Throwback Thursday: Darkest Passions

A throwback to a poem I recently featured on my YouTube channel: Darkest Passions.

I must admit, I do not know Whether it is the eerie glow That makes your secrets interest me Or if it’s something I can’t see. But always, you have filled my mind With sense of power ov…

Source: Darkest Passions

This is My Wish

This is my wish, which I design,
Through my sentence of desire
Stylised into a sigil
Strength and wisdom I acquire

Construction is a simple method
Internalise and activate
The magic from within the sigil
I visualise and meditate

Though with more time to charge the sigil,
Holding my breath, I concentrate
In magic trance see my design
Exerting myself, I almost faint

Banish with laughter, throwing out
Ideas of my original thought
The faster I forget my wishes,
The sooner I’ll get what I sought

Matthew Hopkins

You’ve heard of me, I’ve travelled far
From Bedfordshire to East Anglia
John Stearne and I cure the fear
Of those caught in the witches’ snare
These Devil’s whores confess their sins:
The Witchfinder’s trial begins.

As civil war wages across the nation
We hunt the hags in league with Satan
Our methods and knowledge used abroad
As far as Salem, to please God
By locating the Devil’s mark:
The Witchfinder has done his work.

Parliament has sent us round
To bring this evil to the ground
To crush the sinners under our boots –
That’s what we claim as we pursue
Their execution, our good pay:
The Witchfinder will have his way.

One hundred people to my name
A dark, despicable, ghastly fame
My legacy will endure forever:
Torture and trials are my pleasure
Though my time has now come and passed,
The Witchfinder’s reputation will last.

Buttons: The Necromancer’s Cat

This is a really interesting little piece – Buttons could prove to be a very exciting character!

Deidra Alexander's Blog

cat and necromancer

Buttons sat on the open window sill, his green eyes narrow slits. He calculated the amount of force it would take to propel himself through the air to the robins flitting about outside. Never mind the two-story drop.

“Buttons, come away from there,” his mistress sternly called.

He obeyed, begrudgingly.

Mind your own bee’s wax, he thought.

“You don’t want to eat them anyway.”

No, duh, the whole cat of the undead thing.

Katherine’s eyes narrowed.

Buttons pretended to ignore her, closing his eyes. Sometimes he thought she could read his mind. She was unnerving like that and cats are hard to unnerve.

He seemed like any other cat unless you looked too closely. Other than the scraggly fur and an ear that had seen better days, he seemed quite normal. His mistress had resurrected him when she was four. She was the most powerful necromancer in a thousand years, maybe ever. People avoid…

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Fires of the Magic Art

Come closer child, and feel the heat rising from my hands
For I burn with a hunger for more strength
Than a mere mortal should ever command –
It radiates off me, this obsession for that knowledge
Denied by those unworthy of its truth, as just
An ancient mysticism for science to abolish –
This fever of desire leaves me aching in my bones,
Their rattling a tune of concentrated effort,
To practice, to discover all, until my art is honed –
With scorching intensity I come before the Masters of old
So I can learn at their feet all that it takes
And become worthy of tales of my own to be told –
Like those who came before me, wrongfully mistreated
By the sceptics, fools, and cowards of their ages
Abused, accused, condemned by the fearful men who bleated –
“Save us from that which we cannot hope to achieve ourselves”,
Irrationally testing the ire of their superiors,
But testing witches can be dangerous: they bring you Hell –
The flames of which arise, when I call them by decree
To do my bidding, and curse all of those
Who dare in their ignorance or false beliefs to defy me.

Dedicated to the Goddess

I felt the call from a young age
Guided by the majesty
The might of something unique, supreme:
A power far beyond my own
And as I grew into a woman
I discovered the extent,
The possibilities beyond my imagination,
The achievable with fresh insight;
I mould the world with my two hands
My voice confounds the heavens
A soul with supernatural strength –
Deny me at your peril!

Three Wishes

The genie appeared from out of the spout of the lamp in a wisp of smoke, his upper body large and muscular, but his lower half little more than a tail of blue and purple vapour. He had a circle of black hair on his head, the centre bald and revealing the top of his shiny head.

Miles took a long drag on his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray before he spoke. He wanted to act as casual as he possibly could, considering there was a magical being in the middle of his kitchen.

‘As I said last time,’ the genie said, ‘I can grant you three wishes – no more. Have you selected your first wish?’

Miles nodded. ‘I have,’ he replied. In fact, his first wish had been the only thing that he had thought about for days, ever since he had pulled that dirty lamp out of the trash. After several long nights spent debating the ethics of wishing for something to improve his own life versus something to improve the rest of the world, he had made his decision.

‘I wish for world peace,’ he said.

The genie grinned, showing a full set of yellowing teeth. ‘I can do this,’ he told Miles, ‘though only as much as is possible without affecting the will of humans. Though I have great power, I can do nothing that impedes upon their freedom.’

Then he snapped his fingers, and disappeared back into the lamp.


The world’s weapons were destroyed overnight. Wealth was shared out equally, to the extent that it could be, to reduce and limit jealousy. Health came became available to all free of charge. For a while, it seemed as though there would be nothing left for people to argue or fight about.

The genie had done well, so Miles summoned him for his second wish.

‘I wish I had one hundred million pounds,’ he said. It seemed like a reasonable enough amount to ask for.

The genie grinned his yellow grin, snapped his fingers, and returned to the lamp.


Miles would not have known what to do with two hundred million dollars, so one hundred million dollars blew his mind. He bought himself everything that he had ever wanted, and realised that it had barely even made a dent in the amount of cash he had.

As the rest of the world’s money had been dished out between the entire human race after Miles’ first wish, his second officially made him the richest man on the planet. It got him plenty of attention.

His neighbour approached him one day wearing a dark expression, and attacked him, then stole his wallet. In comparison to Miles’ bank accounts, there was not much in it, but when he looked around he saw that there were many angry people who were all out to get him.

Upon this realisation, he returned to the genie.

‘I don’t understand why this is happening,’ he said, nursing his bruises with a bag of frozen peas. ‘Whatever happened to world peace?’

‘You made your second wish,’ the genie replied.

‘So, if I wished that nobody could dislike me …’

‘I cannot do anything that would affect free will. It would have no effect.’

Miles scratched his chin in thought. He did his best to shape his sentence in a way that would have no adverse side effects for himself, though he knew that he would not have been able to guess every possibility.

‘I wish that I could influence people’s free will,’ he said.

‘Now that,’ said the genie, ‘I can do.’

He grinned, and he snapped his fingers, and he returned to the lamp, all for the final time. Then the lamp vanished in front of Miles’ eyes, probably to reappear in somebody else’s unsuspecting bin.


Miles cursed the genie. He cursed it when he woke, and he cursed it before he went to sleep. World peace, as a concept, was great – but it had done nothing to eradicate people’s greed or their thoughts of self-importance.

His own greed and sense of self-importance had only ruined the flimsy, temporary peace that the first wish had created.

As for his third wish, Miles discovered the genie had been true to his word. He was a powerful influence over other people. His every sentence, his every gesture, his every expression encouraged people to speak, to move, or to behave differently. Everybody wanted to look like him, and to live as he lived.

His power of persuasion was unending, and it bored him to death. Miles came to realise that everybody who loved him, whether family, friends or fans, only did so because he had persuaded them to love him.

Magik Book

You’ve all heard the rumours. That’s why you’re here. It’s why all of us are here – and yes, I can tell you, it’s true. All of it.

Already I can see some of you scoffing, holding your hands up to hide your smiles behind them, feigning a cough to keep me from noticing that you are mocking me. You probably think this is hilarious. How I pity you.

You see, I knew some of you would come purely so that you could get a good laugh out of me. That is sad, but I take no offence. I know too that some of you who came here to laugh seek to paint me as some kind of an idiot. You believe that your lack of belief is somehow a strength, that the false air of acceptance you demonstrate fools the rest of us. Yet for all that you claim self-superiority and great intellectualism through your words and actions, and deny any such feelings in the next breath, you are missing what the rest of us have. It is my belief that has made me powerful, and not my inability to believe.

So I’ll tell you this now, no matter what you’ll no doubt have prepared in response – no matter how dominating you believe your counterarguments to be. Try to knock me down with every single word you know for all I care, for I cannot be beaten by the likes of unbelievers. I’ll tell you this now: that this is it, in my hands before you all, the source of all my strength and my abilities. This book is what has made me great, for written within its pages I have discovered how to use those arts as old as time itself, those secret, elusive skills that defy both sight and touch. I hold magnificence before your mortal eyes.

Yet be wise, and take heed. Be careful to observe that which I have observed over many extraordinary years, and use this book only for good. If you should not, then know that your wickedness shall only return to you threefold.

It is one of you, who sits before me, who shall be next. I alone cannot hold onto this might forever, nor should I. So if you are the lucky one, then treat always with the utmost respect this book, for it is no mere tool: it is sacred and must be handled as such. Do good, show respect, and you shall do well for yourself using the power within.

Still some of you will leave here today claiming that this power is all in my mind, then it does not exist and that the others are foolish to believe it does. Perhaps one day you will become more than a hollow, empty body. When your soul speaks to you, then my replacement shall hear you out.

I could demonstrate my powers.

If only I thought that would be enough for you to believe.

Some, sadly, can only ever deny.


I’m telling you, my friend,
I saw them.
It was a warm summer night
And the moon was full:
A huge, glimmering orb suspended
In the patient sky.
The world waited for them,
Their joyful songs, that promised
To fill the air with magic.

I’m telling you, my friend,
To believe me.
They danced and twirled, making patterns
With their bright clothes
And delicate wings
That stole my attention.
Their voices were so beautiful
Tears formed
In my eyes,
As they would have in yours.

Yes, my friend, the fairies come
To those of us
Who still believe.

Prompt: Spell

Prompt: A spell that let you complete all your errands at once works, but now, you can’t remember doing anything.

I ran my hand over the photographs in the tired album, my eyes flickering over the pictures in desperate attempts to find something I recognised.

There are many things that must be done!

The words spin in my head. I remember those and little else.

A photograph of a pleasant looking family; another of a happy couple holding a newborn baby; a third of an expensive wedding ceremony. None of them mean anything to me, but I know they should.

I raise my hands to examine them. The fingers are long, slender and feminine; the skin young and firm. They tremble as I place them back down on the album to touch the photographs once more.

There are many things that must be done!

The things were done. I know that. As time has gone on, that has been the only thing I have been able to cling to, the only thing that I can remember. For everything else, I have my photographs, but who I am in the pictures and where the other people are is beyond my comprehension.

They could feasibly be images of a family I have never met.

There are many things that must be done!

I recall thinking those words over and over again. There were too many things to do and there was too little time to do them in. I remember I found a way to make them all disappear – to complete them in the blink of an eye.

Nothing more.

I ran my hand over the photographs in the tired album, my eyes flickering over the pictures in desperate attempts to find something I recognised. My fingers are long, bony and stiff; my skin pale and wrinkled.

Still I stay there, because there are no more things to do.