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Deviousness `anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More
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Sta.sh
Here's one who credited you as her inspiration for this story.
(Had someone known her story—her history—they might have expected her to cry out, to shy away, to flee…but Sarah didn’t. She remained frozen, a blend of sadness and resignation overwhelming her features. Had someone seen her reaction, they might have been able to explain that she had gone into shock, that her seeming calmness was a natural reaction to something so unexpected, her mind couldn’t readily grasp it.)
He had returned. She had wondered, over the years, whether it would happen. Not long after her visit to his world, the question darted through her thoughts constantly. After a while, she grew more comfortable, more confident, and she dwelt on it only on occasion. By the time she’d gone away for college, by the time she’d really grown up, she’d almost forgotten. Almost.
(That time in zooarchaelogy, when the semester-long assignment to obtain and skeletonize a native animal came to completion, and the boy two tables over had pulled a barn owl from a trash bag. It had died after consuming a poisoned rat. Sarah had started shaking, and her seatmate called over the professor. She was catatonic for a full three minutes.)
The mirror was an invitation. It normally hung from a peg on the back of her door. Here, on her desk, with the crystal (her dreams) and the feather? She knew what he wanted. Call for him, talk with him, play his game—whatever form it might take, now.
(She’d almost done it, before, when she’d stumbled back to her room after class. The owl, plucked clean, eyes shriveled and sunken, loomed in her memory. She knew in her gut it couldn’t be him, but some part of her had screamed for proof. She’d fought the impulse and kept silent.)
He was forcing her hand. There were no choices, anymore. He had come to her, into her world (her room) without being called, had sought her out with a singular purpose. He would not be ignored.