no. I collapsed onto the shoe bench in between the Franco Sarto and the Gucci. I don't know where Giesswein had gone. I wished I could blame it on burglars, but no.

“She's doing it again!” I called, and my husband came running into the kitchen. We watched his mother rearrange my cabinets, turning tea-cup handles to the left instead of the right. My hands twitched.

“Ma, stop it!” he said, exasperation coloring his voice. “Put these things back, they were fine where they were!”

"No," she said, her voice heavily-accented. "I will take care of my boys. I can make you curtains for the living room, too. I think blue would be better than your green."

"Ma!" He strode past the bedroom after her, then froze and backtracked. "You moved our bed?!"

"It is better there. Now you can see if someone does come in the door and can defend yourselves."

"The only one coming in unannounced is you! I love you, I do - but this is our house! Our life! You should move on, Ma." I just stared at them helplessly. I didn't want to suggest it...but it needed to be done.

"I know." Paula looked at him with sad eyes. "But it is tough to do things alone. You need your mother."

That was a trap and he knew it. Changing tactics, he asked; "Did you try to rest?”

She sniffed dismissively. That was a no. "Did I show you the pictures I did bring? Also, I want to make you boys some soups. You can always put it in the cool box."

"Ma...we haven't been married long, we really just want some time alone. You know, for privacy?" She was past listening to him. Again. “Mom, really... Pete and I would really appreciate it if you could stop rearranging and redecorating... you should really move on.”

She kept going, moving the photos on the wall around to suit her own taste; I squeaked in dismay. I had spent a week arranging those to tell the story of how we met. Throwing his hands up, Aaron returned to the disaster zone that had been our tidy kitchen.

"I love your mother, I do," I said cautiously. "But I think she's over-stayed her welcome."

Aaron sighed. "I know... I was glad she stayed for the wedding, though...”

“Me, too.”  We gave each other a look of pained agreement.

"Alright. I'll call a medium tomorrow. That, at least, will be gentler on her than an exorcist."
Written for a flash fiction class. :)
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