I used to be vast, but time and disuse have worn me down. It’s this modern age of quiet people and conflict resolution. I need to be summoned, hot fury tied to human hatred, so that death and destruction fills me out. No-one does that any more, but I keep wishing for someone to inscribe the calling on a tablet of soft clay…
Be careful what you wish for. I wished and wished that someone would summon me, and they did. Or rather, she did, in Latin which is good enough. I am flexible – it doesn’t have to be ancient Sumerian. I change with the times as best I can, rather than be lost for ever.
I felt the tug, the promise of anger, of burning hate, the essential other in a soul-searing contract to kill. The stone circle, the glittering pentagram, the blessed summoner chanting naked beneath a full moon – damn but I’ve missed that. The call to kill.
I manifested – not my glorious thirty feet tall but seven and a half, all I had space for in a dark cave, lit by a feeble pair of candles. I prefer the grand open-air summonings with great roaring fires, perhaps a few standing stones. Space to spread, to rise, to howl the name of my target, and feel the night shout back. Nevertheless, I accepted the call, cooked that clay tablet until it glowed, and bound myself into the pact.
“Shit, shit, shit…” The summoner beat out unexpected flames. “My essay…”
Continue reading on Medium
This piece was written for the #BlogBattle writing prompt in February 2019. The prompt was “Loss”.