Nearly slumped over the altar. It does not obey. Pick up the next spell: Mutter…mutter…mutter…grunt. No, nope, not helping. The mood is wrong and the conjuring doesn’t work. The altar remains empty. The spirits of the failure float and dance around me, mocking; those unfriendly sprites hover about and ridicule my paralysed attempts.

I’d like to port my fist straight through the altar but would be too painful, can’t afford a new one. Not at this hour. The spare one may be older than the gods who created the current one. No. Must not punish the altar.

There are heaps of spells available but finding a working one… Let’s see this one, must sit legs crossed and hum. Alas! I would need another really powerful spell to flex myself enough. Next spell: Concentrate on the demonic chorus in your ears eyes closed. No, too demonic, switch to more ancient and mighty tones.

At last.

I feel something coming up from the depths: Is it my heart trying to escape or is the conjuring actually working? The words from the nameless depths are slowly forming into the altar. Ha! A veritable execution! As the mighty tones churn through my ears, I keep up the conjuring. But are the words correct and the letters true? As I sip the nectar of creation, the most happy grin is born into my deformed face: Am I not the lord of this space right now, the King of the Joy and the Pain? The Great Creator of the Realms, the Destroyer of the Worlds? As I dance over the words conceived by the…

“Honeylove, the trash bin in the upstairs toilet is full, would you please take it out?”

The spell is broken, the movie themes fall into silence and only a few fresh lines in my novel stare back at me from the screen. The coffee has gone cold. I bookmark the site that offered the tips for creative writing and stand up with stiffened legs. As I join the awake world again I cannot but contemplate muttering quietly:

“This demon I conjured myself, without any assisting spells.”

But she’s mostly a pleasant one.