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Snippet of PseudoPod: Silver as the Devils's Necklace

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After her sister Jo is missing for more than 24 hours, Ruth knows something bad has happened. She goes out to find her sister and instead is met with the Devil. Luckily she packed her pistol with one silver bullet in it to hopefully shoot the devil with to save her sister.
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But now that the necklaces in her hands, the devil cannot shift to his stronger form. So the superstition goes. His eyes flash with sudden hatred, his lip curls bearing sharp, dark teeth with noise that curdles the acid and Ruth's gut with fear. She knows two things down to her bones. This devil took Joe, and she will never get Joe back. Joe is dead. Her heart stumbles from the blow, slamming against her ribs. Her chest is an empty cavity, and it is aching, her ribs laced with pain so sharp they might curl in on themselves to the point of snapping. She shoves the necklace in her pocket and pulls out the pistol presses it into the devil smooth skin against his ribs instead of fighting. Instead of trying to ride free of the rope, the devil steps close to her. Leaning into the end of the pistol, he reaches up and caresses her hair with a cool and heavy hand. Goose flesh crawls under Ruth soil skin as memories float to the surface of her soul, drawn out by the devil's touch by the devils will. But the memories are of swimming in the glittering river with Joe last August of creeks of the slip of river bottom pebbles beneath toes and they little her soothe her, soften her grip on the pistol. We had a spill today, that voice. It snaps like branches on a brittle wind, clearing her visions sharp and sudden, like the shattering of a dirty window pane. She cocks the pistol with a cold click. The devil goes unearthly still, as if he consents. The bullet in the barrel is a silver as his necklace. I am the river, he says. I am the silt. I am home. Dance with me. His voice is summer showers on tin roofs, the percussion of iron shod hooves, crossing streams. Ruth sees Joe's black hair gleaming red in the dappled sunlight of the fir grove, riding one of the chestnut buildings trotting just a few yards ahead of her Joe's, lifting her hand to wave at her to hurry up. Ruth's mind is the rush of water. Ah, heady current. It pulls, dragging her hand and the gun slack, drawing down, down and away from the devil's ribs. Give in, the devil says I am home. Come dance with me. The pistol hangs heavy from her hand heavier than a corpse. This was a fool's errand. Ruth sees Joe's back, her long black braid vanishing into the mist. Joe is gone because she could not fight the devil because she went into the night alone because Ruth let her go alone. And now Ruth will face the same fate because she was arrogant enough to believe she could put a bullet between the devil's eyes. Superstitions be damned. Mortals cannot fight devils older than stone. The devil is backing away from her now step by. Step down the bank. Step by step Ruth, Heavy boots Follow through the mud Me, mia for camera with a stay that voice quieter now but no less sharp Didn't like you're gonna want to keep her Children close. Snatch them safely away from the thundering rush of flash floods. If this devil is flesh before her could like Corona be real as the wind whipping her oil skin, Could Llorona sweep her away from the rivers? Embrace these thoughts fade away as ah heaviness settles like silt over her mind, sinking into every crevice of her memory. The weight of the devils will smothers her resistance. The dying sparks of panic in her chest, wearing them down with the inevitability of a steady current. With her last ounce of strength, Ruth forces her tongue to form a single word. I do that may. Her lips are cold, stiff as a corpse's Are You than me? Shadow slip around her soft and whispering responses to her plea for help. They sweep into her mind, clearing it of silt, rinsing it clean. So she is again aware, aware of the fact that she is following the devil as he backs down the riverbank, aware of the pistol slack at her side. Ah, whisper in her ear. That voice back is doing me, huh? Por que meadow d'Asti Llorona curls Ruths fingers tighter around the handle of the pistol, holding a tight against her palm. The weight of the ghost hand is an old friend, reminding her that a bullet as silver as the devil's necklace is still in the pistol's chamber. That the devil cannot change, that he does not know. The weepers cloak is draped around his shoulders, clearing her mind and showing her what the devil did. Joe's black hair sticking to her wet face, struggling the snap of Bones Joe pallid face up, staring blankly into the dark as the current drags her body down the swollen river. The water slicking ruths cheeks is warm. Now tears blur her vision. Me and mana Me at Mana, my sister, the weepers whisper lifts roots, chin clear and sharp above the rush of the river. Steel certainty chills in her chest as she plants her feet in the mud. She will never get Joe back, but she can sure as hell avenge her. Ruth looks at the devil in the eye and lifts the pistol. As we stonier Mana, she asks and pulls the trigger.