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sinag789tala · 10 months ago

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"Now, just a moment---! Your..." And the door is already slammed at your face. "....name."

Great. So you are serving a master without a name. Great.

Traces of the energy spent summoning you still linger as fragments of the woman's nervous energy buzz in the air. You are a demon, you can Feel discomfort when it's around --- and you aren't particularly powerful or special enough to truly flesh it out, so to Feel it this well means that your Master feels it even worse.

You shudder. You chalk it up to the leftover energy of the Summoning Circle.

Beneath you, the child coos. In the past, you would have wrinkled your nose in disdain. You aren't particularly powerful, or special, and that's why you get stuck doing measly jobs like these. You aren't particularly powerful, or special, but damn it, you're a demon, and these summoners need to learn to put some decorum in their assignments!

But the millenium spent sitting idly by, waiting for the next wannabe-villain sap to say your name yet never being called, has certainly tempered some of that irritation. You are...well, not un-glad to be remembered.

Then the child begins to wail, and you feel that derision coming back. There is something you can smell, taste, a sensation beginning to spread, you can Feel the hint of it on your tongue. Boredom, its stench beginning to lace the atmosphere.

You think that you should probably pick it up.

You're not quite sure how to handle this thing. You think that it's probably safe to lift it from the foot, and you definitely try---but the nasty little creature's head is huge and heavy and does not know how to balance itself whatsoever---so in a panic, you stumble, and it nearly falls. Its' rump lands squarely on your hands, secure. It ceases wailing and begins to laugh. You breathe a sigh of relief. Good.

It seems to agree, clapping its hands and gurgling spit. Or maybe it just liked the adrenaline. It is human, after all.

Thankfully for you, the tunic wrapped around its' backside is not soft nor squelching, so really, you suppose that all you need to do for now is keep it appeased. Simple enough.

You take a step out of the summoning circle, toddler in tow, and take a seat. The seat suddenly crunches down beneath you, wobbling its' legs dangerously, the jerking movement catching you off-guard. A surprised hiss bubbles out of you, when you take a good look around the place.

It seems that the disrepair does not stop at the chair.

The entire lair looks shabby and neglected---no, that's not right. It is clean and organized, but old, decaying. The one chair she has matches its' table, paint chipping off, its' four stable legs down to three and a peg. You look at the walls, cracks, a dent shaped so strangely like a fist at about five feet tall or so --- and far below it, the remnants of pigment (a distant tongue reminds you, craie). If you look closer, you can see that it is smeared as though someone had tried (and failed) at furiously trying to clean it off.

You look at what you assume to be its' culprit, and it is making bubbles of saliva in your hand.

The lair is neat. Orderly.

But another word you are thinking, a word you are thinking very hard, is empty.

The lair is empty.

Your Master is a master of little possession, but you don't think that it is a choice.

Well. You aren't particularly powerful, or special, but you set the squirming mass of your Master's tyke-spawn on the rickety table, and you begin to work.

An hour into your carpentry --- you can hear the taunts of the other demons again, about the irony of that phrase, a demon, carpentry! --- when the familiar Feel of Boredom starts to hum, and you let out a deeply annoyed sigh.

"What is it now, you insatiable little pest?" You murmur, as it fusses from the table. It starts to move, writhing little thing, like a little maggot, then it gets up --- it stands.

Now, you are a demon, a being unaffected by the human constraint of time or millennia, and you are very acquainted with the idea of standing, you've been doing it yourself for ages. And frankly, you don't see what the fuss is about, these humans, but you at the very least know that there is a Fuss about it. For some reason, it is important to the human race that babies learn to stand.

So, "Oh," you say eloquently. Very eloquently.

It even begins to walk.

Oh.

And your traitorous, abhorable, demonic senses, warp into something eerily similar to a feeling of delight --- feh! You are a demon! This human matter has absolutely no effect on you, of all things.

So, you remember yourself, you realize that the maggot is learning how to walk, and its' very first steps are on the shaky foundation of a rotting, rickety table.

"Oh."

Before the entire table gives, you pluck the baby into your arms, and then all the wood collapses (quite comically, too) into rubble and dust.

Your eyes twitch. Well. You did start it.

Beneath you, the little worm cackles at the havoc it has heralded. You think that it has a bright future in Overlord-ing.

(And you furiously ignore the fondness that is beginning to take you.)

To avoid any more incidents, you allow the child to walk wildly on the floor until it is hopefully exhausted, and you feel less like a demon, but more like a timid animal waiting out a rabid beast, and you want to kick yourself for how pathetic you are.

"Could you please just be still for one moment."

You're trying your hardest not to harness anymore occult than necessary for this woodworking project, because Hell would know, and it would be very pathetic on your report, but your patience is wearing thin, just as this toddler is getting increasingly bored.

It does not show even a sign that it heard you, and as young things often do, it runs around doing what it wants, governed by no one.

If not for the report that's being drafted for you on this very moment, you would turn this child into an actual maggot. Only Pledged Demons with Permanent Masters do not need to have reports, and of course, you do not want to be tied down to any Master.

Not even this one, though...she could use the help.

What are you thinking? You're a demon. You don't care.

Grumbling, you turn back to your work. Humans...and their moving about. The toddler squirms.

You would think that a freakish toddler attaining the capacity to walk on its own would be a stressful development for any parent but no, this weird species looks forward to the event and even celebrates it. You cannot for the damn life of you understand why ---

--- and for the 5th time, this chair that you've been working upon for 3 hours, completely crumbles.

You are so beside yourself with frustration that you do not realize the Boredom in the air dissipating --- you do not realize the tyke toddles to you, on its two newly discovered feet, holding a wrench in its hand, reaching out to you with a toothless smile.

You stare at it for a long while,

When it turns its head to the side with a puzzled stare and shakes it for you, as if to say, what are you looking at? It's right here, take it!

Begrudgingly, (that's what you are choosing to call this feeling blooming Rooting in your chest because you are a Demon, though not particularly powerful or special) you take the wrench, and you get back to work.

The wrench does wonders to your efficiency. Modern technology is beyond you.

You are getting better at this, so much better in fact, that you don't even realize that you've not only finished the chair, but you're on your way to finish the table too.

The toddler is reaching random tools at you, fishing out materials from the toolbox senselessly, laying them all down at your side in no discernible order, but once you figure out how all of them are used, it makes the job so much easier.

There is a note for each tool in the box, in curls of characters your ancient eyes are not made to understand, but the sentiment of each guides you --- another ability you have not felt yourself use in a long time. The letters have some similarities, the taller letters look Latin, those parts you know, but the rest, you are simply relying on feeling.

And what a strange feeling.

All these notes seem tired, but meticulous, dedicated, and they are so evident of your Master's worksmanship that you can't help but. Well. Appreciate her, you suppose. Without these notes, you would be senseless, with only an infant's gurgles to go by as you do your job.

The little maggot burbles something, while dancing along with what you know now to be something called a screwdriver, waving it in the air while singing a song.

It does not grate on you as you think it should. But you currently don't have the mind to be bothered, because you find yourself humming along to it too.

The toddler is reaching for something on the top of a weary drawer, and it is causing such a ruckus that the noise distracts you from completing your task. You can feel yourself snapping at it, some curse or hex rising up your throat like a flame ---

Then whatever it was reaching for topples, and breaks.

You are about to scold the little maggot, when you actually take a good look at the picture.

It is your Master, the tyke, and a man. She stands at what you assume is maybe five-or-so feet tall (you cannot help the way that your eyes flicker to the dent in the wall from earlier), and the man stands at her side so close that their arms are pressed together, despite the distant expression on his face.

His hand, you can see, is reaching for her face, but her frame is trying to pull back, and you notice a hidden bruise on her jaw under her scarf.

But the worst part, you think, as wrath (your least favorite vice) simmers --- boils --- beneath your scales, is that they are smiling for the picture.

The toddler stands up, as it has just learned, and promptly stomps on the man's face. It lets out a satisfied squeal with what it has done, and for a moment, the rage in you is quelled.

Strangely, it's as though the glass of the frame shattered on the ground did not allow itself to break through the child's skin. You are surprised, because you have never known the occult to prevent harm. And what surprises you even more is that you are not displeased by it.

You will say that you had nothing to do with it, if anyone asked, because you may not be particularly powerful, or special, but you are a good liar.

You finish the table; you start the walls. The chipped paint makes way for a new, deep hue, not quite red because maybe that's too on the nose and you remember that your Master is a human after all --- no, instead you choose a warm purple, and dark like wine.

...maybe it's still over the top. Very royal, compared to the Master you saw before. But you think that it's...

...not...un-nice.

The maggot wiggles in approval, streaked in the paint, flailing the brush around. You do not groan about having to clean up another mess because Strangely It Seems That No Mess Can Be Made. No smears of pigment that not even the most painstaking brush can erase. No more cracks or dents on the walls. No messes, not while you are around.

(And...if you start to use your occult stamina to give this newly-fixed lair a bit of a flourish...who's to say you aren't just defacing property?

Though, the toddler doesn't seem to think that the...vandalism is too bad. It's quite tasteful, actually. They like the decor.)

And by the end of the day, the tyke is clothed, fed, still clean, and appeased. And the lair is refurbished, redecorated, and repaired. The messes made always get cleaned up eventually.

"So, maggot," you are smirking...no, grinning to yourself, allowing that pride to swell in you, allowing the vice to swallow you whole. You think, you want to be so proud that it is sickening. "How do we feel about the new lair?"

It babbles. You take this as approval, as per usual.

"Excellent. All that is left for me to do now, is to see how the Master takes it---" Then the pungent, intense taste of nervousness begins to ambush all your senses, Satan below, this taste does not come easy to a demon like you, and you Feel the immense stress of your master is pressing into every bone beneath your flesh.

She opens the door slowly, and the worm in your arms begins to giggle, unable to notice the change in the atmosphere.

But in fairness, the master is good at hiding this feeling well, you don't even see it in her eyes.

"See how I take what?" She asks, eyes still downcast as she yanks the key out of her doorknob---then she Sees.

Though the nervousness in the room fades, it turns into something you have no name for --- and in a way, it is as if you soaked up all of the anxiety yourself.

"...so, Master..." Your mouth dries, as her face turns unreadable. "How do you like the lair---"

She throws herself at you, pulling you into a tight embrace. She sniffs, and the toddler, pressed against her chest, cheers.

She smiles, her eyes are warm, as she looks around her home anew.

"Purple," She grins. "That's my favorite color."

Something blooms in your chest and you let it.

She sees the newest additions separate from the table and the chair and the walls, some padding alongside a nice furnish (flair, every abode needs flair), a few shelves lined with books (because any Master should have a few of the dark tomes), new sets of utensils and platter (and cutlery! Any dark artist should have cutlery), but the one you can see her eye the most, a nice armchair (for all Masters must have thrones), dark oak with curling legs.

She takes a seat, the chair does not crunch nor wobble, but it shifts under her, like an embrace. She sinks in it, and her eyes close as you See her, for the first time, at rest.

She peeks, one eye opening slightly, with a tired smile on her face.

"Thank you," she says, stretching out her arm for her child.

You decide to put them down, let them walk to their mother themself.

Her eyes well with proud tears, and she looks at you with adoration in her eyes,

"Maggie! You clever little girl," she exclaims;

Delight pooling within you --- devotee to your harbringer, there is something new you are tasting, stronger than discomfort and nervous and anxious ---

You find the name as you reach within the crevice that feels it.

Love.

"Master," you begin, the words spilling out of your tongue as you hunger. This is a new, different feeling, this is an entity that your occult belongs with, scales and bone that need, need, need.

"I am the Badaqeth, Demon of Recreation and Rebirth, and from ashes and shadows I weave the foundations of new things," Your tongue has shifted into sounds she can recognize, it has been so long since you have said your name.

"Is there a name to the subject of my reverence?"

The statement is new on your lips.

You are not particularly powerful, or special, but the Demon's Pledge is binding, and you will serve her and her kin forever, be unbound from the constraints of Hell and its' contracts, be tied to the woman who makes you feel you---Recreation, Rebirth, Repair.

She is looking at the toddler in her arms, Maggie reaches out for you, arms open, open, open ---

"Ameli," she answers, and meets your eyes. "My name is Ameli."

You’re a demon. One day, you’re summoned into a living room, and an exhausted woman quickly rambles about needing to get to work and being unable to find a sitter before flying out the door. Now, you stand in your summoning circle, a toddler staring wide eyed at you.

#badaq - hebrew: meaning to mend or repair #ameli - arabic: meaning “my hope”#and it tastes like ash that turns to the soil that harbors flowers on your tongue #writing prompts #writing #short story #demons #monsters

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fiercynn · 1 year ago

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poetry outlets that support a free palestine

after finding out that the poetry foundation/POETRY magazine pulled a piece that discussed anti-zionism because they "don't want to pick a side" during the current genocide, i decided to put together a list of online outlets who are explicitly in solidarity with palestine where you can read (english-language) poetry, including, except where otherwise stated, by palestinian poets!

my criteria for this is not simply that they have published palestinian poets or pro-palestine statements in the past; i only chose outlets that, since october 7, 2023, have done one of the following:

published a solidarity statement against israeli occupation & genocide

signed onto the open letter for writers against the war on gaza and/or the open letter boycotting the poetry foundation

published content that is explicitly pro-palestine or anti-zionist, including poetry that explicitly deals with israeli occupation & genocide

shared posts that are pro-palestine on their social media accounts

fyi this is undoubtedly a very small sample. also some of these sites primarily feature nonfiction or short stories, but they do all publish poetry.

outlets that focus entirely on palestinian or SWANA (southwest asia and north africa) literature

we are not numbers, a palestinian youth-led project to write about palestinian lives

arab lit, a magazine for arabic literature in translation that is run by a crowd-funded collective

sumuo, an arab magazine, platform, and community (they appear to have a forthcoming palestine special print issue edited by leena aboutaleb and zaina alsous)

mizna, a platform for contemporary SWANA (southwest asian & north africa) lit, film, and art

the markaz review, a literary arts publication and cultural institution that curates content and programs on the greater middle east and communities in diaspora

online magazines who have published special issues of all palestinian writers (and all of them publish palestinian poets in their regular issues too)

fiyah literary magazine in december 2021, edited by nadia shammas and summer farah (if you have $6 usd to spare, proceeds from the e-book go to medical aid for palestinians)

strange horizons in march 2021, edited by rasha abdulhadi

the baffler in june 2021, curated by poet/translators fady joudah & lena khalaf tuffaha

the markaz review has two palestine-specific issues, on gaza and on palestinians in israel, currently free to download

literary hub featured palestinian poets in 2018 for the anniversary of the 1948 nakba

adi magazine, who have shifted their current (october 2023) issue to be all palestinian writers

outlets that generally seem to be pro-palestine/publish pro-palestine pieces and palestinian poetry

protean magazine (here's their solidarity statement)

poetry online (offering no-fee submissions to palestinian writers)

sundog lit (offering no-fee submissions to palestinian writers through december 1, 2023)

guernica magazine (here's a twitter thread of palestinian poetry they've published) guernica ended up publishing a zionist piece so fuck them too

split this rock (here's their solidarity statement)

the margins by the asian-american writers' workshop

the offing magazine

rusted radishes

voicemail poems

jewish currents

the drift magazine

asymptote

the poetry project

ctrl + v journal

the funambulist magazine

n+1 magazine (signed onto the open letter and they have many pro-palestine articles, but i'm not sure if they have published palestinian poets specifically)

hammer & hope (signed onto the letter but they are a new magazine only on their second issue and don't appear to have published any palestinian poets yet)

if you know others, please add them on!

#poetry #free palestine #fuck you poetry foundation #palestinian poets series

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