I miss this critter.
I miss every stuffie I've sold.
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I run again.
Where, I don't know.
Everywhere I turn, the streets look the same. Blurry twisting ruins merge with the alleys of Shadowstone City. And they stretch on and on forever. Nowhere to turn. Nowhere to hide, no matter how far or how fast I run.
My stubby wings buzz with my growing panic, my discheveled hair clings to my mouth and tear-stained cheeks, my chest heaves and my legs burn. But I have to keep moving.
He'll catch me if I stop now.
He's somewhere behind me, or ahead, lurking in the shadows and around every corner. Ready to gag me with that chemical-soaked rag.
Ready to silence and spirit me away with that hulking Warlock and his frozen hands...
The all-too familiar chemical smell wafts in my nose and lingers on my tongue. Making my head spin. Still I run, my feet pounding the pavement until my shoes disintegrate and I'm left hobbling and bloodied, wheezing with the pain of every step.
Gaia, please, why must you mock me?
I fall to my knees and crawl through the ash and dust, across cracked and blackened cobblestones where the burnt-out shells of buildings crowd around me. Empty windows and gaping door-frames leer like soulless mouths and dead eyes.
Scrabbling around another corner, I bump into a man's legs. His legs.
There's no mistaking those black leather boots and the faint stench of old blood.
I freeze, my weak gasp dying on my lips as he bends down and shoves that rag into my mouth.
“Hello little miss. Remember me?”
Yes, I re–
His Warlock's shadow falls over me then and his haunting chant echoes in my head.
Sleep now and know no more.
Memories fade, now and before.
Your will undone, sleep replace
your wish to flee from this place.
I swoon as the cold dark hand closes over my eyes, and the world turns black...
“Gaia, NO. Help–” I awaken suddenly to a sharp throbbing headache and a dull, swollen pain radiating from my left eye, cheek and jaw.
Swollen. Pained. Bruised. The side of my mouth cut and aching.
What... Happened? I croak and struggle to open my eyes, but all I see is a blur. Where am I?
Memories return, first as a trickle of scattered thoughts and feelings, then a deluge of images crowd and smash together inside my head.
Matthias Septimus and Mister Malacor. The house. A long train-ride in a cage and chains. Strange faces and voices in the city.
No. Gaia, please... Tell me it isn't so.
I clutch my head and groan in pain, trying to deny the sinking certainty inside me as my vision clears. At last revealing my gloomy confines.
Crates and boxes and sparse furniture, most of them old and falling apart, hunker in the cramped space. The table-lamp sputters, providing only a little more light than the greyness outside. And a low shadowy ceiling, cracked, peeling and veiled in dense white cobwebs, slopes toward the barred window, the naked birch on the other side, and the black-robed figure perched on the narrow bed.
Mister Kith Malacor.
My heart sinks further even as my stubby wings buzz in anger and despair, and I start to cry.
“Good.” Mister Malacor leans toward me, ignoring my sobbing. “I see you're finally awake, Isabella.”
“Rot in the Spawning Pit,” I spit at him, still crying, and struggle to sit up. If I'm going to bawl in his presence, at least I'll do so with a shred of dignity. “Monster.”
“Am I, now?” He pushes back his deep cowl, unveiling his thin snake-like grin and he touches the pendant dangling around his neck.
Pain swoops over me quicker than I can blink, dragging me down again and I brace myself on the scuffed floor-boards. My vision sways and my head spins, bringing the bile to my throat.
Oh no. Don't you dare, Isabella. I resolutely choke it back, and draw a ragged breath. “What the hell have you done to me?” My wings flush red, the same hue as my hair and beat the air behind me.
Pull yourself together, Bella. Surely it's not that bad? You know it's another of his vile tricks.
“What have you–”
“Nothing more than a little extra to remind you of your place here.” Bed-springs squeak and the floor-boards creak. His boots stop inches from my sore, tear-streaked face. “I could take away the pain and the memories, wiping your mind clean. But this proves to be a far more effective teacher, no?”
What, make me forget you pulled me away from my family and the only home I've ever known, dragging me in chains to this wretched place?
I scoff and start to laugh. “Fuck you.” I spit bile onto his boot and struggle to crawl away. “Coward.”
Mister Malacor sighs. “You Shee girls. Always proving to be more stubborn and troublesome, especially you young ones.” He paces the floor of the attic, my room and prison, his movements casual. Even languid. “No matter. You know you can't, you won't, leave here.”
His chilling voice freezes me and drains the colour from my face.
The Call of the Weep.
How can I forget?
My wings buzz louder, turning a darker red and I clench my hands into tight fists.
“You know you're safer here.” He circles me, his steps measured. Slower than before. Click. Click. Creak. Click click. CREAK. “Don't you, child?”
I cringe and scowl at him. Don't call me child!
“Fuck you.” I reach for my Chaos Eye and curl my fingers around the little silver amulet.
This thing, a gift from Papa, is all that I have left from my parents, and it was supposed to shield me from the evils of the world. But I had no way of knowing it would be put to the test and even fail me.
Like against those things out there.
“See?” His voice drips with icy venom. “You know and remember what I'm talking about. Don't you?”
“Fuck. You.” I force myself to meet his gaze. “My friends and Dusk will–” I catch myself mid-sentence but it's already too late.
I've said too much. And I may have just risked–
“I was wondering who these were for.” Mister Malacor draws something from the folds of his robes, long enough for me to glimpse them and tucks them away again.
The sealed envelopes.
I gasp and lunge at him. “THOSE ARE MINE–”
“No.” He flicks his hand, discharging a bolt of dark energy into my chest, launching me back against the wall and pins me there. Paralysing me.
Sweet Mother Gaia, how is he... Even the Shee Elders can't do that! My eyes bulge and my mind reels.
Granted, my knowledge of magic is limited. I only got through the first two years of my apprenticeship and I still don't have my focus-stone.
“I'll leave you up here with your thoughts and your pain until you're willing to be more co-operative, Isabella.”
“Do your worst.” I scowl at the coward as he turns his back on me and strides toward the door. “You don't scare–”
“Oh no, child.” He tugs the door open and pauses at the inky threshold. “It's not me you should be wary of.” His soft tone chills me. “But the Things of the city–” Then he's gone again, closing and sealing the portal behind him.
The Voices? Panic rises inside me, clawing at my chest and throat. Surely he doesn't mean– Surely he doesn't have power over–?
Anxiety climbs higher and higher, mingling with the dizziness and pain, and the paralysis still pinning me to the wall. I can't even clutch my Chaos Eye and pray to Gaia that it will shield me this time.
Shit shit shit. My wide eyes dart from one shadow to the next. Searching for any sign, any trace of anything out of place. Now what do I do?
Dusk, Larenna, Nadia... Where in the Spawning Pit are you?
Frustrated tears sting my eyes and roll down my cheeks as I struggle to search my mind for something, anything, that Mama and Aunt Aeronwy might've taught me. But I come up blank.
Outside, the tree sways and scratches at the window, and unseen things scrabble above me.
Dear Gods. Please tell me they're rats or roaches.
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, but it isn't easy. Fear-tuned senses prick up to every sound and movement: The wind, the trees, the rodents in the walls, sirens and traffic, and stray dogs howling at the cats they can't reach.
My heart flips and my eyes fly open.
That's no dog howl.
DUSK. He's here!
He hasn't forgotten about me.
My heart races faster and faster, making it difficult for me to concentrate and form coherent thoughts, but I manage to send out my psychic cry.
Please, Dusk, help me. I'm trapped and I'm paralysed. Come quick–
Shadows and light sway out the corner of my eye and the temperature drops below normal. Turning my breath to frost.
Weak grey light dims, almost vanishing as a deep bluish-violet, and ruddy glow seeps through the walls.
They start to breathe. And thump like an unholy heart-beat.
No no no no. I gibber in panic, shaking my head, my heart pounding faster than the unnatural beat. Dusk, PLEASE–
Visions of brick, rough floor-boards and cracked paint rot and peel away, exposing the twisted amalgam of fused stone, wood and metal beneath: Everything that once was in Sodom, before the leylines ruptured and sucked the city into the ground, trapping it half-way between worlds.
The people included.
Hands, faces, whole skeletal torsos, burning eyes and gnashing teeth rise to the surface all around me and clawed fingers snag my clothing. Tearing it away from me.
“Gaia Papa Dusk Lannie, HELP MEEEE,” I shriek and cry and will myself to struggle, managing to cut through the invisible bonds holding me down.
I collapse to the floor, a weak, dizzy, slobbery sobbing mess and crawl away. My tears blind me.
“Stupid little Shee bitch.”
“Come back here and play with us.”
“We aren't done with you yet.”
The things taunt and cackle and jeer, while others fling garbage and wave their private parts at me.
I don't even want to think about the innocents who got dragged down and driven mad. I can only hope they somehow–
The things stop laughing and a deeper silence settles in. The walls shift, peeling back another layer, and the distressed moans and frightened cries fill my head.
“Mammy, where-where are you? I can't see.”
“Papa, I'm scared.”
“It's so dark and cold down here.”
No. Gaia, no. Say it isn't so.
To shocked to think, move or scream, I curl into a ball and cry, for all the lost and scared little souls trapped down there, in the dark, with no one to hold them or love them, or tuck them in at night.
There's no night or day, or sunshine or anything for them. Just... Blackness. A hell beyond imagining, or anything their parents and religious teachers might've warned them about.
And the other things that laughed and leered me.
My fatigued mind snaps and my will crumbles, allowing my head to hit the floor.
Blessed silence and darkness swiftly closes in, carrying away the cries, and I slip away with them...
UnkeptParker watched from the back of the car as the driver navigated the roadblocks and security checkpoints, crossed the bridge over the river and pulled into the parking lot. On any other night he would have made this drive alone, through the silent desolation, but tonight he'd been summoned, the air thick with helicopters and the roads and compound were crawling with armor, guns and troops in combat gear.
This was no longer a secret facility, but he didn't suppose that mattered now.
Inside he was greeted tersely and released by an officer of apparent rank, his instructions simple. "Essa is in there somewhere, and a lot of my men are dead. You made it, rein it in or we burn it to the ground."
He left the soldiers in the front office area, uncomfortably aware of the heavy calibre weapons that tracked him. That unease was replaced with a different kind of anxiety once through the security doors and inside the halls of the lab. The fight had come this far before she had been turned back.
PreloadThirtyseven sat on the edge of his bed, kicked off his shoes and fell heavily into his pillow, not bothering to peel off the white coveralls he normally couldn't wait to get out of. He was exhausted.
He lay staring at the ceiling, the last few hours of the day still fresh in his mind, although today blended seamlessly into yesterday, and last week, and a month ago. Or more. He'd lost track.
Each day played out pretty much the same, he awoke in the same grey six by nine room, showered, dressed and ate the breakfast that was delivered to him, then he made his way to the simulator. Here he learned how to ride motorcycles, slalom cars, canyon race executive jets, operate forklifts, tractor trailers, maglifts and exo-skel loaders. He'd logged countless hours in freighters, cruise liners and speedboats, gliders and heavy cargo planes, jump-packs and helicopters with countless different rotor configurations.
He had no idea what they were training him for, or even who they were, he never saw a
Don't Tell Me"Don't tell me you love me," I hold her face in my hand as she speaks, her gaze locked with mine, "you're only saying that because you need me, and you think that will make me stay."
I don't understand where she gets these ideas from. I'm quite certain I don't need anyone. I'm practically perfect all on my own, but on the off chance I'm missing something obvious, I take stock.
I can feel every muscle in my body, flexing and un-flexing each from my toes to my face and down my arms to my finger tips, careful not to move too radically for fear of startling her or breaking her face. I can feel the weight of her in my hand; she's pulling away from me emotionally, but there's no doubt she's moving into me physically, and that feels... wonderful.
"I never know what's going on with you," she's speaking again, and while I continue to self evaluate I still process her every word, "when you're not looking at me, it's like you're a million miles away, it's like you're fixated on everything but me,
|A random selection of my prints.|
WRITER. ART PLUSHIE MAKER. TEXTILE ARTIST. AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHER/PHOTO-MANIPULATOR. POET. TRADITIONAL/DIGITAL ILLUSTRATOR. DISCORDIAN, WICCAN, AMATEUR ASTROLOGER, ODD-BALL and DREAMER.
G'day. Allow me to introduce myself.
I'm a story-teller, since stories are told as pictures and words. For most of my writing, my chosen genre is Dark Fantasy Erotica [in a modern-day like setting of my own creation], and it seems I'm best suited to First Person narration in present tense.
My chosen Media includes: Pen, pencil, paintbrush, paper, needle, fabric, thread, sewing machine, crochet hook, knitting loom, yarn, camera, mouse and keyboard.
My creative style is best described as: Dark fantasy/erotica [prose]; emotional, frequently violent, dark, romantic or erotic [poetry]; surreal/fantasy/dark/nature [digital art, photography, photomanipulation, traditional art]; Quirky/kitsch/child-like and insanely colourful [textiles and soft-toy design].
Please check out the following websites [where I'm also a member]:
I like to think I'm an open-minded, forgiving, kind [perhaps too kind] and friendly person. Yes, I have spiritual beliefs and these are best described as Discordianism and Wicca, with a firm belief in Karma, Animism, the Gaia Theory and my personal, stranger beliefs thrown into the mix. I created this sigil for myself today:
I'm a colourful [and loud] person, I wear odd socks, I'm easily entertained by the silliest and simplest things, I love nature and animals, I collect things [MANY things ], I'm emotionally sensitive, I have a Mental Illness [which I'm managing really well with a good home environment, enjoyable activities and emotional support], a new partner interstate [I met him online 17/07/2016 ], a thirteen-year-old son, and an eleven-month old kitten [she's part ragdoll, with blue eyes ].
Yay! A stamp. One of many I'll add, I expect. Gonna add moar stamps!
Well I certainly try to!
YAY! Discordian Stamps!
Aaaaand many more awesome stamps.
Yup. I'm a shortass. About 5ft2, and I'm probably gonna shrink as I get older!
Yup, it's true.
Find this clever stamp here: thechaosproject.deviantart.com…
Hahaha. This made me Had to add it.
I say! It certainly is an art form.
I find this stamp amusing.
This one also amuses me.
Hahahahaha. LOLs. I'm still giggling on the inside.
Yes, it's true.
So it would seem.
Now it's time to spread the love and good feelings.
Have a nice day, folks!
|I'd love to maintain the premium membership that was so thoughtfully gifted to me, as well as donate to worthy groups seeking Super-Status and help out other Deviants. Your donations are greatly appreciated. If you donate, the least I can do for your generosity and kindness, is give a Llama and a Watch, if I haven't done so already.|