Directly to my left is a wrought Iron, wall mounted candle sconce, the design is Celtic arched at the top with swirling patterns of intertwining herons,snakes and Celtic knots above two curved dishes, which hold two large cream candles. Sadly those candles, wide still at the base have burned often as I sit writing on dark winters nights and so have become squat and ruffled only a couple of inches above the dishes. There is a matching set further back into the room and just in front of the window but I cannot see them from where I sit facing the screen.
I often sit here on dark winter's nights on my black fake leather computer chair facing my black desk and black keyboard writing dark tales with only the candles in the sconces to see by. The flickering light, the wind howling and the north Atlantic ocean thundering in distance. I rarely turn to see the roughly chalked pentacle on the floor behind me or the salt heaped at each pinnacle, I am not sure that I wish to see what is taking shape in the centre. Rather, I stand, forcing myself to ignore the rude and demented noises behind me and walk to each of the candle sconces blowing each out, the smoke, paraffin and stench from the circle rancid. Closing the door to the nice I walk the short hallway to my bedroom and there weep.