by FA Paine
Characters leapt from my head, and threatened to take my soul. To me they were merely voices. To others they were demons.
I was barely even twelve when I picked up a pen. I finally heard them screeching, commanding me to write.
At first beacons dimmed, kept me from colorful art, as words bled from my dark pen. They kissed the average paper.
I considered it a dream, so bold and furious, transformed into nightmares, that kept me hostage while I wrote.
At last they returned, stuck inside my head, where they still abide today, waiting to be released.