The outside world reeks of piss, stinks like wet cigarettes, and roasts me like a pork chop under the blistering sun. But on the bright side, there’s no more shower shivving — and whenever I pass out on the bus, I wake up with a few coins in my cap. Not bad.

Eden wasn't paradise, but at least I knew what to expect. That prison was my whole life up until now. I was born and raised alongside mom, Jane The Jawbreaker - her thing is swallowing cars whole. And people. Nice, right? They locked me up with her till they confirmed I wasnt an ability user. Eighteen years of that. Now I'm out. Finally.

…and I have no clue what to do.

I recently discovered some crap called money. I liked coins because they were fun to toss into fountains, but I actually need them to survive? Aunt Helen once told me, in the outside world you have to fight for what is yours. Yet when I tried getting the coins back from the fountain, a man in a blue uniform chased me out with a weapon.

Ah yes, men. I’ve come to learn that like money, they have their good and bad. On one hand, some of them leave coins in your hat. On the other hand though, sometimes they _take _your coins instead. If I had my mom, their necks would have been chomped of in seconds. They should consider themselfs lucky I’m going solo for now.

I dig through my pockets and pull out a handful of silver coins. Not all of them are from the fountain. A good amount I earned by finding them scattered around the streets. I wonder if that makes me a pirate?

Living in a prison with a bunch of murderous women is surprisingly calmer that living out here. I have to find a safe place to sleep, make enough money for food (both for me and the fountain cats), and worry about all the crazy people that don’t need abilities to go berserk on someone.

The only people who seem to have it easy are the muscular men who scare off all threats with just a glance, and people with loads of money.

Now, I can’t exactly turn into a muscular man (to my dismay), so that only leaves me one option. Get filthy rich.

It shouldn’t be that hard. If I dig in the fountain every day, leave a few hats around the city, and save up my loose change, it’ll only take me a few years to become rich.

Perhaps money is the only power I even need to get my mom and friends out of prison. I can just pay for their freedom!

Success in the outside world really doesn’t seem too difficult.

Ah, now where did I leave my shoes?

What a fascinating specimen!

Third son of the 67th family stared at his great grandfathers leather portfolio inquiringly, holding the old thing with a delicate grip. The book was so worn and battered that he feared a slight brush of wind would disintegrate the pages into the acid air.

Third son turned away from the direction of the wind so it lightly stung his back. He straightened the first page of the book, observing the strange hand drawn specimen.

Beside the picture of a fuzzy looking thing, his grandfather had wrote out something in a secret language. Maybe the language wasn’t secret when he wrote it, but it certainly was now, as the letters were completely foreign to Third son.

“How troublesome” Third son mumbled to himself. If there were so many languages, how on earths gray skies did people managae to communicate! Life was exceedingly more simple now that eveyone spoke common tongue.

Third son could only conclude with the knowledge he had, that the secret text was in fact a recipe on how to cook it.

People once ate animals, didn’t they? And by the way the creatures body was structured, with four limbs and a fleshy human like ear, it must have been an animal.

The words near the paws likely indicated the fleshiest, most nutritious regions to consume. It would probably provide great insulin to eat during the winter. And for the summers, a nice snack to grill with friends.

I would love to cook and eat this creature! Third son thought. How lucky were the people of the past, to have such delicacies available to them. His great grandfather must have been an excellent cook for his times, cooking all sorts of animals and fuzzy possible-animals. Third sons cooking skills likely came from him!

A loud thud resonated from behind. The window shut and the wind stopped blowing on his back. The clank of heels approached him.

“Get back to work third son!” First daughter of the 120th family yelled, flicking the back of his head with her scarlet fingers. “Your delaying everyone.”

Third son scrambled to hide the book inside his apron and turned towards his boss with a forced smile. “Yes miss!”

The factory was quiet except for the buzzing of machines, and the footsteps of First daughter. Third son stood beside another cook, cutting up the body of a pale lady and sorting the parts into diffrent conveyer belts.

He robotically followed the steps he had done a thousand times before.

_Cut. _

_Sort. _

_Cut. _

_Sort. _

Head in trash.

_Next body. _

The smell burned into his nose. Not even the mask could cover the stench.

How lucky were the people of the past. That fuzzy specimen must have tasted infinitely better than the flesh of any human.

We’ll all go down like empires And burn to ash and dust, For nothing is eternal No matter how robust.

Rome thought they were forever Standing strong like olive trees, But as they’d done to Carthage They burned while they were seized.

Poempii crumbled in a day When Mount Vesuvius erupt. Ashes piled on the city and It was never recunstruct.

Persepolis though themselves mighty And a mighty city they were, So to see it burn so easily Was a shock to all the world.

Urs death was not as quick as most As the city dwindled from neglect. All the wars, famines, and drouts Left the city in a wreck.

The Akkadian empire was The first empire that we know, And it wasn’t only war that killed them But the drouts and plants that wouldn’t grow.

We’ll all go down like empires, And the greatest cities of the world, For if even they can fall There is nothing eternal.

They say time is the best killer. I would argue it's experience.

If I were to shove myself into a hole in the ground and spend the rest of my life there, the only thing killed would be my will to live.

But in the outside world, experience is what kills who you once were. I know this all too well. I've probably died a hundred times.

I died when I left my rural home and joined an orchestra in France, trading innocence for artistry. I died again when I got married, and what a beautiful death it was. And most recently, I died with Viviana – the only true death I will ever feel.

In fact, I believe that if I were to die right now, the book of souls wouldn't add a name, for mine is already written there.

Sometimes I wish I had lived in that hole all my life, shielded from the world's influences. Because experience has killed me. And now, it has killed my music.

When the world was dark and unknown, I always had the piano as my ground and a composition as my map. But now the ground trembles beneath my fingers and my map leads me straight off a cliff.

It’s been a year since I last wrote a composition. It’s been a month since I got to this house.

I thought returning to my childhood home would help me remeber how to create. But all I’ve gotten so far are ten pounds from my mothers cooking and a growing back pain from the hard beds. Oh. And loads of allergies.

The attic where I kept my piano and papers is veiled in dust and the soft glow of a half moon. Part of me wants to call this romantic. The other thinks how dreadful.

Cobwebs line the passage to the piano, connecting between old drawers and furniture.

I sit on the piano stool and pick up a booklet that rests on the pianos yellowed keys.

The book cracks open and releases a puff of dust, it’s pages worn and ink faded. I carefully turn the pages.

I wouldn’t call anything I wrote during these times _great. _In fact, It would be greatly offending to anyone with two ears to call the things in this book anything more than good. These songs belong to a boy who only knew how to write what he felt, and not what he knew. As simple as the music was, it is I now who is the fool that cannot bring himself to write.

When I flip to the second to last page, half a dozen roses fall out, delicately landing on the ivory keys. They’re dried and brown, heavy with dust and age.

I pick one up and it tears, as if it was meant to only be touched by the past. I grab another and run my thumb up an down it’s crisp edge.

I cannot remeber who gave me the petals, or why I felt the need to keep them. Whoever gave them is someone long lost to the past. Perhaps it is the thrill of that mystery that draws me to the pages the roses fell out of.

The composition is a simple piano nocturn. There’s nothing inspiring about it. I likely wrote a thousand songs like this before. Another composer has created a greater version of this somewhere out there. Still, I straighten out the book and begin playing.

I press the delicate arpeggios on the out of tune piano, the melody rising and falling like an unsteady breath. The song is written like a caress, coaxing the sound out of the piano in a tender lament.

As I play the song, my hand brushes against a petal, it’s rough exterior grazing my hand.

I slow down the tempo and shift to minor keys, adding suspensions to create a slow, nostalgic melody. The song is romantic. It fawns over something lost.

As the song progresses, for the first time in a year, I seem to understand what I have to do. The piano still trembles under my fingers, and I’m still running towards the cliff. But it sounds beutiful.

The song ends, and like a falling petal it descends into silence.

This song was perhaps meant to be a love song many years ago. But now it a ghost of the past. A ghost that belongs to the me that’s no longer here.

Like a petal, I’ve died and changed, withred a little, and then stayed in the same dark attic for a long, long, time.

But now with a new song, a thousand more seem to be possible.

As I walk away from the attic, I realize I can’t let petals on a piano stop me from playing anymore.

My first person tense needs a lot of refining.

ヽ(￣д￣;)ノ

Beu’s father often warned him, a boring life is a peaceful one. A fish that years for the sky becomes a birds prey, a pig that craves freedom withers in hunger, and a boy who seeks the darkness invites his own destruction. But no amount of cautionary tales can sate a growing little boys curiosity.

As Beu worked alongside his father, he peppered him with questions. “Will the paladins stop by?”

“No, Beu.”

“Did they find the Sword Phantom?”

“They’ll find him soon enough.”

“Can we see the execution if they do?”

"No."

"Please?"

“I said no.”

“Why not?”

"Beu!" His father slammed his axe down, splitting a chunk of wood in half and tossing the pieces into a cart. Sweat and sawdust covered his shirt, and his eyes, red rimmed by lack of sleep, were outlines by tired dark circles. “You should ignore these types of things…they’re not good to talk about.”

The little boy looked up at his father with narrowing eyes. “But Joseph talks about these things with you _all _the time.”

“That’s because Joseph is a mongrel with nothing to do but gossip. So stop asking silly questions.”

Beu pouted. His father was an extraordinarily boring man. Unlike Joseph who travled around the district delivering letters, and his neighbor Cath who was engaged to nobility and spoke to earls and paladins, his father did nothing but cut wood. And farm. And sometimes, if Beu was lucky, he would talk too. But those days would seldom come.

His father looked up at the darkening sky and said, “deliver some wood to Cath for the night.”

Beu chuckled. “Joseph said delivering flowers to a lady is what they truly want.”

His father stifled a smile. “Not to an engaged lady.”

“Engagement doesn’t mean marriage.”

“What has Joseph been teaching you?” His father asked, shaking his head.

_A lot. _

“Nothing. I’ll get going now.”

He grabbed a crate of wood and walked away. The path to her home was through the woods and up a narrow hill covered in sunflowers. He picked a few of them and placed them in the cart.

“Cath!” He yelled, knocking on the door. “Cath! Cath!” Cath, open up! Ca-“

The door swung open and Cath stepped out, her hair wet and nose red.

“What brings you here?” she asked, drying her hair with a rag

“Your going to get sick. Isn’t it too cold to be washing?”

Cath smiled sweetly. “When did you become a wise little man?”

“I’m not little.”

In fact, Cath was the little one here. For a woman of 30, her hight was almost as short as Beu’s.

Beu extended his arms out and passed her the crate. “Father told me to send these. Warm up or eat them, I don’t care.”

Cath ruffled his hair with an amused expression. “Are you angry I called you little?”

“Goodbye Cath”Beu said, imitating the same annoyed tone his father would use on him. “Oh, and the flowers are from my father.”

He walked back, touching every low hanging branch he could. _I’m not little. _

The moon had risen earlier than usual, or Beu had gotten slower, but by the time he arrived home the night had already come.

He took off his shoes and placed them by the front door, and turned to go to bed. Then he turned back. His fathers shoes weren’t there.

Was he still working?

Beu called out to his father, and when he heard no response he put his shoes back on and carried a lantern outside.

“Father! Where are you!”

Only crickets and the sound of his feet on the grass could be heard.

“Father!” Beus mind immediately began thinking of the worst things possible. What if his father had gotten hurt? What if he got lost looking for Beu because he took so long?

_No, _Beu thought. Father _would never get hurt. And he would especially never get lost. _

“Father?” He called out one last time.

Snap.

Beu turned his head. The sound came from the pigpen.

_Please be there father, he pleaded to himself. _

The_ _pigs watched Beu as he approached, shining the lanterns on their muddy faces. Something laughed. Someone. And it wasn’t his father.

Beu slowly raised his head. At that moment he wished to gouge his eyes out.

A man with a thin pale face and long raven hair carried a sword and swung it back and forth leisurely. He wore a thick black robe, but even in the dark, even with its color, he could still see the red.

The man was not alone. Bellow him was his fathers mutilated body.

“Ah!” Beu cried, dropping the lamp on his foot and illuminating his fathers body more.

He could only tell it was his fathers body by the clothes. The face was torn off. So was the tongue. One arm lied a foot away from the body, and another was being grabbed by the man’s spare hand.

“Ah! Father!”

Beu struggled breathing. His breaths came short and paniced.

_Help me. Help, _he wanted to scream.

But the only person who could help him now was chopped and mangled.

Beu tried getting up but his legs were paralyzed in fear. Instead, he dragged himself to his father and put his head to his chest. Beus head sunk in. A warm wet liquid coated the side of his face.

His heart was ripped out.

Beu screamed, pushing himself off his father and scooting away until his back hit the wood of the pig pen.

The man chuckled. Then, he ripped out remaining arm.

_Stop, get way from him. _The words caught at his tongue.

“So little” the man whispered. “Ha. This really is a mess, isn’t it?”

Beus trembling hands clutched the grass. “You-you killed him! You did this!”

The man looked around. “Oh really? Sorry, I think you have he wrong man.”

I hate you. I hate you. Die, die, die, die, die.

“I hate you.”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”

“I hate you! You killed my father!” Beu cried. “You didn’t have to kill him! He’s inoccent, he’s…”

“Ah” the man said, crouching in front of the boy. His bloody hand lifted Beu’s chin so he was forced to look into his eyes.

“The pigs are innocent and they’re slaughtered on a farm. The trees are inoccent and they get cut down. Deers are inoccent and they are hunted. I hope you take this as a lesson that inoccence is not a shield, my boy. It’s a weakness.”

Beu trembled, closing his eyes so he no longer had to look in the face of the wicked man.

“That’s not the same. You know that’s not the same!”

“Oh, but it makes perfect sence. The prey get preyed on.”

Beu swallowed loudly. “Are you going to kill me?”

The man let go of his face. “Of course not. You see this?”

Beu kept his eyes shut. The man forced them open.

He pointed at his eyes, that glowed a deep purple. “It gives me great powers. But you see, it also makes me hungry. And little boys like you are too thin to even be considered a snack.”

He’s a phantom, Beu finally realized. The Sword Phantom.

He vomited on himself at the realization.

The Phantom Sword got up and dragged the body with him.

“I’m sorry for the abrupt exit, but I have a meal to eat.”

His father and the Phantom disappeared into the woods, leaving a crimson trail through the farm.

Beu didn’t move from his spot. For four days he stayed there, unable to form a clear thought or tear his eyes away from his fathers stray arm.

Cath found him eventually, and the young boy was brought to her new home, away from the little farm that haunted his dreams.

And though he seemed to be doing better after years, there was only thing on his mind.

I will kill every phantom. I will slaughter them like animals. __ __ That was the making of the phantom killer.

---

I know it says serial killer monologue but I am an overwriter so I wrote a story to go along with it. Also, hi, thanks for reading till the end ╰(´︶`)╯♡

Arthur sighed, recording the four thousandth street name in his frayed and faded journal.

-‘Lainerie’ _-Cobbled, narrow streets _ -Overgrown vegetation -Weathered stone angels -What are angels?

Arthur stopped writing, his pens ink flowing like a dark, meandering river across the page.

Angels. He stared at the scribbled phrase, wondering why he had written it. But the answer, like so much else, had slipped his mind.

Memories of places he had visited, and faces of his past had all faded, like the subtle patina on a well loved portrait. He assumed it had something to do with his sagging skin and weary bones, features he was sure he didn’t have all his life. But he had no one to confirm that theory with. All he knew was what he wrote in the journal that aged with him.

-Stone, winged woman -Cold -One water maker -Fountain. It’s called a fountain

Arthur walked over and sat at the edge of the fountain, his wrinkled hand swishing the murky water.

The fountain was quaint, no taller than five feet and no wider than seven. In its center, a bronze statue of a woman and a child perched on a stone stool, looking up at the moon. A weathered plaque was enscribes with “For Celine”, but the smaller words beneath were lost to time and rust.

Arthur’s heart swelled with the romantic sentiments, but his thoughts soon turned melancholic. He could only assume that something bad happened to poor Celine, and whomever created the statue did it out of grief. Like so many other beautiful things he found, the fountain was painted with such tragedy.

Arthur got up, unable to look at the face of the bronze woman any longer.

He continued walking down the winding streets and stopped when he reached a dead end.

Before him stood a narrow two story home, with serene blue shutters and a charming chimney half destroyed. Pots hung from the iron railing with overgrown purple flowers that peeked out of the cracks.

Arthur had seen a hundred, no, a thousand homes that looked like this one. But instinctively, he entered, as though it was only natural to.

The inside was dark and cluttered, with dust filled furniture and shelves making it difficult to walk around. The table, an old wooden thing that leaned to the left, had three seats, but only one empty plate set out. He passed by it and made his way up the stairs, careful not to to trip on any of the loose pieces of floorboard.

The upstairs was not much diffrent, still covered in dust and lit only by the moonlight that shined through the windows. Arthur opened the first room near the staircase, where a wide double doored window dimly illuminated the place.

This room was even more cluttered than downstairs. In fact, it was so congested that Arthur spent a few minutes taking in each individual object, for if not he would see it as a mass of edges and curves.

Paintings hung on every wall, and more rested on the ground, covered in a thin white veil. Sculptures too. Bronze, clay, and metal. The smell of paint and linen was engraved into the room, seeping into every object and corner. Arthur brushed his hand over the painting of a child, her eyes a more vibrant color than his own.

Perhaps this is what an Angel is, he thought.

As he gazed at the paintings and statues, his foot stepped on something that made a muffled cracking sound.

A clutter of glass laid at his feet, split into several sizable pieces.

Arthur grabbed onto a wooden chair and slowly lowered his aching body to the ground. The pieces of glass were covered in dust and smudges of paint. He picked up a piece with a smudge of red and wiped it with thumb.

When he looked, what gazed back was not his reflection. Instead, a young boy, with rosy cheeks and golden locks.

The boy ran towards an older woman who was a copy of him, except her eyes were the white of paper. The woman cradled him in her arms, pushing back his soft hair and kissing him on his temple.

When it ended and Arthur saw his reflection again, he pressed his temple with a shaking finger. It was cold.

He cast the piece aside and grabbed another.

The boy, now tall and thin with clothes that were far too large for his frame, painted rolling hills under a bright horizon. His hands were percise and swift, not like Arthur’s at all. A young woman with hair the color of the horizon posed on the grass, hiking her skirt up and laughing. The boy hid his reddening cheeks behind the canvas.

It was over far too quick. Arthur grabbed another piece.

The boy-no, the man, danced with the girl from the hills. Her dress was a pale green, adorned with small pearls.

“She looks like a carrot,” Arthur chuckled. “A beautiful carrot.”

In the next piece of glass, her green dress was exchanged for a white one. The man cried as she walked towards him, and the men around him laughed and cheered. His fingers were covered in paint, and so was the hem of her dress.

Arthur smiled as they kissed, the mans hand gently pushing her face forward as she pulled away.

The glass showed a child. No-an angel. She had the same red hair as the woman, and the same blue eyes as the man. The family sat in the same room Arthur was in, finger painting the purple flowers that spouted from pots.

An uneasy feeling washed over Arthur, as though something was warning him to stop.

The next piece of glass showed the man all alone as he buried two bodies. Walking home, there was no one in the streets, no one in their homes. It was all empty. Something fell from the sky. The house beside him crumbled. But the man didn’t seem to care. He kept walking.

The final piece of glass. The man finished the sculpture. His fingers bled. His eyes lost the wonderful blue they once had. He carried the sculpture to a fountain and sat by it for days. Then, he grabbed a notebook and began writing.

_Day one _ -Lainerie -No one around -Bombs won’t stop -Stone angels still stand _-Looking for others _

Arthur put down the final piece of glass. With a trembling hand, he reached for his notebook and opened it to the first page, reading the words the man had written. Tears fell down his face and onto the smudged ink.

“I remember! I remember!” Arthur cried. “Oh, my dear Celine, I remember!”

He scrambled to get up, tripping twice before regaining his balance. Bumping into furniture and walls, he ran down the house and through the streets. He didn’t stop running until he reached the fountain.

“I came back Celine!” he cried, couching down and gazing at the statue from above. “Celine! Adele! I came…”

Arthur’s words trailed off as he struggled to remember what he was going to say next.

Why was he crouching? Where was he?

He looked into his journal.

-‘Lainerie’

I should get going, he thought. It’s cold.

He walked away from the fountain and towards the next street without looking back.

---

How would you view your life through a strangers eyes?

She wants to know his secret. He hasn’t decided what it is yet.

Eiran’s drunken night out ended with a hangover, a stalker, and a strong contender for the worst life choice he’s ever made: scribbling a prophesy about the end of the world on a bar napkin. When Vera, a wannabe cult leader, stumbled upon the napkin, she became convinced Eiran’s prophecy’s held the key to unlocking the truth behind the coming apocalypse - and a future loyal following to worship her, of course. Now, as Vera hunts down Eiran and his 12 prophesies, determined to become a messiah (or at least a martyr if things get messy), he realizes he still has one prophesy he’s yet to receive - the twelfth. And he’s the only one who can decide how it all ends. As their twisted game of cat and mouse intensifies, Vera is desperate to learn the secret Eiran has yet to decide. But is it all as simple as it seems? Who’s really in control of the future? Eiran? Vera? The prophesy? Or something much more sinister. And more importantly, will the world end before his hangover does?

Under normal circumstances, a scholarship to a prestigious academy would be seen as a good thing. But for Klein Croft, it turned out to be nothing short of a death sentence.

Now, of course if he had known the truth about the Academy of Arcana, he would’ve rather slept in his shabby loft for the rest of his life than apply. The newspapers touted it as a place for “skilled individuals” seeking “experience and connections.” What a load of crap! A more accurate description would’ve been: “school where they exploit your talents, force you to slaughter creatures, and make you cook fancy meals for the teachers high-and-mighty selves on Fridays.”

Unlike the weeks that would follow, though, Kleins first day at the academy went rather well. The toilets flushed, they gave beef for lunch and dinner, and the teachers taught of all sorts of Others and spells. Others and spells Klein believed he would never have to witness, at least not for a long time. That, he soon realized, was far off from the truth.

The first attack from the Others happened when one broke out of the basement, crawling it’s way into Klein’s room. It’s 12 tentacles wrapped around his pale throat, and if it weren’t for Akio and the sledge hammer he slept with, Klein would’ve been a goner.

Attacks occurred more frequently as the weeks went on, and that’s when the students realized what was going on. Their school was one of the portals connecting them to the Others, and they were expected to help fight them.

“Klein!” Akio shouted, barging into the room. “It’s our turn for night shift.”

Klein groaned into his pillow, dreading the night and every night after. Each night, the teachers would choose a room to gaurd the basement and make sure no Others escaped. Since room 201’s students were eaten by a five headed Other, it was their turn again.

“Akio, must I go?” Klein exasperated, his voice laced with annoyance. “It’s not like anything will happen two nights in a row. And even if it does, we’d all be screwed anyways.”

Akio sighed, throwing the coat and pistol at the edge of Kleins bed. “The sourcerers will find out if you don’t go, and then you’ll be wishing you confronted the monsters.”

“Those dim-witted teachers can’t tell their arse from their elbow. If they just learned room 201 is dead, they won’t give a damn if I miss a day.”

Plus, Klein thought, I’ll soon be gone. Even if they do catch on, I’ll be far, far away.

“That’s a load of crap” Aiko said, walking towards Klein bed with a scowl. “You think you can just sit out from this?”

“Yes?” Klein’s answer came out more as a question. “I didn’t ask to be picked for this job.”

“Look, I didn’t ask to be picked either. _None of us did. _So quit your whining and let’s go.”

“But-“

“Shut up.”

“Fine” Klein conceded. “But if I’m eaten by a five header Other, I’m haunting your ass, Akio. You can count in that.”

“Oh, how petrifying. You think your ghostly spirit will be scarier than the five headed Other?”

“Wow, thanks for the confidence boost.” Akio offered his hand to help Klein off the bed and pulled him up.

Begrudgingly, Klein slipped his coat on and tucked the pistol by his side. It was heavier than a normal one, brimming with enchantments and protections he barely managed to make.

They walked together with two girls from the West Wing, down the winding stone cooridored and towards the basement. The sound of faint growls and whispers echoed between the slick walls, yet everybody’s sharp and heavy breathes were the loudest sound.

That night, no Others escaped. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t come the next day, and terrorize the school once again.

School with eldricth creatures for the win! _ (☝︎ ՞ਊ ՞)_☝︎ Didn’t know what to write, I’ll make something better tomorrow or whenever I have time.

The demon could no longer feel the the tips of the fingers on his stolen body. Burns and blisters climbed up his arms and torso, discoloring his pale complexion and stripping off layers of skin. His fair curls, a refined feature of the carefully chosen corpse he inhabited, now hung lifelessly, speckled with blood and snow.

Movements, he realized with a groan, were out of the question. The effects of the holy water stopped him from using his demonic powers, and simply sitting itself was painful enough. Even if he managed to summon the strength to rise from the dark alleyway, the streets of London were swarmed with the queens pesky excorsist and their meddling ways. Walking out in a tattered tailcoat and burnt body would attract the attention of every exorcist near by, and the demon had no desire to become the subject of another one of their “demon hunting” spectacles.

“It’s terribly cold”the demon grumbled as snow descended upon his shivering hands.

He would have never had to inhabit a mortal body for so long if that witless imp hadn’t messed up his chances at a contract. Now he would have to wait a full night in agony until he could leave the wretched body behind.

The air was thick with the smell of smoke and manure, but something else caught his noses attention as the stench grew stronger. A mutt! He could recognize the wet, dirty smell of one anywhere.

The alleyway was simply lit with flickering gas lamps, covered in a veil of smoke and fog. It wasn’t until it was only several feet away that the demon could see it clearly.

A hellhound, standing three feet tall with its head hung high, slowly approached the demon. It’s mangled fur coated with thin snowflakes dragged across the slick cobblestones. It’s red dialated eyes shone beyond the fog, and its teeth pointed outwards, like two tusks.

The demons gaze narrowed, suspicious of the creature who did not bite nor bark. “What are you doing just staring?” His teeth clattered no matter how hard he grinned them. “Be of assistance, or be gone.”

The hellhound didn’t move, nor show any sort of reaction to his words. Perhaps it doesn’t understand human language, the demon thought. But even if he attempted to speak in the infernal tongue, a human body simply wasn’t capable of it. It didn’t have the right components to do so, not at all!

“Are you going to report me to your master now that I’m in such a condition?”, the demon asked, a bitter smile on his cracked lips. “If I were in my true form you wouldn’t look down at my like so.”

The hellhound snarled, as though the idea of finding the demon threatening in any form would be insulting.

“So you do understand me?” The demon, hating how desperate he sound, followed up by saying “if you understand me, then shoo and bother someone else.”

He thought he had finally gotten through to the hellhound after a long silence. But instead of going away it did quite the opposite. It moved closer.

The demon flinched, craning his head back. His body responded with a pang of pain through his neck.

“Get away! Go back to your master.”

The hellhound stepped closer.

“Didn’t you hear me? Your worse than an imp!”

When the hellhound stood a foot away, it stopped. It’s glowing eyes searched the piles of trash, then with its two sharp teeth, it dragged a few rotting wood scraps and placed them beside the demon.

“If this is your way of communicating with me, there’s much left to be desired” the demon said, bewildered.

It was already dusk, and the snow was falling heavier than before. His wounds would only worsen with the cold. Understanding that, the hellhound let out a breath of fire, igniting the wood.

The warmth was a soothing balm to the demons chilled bones. The flames danced and crackled, illuminating the stone walls and the already fiery eyes of the hellhound.

With great pain the demon stretched his frozen feet towards the fire, wincing with ever inch he moved.

Why would the mutt help me, the demon wondered? Perhaps it would ask the demon for a favor later. Or it’s master had sent it with an ulterior motive. But in a freezing state where the source of warmth was the mutt, the demon could only dare to mutter “I am in your debt.”

Ignoring the demons words, the hellhound sauntered back into the fog, disappearing like a stray ember.

The next morning, the demon shedded the mortal body and returned to his regular routine. And though he would never admit it, he found himself searching for the hellhound in every alleyway, hoping to meet again.

I was going to write a cute story about ghosts but it got deleted on accident
\(￣^￣)// Enjoy some demons instead

You cannot convince me That poems have rules When rhymes are suggested And forms are just tools.

For all of the history That poetry holds, The classical structures Have seem to grow old.

A free verse is nothing But a jumbled word bomb, Mixed with some synonyms From thesaurus.com.

I could write “I hate my life” To express my dismay, While claiming it’s a poem And you’d all cry and say.

“What a marvelous poem!” “I can feel all the rage!” When it’s copy and pasted From a redditors page.

If I say the clock talks In flowery words It’ll somehow be connected To the migration of birds.

Even now as a hater Of all poetry This is still a poem That your interpreting.

And I know that the prompt Was “write a poem about rage” But teacher, aren’t you angry Did you fall for the bait?