NaNoWriMo 2016 Words and Update

I'll preface this with -- I failed, and that's OK. I'm a college student with a day job(ish), a legitimate business owner. I am not made of time or discipline. And considering that revision is one of the hardest tasks for me, personally, maybe NaNoWriMo isn't the best option for me. I'm a perfectionist, or at least--I like to do a first "good" pass on my writing, not have to wade back through and remember: what the hell was I doing here? And that's what NaNoWriMo has felt for me these past two and a half years. A real mess. And my limited college experience has made me realize: I don't do messes. I make them, then I walk away (wait, is this a metaphor for my relationships too?). For the sake of posterity and to prove I did something this November, I'm sharing the words I did manage for NaNoWriMo: a whopping 6,339! However, I also wrote a 1,172 word experimental essay and a 3,170 word immersion essay for my Non Fiction writing class, helped write two obituaries (a friend's brother and another for my grand father), somewhere around 3,000 words for combined Anthropology papers and made an architectural power point presentation. I'm also working on a third video game for a History Teacher over in Georgia (yes, it's a video game to help students review their test questions). It's very time consuming but incredibly rewarding. What does that look like, you  may ask? Well, I'm glad you asked -- because it's a lot of fun and a lot of work.


So I was busy--busy for me--damn it. And while it kills me that I didn't do it, it isn't the end of the world.

So here: the beginning of a story called "All That Plus A Cat" a dive into a tribal world of magic. Highly inspired by my Anthropology class.

And for you visual people--here is a link to the Pinterest board I created for visual aides.

2016-11-24-10-07-40bOn the road to Montana November 24th, 2016

This story is copyrighted by me, since I wrote it, and has not be edited in any ways except briefly for spelling (and again only with spell check software, so there are bound to be some human errors). I did no outlining for this project (and I can tell), but I had some broad-sweeping ideas that I started to touch upon. I did write down a few preliminary ideas here. It is loosely connected to my other world of blood magic. To be fair, and I've already made enough excuses: life is hard at it's best for me, I can't realistically handle "much," and then I had a death in the family and it just broke my last fragment of will to continue. Better luck next time. Also, video games. Final Fantasy XV, I Am Setsuna, Everybody's Gone To The Rapture. We all cope in different ways. I lean on my favorite (gaming) console to console (!) me. English is weird.


I'm listening to "Goldenhand" by Garth Nix at the moment (that counts as reading), and "Welcome to Night Vale" while we make these multiple trips to Montana for said loss-of-life. Once "Goldenhand" is finished, I imagine we'll return to Jennifer Roberson's "Sword Breaker," audio book and continue on with Del and Tiger's story -- since I have the feeling that "Goldenhand" is going to end on a cliffhanger and I'll have to wait 2-3 years for a conclusion... (no spoilers, but if you've read it, let's talk!). The point is: I blame the cat influence on my own cat (who is a tuxedo), and listening to a story that usually involves a magical cat. The rest of the story mostly comes from my research in my Anthropology class--the Nuer, the Hmong and the Ojibwa.

This is the most significant amount of fiction writing I've managed lately. I like some things about it, and dislike others. I'll let it rest for a bit and see if I can return to it and pick up the pieces later.



Lightning flared, illuminating a figure standing in the doorway of the Leopard Chief's hut. Thunder crashed down outside, pulling with it angry sheets of rain that would soon flood the valley. The Spirits of the Sky were angry. The storm was loud and swift, screaming for blood. Something was wrong. The darkened figure wavered, stumbled then collapsed to the ground in a limp pile.

“Hanha!” The Chief yelled, her voice struggling to be heard over the sound of the rain. A young man shuffled sleepily from somewhere deeper inside the hut, wiping tired eyes that widened at the sight of the fallen stranger.

“Help me carry them inside--” The Chief said with a motion towards the doorway. Lightning crashed again, lighting up the figure. Blood spread in a bright pool across the woven grass beneath them, staining pale yellow to deep crimson. The Chief paused and turned to face a carved wooden totem pole that was the spine of her hut. She inclined her head to the wooden figures—carved snakes, coiling around the pole in a dizzying pattern—and whispered a prayer for forgiveness for what she was about to bring beneath her roof.

Hanha suppressed a shiver at the sight of blood, dipped his hands into a bowl of cleansing water and reached down to grab the stranger. The stranger—a man—grunted in pain, his parched lips began to move silently but his eyes remained closed. If he spoke, the rain worked hard to drown out his words. Blood streamed down the stranger's arms. He was covered in lacerations and blood pooled from somewhere near his middle. Blood smeared across the grass-thatched floor as Hanha struggled to pull the man in and out of the rain.

The Chief began to light incense and yellow-tallow candles, placing them in a circle around the totem pole and the two men. She was careful to avoid places where water leaked through the roof, arranging clay and metal candle holders in a precise pattern for healing. Once the last candle was in place—the flickering yellow flames steadied and became a soft emerald green like the skin of a grass snake. Hanha knew to watch for the change that indicated the spirit's presence within the hut. As the Chief's apprentice, Hanha had to pay attention to everything that he could The Chief could not instruct him; that was not her role. Hanha had to learn for himself.

“Will he live?” Hanha asked once the Chief had lifted grass-skirts and stepped inside the circle of candles. Bells and beads chimed as she moved, as silent as the snake that represented her House Spirit. Thunder rumbled in answer, but the Chief did not. A gust of wind burst in to the hut and nearly extinguished the flames at his question. Hanha rushed to the door and unraveled the woven mat to seal the door shut. The sound of the wind and rain diminished and the green candle light breathed easier and brightened. The man's breath rattled in his lungs. Blood continued to seep from beneath him, oozing across the grass floor, rolling close to the candles. It shied away, slowing to a halt when confronted with the green light.

The man began to thrash, arms reaching, fingers hooked like claws. He reached out and grabbed the Chief by her shoulders. Recognition flashed briefly in her eyes like lightning. She lifted one trembling hand to touch the stranger's and placed the other on his chest, forcing him to lay back against the grass. He flinched in pain but obeyed the Chiefs—no, her—touch.

Then the man was still again, sucking in raspy breaths. The Chief lit another candle and ran the light along the man's body, letting the green light wash over him. Shadows danced across his strange flesh like snakes slithering through the sand. Hanha knelt beside the man with a clay bowl and a damp cloth. He rested the cloth over the man's closed eyes and forehead. Sweat ran down the stranger's neck.

The Chief set down the candle and began to strip off the man's wet clothing. He did not wear the intricate woven leather of the warriors nor the beaded ornamentation of the hunters. He wore no whistle or whip to show he was a herdsman. His arms and shoulders were bare of jewelry or scarification—not even the traditional spiral patterns that even Hanha wore upon his flesh. This man, by Hanha's standards, was no man at all. His dark skin bore only fresh lacerations and deep cuts, temporarily washed clean by the rain, now beginning to seep blood and yellowish fluid. The wounds were poisoned—the only mercy was, the poison had been weak or the man would have been dead already.

A strip of red cloth bound the man's shoulder in a poor attempt to slow the bleeding. The strip came from the long skirt the man wore—now ripped and bloodied from his travels. His feet were bare and covered in mud and more wounds. He had walked a long way without rest. The Chief stripped away the layers wrapped around the man's chest and finally revealed the puncture wound near his heart. The wound had been stitched closed—again, poorly—and had become infected. The skin around it was puffy and scabbed with dried blood and puss.

“Is he a Leopard Chief, too?” Hanha asked, face contorted in focus as he tried to understand the man's strange appearance. The man was a stranger to Hanha—but the Chief had recognized him, that much he was certain. The Chief only stared and continued to strip off the man's clothing. A single necklace hung from the man's throat on a leather cord. A smooth orange-brown crystal wrapped in gold wire. The Chief reached out and stroked the crystal gently. The man's eyes opened again. He caught her wrist and pulled her close. She did not struggle. The stranger whispered, his words drowned by the sound of falling rain.

Hanha did not recognize the man's language—except for one word, one the man made sure to speak loud enough for the witness to overhear.


The stranger was a murderer.

Hanha watched as the Leopard Chief worked into the night, as the storm blew itself out and and the candles slowly melted away. The dark green light wavered only once more, and the Leopard Chief was quick to rekindle any extinguished flames. The stranger's life depended on the circle of candles and the skillful handiwork of the Chief. Hanha had watched the Chief work for many nights in his twenty-one years—but never quite as hard at this night. No more words were exchanged, the stranger and the Chief were silent and tight-lipped.

At some point during the night—Hanha had fallen asleep, watching the stranger as instructed. Golden sunlight spilled across the dirt floor and filtered through the gaps in the grass-woven roof. The candles had all burned and left faint outlines of dark green against the earth. The incense burners were cold, no smoke rose fragrantly into the air. Outside—oxen shook their heads restlessly, bells jingling around fat necks and chickens squawked indigently. Children giggled and splashed through the mud from the night's rainfall.

Hanha was leaning against the wall of the hut with his head propped against his knees. A blanket of scratchy ox-fur(?) rested around his shoulders and a bowl of milk sat on the floor beside him. A cat's face was shamelessly stuffed inside the bowl. The cat's loud lapping—and eventually overturn—of the bowl had woken him.

Hanha began to rise, to scare the animal away from his breakfast—when he froze in place. He knew every cat in the village. Every single cat. The spirit animal of his mother's family was a cat. Not the fierce tiger that occasionally stalked the cattle of their tribe, not the lumbering bears in the high mountains, not even the lithe, poisonous snake of the Chief. No, his family had long honored the common hut cat, the scavengers, the flea-bitten, milk-stealing, hut cat.

This cat was different—it was not one from the village and was too large to be a kitten from a litter. It was not quite full grown, with a face and body that suggested only two or three years old.

The Spirits of the Sky were all white when they ascended and touched the earth. The Spirits of Below were black, and when they took the form of an animal—so, too, was it black. When a black cow was born to the village it was sacrificed so the village would be saved. When a white cow was born, it was exempt from all labor and her milk was the sweetest of all. This cat was neither black nor white, nor any of the colors in between. It was not a Spirit of the Sky or Below.

It was both. A cat of black and white fur—and one white eye, the other was missing. Only a patch of scarred flesh remained, overgrown with matted white fur. Now one, perfectly white eye peered up at him lazily as it licked the remaining milk from the edge of the overturned bowl—but was careful not to lick the actual dirt.

Hanha tried to breathe; he had an obligation, both as his mother's son and the Chief's apprentice, to honor the spirits of his family—no matter how they tormented him or how much laughter the village muffled around him. The cat had ate his breakfast but he could do nothing to punish it. He could barely make himself breathe.

“Would you like more?” Hanha asked, choosing his words carefully. He spoke in the Old Tongue, the language of the Spirits of the Sky, the language the Chief had taught him. He wanted to appeal to the Sky Spirit within the cat in the hopes that the Spirit of Below did not answer. The cat ignored him, moving from licking the bowl to licking a slender black paw.

“Who are you talking to?” The Chief's voice sounded behind him. Hanha startled and turned to face the Chief as she stood in the doorway. She held a bowl of milk in one hand and a basket of fish in the other. Hanha turned back to explain the cat had stolen his breakfast—but the cat was gone. His bowl, however, was still empty and spilled upon the dirt. The Chief lifted her eyebrows as she peered down at the bowl. Hanha looked back at the Chief and began to speak but changed his mind. He was not, after all, a Chief and could not explain the Spirits yet. He would be out of place to claim he had seen a spirit, and therefore, he had seen nothing.

“I must have kicked over my bowl in my sleep,” he suggested, shrugging towards the mess near his feet. The Chief nodded.

“Did you have a bad dream?” The Chief asked, kneeling down and placing her bowl of milk in his hand and bowing her head. She whispered words in a language unknown to Hanha.

He did not remember if he dreamed—but he also did not remember when he had fallen asleep. He had watched the Chief work and assisted when she asked, rinsing cloth for bandages, lighting incense and directing the smoke, even holding the Chief's basket as she reached in for her favorite snake. That part always made him uneasy; he trusted the Chief and her connection with her family's Spirit Animal—but it was still a snake and the spirits did not obey anyone—not even the Leopard Chief. If the snake had thought it acceptable to take his life, the Chief could do nothing to stop it. Hanha always trembled as he held the basket, and the Chief was kind to steady his arms so he did not scare the snakes. She was kind and always waited for his shaking to stop before she continued. It only meant that Hanha was forced to hold the basket longer, listening to their silken scales slide and roll across each other, weight shifting the basket from side to side. He was thankful, during those times, that his family's Spirit Animal was just the hut cat and nothing was dangerous as a snake.

The stranger had needed the poison in his wound removed—and the Chief's snakes were poison-eaters. She had picked her favorite—an orange and black striped Coral snake from the Lost Beaches, the Chief's home village. The poison-eaters were a gift from the Spirits of the Sky to the Chief upon her Naming Day. The poison-eaters could eat any poison, pull the poison from the body, and take it upon themselves. Then, if needed, they saved the poison for the next bite. The poison that ran in the stranger's veins was a common and weak strand from a garden snake, often used to coat weapons in neighboring villages. Favored by the [name], if Hanha remembered correctly. He was not always the best student.

Hanha had watched as the Chief prepared and inspected the stranger's body, carefully cleansing and stitching up wounds and re-wrapping the man's arm. Then she picked a spot that was the most infected—a gash near the man's heart—and released her snake. Orange and black slid across the stranger's stomach, tongue flicking the air, searching. Black eyes glittered as it caught the scent of the poison and lunged, bright white fangs sinking deep into flesh. The stranger had long been unconscious and did not notice—but Hanha had flinched on his behalf. He turned his head as the snake began to pull the poison out, throat expanding and contracting as it injected a healing poison of it's own. He remembered now, he had become light headed and leaned against the wall—he must have fallen asleep then. That meant that the Chief had been left to finish healing the stranger alone for the rest of the night.

“Where is the stranger?” Hanha asked suddenly, looking around the circle of melted candles and incense ash. “Did he survive the night?”

The Chief nodded, shifting the basket of fish to one hip. She did not give another answer, simply thrust the basket towards him. The day would begin as usual, then, with no more answers now than he had the night before.

Hanha stood up, drank his bowl of sun-warmed milk and accepted the basket of fish from the Chief. He stood, smoothed the wrinkled leather of his skirt and stretched sore muscles. Sleeping on the floor was not as easy as a full grown man. He pushed aside the woven door flap and tied it securely. As he walked down the steps of the hut—a woman was approaching from the village. She ignored him and stomped straight into the hut. He heard the Chief's soft voice become stern, and the yelling became more muffled. Hanha knew better than to interfere with the Chief's business and began the short walk to the village's cooking fires. He was no sooner at the base of the packed dirt stairs than a hut cat—a fat, yellow-orange male with long hair—padded up to him and began to yowl. The cat believed that Hanha was bringing him breakfast.

Hanha sighed and, looking both ways to make sure no one was looking, dropped the smallest of the fish into the dirt. The cat sniffed it suspiciously. Soon another hut cat appeared—a slender black thing—and moved a little closer. Hanha knew both cats and whose hut they frequented, and knew the youngest children would not be far behind. He did not wish to be seen and so he decided to take another route to the cooking fires.

The most direct path would have sent him past the Warrior's huts and the sharpening of spears. This late in the morning their sparring would have ended and so they would have dispersed—leaving many of them with nothing but time to play jokes on those they considered weaker—like the Chief's apprentice, who was neither Warrior nor Herdsman, nor woman nor Chief. Hanha did not, therefore, mind the detour that carrying fish would require.

He would usually pass the Herder's huts and be forced to breathe in the smell of leather and meat and blood. Although the cattle—and the chickens—were not raised for their meat, it was not uncommon to sacrifice an animal that had become barren or weak. Last week the Chief had overseen the sacrifice of an old cow who no longer produced milk. The Leopard Chief said she had been in the village for longer than Hanha had been alive. The cow herself would be ritualistically taken apart—her blood used to seal building materials, her meat used to feed the village, her hide used for clothing, her bones for tools and weapons. The blood is what bothered him the most, and the buzzing flies.

No, he had no problem avoiding the Warriors or the Herding huts on his path towards the cooking fire. The path he walked this morning would bring him very near to his own former hut, where his mother still lived, that he could not enter. Sometimes he could walk by and hear her voice—but he could not see her. The Spirits of the Sky had forbidden it once he became the son of the Chief and therefore her apprentice—they had not forbidden him from hearing her voice, however.

[need a scene where the stranger and Hanha's blood mixes—or does the Chief make them do it?]

Hanha caught a fleeting echo of conversation from beyond the hut door. A newborn's fierce wail cut through his thoughts. His baby brother, a boy Hanha would never be allowed to meet unless by accident. And no one had “accidents” beneath the watchful eye of the Leopard Chief or the spirits. Hanha glanced wearily to the small carved cat that was woven into the grass of the hut walls. One crystal quartz eye glittered back. The other had fallen out long ago. Hanha forced himself to pass by the hut and not listen again. This was no longer his family; no longer his home. His home was with the Leopard Chief now and had been for the last seven years.

Hanha expected the village fires to be empty—but as he rounded his former home, he stumbled into a gathering crowd. And in the middle of it—the stranger. They had the stranger surrounded while tending one of the dying fires and were beginning to hurl small stones and calling out names. Hanha gripped the basket of fish tighter and pushed his way through the crowd. The stranger had fallen upon the Leopard Chief's floor and asked for sanctuary—and had been granted it when the Leopard Chief did not turn him away. Whatever the stranger had done, it was not for the villagers to decide punishment. That was now between the Leopard Chief and the Spirits. Some of the villagers seemed to have forgotten, and Hahna did not need to look to know who had thrown the first stone.

“This stranger belongs to the Leopard Chief!” Hanha yelled as he broke through the last line of villagers. The stranger had his bare back pressed dangerously close to the fire, arms up to shield his face. His shoulder was bloodied where a sharp stone had landed hard. Hanha caught tears in the stranger's eyes but he did not speak. The stranger wore a knife at his belt—a long, sharp blade of polished black bone. Hanha recognized it: it belonged to the Leopard Chief, but it remained at the stranger's belt.

An older man spat into the dirt, shifting dark brown eyes between Hanha and the stranger. Hanha was correct, and the villagers knew it, and so the man dropped the stone he was ready to throw. Children shouted and pointed and Hanha clapped his hands and motioned for the villagers to disperse. In a few moments, stones dropped to the ground and the crowd disappeared back to their daily tasks. One man remained, as Hanha had anticipated.

“Banwa, do not make me repeat myself,” Hanha warned, steadying the tremor in his voice. Hanha still carried the scars from his last encounter with Banwa. The younger man smirked, shifting his remaining stone from one hand to the other.

“I cannot hear you because I do not speak hut cat,” Banwa said and raised his hand to throw the stone—but a white streak darted out from beneath him and ran between his legs. Banwa startled, stumbled and fell face-first into the dirt. The white streak turned around and stopped near Banwa's sputtering, cursing form—and sat down in the dirt beside him. The long, slinky white cat licked one paw and looked up at Hanha expectantly. Hanha sighed, looked at his basket of fish and dropped a big, fat one in to the dirt. The cat snatched it up in greedy teeth and dragged it deeper beneath the fire braziers.

Banwa was on his feet quicker than Hanha had expected, wheeling around furiously to swing his fist. Hanha didn't move fast enough and Banwa's fist connected with his shoulder. Banwa wore the traditional spiked bracelets of the Young Warriors, meant only for sparring. Except he wore them all the time—and Hanha had forgotten. The sharpened metal sliced through flesh, causing Hanha's vision to flash white from intense pain. He sucked in a breath as fear overwhelmed him. Banwa said something but Hanha could not hear him. The sight of his own blood made him want to vomit. The world seemed to slow and when Banwa turned to strike again, Hanha moved to the side and let Banwa fly past him.

“That is enough.” The Leopard Chief's voice bellowed. Banwa dropped his fist and fell to the dirt, pressing his forehead to the ground. The white cat licked its lips, staring from beneath one of the fire pits. Sweat slid down Banwa's forehead. Hanha froze in place. The stranger stepped slowly away from the fire.

The Leopard Chief approached—bangled anklets sounding like a song. An angry song. She stepped beside Banwa and reached out, grabbing the young man by the ear and pulled him to his feet. He hissed in pain but did not attempt to stop her. She pulled his face close to her own and spoke very softly.

“This stranger has asked for sanctuary. Sanctuary. Protection from both Spirits and men. Or have you forgotten what it means to be a man, Banwa?”

The young man's lip curled, sending wrinkles across his scarred face. His cheek already bore the symbol of the lion, a streak of claw marks eternally pressed into his skin. He was too young for the scarfication—but had friends who were not. It was not a perfect scar, being a little crooked and it would never carry the same respect, as it was not done by the Leopard Chief. Hanha's own spiral hut-cat pattern across his shoulder and chest was done by the Leopard Chief's steady hand. Silently, Hanha hoped that this new wound would not ruin his own scarification—a result that Banwa had expected.

Banha opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. His own mother was the Leopard Chief's sister, although few in the village knew the truth. Banha could stand up to the Leopard Chief; there was no real leader among their people, and Banha frequently pushed the boundaries of what the village considered acceptable behavior. Hanha held his breath, waiting for Banwa to encourage the Leopard Chief to wield her considerable influence. He began to feel a little weak as blood dripped down his shoulder and chest sluggishly.

But Banwa did not, and the Leopard Chief motioned for the young man to be dismissed. Hanha let out a sigh of relief. The stranger chose that moment to sink down beside the fire pit, collapsing into the fire-warmed dirt. The sound of a squelching fish bones echoed from beneath the brazier. The Leopard Chief turned to look to the stranger, then back to Hanha. Her mouth was a firm line.

“I should have come with you,” she said, moving to kneel beside the stranger. “I knew Banwa would cause trouble.” She moved toward the stranger, first, Hanha noted. Not towards her wounded apprentice.

“Banwa always causes trouble,” Hanha replied with a slight smile, pretending he wasn't in pain. Only for a moment did his breath stop when he considered that Banwa's bracelet may have been poisoned—but even Banwa was not quite so reckless as to try and murder someone in front of the Leopard Chief.

He was thankful she had intervened. Simply being the apprentice to the Leopard Chief was often not enough reason to stop Banwa from drawing blood. What had this stranger done to draw the attention of half the village? And what trouble could Banwa possibly have with this strange not-man? And whose cat was that, anyway? Hahna reminded himself to clean beneath the fire pit in case the cat left anything behind. [need a scene where the stranger and Hanha's blood mixes—or does the Chief make them do it?]

It was then that Hanha noticed the stranger's arm was bleeding from trying to fend off the propelled rocks from earlier. His blood was bright red against his pale flesh—lighter than anyone else in the village, or any village that Hanha had ever seen. In the darkness of the hut it had not been so noticeable. Now, with fresh blood and sunlight, the stranger looked more like a Spirit than a Man. Hanha forced himself to ignore his own wound and approach the stranger and the Leopard Chief. The Chief spoke very quietly to the stranger, asking him questions in an unknown language. The stranger seemed hesitant to speak in front of Hanha, and glanced up at him several times.

Hanha was accustomed to skepticism and hostility—most of the villagers did not accept him as the Leopard Chief's apprentice. And while Hanha himself had witnessed the power of the Spirits within the Leopard Chief, he himself had never shown any signs of the Spirit within him. Many of the villagers—often led by Banwa—often accused Hanha of being a Spirit of No; a kind of wandering spirit with no real home that lurked in graveyards and swamps. Hanha didn't mind being accused of being a spirit, and was accustomed to people not wanting his help but accepting it grudgingly at the Leopard Chief's insistence. This stranger, it seemed, was also afraid of him.

“Give me your arm,” Hanha said as he knelt on the other side of the stranger. The stranger's gaze flickered from the Leopard Chief to Hanha. When the Chief nodded—and not before—the stranger held out his arm for Hanha to inspect. Hahna gripped the stranger's skin and inspected it. The rock had been sharp and had sliced the skin but did not cut very deep.

As Hanha inspected the wound, the Leopard Chief approached them. She pressed her bare palm against the wound on the stranger's shoulder, forcing blood to the surface. The stranger winced, clear blue eyes wide with pain and confusion—but not, Hanha noticed, distrust. He trusted the Leopard Chief, like any of the other villagers, even if it was a bit hesitantly. This stranger, too, had seen the power of the Spirits within the Leopard Chief.

Once blood seeped between her fingers, the Leopard Chief moved and pressed her hand against Hanha's chest, hard. As her hand touched his skin—his shoulder felt ablaze. Hanha tried to jump back, but knew better than to defy the Leopard Chief. He gritted his teeth together and felt tears rush to the corners of his eyes. The stranger's blood felt like hot coals against his skin, and then he felt it as it began to flow through his own body.

“What..?” Hanha began to ask, but his words drifted off. Staring down at the Leopard Chief's hand pressed against his shoulder, he watched as a white light began to drift beneath his skin—like a small water snake. The stranger's blood was wriggling beneath his skin, twisting and writhing like a creature alive. And then the pain stopped, and so did the light. The Leopard Chief pressed hard one last time, then raised her doubly-bloodied palm to her own chest. She slapped her hand hard against the center of her chest and left a red hand-print that burst into flames. Fire and smoke flashed—and was gone. They were left alone with the smell of acrid smoke. The stranger fell to his knees again.

“This man is going to die,” the Leopard Chief spoke softly. She did not move to help him up. In the eyes of the Leopard Chief, this stranger was a man. To Hanha, he was not so convinced. He was still a stranger without a name, without a title or purpose. Even Banwa, as terrible as he was most of the time, was a prized Young Warrior in the village. Hanha, as ridiculed and shunned as he often felt as an Apprentice, still had a place here. This stranger was not a man until he had a place. The Leopard Chief had given him a place now—a death. His place would be with the dead.

“What did this man do?” Hanha asked. “Why did he come to your hut half-dead and ask for sanctuary? Only men who kill other men do that.”

“This man is a murderer—but he did not kill just anyone. The Spirits will cleanse him before his death, and you, Hanha, will walk his Spirit to the Below.”

Me?” Hanha's voice squeaked. “But only an Ascended can do that—I'm not—“

“You are. You are ready. Did you not see the Spirits that had been beside you today?”

Hanha nodded, slowly. He had seen them, tormented by various strange hut cats all morning. But to be an Ascended? To move from being just the Leopard Chief's apprentice to an Ascended, a step below her? It would mean the respect of the entire village—untouchable by Banwa and his blades, able to see his mother and brother again—Hanha felt light-headed. Whether it was blood loss or elation, he could not be sure.

“Wait,” Hanha tried to catch his breath. His chest felt tight. “Why? Why now?” His world began to spin. He was falling. He was laying on his back in the dirt, looking up at the morning sky. Clouds drifted by. The world was silent. He felt the stranger's presence on the ground beside him. The Leopard Chief's face filled his vision.

“Like this stranger, you, too, are dying.” Hanha's vision began to darken. His hand felt wet—beside him, a fluffy white cat was licking fish scales from his finger tips. His basket of fish had been overturned in to the dirt. The sound of the stranger's unsteady breaths lulled him into darkness.


The black-and-white cat watched from beneath the opposite fire brazier.

Nehnagi was the name most villagers would recognize—the Spirit of the Lost River. A place long ago forgotten since Hanha's village had moved, seeking higher lands protected from the rains. The Lost River was flooded now, joining with the Lost Sea, swallowing up entire villages that did not move fast enough.

The Leopard Chief recognized the presence of Nehnagi and bowed her head in acknowledgment. The black-and-white cat snapped one last fish bone from its mouth and stepped forward. Nehnagi did not actually need to eat, being a Spirit, but it did enjoy the sound of crunching bones. A side-effect of being a former Spirit of Below. Being a Spirit of the Lost River meant Nehnagi's place now was to walk the spirits of the dead to the Below.

The black-and-white cat watched from beneath the opposite fire brazier.

Nehnagi was the name most villagers would recognize—the Spirit of the Lost River. A place long ago forgotten since Hanha's village had moved, seeking higher lands protected from the rains. The Lost River was flooded now, joining with the Lost Sea, swallowing up entire villages that did not move fast enough.

The Leopard Chief recognized the presence of Nehnagi and bowed her head in acknowledgment. The black-and-white cat snapped one last fish bone from its mouth and stepped forward. Nehnagi did not actually need to eat, being a Spirit, but it did enjoy the sound of crunching bones. A side-effect of being a former Spirit of Below. Being a Spirit of the Lost River meant Nehnagi's place now was to walk the spirits of the dead to the Below.

The cat's white eye drifted lazily between the young man who had passed out—and the man whose spirit drifted dangerously close to death. The Leopard Chief lowered herself to her knees in the dirt and pressed her forehead against the ground. Nehnagi sighed and rolled one eye downward toward the woman.

“You know me, blood of my blood,” Nehnagi purred, licking one paw. The Leopard Chief's head shot up at the sound. Her eyes were wide with fear. No animal—not even those of the Spirits—could speak.

Or could they? All this time? Nehnagi was proud of the woman, she was no fool; the Leopard Chief recovered herself quickly and did not look away. Instead, she caught the cat's blank gaze and held it.

“Blood of my blood,” the woman repeated, although she was not sure what the cat meant.

“The Leopard, whose skin you wear. A cat. Blood of my blood, and so, too, are you. And--” the cat licked a paw slowly, turning a milky white gaze to Hanha. “so is the boy.”

“What do you want with the boy?” The Leopard Chief's voice was strained. So, she was not perfect after all. The cat finished cleaning one paw and stood a little straighter.

“Leopard Chief, do not overstep your bounds. It is not your place to question the Spirits.” Nehnagi smiled and added, “Although I've never been one to follow the rules.” The Leopard Chief fel the black patch of scarred skin staring back at her, although there was no eye left. The feeling sent a chill up her spine.

“The boy is dying.” Nehnagi said at last, watching as the young man's chest rose and fell slower and slower.

“Yes,” the Leopard Chief croaked, beginning to lose her voice from fear. Her throat felt dry.

“And you are the reason the boy is dying,” Nehnagi added. The Leopard Chief closed her eyes and nodded.

“The boy is an acceptable sacrifice, and the Spirits you wanted were called. Now, what it so important to the Spirit of a Leopard that she would risk the life of her child?” Nehnagi asked.

The Leopard Chief began to rise slowly, never taking her eye off the mysterious Spirit.

“This man whose soul you would take to the Below, this is a man I love.” The Leopard Chief raised her chin defiantly. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

“Spirits do not grant favors--”

“This is not a favor. This is a debt.” Her voice was a low growl.

Nehnagi paused thoughtfully. It was not unheard of for some Spirits to make promises to influential humans. The Leopard Chief certainly was that, being one of the strongest shamans of her generation. She had saved—and ended—the lives of countless villagers and beasts, cleansed the souls of nameless spirits and buried the dead without a complaint. Her connection to the spirits was strong—and her trust was stronger still. Foolish, but loyal, traits that Nehnagi admired.

But if a promise had been made--it had not been to the Spirit of the Lost River. It was not Nehnagi's debt to fulfill.

“A debt, you say. And one that you call due with blood. Tell me, blood of my blood, what debt do you claim?”

“This man must live—as must the boy. He is my son; they share the same blood. Your blood. And it is poisoned.”

Nehnagi studied the young man for a long time. White eyes closed to slitted lids, looking beyond the world of the living, to see the world of the Spirits. The bodies became nothing more than shells, a bright white light nestled faintly inside each of their chests. The man's light was dimmer then the boy's but they were the same light, Nehnagi was certain. Nehnagi had watched over the Leopard Chief and her village for a long time. Nehnagi did not recognize the man who the Leopard Cheif claimed to love, but the light could not lie. The blood did not lie. The poison ran through their blood: they had magic, and it would kill them if Nehnagi did not intervene.

“You are a magic-eater,” Nehnagi said suddenly, watching as the faint light danced from the chest of the man towards the woman. It settled brightly within her own chest. The Leopard Chief was killing them without meaning to; her mere presence was draining their lives away. How long had she weakened the young man before she realized she was the problem?

“It is true, there is little magic left that blossoms in the blood of humans. You were right to bring me to them. They will live—but they will be lost to you.”

The Leopard Chief let out a long breath and finally fell to her knees, as if a heavy burden had been suddenly lifted from her shoulders and she had no strength left. She nodded, tears running down her face. Whomever the proud Leopard Chief had been—now, she was merely a woman, grieving the loss of those she loved. The dead rested beside her; although still living, she would never see them again. She had lost them to the only faith worse than death—to the service of the Spirits. The only way she would see either of them now would be in the time between life and death, when she asked for the guidance of the Spirits themselves, or when cleansing the souls of the dying.

At least she could be thankful for the greater good—magic was within their blood. Magic their village had not known for generations. Like her own magic-eating, their magic was rare.

Nehnagi waited until the woman stopped crying.


CampNaNoWriMo Day 5

964 words total, an updated and expanded version of Day 4. Stock photo by falln-stock on DeviantArtStock photo by falln-stock on DeviantArt


/Suggest-a-Tron ver 2.506 online

/accessing household, please wait...

/camera 1 ready

/camera 2 ready

/camera 3 offline

/camera 1 zoom

/Suggest-a-Tron ver 2.506 offline

0:00 subject in sleep mode

01:00 subject in sleep mode

02:00 subject in sleep mode

03:00 subject in sleep mode

04:00 subject in sleep mode

05:00 subject in sleep mode

06:00 first alarm sounds

06:04 subject awakens

Edith woke at 6:04AM because sleeping in until 6:05AM was a crime. She set her alarm for ten minutes, checked beneath the bathroom sink for recording devices, then took a shower. She set another alarm to comb her hair, brush her teeth and get dressed. She ran the comb along the bathroom floor tiles to dull the teeth.

Edith Grey was a model citizen when the cameras were watching.

/subject looks at camera 4

The camera is always watching. Edith thought to herself and wondered if the camera could hear her thoughts. She waited for a moment to give the camera time to formulate a response—then headed toward the kitchen. By 6:25AM she had a bowl of cereal and sat down in front of her large screen Suggest-o-Tron and to wait for the Morning Vote.

The Suggest-o-Tron powered on.

Ballot Initiative 1984. Address selected: 16 Canterbury Street. Today's vote. The address belonged to her neighbor Mr. Martinez. Edith knew why. Last week someone had reported him with a red envelope. Yesterday the secret police found a pair of dull scissors in his kitchen.

Edith voted no for Ballot Initiative 1984. She moved to her front window and lit a candle in a blue vase. Her neighbor, at least, would know her vote. It was up to the Suggest-a-Tron now.

/camera 3 rotates



Joseph Martinez sat across from his wife. His shoulders were sore from restless sleep and his back ached from a long morning of working in the fields. He hated fruit season. He ate his cereal in silence and waited for his muscles to relax. His wife Ester left her breakfast untouched. She had lost her appetite ever since the red envelope had found a home on their kitchen table. This morning they'd receive the results of Ballot Imitative 1984. This morning they'd discover if their family would be shipped off to work on The Wall.

His youngest son stared at him from across the table. The boy's dark brown eyes darted from clock to the blank Suggest-a-Tron screen that sat in the middle of the table.

The clock struck 06:30 and the boy bounced to his feet as the Suggest-a-Tron screen lit up.

Joseph whispered a silent prayer.

Across the street—a blue light flickered in the window.



/Suggest-a-Tron ver 2.507 online

/all votes collected

/allocating extra vote to E. William's household

/processing results, please wait…

/Suggest-a-Tron ver 2.507 offline


Edith waited, watching the slow moving hands of the clock on the wall. Ten seconds. Five seconds. Her hand tightened around the door knob. Two seconds. Her eyes darted back to the red glare of the Suggest-a-Tron. Had the light just blinked? Was it awake early before the morning Mandatory Vote, somehow able to move forward the two inches it would need to get a clear line of sight to the closet door? The same line of sight that Edith had eluded for so many years? Had the Suggest-a-Tron turned on early, finally aware of her intentions? Her heart began to race.

No. The clock slammed to mark 07:29 hours.

She breathed and turned the knob. She rolled around the door and fell into the closet with a soft thud. It was empty of clothing. No spare jackets. No umbrella. Just darkness. The Suggest-a-Tron could not see her. It wasn’t scheduled to turn on until exactly 7:30. Five seconds. She pulled the door behind her and closed her eyes against the dark. She faced the closet door, counting each second in her head, and slid down the wall. Ten seconds.

She felt with her right hand: just where she’d left it, a stray coaxial cable that fed from the Suggest-a-Tron into the closet. Fifteen seconds. She very carefully pulled the slack through her fingers until she felt the familiar indents in the rubber casing. Teeth marks. Twenty seconds. She pulled the cable to her mouth and began to chew. Dried blood and saliva met her tongue from where the cabling had cut her gums before. Thirty seconds. She dropped the cable, pushed herself up the wall and opened the closet door. Forty-five seconds. She had made good progress today. It wouldn’t be much longer now.

She opened the closet door and stepped back into the line of sight of the Suggest-a-Tron.

07:30 and the red light flickered on. A message began scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Edith rushed in place herself directly in front of the screen.

/good morning


The red light flickered again and tiny clicks and buzzes sounded from within the Suggest-a-Tron. Edith picked up the remote control and tried to steady her hands. She typed a reply on the compact keyboard as she sat down on her couch.

/Good Morning. ~E

/enter verification code

Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She checked the screen. Your confirmation code is:




7:30am she was back in the line-of-sight of the Suggest-a-Tron. One minute a day, every day, for the past ten years. Her gums were scarred from the memories.

16:33. The door bell rang. Edith shut the closet door as quietly as she could. The closet door had jammed and she'd been stuck for three minutes longer than she had intended. The Afternoon Ballot had started already. The door bell rang again, this time accompanied by knocking.

Edith caught her breath then ran to the front door.

In her fish-eye view through the door, her neighbor Evan stood flanked by two Secret Police Officers. Evan wore all white, the officers wore all black. Under better circumstances, she may even have found him attractive. Her hand shook as she turned the knob. Three minutes late.


[ this scene was supposed to be done by her neighbor, and then after she goes to join the others, she sees the neighbor but they look JUST as upset about it as she is… ]

/Suggest-a-Tron ver 2.508 online

/camera 3 ready

/camera 3 zoom

/officer 3206 speaks: “Miss Grey you are fully aware of the Voting Participation Law. Are you in full control of your cognitive abilities?”

/two second delay, subject nods

/officer 3206, looks directly at camera 3, speaks: “You were three minutes late addressing your Suggest-a-Tron. Do you understand the punishment?”

/subject nods

/officer 3206 turns to subject 2, identified: Evan Williams. [address]

/civilian 1101 grabs subject's neck and slams subject's head against front door, blood spatter

/subject falls to the ground, blood detected on camera

/subject speaks, inappropriate volume: “You can't do this!”

/officer 3206 kicks subject in stomach

/officer 3211 removes safety baton from holster

/[inaudible groans]

/end sound recording

/end visual recording

/Suggest-a-Tron ver 2.508 offline


Edith waited until the officers had left before she pulled herself up using the door knob. Her ribs were bruised, her shirt was ripped and her nose wouldn't stop bleeding. She pried her face off the ground with the sound of ripping skin. Blood oozed between her nose and lip. She licked the blood away, fumbled with the front door, and checked her watch.

16:50. She had just enough time to put apply an ice pack to her nose and wash her face. She wouldn't have time to change before the trucks arrived.

17:00. Edith limped out the front door and held her shoulders as high as she could. She glanced at her neighbor's house across the street. Mr. [name] wasn't on his front lawn. Edith checked her watch to make sure she hadn't broken it during the fall. A drop of blood dripped from her lower lip. The time was right. Mr. Martinez was late. The Ballot Initiative must have passed.

“Daddy, where is Mr. Martinez?” A boy's voice sounded in the next yard over. Edith closed her eyes: she knew the answer, but wished the father would spare the child.

“He's going to help build The Wall. Him, his wife and their three sons.” The father's voice lowered and Edith couldn't hear the rest. The son's face went pale at his father's words and he stood a little taller. The boy clutched a pair of blue neon children's scissors in both hands. Edith hadn't seen those kinds of colors in many years.

“I liked Mr. Martinez. And Miss. Misses Martinez. And the boys next door. They had cats.” The boy looked down at the scissors in his hands. “I liked their black cat.” The boy's blue eyes went wide and he grabbed the corner of his father's shirt. “Who is going to feed Mr. Mittens?”

“Mr. Mittens will have to take care of himself, now.”

The boy frowned and scrubbed a tear from his cheek.

Inside the house—a gunshot sounded.

A black armored vehicle rumbled around the street corner. It parked in front of Mr. Martinez's house. Six men unloaded from the back of the vehicle and stormed the house. The driver and passenger approached Edith's neighbors. The boy stepped forward—gleefully holding out the pair of children's scissors. An officer—Edith recognized the red stars across his chest—knelt down and patted the child on the head.

[ start from the perspective of the officer; like the author Saunder's and his head-hopping]

Officer Williams admired the boy's blond hair for a moment and inspected the skin on his neck and shoulders. The boy was young, perhaps six or seven. Too young to join the military, but we'll recruit him for the Neighborhood Watch. Williams pulled a notebook from his breast pocket and a pen.

Officer Williams surveyed the boy. Too young for the military but he would grow up to be tall, white and blonde. A model citizen. He was crying now, an unfortunate trait that could be weeded out during Orientation. The boy was young, perhaps six or seven. It would be at least three more years before Orientation. If he kept up that level of loyalty—Williams noted how tightly the boy guarded the scissors—he would be enlisted as an Officer right away. If he survives Orientation, the Suggest-a-Tron may place him in the Welcome Party. I'll put in a good word for his address.

# Hitler’s Antenna

# Trucks arrive for citizens to turn in their sharp objects


/Suggest-a-Tron ver 2.508 offline

/criminal activity detected, notifying authorities


/the door bell rings

/camera 3 pans to doorstep

/identification module: officer 3206

/identification confirmed

/disengage security lock on door 1

/begin audio recording

“Miss Grey? Our system shows your Suggest-a-Tron is offline. Are you having

technical difficulties?”

A knock sounds at the door. In the background--the Suggest-a-Tron is full of static. The

white noise is interrupted only by the spark of an electrical shock. The cable running

from the closet to the Suggest-a-Tron is severed, whipping around wildly with electrical currents. Edith lays lifeless on the floor, a shocked and pained smile forever plastered to her stiff dead features.

She was finally free of the Suggest-o-Tron.

18:20 subject offline

19:00 subject offline

20:00 subject offline

21:00 subject offline

22:00 subject offline

23:00 subject offline

24:00 subject confirmed dead

/Suggest-a-Tron ver 2.507 offline

Story 2: The Devil Loves Banana Bread

[ skip to the story ] The second story for Creative Writing had to get a little more complicated. We had to use footnotes. And employ specific tactics for this story (once again stolen straight from my Instructor's page):

STORY TWO: Character

Your story should be an original work of fiction that:

• uses at least two of the character-construction techniques that we have discussed in class. (Use footnotes inside your story to show the technique in question and to discuss what you hope to accomplish with it). • employs free indirect style or first person as the primary narrative mode. • constructs a scene (or sequence of scenes), using summary and commentary as a supplement to the scene(s). • is a new story that you have not worked on before the beginning of this semester. • is well-developed and substantial, at least 1500 words. (Please note that this is a minimum. I expect that many of you will write 2000 or more words). • is honed, polished, and proofread. Not a rough draft.


I wrote the first-ish draft and gave it to my classmate to edit it: heavily. Since I only had a partial story by that point, they weren't able to edit as much as perhaps my teacher would have preferred. I kept as many edits as I agreed with (which were most).


Sadly I've managed to misplace my copy with my classmates handwritten notes on them. If I find it, I'll come back and add it to the post. It's really nice to get the entire experience recorded.


Image by aaronrthompson at DeviantArt

The Devil Loves Banana Bread


by Michelle Brumley

James wasn't the demon's real name—but he'd been a denizen of Earth so long, he had forgotten what it really was. He may have had an otherworldly name like the angel did but he preferred James. Something about it rolled off his golden tongue like sin. James had spent the last three hundred years serving a sentence on Earth and he was two days away from returning to Hell. All he had to do was wait. And make banana bread.

“I'm out of nutmeg.” He set down his mixing bowl, exasperated. When Gabriel didn't stop reading the newspaper, James dropped the carton of eggs on the floor. “And eggs.” He added with a nod. Gabriel lowered his newspaper, carefully refraining from showing irritation. Gabriel smiled, his angelic features sharp as knives; he could cut a piece of paper with his perfect cheekbones. His beauty always gave James a hard-on, which he generally announced loudly, to the embarrassment of his warden. Luckily Gabriel was spared an announcement due to James and his lack of nutmeg.

“What do you need nutmeg for?” Gabriel smiled and looked at the floor. Sunny yellow egg yokes made a sad face on the tile.

“I killed our neighbor last week. Now I can't go and see her to get more nutmeg. Or eggs.” James wiped his hands across his apron. His favorite apron: the one that made Gabriel blush the most. The angel averted his eyes from the apron and James caught a flash of red on his cheeks.

“Can you really say 'murdered'? I mean—”

“Alright. I was there when the neighbor lady died suddenly of natural causes. I like to exaggerate. And I mean I'm really out of nutmeg and eggs, it's now a matter of life or death.”

The angel carefully folded his newspaper and sighed. Before he could answer—the oven dinged and James busied himself with an oven mitt. When James had discovered Ebay, many of the items in their apartment were methodically replaced with inappropriate versions. Oven mitts once covered in chickens, for example, were now covered in naked women or swastikas. Gabriel was just thankful that James had given up knitting.

“You only have two days left in your sentence. Wait it out. Don't take any unnecessary risks to getting your sentence extended—like irritating me.” A thinly veiled threat; the last time James' sentence had been extended had been a year ago: a day extension for convincing an elderly neighbor to play a game of Strip Cribbage. James hadn't forgotten. He looked at the skin on his left arm: a long, washed-out row of black tally marks stained his skin. Each one faded from black to light gray, like an old sliver beneath his flesh, each day his sentence drew to a close. Two splinters remained. Two days of perfect behavior and he'd be in Hell eating banana bread with Lucifer himself. If he could get nutmeg and eggs in time. It had been three hundred years after all. James wanted to make a good impression.

James pushed a tray of hot cookies toward the angel.1

“I understand your incessant need to make banana bread—but I have my orders.” Gabriel reached forward and took a cookie. “Three hundred years hasn't dulled my senses yet.”

“You don't understand. Banana bread is his favorite. Do you really want to be responsible for that?”2

Gabriel ate his cookie in silence. James waited.

“What does the neighbor have to do with this?”

“She was my nutmeg dealer.”

“I don't think that's what you call her. Neighbor is fine.”

“Well, she's dead. So now I can't ask her for ingredients. I don't have any other choice. If I'm going to make this banana bread in less than two days—you have to let me leave to get nutmeg.”3

“Why two days?” Gabriel asked, pretending to forget. He arched a gorgeous eyebrow. For an angel, he looked convincingly innocent.4

“Why do we even have a calendar if you can't read it? Two days. Two days is all I have left of my sentence." James knew quite well why Gabriel didn't read the calendar he had placed prominently in the kitchen: it was full of muscle bound glistening firefighters. Gabriel knew exactly where the calendar was and refused to check.

“Who is really being punished here?” Gabriel looked toward the spackled ceiling.

“Do you have to talk to Him in front of me? It makes my skin itch.”

Before Gabriel could answer—his head dropped heavily to the kitchen counter. An extremely poisonous cookie rolled from his limp fingers. The neighbor lady had died of natural causes, that much was true. But not before James had filled his lunchbox with her prescription drugs. The cookies would have killed a mortal man—being over-saturated with a mix of Comet and Prozac but Gabriel was an immortal with a terrible sense of taste. He'd wake up in a few hours, just long enough for James to catch the afternoon bus.5


“OF ALL THE CRUEL, MISGUIDED AND HORRIBLE THINGS TO INFLICT UPON MANKIND,” James shouted nasally, “and He decides to make hay fever.” Snot dripped down his beautiful nose and had crusted over his lips.

He sneezed.

“Bless you—” “DAMN IT.” A vein flared up across James’ forehead; he felt his left eye twitch involuntarily. Of course, the idiot woman hadn’t meant it, it was only a customary response. To anyone else, it would most certainly not have exorcised a demon—but to a demon, it was much worse.

He felt the skin on his wrist burn. He rolled up the loose sleeve of his dress shirt and watched as an ugly black scar wriggled beneath his skin like a snake. When it died, another tally mark had been added to the two remaining. He now had three days left for his sentence on Earth. The careless woman had just added another.

Nutmeg. He reminded himself, and rolled his sleeve back down with a sigh. He sneezed again. “Bless—” “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.” His wings unfurled with his words but only one passenger on the bus saw him—the man jacked up on meth. The old woman looked startled, her gray, spotted hands shook from the sound of his voice. She turned to her sleeping husband.

“He didn’t have to be so rude.”

James sighed. Bus rides made him irritable at best, but he hadn't calculated hay fever into his plan to get nutmeg. How did these mortals deal with such trivial things? Torture, screams of agony, asphyxiation—James found those tasks preferable to being stuck on a bus sneezing the entire time. Everyone wanted to make small talk. James just wanted them all to go away. The tweaker in the seat in front of him rolled his eyes to the back of the head, muttered something inaudible, and turned away. James folded his wings back beneath his jacket. It had been a good twenty-five years since he'd ridden the bus. The seats had gotten smaller, the people pressed in closer. It reminded him of a sardine can or the sixth circle of Hell reserved for people who disliked banana bread. Luckily, he was a top-tier demon and would never see anything lower than the second or third. Unless, perhaps, he lost his patience and killed everyone on the bus.

The drug addict had turned back around in his seat. James considered reminding the man to wear his seat belt.6 Spittle and blood dripped down the side of the addict's mouth.

“Three more days left, James.”


By the time James reached the end of the afternoon bus route: his bout of hay fever had added another six days to his sentence on Earth. Despite his loud, angry warnings to anyone and everyone who kept blessing him. The old woman had gotten off at the very next stop, and the tweaker had been forcibly removed after vomiting on his fellow passengers. James had laughed until he discovered he had been included in the series of victims.

James' had discarded his dress shirt and jacket into a trash can at the bus station and stolen a jacket from a homeless man. It smelled slightly less than his previous vomit-covered shirt. A mix somewhere between stale beer and marijuana. Seven days now and his knuckles hurt from the effort of punching the man in the face. He may have loosened a few of the man's teeth and, as far as James was concerned, did him a favor.

The last time he had ridden the afternoon bus had been over a decade ago and the city had looked different then. The supermarket where he last purchased nutmeg was gone: replaced by a Vietnamese Nail Salon and a Vapor Shop. The homeless man had been able to tell him where a source for nutmeg could be found: some center of evil, called “Walmart.”7 It sounded lovely. The homeless man hadn't given clear directions through a bloodied, broken jaw—but James got the feeling it was about a ten-minute walk. He straightened his shoulders, flexed his hand—if he was unable to mix a bowl of banana bread batter, he made a mental note to kill that homeless man—and began walking in the direction of Walmart.


“Excuse me, sir.” A male's voice cracked behind James. “Do you have your receipt?” James couldn't hear over the sound of the door alarm. He adjusted the brown paper bag under one arm, careful not to crush the dozen eggs.

“Receipt?” James asked, yelling over the sound of the alarm.

“Y-yes, sir.” The young male stuttered and pointed towards the grocery bag. James raised his eyebrows. He was going to regret it, but he had technically stolen the groceries. At least, by the time he left the building, they'd be technically stolen. What was one more day if he could get out of Walmart? The place was insufferable. So many people coughing, suffering from such obesity that they needed mechanized carts to push their bloated mortal coils around. Lucifer himself could have designed the entire place. James' decided next time he would try a different store.

“No, I don't have my receipt.” James' used his demonic charm, hammering each word into the mind of the weak-willed human. “And you don't care. Step aside.” It would cost him another day for misusing his supernatural abilities; but all he wanted to do was get home and start baking. He didn't have time for this. He felt his skin prickle as the young man nodded slowly and stepped away from the door. A uniformed security guard began talking to the young man just as James' left the building. He walked to the bus stop and waited.


The door to the apartment was ajar.

“I just need two hours,” James' insisted, rushing up the front stairs and flinging open the door. He knew Gabriel would be mad, but surely he'd understand how important this was—

But it wasn't Gabriel that waited for him. A tall, slender man in skinny jeans and a red-flannel shirt sat cross-legged on the couch. Thick-rimmed glasses slid down the man's nose as he held out a Bible in front of him, the corner of his mouth twisted in to a wry smile. The edges of his fingertips were smoking.

“By my estimation, you have twenty-one days left. That bus ride home must have been Hell.” A cell phone buzzed in the man's pocket and he set the Bible down, face first, into an ashtray. “Hold on, I have to reply to this.”

“My Prince,” James fell to his knees but was careful to lower the grocery bag first. He set the eggs down and pressed his forehead to the carpet. With his head turned to the side, he saw Gabriel was also lying on the floor—hands tied behind his back, eyes wide with fear. His wings were bound and bloodied feathers fell to the carpet.

Lucifer tapped manicured fingernails across the screen of his red-lacquered iPhone. He smiled to himself and then turned his smoldering gaze upon James.

“I'm in a bargaining mood,” Lucifer said and stood from the couch gracefully. “Stand.”

James stood, lifting the grocery bag along with him.

“I'll tell you what,8” Lucifer paced the living room floor. His footsteps burned tracks into their Oriental rug. “You make me the best damn banana bread you can manage, and I'll forgive—” He paused then, closing his eyes. He counted on one hand, then another until he ran out of fingers. “The numerous and various sins you committed while you were gone. And Gabriel will forget, too.” The forgotten angel nodded his head against the carpet. A glittering tear slid down his cheek.

James tried to conceal his excitement. He shifted to the left slightly.

“An hour, my Prince, and you'll have the best damn banana bread you can imagine.”


1  This is James' first direct action towards escaping confinement and getting what he wants: nutmeg. He pushes the cookies towards Gabriel, suggesting he eat them. (Technique #2: characters who want something and whose actions grow out of those objectives.)

2  (Technique# 3: Construct characters by putting them in scenes where they interact with other characters actively, in pursuit of their objectives. James' is intentionally upsetting Gabriel to distract him from the act of eating cookies.

3  (Technique #2) James' repeats his intention to leave.

4  (Technique# 3) Gabriel knows why, but he's not completely innocent, either. He's provoking James here.

5 (Technique #2) The end result of James' labors: he couldn't make banana bread, but he could make poisoned cookies. A nefarious action to get what he needs, he incapacitates his captor and leaves the house.

6  This could be a (Technique #4) if I had given James' a reason to change his behavior yet. However, you'll see his behavior doesn't improve, it gets worse, when he gets off the bus. If I were re-writing, I'd work this in somewhere.

7  (# 2) James' has requested information from a homeless man about where he can find nutmeg.

8  (Technique# 3) The Devil wants his banana bread. So much so that he's willing to forgive his demon for his transgressions in order to get it. He's bargaining, and he knows that James' won't resist.


The first draft of my story looked like this, full of rambling notes and snippets of dialogue. Dialogue seems to be how I start all of my stories.


When demons have hay fever A.K.A. Satan loves banana bread

“Bless you.” “DAMN IT.”

Sometimes demons have to go into the big city, there are some spells and incantations these hick folk can’t conjure up. So a trip to the inner city is necessary. But hay ever...

We’re so conditioned to automatically say “Bless you,” when we hear someone sneeze. Hell, even as an atheist, I say it out of habit, even if I don’t believe it at all.

There is a joke that goes something like: “If you sneeze once, I’ll say ‘bless you,’ but after the third time I have to assume it’s not working and you’re a demon.”

Most demons are surprised to find they are, in fact, demons. Many of us die as terrified, angry atheists, and as a joke (I can only assume it’s a joke) we’re sent back to Earth. A short story

Beginning, middle and end.

“I’m out of nutmeg. I killed the neighbor last week. Force of habit. Now I have to go to town to get more nutmeg.”

“Can you really say ‘killed’? I mean--” “Alright, I was there when the neighbor died suddenly of natural causes. I like to exaggerate.” “What’s the big problem?” “I have hay fever.”

“And?” “And if I waited three more days, I’d be free to return. I’ve been watching the calendar. Three days.”

“Then wait three days.” “But. Banana bread. He loves banana bread.” “You’re going to bring the Son of Perdition--banana bread.” “Not if I don’t have any nutmeg I’m not. He has standards. He loves good banana bread, not just the shit you can buy in the stores. Who knows what they put in that stuff. With my luck, it’d probably be for some Christian fundraiser and would taste like shit.”

A.K.A. “The Devil Loves Banana Bread.”



We’ll meet the demon, who is cheerily mixing ingredients for banana bread and checks his calendar. Three more days is all that’s left! The demon--who can’t remember his actual name, so he has taken to call himself James--realizes he’s out of nutmeg.

His guard, an angel who has distinctly not forgotten their name (it’s something pretentious sounding), watches over him. The angel is another man, so beautiful that James can never look him in the eyes without getting a hard on. Which only pisses the angel off because, you know, homosexuality.

The two have a tense relationship (of which James exploits often to the angel’s irritation, ie: wearing an inappropriate apron) but James finally finds a way to convince the angel to let him leave the house for a few days. “I only have 3 days left here, let me go and explore. I need nutmeg, anyways. You wouldn’t want me to fuck up Satan’s banana bread, would you? Do you really want to be responsible for that?”

“If it means you’ll take off that disgusting apron, yes. Of course I want you to leave. I have my orders.”

James may have been out of nutmeg, but he wasn’t out of (something that makes people sleep). His addict friend had visited yesterday and, after a long conversation where his addict friend rambled incessantly (during which James changed his shape to a ginger-haired woman and a rabbit, just to fuck with him), he managed to steal a dram of (sleepy stuff). The entire bottle of which was now in the cookies he had just given to the angel.

Once the angel is asleep, James will tie him up--naked, probably--excuse himself for the evening, and head in to town for some much-needed nutmeg.


The Middle


“OF ALL THE CRUEL, MISGUIDED AND HORRIBLE THINGS TO INFLICT UPON MANKIND,” James shouted nasally, “and He decides to make hay fever.” Snot was dripping down his beautiful nose and had crusted over his lips while he slept.

He sneezed.

“Bless you--” “DAMN IT.”

A vein flared up across James’ forehead; he felt his left eye twitch involuntarily. Of course, the idiot woman hadn’t meant it, it was only a force of habit that she recounted the [origin of the phrase] without a second thought. To anyone else, it would most certainly not have exorcised a demon--but to a demon, it was much worse.

He felt the skin on his wrist prickle and burn. He rolled up the loose sleeve of his dress shirt and watched as an ugly black scar wriggled beneath his skin like a snake. When it died, another tally mark had been added to the three remaining. He now had four days left in his sentence to Earth, and the careless woman had just added it for him.

Nutmeg. He reminded himself, and rolled his sleeve back down with a sigh. He sneezed again.


His wings had unfurled with his words but only one passenger on the bus saw him--the man so jacked up on meth he was seeing two demons. The old woman looked startled, her gray, spotted hands shaking from the sound of his voice. She turned to her husband.

“He didn’t have to be so rude.”

James sighed. ##

The Demon Attempts To Buy Nutmeg

“Did you pay for that?”


Not sure where this story is going yet, he may very well get a job at Walmart instead.

Or see a flyer that says, “Speak with the Dead, volunteers needed!”


Lucifer stood in the doorway, pale skin slick with blood and sweat. He had lost weight. And he was wearing skinny jeans.

“Is that banana bread?” He asked, perfect lips curving in to a more-devilish-than-normal smile. “My favorite.”