Mg-III

Behind a grand solid oak desk, spinning morosely on his office chair, sat The Devil. He didn't look quite how one might imagine the Prince of Darkness, Lord of Hell: no fire, no tail, not even a pair of horns to his name. Even his skin was not the traditional blood red, unless you counted the angry sun burn scorched across his shoulders, still visible despite the best efforts of a slim black suit. Of course, he could look however he pleased, but recent years had taught him that the old clichés just didn't get the same reaction anymore. No-one walking into the cramped office in Croydon would have even considered that the recently elect

A low haze hung over the marshes, tendrils of fog rising from stagnant pools to lurk in hollows. Clumps of tough grasses and reeds sprouted from the mire in islands, their roots submerged in the dark waters. The tumult of life that filled the air in summer had retreated in the face of the oncoming winter, the water-dwelling creatures burying themselves deep into the sludge, leaving the water still and quiet. Through the mists, a shadow emerged, pushing aside the coarse vegetation heedless of the blades that scratched at his skin. The leaves were soft. Plumes of hot breath billowed into the sky, thickening the damp shroud which obscured the l

The Long Gallery was full to capacity, crowds of well dressed members of the art community giving their expert opinion on the piece of work that hung before them. Women in fine dresses, fascinators adorning their hair, lounged in groups with champagne glasses in hand. Men sporting tailor-made suits (that weren’t-rented-honest), commented on technique, and money flowed with the bubbly. On prime real-estate at the far end of the hall, behind a small section of violet rope, hung the painting. It had been described as many things: ‘thought provoking’, ‘an emotional journey’ and even ‘A rival to the greatest pa