Hurray for book shopping and coffee with friend(s). Forget that it is rainy and cold (what an excuse to wear a fashionable scarf and hat), warm tea and tantalizing conversation make up for lousy weather. Also, buying books makes for an excellent day.

Of course, I've lost two already. Hubby read It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Zombies: A Book of Zombie Christmas Carols (by Michael P. Shardlin and Jeff Weiget) before moving on to Already Dead by Charlie Huston. That's all right. I'm still reading Mercury Falls by Robert Kroese and A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I have a little bit before I can move on.

Needless to say, when Hubby isn't reading my books, I'm surrounding myself with them on the couch like some great dragon on a pile of gold. Damn my paper fetish.

In the Romance isle of B&N, I realized something. I no longer have writing goals. For the longest time, I wanted to be published in print. I worked at that for years. However, in the past six months, I've come to realize that any mouth-breather can be published in print. This idea was crystallized when I watched this:





I love Conan's hate of them. It's so thick you could drizzle it over waffles.

I am lucky to have well-read, smart friends to recommend good books, but there are many out there that are perfectly horrible and end up on the New York Times Best Seller list. And as I read Mercury Falls, I am dumbfounded that it could find a publisher.

What does it all mean? What is it I want from writing? Recognition? Appreciation? Satisfaction?

I have written something of which I'm proud. Sure, no one other than my husband and voided_space (who I'm not sure if she ever finished) will ever read; I did send a letter of in query off (with a self-addressed, stamped envelop). I never received a response. It's been over a year since I sent the letter. Do I send another? Why would I?

I have much to think about.

"Are you certain he said his name was Flauros?" Mr. Johnston pushed his glasses up his nose in that annoying, bookish manner. He looked older up close as we sat center stage in the high school auditorium. It had seen better days since the arts rarely received funding anymore. A few spotlights lit up the circle of books. Upstage, Nikki punched and kicked away at one of those training dummies you see in all the martial arts movies. It was made of some dark wood with pegs and posts jutting out, just to keep things interesting. She smacked it hard enough to crack it.

"Yeah, that's what he said." I shrugged and tossed some moldy, boring book over my shoulder. My jacket layed in a heap. Teach me to wear black to "do research."

"What's the big deal, Nigel?" In between huffs and punches, super blonde girl circled the dummy with a spinning kick and punch combo. Sitting on my ass, I had to admit, she was impressive. I expended energy at trying not to imagine my body in the dummy's place. She smiled. "We find him. I kick his ass. Chalk one up for the good guys."

"You know, it's not that simple." He whipped his wire-framed glasses off his face with seasoned practice. His disapproving scowl had no effect. Nikki kept right on Kung Fu fighting.

"You don't know anything about him?"

"Sorry. I've only known about Dad for a year." I sighed. I flipped pages in the book without really looking at the fading print. I wanted to say something about wasting a lot of time researching when we needed to be out there stopping the demon's dark reign to take over the world, or something like that. I suppose he could've come to Earth just to try the newest flavor of Ben & Jerry's. It's not like Dad and I talked long-term plans ever. Did he even have any, beyond taking over the world when I turned twenty-one?

"Here we go." With a straightened spine and lifted chin, Mr. Johnston held up a small, paper-back sized book bound in some green linen. He read from the yellowed page. "Flauros, a strong duke, is seen in the form of a terrible strong leopard; in human shape, he shows a terrible countenance, and fiery eyes, he answers truly and fully of things present, past, and to come; if he be in a triangle, he lie in all things and deceive in other things, and beguile in other business, he gladly talks of the divinity, and of the creation of the world, and of the fall; he is constrained by divine virtue, and so are all devils or spirits, to burn and destroy all the conjurors adversaries. And if he be commanded, he suffers the conjuror not to be tempted, and he hath twenty legions under him."

"Why does that sound incredibly stupid?" With her hands on her hips and her ample boobage heaving, Nikki left her workout to read over her mentor's shoulder. "Grand-general, great duke, mighty, terrible, strong, and he enjoys offerings of rum, spicy foods, lamb, and resin incenses. Wow, take him out for a lamb curry and I win."

The lump in my throat reminded me that I was in deep, deep trouble after Flauros got his fuzzy head handed to him. I was next on the hit list.

"S. L. MacGregor Mathers' edition of the Goetia doesn't give much else, but if we choose to read between the lines -"

"Spit it out, Nigel."

"Nikki, please, if you mind. A triangle. While it says here that he lie in all things, Flauros is in a triangle. I believe that is a clue on how to trap him, three feet by three feet, pointing east."

"Way to be specific." I scratched my head as I tried to do the math on the grand conclusion, but gave up. I was new to this demon business. Heck, before Mr. Kitty Face showed up, I thought Dad was it. I should've known better.

"Well," Nikki smiled and dropped a hand on Mr. Johnston's shoulder. "It looks like a three person job to me."

* * *

"So, what's up with you and that stiff?" It was hard to make my lunch tray bumping hers seem innocent. Maybe it was because I was tired from searching through "traditional tomes" all night, but I sat down a little too hard next to Nikki on her solo lunchtime bench. She'd dressed in a pretty, pretty cardigan and perky capris. She smelled like roses and her hair fell down her back in waves of gold. It made me want to punch her all the more.

"Excuse me?"

"Mr. Johnston. I always thought he was gay."

Her reaction was well-practiced, though I doubt she'd had this conversation before. She snorted and rolled her eyes. "Please. He's British. He only sounds gay."

"So, what's the deal? Are you guys, um -"

"Um, what?" Nikki smiled around her straw at me. She enjoyed my blush a little too much. Thank God for tater tots. I chewed a few to buy me time.

"You know, are you guys, um, you know. Pumping uglies?"

"Really? 'Pumping uglies'? Do people still say that?" It was annoying how smug she sounded. I couldn't decide if I hated her because she was a visual representation of ever girl who ever rejected me from the age of three, she was going to kill me at some point, or because she thought she was too good to talk to anyone that made me so mad.

"That isn't a denial."

"What makes you ask?" With a snap of her jaws, Nikki bit a baby carrot in half. I swallowed. The noise in the cafeteria rumbled quietly in the background like a burbling brook of hormones, of girlish giggles and boyish grunts.

"Well, you're not dating a football player or baseball player. Hell, you don't give any of the guys in this school two seconds. I figured maybe you were into older men."

Her laugh attracted attention for only a minute. It was that loud. I ate a few more tater tots, the perfect remedy for pink cheeks. Fellow students returned to their own cliquish communications. With her napkin from her lap, she covered her face as she fought back the remaining giggles.

"Maybe I haven't found the right guy," Nikki dropped her napkin on her tray. She rose to her feet and stepped free from the bench seat. As she lifted her tray, she turned to me and smiled. "Or maybe I have and he just doesn't know it."

I watched her walk off and ate the rest of my tater tots in silence.

* * *

Tack. Tack. Tack. I woke to the sound of tack, tack, tack. My room was dark. My clock on my nightstand was the only light: 2:00 am. Tack. As I lifted my head from my large, fluffy pillow that conveniently covered my ears, I heard the sound of something bounce off my window. Tack.

My hands pushed against the dirty glass. Damn it, I needed to clean my room. Of course, I'd forget my sudden decision to dig out all the junk from under my bed and wipe down surfaces by morning. But as I wiped my hands on my tank top, I pressed my face to the dust-encased screen.

She stood down on the back lawn of my apartment building. And by "lawn," I meant patch of weeds the landlord mowed once a year. She wore make-up that was thick enough to make Martha Stewart look like Lindsey Lohan's mug shot. Her hair was pulled up in a wild tangle on her head. She wore club clothes that were sparkly and tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination. For the record, I did not imagine. I would swear to that in court.

She smiled. "Hey, Bozo. Get dressed."

"Nikki?" I couldn't believe my eyes. Maggie knew she could knock. Mom wouldn't mind if she crashed to sober up. She'd done it before, but it'd been a while. As I squinted through the screen to try to get a better view, I wondered if my friend had had that talk with the slayer and what transgressed between the two.

"Nothing gets past you." With her hand on her hip, silver bracelets glinting in the moonlight, Nikki twisted back and forth like a schoolgirl waiting for a bus. She knew she looked good. I saw that much on her face. "Come on. Hurry up."

"Where're we going?"

"We found your demon buddy."

* * *

I hit the brick wall thirty feet off the ground. That didn't hurt nearly as much as the fall. I expected to see the red glow around me crack, but it didn't. For the first time, I felt pain in Dad's presence. Either he blocked it from me before or it was bad enough to get through. My muscles hurt. I would bruise.

Nikki yelled her warrior yell, which was remarkably un-Princess-Warrior-like, and planted her two inch, square heeled boot in the middle of Flauros' spine. He roared like a wounded lion and went down after flying twenty feet. Though my body argued otherwise, I got to my feet and ran towards him. Before he could finish pushing himself up, my Dad's fist caught him square under his jaw. He went flying.

The disco lights beamed through the night sky in time to the tech-trance beat. According to Mr. Kitty Face, raves were the best place to dine. Young souls high on drugs and music taste just like KFC's Famous Bowls. Leave it to a demon to know all about those gross piles of swill.

Fortunately, Mr. Johnston ushered out the remaining party-goers before Flauros could have more than a light snack. Three bodies lay crumpled in the grass under the full moon and swinging lights. I couldn't tell if they were still breathing or not. I didn't have the time to check. Judging by their loose-fitting yet stylish clothes, I didn't I know them. I didn't want to know them.

Flauros landed off the mark, flat on his back, ten feet to the right of the silver sand triangle Mr. Johnston was pouring on the turf dance floor. Flauros clawed his way to his feet. "What are you doing, Eligos? Don't you know, we could rule this plane together?"

"Not interested."

Tread lightly, my childe.

I didn't tread. At full run, I leapt high into the air using my father's strength and smashed the demon back into the dirt. I rolled to keep from hurting myself further; something about distributing energy I'd learned in fifth grade science class. My shoulder popped and I winced with the sharp pang. When I looked up, Nikki had stepped in.

Her small fist tangled in the scruff of his neck. Clods of dirt fell from his head and shoulders as she lifted him up. Nikki dragged him five feet and threw him the last five. The demon's furry form didn't even bounce. Once it hit the sand, he stuck like it was fly paper.

"Well done, children." Though I didn't find his tone condescending, my father snorted in my head at Mr. Johnston. He smiled as I walked over to join Nikki. She stayed back as he poured more silver sand in a circle around the triangle. From his old, leather knapsack, he pulled four white, pillar candles. We helped him set them at the four corners outside the circle.

Mr. Johnston began to pray. When he did, my father's form dissipated and I sunk down to the earth. I watched as the demon in the center screeched and writhed as if being stuck with a thousand blades all at once. It was the most horrifying sound I had ever heard. Nikki took my hand. I couldn't turn away as Flauros' fur burned black before his skin melted away. In a flash of white light, he was gone.

"Thank you," Nikki whispered as she stepped into my line of vision.

"No, thank you. You helped me and my -" I paused. I wasn't sure I wanted her to know anything about Nerissa and gang, and vise a versa. It physically hurt to smile, "family. My mom, especially."

"I'd like to meet her."

And before I knew it, her lips were on mine. Soft, warm, her mouth was smaller and felt odd. She opened her mouth for more, but I pushed her away: two-handed on-the-shoulders shove. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I thought we - "

"We what?" I scowled as I spotted Mr. Johnston trying not to pry. He hurried about to blow out the candles and rub away the sand. My cheeks turned red. "We nothing. You're going to kill me, remember? That's why you're here."

Nikki stammered. One of her hands grabbed my sleeve. "Nathaniel, please, it doesn't have to be like this."

"No, it doesn't." I pulled my arm away. I started to walk away, but turned at the last minute. Mr. Johnston had wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She pressed her face into his tweed chest. I was angry that I could still feel her lips on mine. "Maybe instead of killing me, you can find a way to help me. I know you can."

As if ordained by a greater power, the music ended. The lights stopped swirling and blinking. I could hear my Converse shuffle through the grass as I left. I didn't look back.

* * *

The next day, I told her everything. She couldn't peel her eyes away from my shiner or the other bruises I had covering my body. It felt funny to feel such pain, but it reminded me that I was still alive. For now.

I offered to show her, but she said to wait until I was done. I told her about Nerissa and fighting vampires, about goblins and all the creepy creatures that we'd fought. I told her about Mel the forest elf that lived near the city park. I told her about Evie the witch. I even told her where our offices were located.

I talked for what seemed like forever. By the time I was done, I had two dented Coke cans at my feet. I flopped back into the old couch cushions with a sigh. She curled her legs under her where she sat next to me. She was quiet for a long time.

"Are you shitting me?" Maggie smiled. Her black hair hung straight around her make-up-less face. She was still in her jammies with a coat thrown over. I had called her as soon as I got home and she came. Mom wasn't even up yet.

"No, Maggie. I wish I was making this stuff up, but I'm not." I frowned. My hands turned into fists against the side of my legs. "It was Nikki that set the limo on fire for prom."

"Remind me to thank her."

"She could've killed you, Maggie, and it's my fault."

Her hand rubbed my fist until she could lace her fingers with mine. I could feel the tears welling in my eyes, though I didn't want them. Crying like a girl in front of a girl was the worst crime in the guy code of conduct book.

"Look at me."

"No."

"Nate." Maggie used the voice. I don't know what it was about that tone, but it was like I was powerless to resist. Without lifting my chin firmly planted on my chest, I looked at her.

"It's not your fault. Besides, I told you," she chuckled, "best prom ever."

I didn't know how to tell her that I wouldn't be able to live with myself if anything bad happened to her on account of me. I bit my lip as I remembered the fire, the ambulance, and the scared look on my mother's face. How was I going to explain my black eye to my mom?

And before I knew it, her lips were on mine. Soft, warm, her mouth felt like it matched mine. My skin tingled and blood pounded in my ears. When she opened her mouth for more, I obliged without question. My hand cupped her neck and she moaned.

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow."

Maggie rested her head against my shoulder. I caught hint of a blush on her cheeks and chest before she settled in. "Why didn't we do that sooner?"

"I don't know," I brushed the hair way from her face. It felt weird and nice to touch her. I wanted to tell her that I was too scared to kiss her before this because I was afraid she would be hurt – not by the kiss, but by my father in my life, only I didn't have the words.

"Well," she smiled. I could hear her smile in her voice. "You've met my folks tons of times and I've hung out with your mom. When do I get to meet your dad?"

I stroked her hair. "Never, if I can help it."

"You're such a daddy's boy."

I am going to Hell. This, we all know. One of my first sins came in the way of coveting. It wasn't another child's toy or even a siblings' article of clothes. It was a book.

I read "The Adventure of the Speckled Band" as a class requirement in elementary school. It was lumped into a book containing other stories my class was required to read. As a dyslexic, reading was never my friend growing up. If it wasn't for Frank Miller, John Byrne, etc. growing up, I would never had read. Comics forced me to read the dialogue balloons and caption boxes for more of the pictorial story.

Bastards.

After I finished reading "The Adventure of the Speckled Band," I turned the pages back to the beginning of the tale to read it again. This was unheard of in my world. Even with the death of Jean Grey (the first one, the original), I didn't read that story again for months to come (I was heartbroken, what can I say?). By the end of the term, I told the Sister who taught the class that I lost the book.

I had not lost it. It was home in my nightstand. In the years that followed in my Catholic school, I never confessed to the thievery. Hence, I am going to Hell for my first crush.

Over the years, I have owned many different versions and variations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's works on the great detective. Also, over the years, I have shared and lost all said tomes. Last night, when I came across a leather bound complete collections, I gave in to my weakness (and succumbed to my husband's insistence) and bought the book. I am eager to dive back into that world and read those marvelous words that summoned up a foreign time and place for a young, farm-bound girl.

Needless to say, I hope to have a story or two under my belt before the movie opens Christmas Day. Yes, I am leaving my family to see this picture. I don't care who cries.

Every have a significant piece of history that holds deep and power meaning for you but yet could be perceived as stupid/insane/melodramatic or some other negative view by others?

Rarely, if ever, I talk about my "voices" or characters. I am one of those writers who share a brain with the various characters I've taken on or created. I am not one who cannot move a character from Point A to Point B in a story, because let's be honest, this is my brain and these voices are part of my brain. However, characters have baulked at certain Point A to Point B plotting because the motivation wasn't right or the course wouldn't be one their character would make. So, as a writer, I modify motivation, circumstance, surroundings, events, etc. to achieve the necessary outcome. I cannot recall where a character changed my overall plot.

Not all my characters have been self-created. My protagonist for my novel was created by a fellow player in a role-play. She created the character for me, but he turned out to be one of the best villains. I am in love with his evil ways, so much so, that I had to put him in my novel.

But one of the first voices was given by a dear friend. It was a thank you early on in our relationship, when he e-mailed the Buffy mailing list we both subscribed. Being one of the few males on a Spike/Buffy-centric group, he was brave (or crazy) enough to send an e-mail asking for relationship advice. I e-mailed him back (sans group because some advice should be one-on-one). And that's, how they say, is that. We've been friends ever since. I still talk to him and hope to visit him again soon now that he's married and expecting.

As a thank you, he created me a voice. He gave it to me in the most unique and creative way. What I didn't find out, until years later, that he gave me the voice on his birthday. Yes, the voice is still with me, being the character that launched my belief in the fact that I could be a writer of fiction (now, whether I have achieved that goal, I have given up deciding. For the longest time, I thought being published would equal success. Last year, I completed a television script that I consider to be the best thing I've ever written. I felt like success to me.). And yes, I still visit that voice (because really, what's the point of having all these characters in my head if I can't visit and talk with them for a while?) from time to time.

Today is his and my friend's birthday. Happy Birthday.

Hide in the alleyway on the backside of a glass building downtown; a precaution, Nerissa said. Fine by me. I was looking for an excuse to ignore my Algebra homework by flipping channels. Mom went out on a date with Mr. McGee, court stenographer. Yeah, he looked as exciting as his name sounded. He made her smile, so I kept my big mouth shut.

It was a standard scenario: monster du jour in the basement of some high-rise, being conjured up by a bunch of occult super wizard wannabes. Nerissa and Evie applied their feminine wiles to break up the little teeny-bopper, occultfest and stopped said nasty from busting up our city and/or our plane of existence. It was the first time right downtown though. Most evil overlords pop-up in the suburbs, don't ask me why. Someone should do a study on that.

I heard her heels running down the sidewalk. Boss lady was the only one of us who bothered with designer shoes. Sure, they made her ass look great, but I couldn't figure how something so small could cost so much.

"I guess you took care of everything. You didn't even need to call -" I caught my boss as she slammed into my shoulder. She was heavy. Nerissa yakked blood as I struggled to hold her up. She didn't make another sound. She went dead weight and we both slid down to the sidewalk.

* * *

"Mom? What do you do if someone doesn't like you?" I sat on the kitchen counter while she cooked breakfast for dinner. Her spatula dropped into the skillet of scrambled eggs while she looked at me with an expression that asked if I was a little too old to be asking the question. I pointed at the bacon to remind her not to let it cook too long. She pursed her lips and tended to the limp pork.

"Who doesn't like you, kiddo?"

"It's not like that." I held the paper towel-covered plate for the bacon. Mom dropped it in. She looked good - happy, even, in her ratty, Van Halen tee shirt and Goodwill sweats. I wondered what was up for a second. "There's this girl who has an opinion of me that's wrong and I want to change it. How do you do that?"

"Well, Uncle Steve does it all the time." She picked up the skillet and flicked cooked eggs on to plates next to cooling hash browns.

"Mom. He's not my Uncle. He's your boss."

"Well, in court, he tends to use certain tactics. He appeals to the jury or judge based on his client's character, motivation, and humanity. When he's trying show a client's worth, he tends to play up the best in one of those three areas." She clipped the sizzling, stiff bacon with wooden tongs. Once the grease dripped, she put it on the plate. My stomach rumbled. It smelled good.

"So, if I want this girl to change her mind, I have to tell her - "

"Well, yeah."

" - about my character, motivation, and humanity?"

"Yes."

I picked up one of my pieces of bacon. The fat and grease should have burned my fingers. "No offense, Mom, but that's a load of shit."

* * *

I managed to race out the door at the end of second period to the chemistry lab. She walked out by herself with her clean, blonde hair waving around her shoulders. The girl walked with a perpetual skip, like she was fooling anyone.

"Hey, Nikki."

Her smile turned vicious like a cat in heat. "Why, hello, Nathaniel."

"Hey, if you don't mind me asking, how did you - you know." I looked around. It felt weird walking down the school hall talking about, well, you know.

"Sure you want to talk about this now?" Nikki chirped. She flashed her pearly whites. Man, she could really turn my stomach.

"Okay, look, what do you know about me?" With a skip of my own, I turned around to walk backwards so I could face her. I wanted to look her in the eye. "Seriously, I'm cool. I'm a good kid. Ask anyone."

"Doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?"

"Yeah." Her baby blues dropped. She wouldn't look at me. "When you turn twenty-one, it isn't going to matter a bit what you've done. You could be Jesus Christ, walking on the water, curing the blind, and it wouldn't matter."

"How do you know?" I stepped in front of her and stopped. She skidded to a stop against me. Her soft sweater brushed against my Wal-Mart tee shirt. I stared down my nose. She turned her eyes up.

"I know everything about you, Nathaniel. How do you think I found you?"

* * *

He floated down the fire escape like he weighed nothing. Mellathion landed as quiet as a cat. He pulled Nerissa off me with one hand. His bow was in the other. "Nerissa? Nerissa, what happened?"

"Where's Evie?" I looked down the street. Nothing. It was weird to see a city block without pedestrians or cars.

"Nerissa?" Mel dropped his bow to try to rouse the boss lady. Her sunglasses fell from her face and clattered on the cement. I couldn't stop staring at the blood on her mouth and chin. I had never seen so much blood. She lolled like a marionette with her strings cut.

"Where's Evie?"

"Stay here." Like she weighed nothing, Mel placed Nerissa in my arms. I had never been so scared. Not crying scared, but that kind of scared that comes when something major's going down. It reminded me of when I was younger: I watched my buddy fight on the playground. The air was thick with something - like I knew something big was going to happen. I could taste it in the air, like now.

He ran down the street in the same direction that Nerissa had come. He was fast and silent. I couldn't stay to watch. With boss lady's arm wrapped around my shoulder, I hobbled in the other direction. I dug my phone out of my jacket pocket and dialed nine-one-one.

* * *

"How do you know I'll change?" My lunch tray bumped into hers as I sat down. The cafeteria bustled with beat-your-meatloaf day. It was the best thing the place ever served. I dropped my backpack on the floor under the crappy, folding table.

Nikki snorted as she munched on a crinkle-cut carrot stick. With a little OCD, she moved her tray back to its original position. "What?"

"What if all my good deeds buy me more time? Or stops what's going to happen?" I picked up my fork and stabbed a dab of instant mash potatoes from the worn-out, plastic tray. I jabbed it in her direction. "You don't know."

"Neither do you." With her disgustingly dainty fingers, she wiped the corners of her mouth with her paper napkin. Nikki smiled. I bet she never had anything stuck in her perfect teeth.

"But I don't want this to happen anymore than you do." I gobbled the mushy spuds. "I am trying to make sure it doesn't happen. I swear."

"Careful, Nathaniel." As she stood, Nikki straightened her skirt. She picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. She looked disapprovingly as she picked up her tray. "Daddy might be listening."

* * *

"And you swear you don't know her?" Mr. Square-jaw cop held his pen to his pad. Over his shoulder, I watched as the paramedics loaded Nerissa into the ambulance. Bags with fluids lay on her chest. She looked paler than usual, but somehow better. I scratched the itch on the back of my head.

"No, man," I shoved my hands in my pockets. "She just came up to me on the street. Coughed up a lot of blood. I didn't know what to do. I mean, I walked with her until she passed out. I called you guys."

With his pen wiggling, the cop took careful notes. He flipped his pad closed after grabbing my name and cell. "Head home, kid. We'll call you if we need you."

"Yes, sir." He didn't have to tell me twice. I watched the ambulance pull away with its sirens blaring over my shoulder as I hustled down the street. After I headed back towards where I was when all this fun started, I dashed down the alley. Behind a rusty, green garbage bin on wheels, Mel sat with his back against the wall. He was holding his guts in with his hands.

"Come on," I reached down to pull him up, but he shook his head.

"No, no, you have to find Evie." He panted. The tips of his loose hair were black with dried blood. His mouth was stretched tight. "She could be stuck or hurt."

"What was it?" I took his blood soaked hand. Mel used me to pull himself to his feet. It had to hurt, but he didn't yell or nothing.

"Don't' know. Didn't see it." He panted. With a shuffle of his feet, he turned away. "Too fast."

"Mel?"

"I'll be all right, once I reach my forest."

* * *

My ass was cold as I leaned against the hood of her car. I'd told Maggie I had a ride. She'd given me a look. I would be questioned later like an ex-con on the stand, but I had to do it. With my arms folded to balance the pack on my back, I waited and watched the school door.

Nikki walked out talking to Mr. Johnston. The drama teacher was gay as every stereo-type imaginable, but that didn't slow little miss sunshine from flirting her little heart out - or at least, it looked that way. They were all chummy. He laughed and pushed his glasses back up his face with one finger. He actually wore a tweed coat with suede patches on the elbows. What a dork.

"Hey," she said as she put her key in the driver's side door. After she opened the door, she leaned in and dumped her books on the passenger seat.

"Hey, listen," I didn't even wait for her to come back out of the car. "I have a Mom. I'm the only person in her life. She needs me."

"Well, maybe, if she - "

"Don't." I wagged an angry finger in her face. I bit my tongue. "She didn't know - she had no way to know. She's a different person now. She's been a good mother. She doesn't deserve this."

For the first time, I saw Nikki soften. Her face dropped its perfect smile. She folded her arms and sat down on the driver's seat with her too-white sneakers flat on the pavement. She sighed. "Nathaniel, it's not my fault. I don't want to be this any more than you want to be that. But we don't have a choice."

"We always have a choice." Before I could say something that could get me in trouble, I turned and walked away.

* * *

"Hello, Eligos."

"Excuse me?" I couldn't tell if it was the whiskers on his cat face or the forked tongue that hissed between his fangs, but it sounded like he sneezed. I could have been in shock. I was staring at a refugee from the Island of Doctor Moreau. He had leopard spots on his fur from his face, over his shoulders and down his arms. His eyes burned fire - literally. Flames out of the eye sockets. He wore black sweat pants and black fingerless gloves. Apparently, it was 80s Night in Hell.

"No, you are not Eligos. Not yet. What does he call you, boy?" His golden fur rippled in the torch light. It was dark in the basement of this rundown high-rise. Water coated the walls and pooled on the bare cement floor. I tried to concentrate on feline face instead of the five, black-robed humans dead at his feet. Blood covered the floor. I could tell by the smell.

"Childe." Not a half bad imitation of Dad, if I do say so myself. But the longer the silence stretched, I realized Mr. Kitty Head wasn't going to do anything else until I answered him for real. "Nathaniel."

"Pleased to meet you, Nathaniel." He cracked his paw knuckles against the palm of his paw. I couldn't tell if he was smiling with the whole cat face thing. He sounded like he was smiling. "I don't suppose your father told you the way of things."

"You mean, other than the fact that he's going to walk the Earth on my twenty-first birthday. No."

Snake-tongue kitty laugh was creepy. My skin crawled. He stepped silently out of the body heap. I walked opposite to keep the same amount of distance between us.

"Ah. So you know nothing of Hell."

"Other than it sucks? No. Where's Evie?"

Flames rose up out of his eyes when he laughed. He turned one way, then another, and pointed around the cylinder block corner. In a small room, a floating dot of white, sparkling light floated. A hand twisted and turned in the center. It looked to be trapped, like in a jar. I recognized the rings.

"Dad?"

Aye, childe?

"I need your help." As I walked, my feet rose from the floor. Everything around me turned red. I reached for the light with big, red hands. Total goatsee: Dad pull from the inside out until the hole grew in size. I heard Evie yelp in gratitude before she pulled her hand free. When we let go, the light disappeared with a pop.

"Hello, Eligos."

Salutations, Flauros. Well met.

"Who is he, Dad?"

Behold a Great Duke of Hell, my son. None greater than perhaps myself. To what reason do we owe you this honor?

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?" Flauros licked his paw and then ran it over his head. "Let's just say I beat you to the punch, old man."

How so?

I rolled my eyes. The other demon snickered. Thanks, dude.

"I walk among the mortals, Eligos. I am here. You are not."

"Oh, he's here all right." I ran towards him. If I thought about what I was doing, I didn't know it. I swung and hit Kitty Face in the jaw with an upper cut. He went sailing until he smashed into the wall. The blocks cracked and crumbed. Part of the wall fell on top of him where he fell. And then he laughed.

"Oh, here I thought this was going to be boring and easy. Thank you, Eligos. You've made my day."

* * *

I have no idea how I made it to the gym at the school. Black spots danced in my vision. I could feel my eye swell with a lovely, painful throb. As I pushed my way through the door, my arm caught in the stainless steel bar of the latch. I spun and hit the high-wax floor of the gym. It sounded like one hundred pounds of dead flesh hitting water.

"Oh my God." A dozen sneakered feet squeaked across the floor. I could feel them gather around me. I opened my eye to see bare legs and short, pleated skirts circled around me. For a second, I thought I might have died and gone to heaven.

"Nat!" She pushed her way through the rest. Her small hand felt cool against the back of my sweating neck. Nikki lifted my head and shoulders off the floor so I could only see her. "Are you all right?"

I coughed. No blood. Yay, me. "I need your help."


All Short Stories by Mary Lewys is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Congratulate me. Go on. I went two whole days without talking to my son either through text messaging, IM, or phone. Don't ask how panicked I was on Friday (day three) when I hadn't seen him online all day.

For the record, he's fine.

So, today, I decide it was time to clean up his room. I moved the dresser against east wall and moved his table to the foot of his bed. I put things in drawers. Hubby and I discussed what to do with all his treasures (we'll be picking up plastic containers from Wal-Mart this coming week for storage). Now, we I walk through the hallway, I no longer jump looking into his room. I would jump because I'm used to him being in there. It would startle me that he wasn't. Now, with the room rearranged, my monkey brain doesn't panic because it's no longer the room he had.

Plus, with the big table at the foot of his bed, I can use it for a writing table. It will give me room to lay out my books plus I'll have my back to the wall. Hubby and I talked: he can go to bed at 10:00 pm. I'll write for an hour or so and then go to bed to read (I don't want to give up reading in my sleep routine). I moved my lamp, research notes, and books down there. Once we extend the cable cord, I'll be able to watch telly as I write.

Plus, it's all set for visitors now.

Once my Nathaniel story is finished, I'm setting to work on the novel. Finally. I'm eager to go.

Thoughts on Self-Promotion
Posted by Victoria Strauss

As I close in on the end of my current writing project, the issue of self-promotion is much on my mind. I don't mind admitting that it's a prospect I contemplate with dread. I'm one of those I-just-want-to-sit-in-my-room-with-my-laptop writers who really is not constitutionally suited for a world in which the definition of "author" also includes "huckster" (or, if you want to be a bit more diplomatic about it, "entrepreneur").

On Web, A Most Novel Approach
Poor Kelly Corrigan, first-time author, didn't get invited to this weekend's National Book Festival on the Mall to plug her 2008 memoir, "The Middle Place." She won't be rubbing shoulders with heavyweight authors such as Sue Monk Kidd, John Grisham or Pulitzer winner Junot Diaz. No major newspaper bothered to review the California mom's tale about cancer and family and recovery when it was released. Her publisher didn't send her on tour. All the old-school staples of book promotion -- the book festival, the tour, the glowing newspaper review -- Corrigan got none of them.

I played sick the next day. When mom came to wake me, I performed an understated "my tummy hurts.” By the end of my underrated performance, she was sure she felt a fever. Two Tylenols later, she was on the way to work and I wrapped up in a blankie bed on the couch. Part of me wanted to stay under the covers and watch bad daytime television. It would be the easy thing to do. A year ago, I would've done it.

I dressed and caught the cross-town bus. The non-descript industrial park was full of cars like it should’ve been during the week. I rarely see it like this, since my job tends to be after-hours. For a change, I stood out in my black hoodie and big pants. I shuffled down the sidewalk. With a few punches of the keypad, the door popped open and I slipped in before some suit or coverall noticed me.

* * *

"Nathaniel! Now!" Her voice pierced the darkness. From the alleyway, I lifted into the air. My dad's form held me a few feet off the ground. I swung his arm towards the four ghouls running down the city sidewalk. My red glow flashed when their dead, grey skin impacted with my dad's limb. I didn't feel a thing, but the one we caught square went squish on the brickwall of a nearby brownstone. Leave it to yuppieville to attract a bunch of undead that eat the dead but prefer kid flesh.

One ghoul managed to hang on. It tried biting through my dad. We coiled one finger and flicked it across the street. The other two, we played whack-a-mole with our feet. By the time Mellathion and Evie caught up, all that was left were four puddles of gray. Even Nerissa smiled at me, which was the scariest thing I'd seen in a while.

* * *

Other than Nerissa's office, I had never used another room in our office building. I don't need to work out. We never met, so the conference room gathered dust. But I wasn't interested in bulking up or chatting with my co-workers; I wanted information. Though it wasn't large, the room behind the door tagged "Research Library" held very unique books. Old books with leather covers filled with old knowledge I couldn't find anywhere else.

I had no idea where to start. Nerissa sectioned and labeled the books, but I had no idea where she'd stick the tome about demon slayers. Would it be under 18th Century Occult History? Or Alzetca's Human Cookbook? I pulled a couple of thick, promising books from the shelves and sat down for a browse. The wooden desk chair was surprisingly comfortable. I lost track of time.

* * *

"Dad?"

Yes, my childe.

"I'm going to need help in a minute." The alley smelled. For such a nice section of town, rich people sure have smelly trash. If Nerissa hadn’t told me to stand here and wait while Elfboy and Witchie chased whatever out of the funeral home from around the block, I wouldn't be here. Hell, I was surprised some cop hadn't questioned me for loitering.

Harm is not in your path. Why do you summon me?

"Because in a minute, I will be in harm’s way."

Childe, why endanger my vessel? Why persist in this peril?

"I don't have time to go into it." Lie. He couldn't see until he was around me, so he had no way to know. Sure, I might have a headache later from all the ranting. It was a risk I was willing to take.

If I say to thee nay, shalt thou expound upon thy flawed logic?

"Fine. Look, it's a job, all right? I get paid." I peeked around the corner. Another shiny SUV puttered down the street. I don't know where they parked those things around here. Cars lined the streets. There wasn't a spare spot. I noted the color and license plate number.

A trade. T'is not a service thou execute. Fool me not, childe.

"Or what? I'll rue the day?"

Hast thou ever savored pain? Veritable agony? I am willing to risk my vessel for my childe to learn a lesson.

"Dad? What? What do you want me to say?" From around the end of the block, I could hear a car horn honk and screeching tires in the distance. Whatever was coming was coming. "For the first time in my life, I have money. I might be able to go to college or move out or buy a nice place for my mother."

The future t'is not for thee. The vessel, upon two score and one year, shall inherit his paternal form.

"I've heard it all before, Dad." I heard glass break and metal crunch. Something roared. "Listen, can we talk about this later?"

Nay. I demand the true reason for thy reckless behavior.

"Fine." I stepped back into the shadow of the brownstone. The street light reflected off of windshield and ground glass on the sidewalk. Hopefully, these "ghouls" wouldn't see me until it was too late. "I like it. Okay? I feel like I'm doing good. I'm helping. I'm making a difference."

Fruitless pursuits.

"Right, because you're coming." He couldn't read my thoughts, but I vowed to see if there was something I could do about that.

* * *

"Nathaniel?" Nerissa poked her head in around the door. I rubbed my eyes and stretched. From my jacket pocket, I dug out my phone to check the time. I had been reading for three hours. "What are you doing here?"

"Research." I doubted she'd buy my fake smile, but I tried anyway.

"Uh-huh. Demon slayer, huh?"

Mellathion's got a big mouth. "Yeah, something like that. I was just trying to see if there was any lore or something."

She pushed open the door. She sat down opposite me across the table. Her hand grabbed a book or two, but ended up drumming on the dull finish. She stared at me with her dark eyes. "You didn't see this coming, did you, kid?"

"How could I see this coming? I mean, Dad opened me up to a bunch of questions, but I didn't know about vampires, ghouls, gnomes, werewolves, or whatever until I met you." I closed the book I was reading and added it to the read pile. I pulled the next book down from the unread pile. "Why does she want to kill me?"

"Don't take it personally. It's not you she wants to kill." Nerissa sighed as she crossed her legs. "She's stopping your father before he can get a hoof-hold on our plane. It's a preemptive strike."

"But I haven't done anything yet. Why me?"

"Birthright, kid. Sucks to be you." Without a second glance, she stood and walked towards the door. Her hair stood in all directions. I don't know how she managed to make it look sexy.

"Hey, Nerissa." I watched her turn. "What would you do in her shoes but knowing me? Could I talk you out of it? Or would you kill me?

She slipped on her sunglasses. From the doorframe, she picked up her suitcase. She looked at me for a long minute. "I would kill you, Nathaniel."

All the air went out of the room. She left. I looked at my short stack of books.

* * *

"Now, Evie, Mal, I need you to circle around back. I'll take the front." Nerissa was amazing. She could do anything with a cigarette in the corner of her mouth: talk, drink, run, sit, stand, even in a stiff wind, she managed to keep ash off her coat. Her hair was especially wild which told me that the mission was serious. I sat in the back of her piece of shit car and looked out Mel's driver side window.

"What about me?" She’d called me after my last class to meet. I’d climbed into the car after walking a block from the nearest bus stop. I was embarrassed. I was about to fight evil. I had to take public transportation to do it.

"See that street, Nathaniel?" Her finger poked the glass of her side window. She twisted in her seat to look at me over the fat frames of her sunglasses. "There's an alley about two blocks down. You wait there. That's where they'll head if they get out."

"Who?"

"Nat," Evie opened her door. "You may be the muscle, but we don't always need you."

"I'm the muscle?"

Mellathion patted my arm. "Well, you and your Father."


All Short Stories by Mary Lewys is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

I start with Plato's critique of writing where he says that if we depend on writing, we will lose the ability to remember things. Our memory will become weak. And he also criticizes writing because the written text is not interactive in the way spoken communication is. He also says that written words are essentially shadows of the things they represent. They're not the thing itself. Of course we remember all this because Plato wrote it down -- the ultimate irony.

via Boing Boing. Thanks!

And I loved it. Linking it so I can read again later: 13 Writing Tips by Chuck Palahniuk

Recently, through Facebook of all things, a local, professional writer contacted me. A few years ago, he helped with a free fictional writing seminar sponsored by the Florida Writer's Guild (which doesn't do anything for free anymore). I brought in a story that I thought was pretty good and he basically ripped it apart. Now, it wasn't as bad as it sounds. He was very generous, explaining what was wrong and why it didn't work. At the end, we both agreed that it wasn't salvageable and that I should take the lessons I could from the story.

He told me so many good things that day - things I still try to use when I write today. Also, I've gone on to read more about writing and spent a year studying grammar (because of some foggy, ill-guided criticism). I visit a number of writers' blogs because they always have the best insight and information. I always, always, always come away thinking. And I try to give positive feedback along with gratitude because I know they don't have to give me anything. Going back to school as taken precious time away from my pursuit, but I do work on it every day in some small way.

So, you can imagine my heartache over the loss of James Moran's blog thanks to some stupid, selfish, nasty people. If you scroll back through the posts, you will find so many wonder things having to do with writing that I hope he never takes the website down. I have and will go back and reread.

The latest bit of article sparked this whole post. While I agree with everything Josh Olson says, (in fact, I applaud it) I feel a twinge of sorrow because my selfish nature wishes I had the opportunity (again) for a professional to read my work now. Sure, I'm envious as fuck that the boyfriend of a girlfriend managed to snag some time (abet through guilt), but I wouldn't throw the chance away at future advice by not seeing the opportunity for what it was: an opportunity.

*sighs* Okay, enough wistful whining. Back to work.

I never had been so glad to have Maggie drive me home. After gym, I visited the nurse who gave me an ice pack. Useless. Keri gave me two Tylenol before Algebra, so my head wasn't pounding by the time we reached my apartment. She came in to help me with the math homework and gave me half of one of her Carisoprodol knock-offs. Forty-five minutes later, I didn't give a shit about anything. My book was open and Mr. Richard's hand-outs were spread all over my living room floor. Maggie and I leaned against the couch as we sat on the floor and watched Sponge Bob.

"What was up with that bitch anyway?" She snorted at the television. Her head rested on a couch cushion with her long hair spread out like a fan. She could be so pretty, but I could never figure out how to broach that whole "she's my friend" thing. I wanted to kiss her, but I was too afraid she'd punch me in the mouth.

"Who?"

"In gym. Seriously. What was her problem?"

"Fuck if I know." I laughed at Squidworth. I picked up the work sheet, stared at it for a minute and tossed it back on the floor.

"Ever see her before?" Maggie slumped off the couch onto the floor like a cat in slow-mo, pouncing on a mouse. She worked out the first problem and wrote in the answer.

"Not that I know."

"You sure this isn't some elementary school girl who had a crush on you or something?"

"Nope. Not unless she dyes her hair or something."

After working through a couple of problems, she pushed her hair back to look up at me. "I'm gonna ask."

"Ask what?"

"Tomorrow. I'm gonna ask her what her deal is."

After I dug out the last Funyon from the bag, I crumpled it up. I climbed to my feet in search of another lunch-sized bag in the kitchen. I yelled back over my shoulder. "I don't need you to fight my fights."

"I ain't gonna fight her." She shouted. "I'm just gonna ask."

* * *

Next day at school, I went through the day without a stare, glare or concussion. Homework this and quiz that; nothing out of the ordinary. The pretty, pretty people looked down their noses and everyone else did their clique-thing. I stuck to myself, except for lunch with Maggie and skipping half of fourth period to hang out with Joe in the computer room. He had the latest Final Fantasy game for the PSP. He wanted me to check out the graphics and I ended up on a thirty minute potty break.

The great thing about dressing down and being quiet is no one tends to pay attention to you. When I beat the bell back, I mumbled something about being sick to the teacher, put the pass on her desk and grabbed my books. I don't even think she noticed. She cleaned the chalkboard and muttered under her breath something about us damn kids and our damn attitudes. It made me feel like I was doing something right.

I stopped at the drinking fountain outside my sixth period: Mrs. Bedford for Algebra. It was the best fountain in the school as the water was cool. I hiked my backpack on my shoulder as I stood. I used my jacket coat to wipe my mouth. I turned - bam! She stood right in my face.

"Hey." Nikki smiled with her Crest-white-strip teeth. Her perky-and-pastel sweater and skirt raised the hairs on the back of my neck. "Nathaniel, is it?"

I stared. Not that, "wow, pretty girl talk to me" stare that I saw on many of my poor classmates' faces when a pretty girl talked. My usual "can I go home now" face stayed in hers. I learned long ago that if I didn't open my mouth, I couldn't sound like an idiot.

"Nat, listen," she leaned against the wall. Her finger twisted her long, blond hair in that too-too casual way. "I just wanted to let you know I know."

"Congratulations." I stepped to walk around.

She stepped in my way while still twirling her hair. Her head tilted to the side. "I know. I know who you are."

"Yeah? Who's that?"

"You're Daddy's little boy."

My jaw cracked when it hit the ground. My black and red backpack dragged my arm down to my side. The hallway twisted in on itself and my hip slammed into the water fountain before I caught myself.

Her smile upped in wattage. Her whirly fingers ran down her chest in a suggestive manner. Nikki lifted her chin. "See you later, Nat."

She side-stepped me and walk-skipped down the hall. If it hadn't been for the bell, I would still be standing there.

* * *

"You really think she knows?" He sat on the back of the wooden slate park bench. His mud-covered boots smeared dirt all over the seat. I watched the mud rather than look at him. It was dark enough for no one to notice his ears with his hair pulled back into a ponytail, but he still made me nervous. I don't know why. It isn't like I hadn't seen some nerdy kids wear pointy-ears. I guess the difference was his were real.

"Uh, yeah." It was close to midnight. I’d had to sneak-out after Mom popped a Xanax and curled in bed with Project Runway. Fall had come. My double jersey jacket kept me warm enough. I hadn't recognized Mellathion at first until he explained that his hair changed with the season. Streaks of red and brown ran down his back instead of the blonde. I kicked a pebble on the sidewalk. It skittered out of the sphere of light and into the grass of the city park. "What am I going to do?"

"Outside our merry band of compatriots, does anyone else know?" With a small pocket knife, he peeled the skin of a large apple. His fingers looked like mother of pearl. "I mean, besides your father."

"Well, kind of, but not really." Way to be Captain Vague. "Showed Mom once, but I think she's blocking it out."

Mellathion nodded his head. He sliced a piece of apple and extended it to me on the edge of his knife. I made sure to touch only apple. Knowing him, his blade was so sharp, it could slice an atom. He popped a slice of apple into his mouth and chewed. I couldn't figure out of he was thinking or scanning the park for potential rapists. He turned his head long before I heard the shoes on the cement.

It was way too late for any sane person to be jogging through park without an AK-47. Yet, the unmistaken footfalls filled the silence. Small, white running shoes appeared first, followed by pretty-in-pink jogging pants. A coat to match entered the light. And I nearly fell off the bench when Nikki's head appeared on top of the jogger. She paid me no mind as she ran on buy. As quickly as she appeared, she disappeared into the darkness.

"Wow." Mellathion munched on a new piece of apple. He snorted. "You're in trouble."

"What? Why? "

His hand clamped on my shoulder. He shook me gently in that big-brotherly way I have come to rely on. "She's a demon slayer."


All Short Stories by Mary Lewys is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

I haven't done one of these in a while, so I think I'm long over due. Plus, I've found many a great thing on the Internets today.

First off is a new movie trailer (I have been watching far too many lately). What can I say? I'm a sucker for Hugh Grant movies. He's a guilty pleasure.


This is very big on the Twitter and web. If you haven't seen it, you've been missing out.

Also, if you haven't been watching The Guild, you've been missing out again!

Now, something for your meaty brain, via Boing Boing (again):
Visualizing up to ten dimensions

Something for you monkey brain:
Manhunt finds handcuffed suspect in trunk of Titusville police car
After an hour of searching for suspected burglar Aldophus Martin Hughes Jr., Titusville police found him hiding in the trunk of a patrol car.
The suspect slipped into the trunk of the police car he was in and the cops spent an hour looking for him.

John August has tons of great writing advice up on his website. His latest, Groundhog Day and Unexplained Magic, brought up some interesting things to think about.

Writer Beware Blogs! Victoria Strauss -- Bad Impressions for Good Impressions Audio Books
Wow. I realize it has to be legal on some level, or such places wouldn't get away with it. But, man, that smacks me of illegal somehow.

For their next movie, Simon Pegg, Nick Frost and Greg Mottola created a website to hold their "while shooting" videos and pictures. Check out What is....Paul? for some great stuff.

That's it. I'm done. Have a great day!

"Class, I would like you to meet our new student."

Miss Berry was my homeroom teacher, which was pretty awesome. She looked like a 1950's grandma, with silver, horn-rimmed glasses on a silver chain around her neck. She always wore a dress with a belt. Do dresses need belts? She was awesome as a homeroom teacher because I only had to look at her for fifteen minutes in the morning. If I had had her for a regular class, I would have had to slit my wrists.

Next to her stood the perky, blonde cheerleader type. She smiled with a row of perfectly white, straight teeth. Though I couldn't see it from my spot in the back row, I would've bet she had blue eyes to go with that perfect tan. Nice, round breasts had every guy drooling. I bet the girls were burning holes in her Gap sweater.

"This is Nikki Winters. She's a transfer, so be sure to help her find her way around. Nikki, dear, you can take your seat."

She practically skipped to her desk in the front row. No one paid attention to my gagging noises, thank God. The last thing I needed was detention. Miss Berry started role. She warbled out a close pronouncement of our names and we would respond, "Here!" I always said, "Beer!" Don't ask me how I got away with it since almost every day enough people laughed, but Miss Berry never said anything.

Nikki turned to stare at me after my name was called. I looked up at her for a minute, just to be sure. Girls who shopped in the mall never acknowledged that I existed. Fine by me, but yeah, she stared. Whatever.

* * *

"And you know what she said to me?" Maggie waved her arms as she talked. Mom said it was an Italian thing, but Maggie did it like she was adding proper punctuation. The French fry she held between two fingers had been twirled so much that I waited for it snap-off and go flying. It hung on by whatever little spuds it had left. If Maggie noticed, she gave no indication. "She said my poetry was too dark. Too dark! Hello! Can't she see how I'm dressed? What the fuck am I supposed to write? About puppies and love sonnets?"

"And what's wrong with dark poetry anyway?" I shoved a forkful of tots in my gob. Maggie's poetry was funny because it was dark. She wrote about things no one would ever talk about, just to see the reactions. If people didn't react, she probably would give up and do something else.

"That's what I say! But do you think anyone gets that?"

"No."

"No!"

As usual, she picked at her food. I don't think she ate more than a few bites. Me, I cleaned my plate: sloppy joe day. It was about as good as I was ever going to get out of a high school cafeteria. Plus, I’d missed breakfast because I’d slept in. Mom said it was due to the shock of the limo fire. She didn't know that I’d "borrowed" one of the school's laptops and spent my nights chatting online. She would’ve totally freaked. Everyone online was a pedophile, according to her.

"Hey, who's that?" Maggie pointed with her fork over my shoulder. She sat up straight to peek around me.

I glanced over my shoulder. Four tables down on the other side of the aisle, she sat with the other mindless bimbos, staring at me. Her fork rested in her perfectly arranged salad in a container she’d brought from home.

"That's some new girl. She's in my home room." I tilted my head back to drain the last of my chocolate milk from the crappy container. Maggie had drawn a monocle and pirate beard on the picture of the missing kid.

"Why is she staring at you?"

"Hell if I know." What was I supposed to say? The bitch was starting to freak me out.

"Huh." Maggie had no problem staring back. Me, I hunkered down over my tray and did my best to ignore them both.

* * *

Gym class: torture for students. No one liked gym class, so I didn't know why it was mandatory. Yet, for fifth period, I stood in stupid shorts and a tee shirt that I was forced to buy and tried not to sweat too much so I didn't have to take a shower afterwards. The last thing I needed was a "fag attack" from the jocks and end up taped naked to a bench. It happened to Ted last semester and he cried when the tape pulled out his leg hair.

I was at the volleyball net, minding my own business. The ball flew past. I was doing my team a favor by not playing, even if they didn't know it. The next thing I knew, I was face down on the stinky, wooden floor with the back of my head throbbing. The teacher blew his whistle and whatever was going on stopped.

"All right, who threw that?" The teacher barked like a marine drill sergeant. I picked myself up. My cheek hurt. I rubbed my head.

"Anyone? Anyone see anything?"

The gym was silent as I looked around. No one looked guilty, but kids learn at an early age how to look innocent. Most never lose that talent. The gym teacher blew his whistle twice to indicate that the games were back on.

Again, I was on the floor. I caught the blur of a red rubber ball before it bounced off my head at a high velocity - harder and faster than any teenager should be able to throw. I yelled out from the pain. Next thing I knew, Maggie was at my side. "It was her."

After the whistle blow, the teacher followed my friend's finger to confront the new girl. She gazed up at him with her big baby blues. She batted her long lashes. "I'm so sorry, sir. I must not be good at this."

"Sit this session out, Miss Winters." The teacher tweeted twice on the silver whistle. "You too, Nathaniel."

Maggie helped me to my feet. Before she could spin me off towards the bleachers, I caught sight of Nikki. She was looking at me, but that goody-two-shoes face was gone. She smirked like a pro, as if she knew exactly what she was doing. Worse still, she liked that she’d beaned me.

Crazy bitch.


All Short Stories by Mary Lewys is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

I sat on the curb with a small blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I watched as Maggie, strapped down to the gurney, was bumped into the back of an ambulance. She had an oxygen mask on and her sparkly pink dress was singed. The flashing lights made everything seem surreal. A few feet away, firemen inspected the limo for any other signs of flame. Radios crackled with voices. I couldn't understand the special cop codes or fireman protocols that were coming over the wire, not that I wanted to in the first place.

"You didn't see anyone." The cop towering over me had his pen poised over the paper in his notebook. He looked like all the grizzly cops I ever saw around our neighborhood patrolling for someone to pick-up to validate their existence: miserable and put-out. I shook my head.

"Sorry, no. The windows were tinted and I was with my date."

"And you don't know how you got out of the car?"

I looked at where the rear driver side door had been. The door hinges were twisted and torn. The door laid smoking on the lawn behind me. I shook my head again. "I don't know how I got out."

I kept the same face and same tone of voice as before. Sure, I sounded like an idiot, but I wasn't about to tell him how Maggie and me escaped. He wouldn't believe me if I did.

* * *

Memory's a funny thing. I can't remember what caused the first time. I just remember how it felt. I was hurt, but not crying. I was scared. That voice in my head that called itself my father came and went, but I remember asking that voice to help me.

Everything turned red, like I’d put on some cheap-ass, hippy glasses. My body was lifted and I floated off the ground. I didn't feel any less scared, but I knew I was safe - like when you're five and you know you're safe from the closet monster underneath your bed blankets. Nothing could touch me. And the voice in my head was now outside my head as well when it spoke.

None shall ever harm ye, nor will ye ever know harm. I will protect ye.

And I felt power. I wanted to leap a tall building in a single bound or bench press a train car. I lifted my arm. It had a red, glowing light around it with a three fingered claw at the end. I looked at my shoes and four feet below them were cloven hooves standing in the dirt. When I looked up, I could see his face like a mask hovering before me. Huge horns curled off his forehead.

Whatever hurt me was gone. And once the danger left, he melted away. I sank down to the earth and fell to my knees. I couldn't stop shaking.

* * *

After the fifth round of questioning from Mr. Police Officer, Mom arrived. She was all tears and hugs. Thankfully, she hadn't hit the phlegm stage yet or I wouldn't get back the security deposit on my tux. Once she arrived, the cop figured he couldn't bully me anymore. He gave her the basic details of what happened while she hugged me. I didn't say another word.

She signed papers for my release that said I was okay. Her cell phone rang. It was Maggie's folks with an update. She was going to be released with only a minor burn to her arm where the corsage had been, I guess. I didn't ask. Mom led me to her car down the block with her arm around me like I was five again. I didn't know what to say.

The whole car ride home I listened to Mom go on and on about "getting a lawyer at her firm" to "check out that limo company" and "how unsafe that car must have been." I put my head back on the rest and closed my eyes. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was something funky with the car. Wouldn't that be nice?

But I knew my life couldn't be that simple.

* * *

The following Monday, I walked to school. I waited by the door that was closest to the student parking lot for Maggie. Normally, she'd pick me up, but I wasn't sure she'd come for me after what happened. She walked up with her army surplus backpack over one shoulder and her hand-me-down purse on the other. A white gauze bandage covered her arm. Her hair was black with a pink streak down the side and her make-up was heavy around the eyes. She smiled at me. I let loose the breath I'd been holding.

"My savior."

I took her hand. Maggie was a senior, two years older than me. I will never know why she picked me out of all the freshmen to take care of, but she sidled up to me on my first day with that same smile. It wasn't love, at least, not what I thought love should be. We didn't kiss or make-out, but she would hold my hand through the school. We'd hang out afterwards and talk shit. To me, she was the coolest girl in school.

"You all right?"

"Best prom ever." She laughed. "Ma's still freaking that I missed my big senior prom."

Her Mom was forever heartbroken. Maggie wasn't a cheerleader or didn’t sing in the school choir. She didn't date jocks. She didn't stay after-school to help with the dance decorations. Her Mom lamented the fact that Maggie wasn't her and Maggie loved driving her Mom nuts.

"I don't know what happened. I'm so sorry."

"Chill, all right? You didn't cause it. Dad says he thinks it was faulty wiring in the car. It was pretty old looking." She slipped her hand into mine as we walked into school. "Becky said everyone talked about us all night at the prom. By the end, she heard that we killed ourselves in ritual suicide. I can't wait to see faces."

* * *

Truth: the limo was new. The flowers were the most expensive in the shop. My tux was from a real store in the mall, not some cut-rate discount place. I lied to my mother about it all, saying I helped Angelo with his lawn mowing jobs for the extra money for prom. I haven't told her about my job. I haven't told anyone about my job, just like I haven't told anyone about my Dad.

Except Mom. Mom knows about Dad. She pretends not to.

* * *

"Mom. I want to show you something." It was late. We were in "Aunt" Martha's backyard. I say "aunt" because she was just a friend of my Mom's from work, but insisted I call her that. Big-boned Martha was on vacation and asked us to house-sit her two yappy, fucking dogs that peed everywhere. Instead of slugging on the couch to cable television on the big screen, we spent Saturday cleaning carpets because the stupid little things went everywhere. It didn't matter that I took them out two seconds before and they pissed all over the patio, the grass, the fence, or whatever. They'd trot back into the house and whiz in the middle of the carpet.

"What's that, honey?" She gave up the A/C and comfy furniture to sit on the brick steps of the patio. I think she planned on staying outside with the dogs as long as possible just so she didn't have to scrub the rugs again. She looked tired, but liked the night air. We could see the stars in the night sky.

"You know, the voice I told you about in my head?" Her face dropped. So much for her one moment of Zen. I wished I didn't have to do that to her, but I had to tell someone, right? "Dad? Dad, can you come out?"

He did. All seven foot, glowing red with flaming horns of Hell of him formed around me. I watched as she screamed so loud I thought she'd break the windows. She scrambled back, legs over arms until she could get to her feet. She ran into the sliding glass window and fell down. Luckily, nothing broke - the window or her.

Ah, the Vessel. Ye spoke to her.

"Sort of. I don't think she believed me."

Mom screamed again.

"Mom, Mom! Stop! I'm all right. See? I'm not hurt."

The pitiful humans will not comprehend, my childe. My vestige serves only as a reminder of what they fear.

"But you said you wouldn't hurt her."

I shant. The Vessel is blessed and will be protected upon my rise to power.

Mom stopped screaming. She stopped running or clawing at the sliding glass door handle. She went catatonic.

"Mom, I wanted to tell you - show you I wasn't crazy. I'm not crazy."

Go to the Vessel, my childe. Display comfort and pity. Hence forth, never present me to the Vessel.

* * *

After school, Maggie dropped me off at my apartment complex. She couldn't come in because she had to go to work: Hot Topic at the Mall. Her Mom hated it. She hated it too, working retail, but she'd never admit it. Plus, I think she dug the employee discount.

I grabbed the bus to my job - my real job. I guess it's a job. I get a paycheck. But somehow, it seems silly that all I do is show up at designated spots, call on Dad and beat the crap out of something. First time, it was vampires. Vampires! I should've known. I'm the walking poster child of a demon's uprising. Of course, vampires exist.

The bus stopped at the corner. I walked the rest of the way into the industrial park. By the way, never trust anything in an industrial park. The sign on the door two units down was "Silverlake Company." Women with breast implants and spray-on tans walked in and out of that place all day. I shouldn't say anything. The sign on the door where I work reads, "Service Industry Corporation Network."

Inside, there was a gym and locker room. I walked through the meeting room and research center to the office at the end of the hall. The door was closed, but I could see a figure sitting at the desk through the frosted glass. She was in, no one else. Good. I knocked on the glass.

"Come in." Her voice always scared me a little. I had heard Mom's "professional voice" before, but Nerissa’s was chilling. It was like she was dead inside or something. Sometimes, I wondered if she was human at all.

"Nerissa? You have a minute?"

"Sure, Nathaniel. Sit."

She typed away on her laptop. Her wild hair and dark make-up made me think of Maggie, but that was the only thing. Where Maggie liked to laugh and enjoyed music, I couldn't imagine Nerissa doing anything other than killing puppies for fun - and she wouldn't smile or laugh while doing it. When she was done, she closed the lid and folded her hands neatly over the it.

"How can I help you?"

I told her about prom and the limo. I made sure to tell her that I told the cops nothing and played stupid. She almost smiled. Also, I made sure to state more than once that I did not see anything. I had no idea how the car caught fire.

"Well," Nerissa folded her fingers together and rested her cheek against them. "It sounds like someone's out to kill you."

"Really?"

"Considering whose child you are, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner." She pushed papers around on her desk until she could tap their edges into a neat stack. She wouldn't look at me. "You have to find who it is."

"Me? What about the team?"

"Whoever tried to kill you didn't succeed. They will try again. You just have to keep your eyes open. Call if you see anything or anyone suspicious."


All Short Stories by Mary Lewys is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

So much for prom. I don't know why these things happen to me. I didn't ask for a limo flambéed, yet here I sit in the back seat. The driver dances as he tries to put his skin out. Human fat sizzling smells worse than the fake, vinyl upholstery burning. Still, I should do something to save my date from frying to death, I suppose.

"Dad?"

Yes, son?

"I need a little help."

* * *

I used to have such a normal life. No Norman Rockwell, white picket fences, riding the Radio Flyer down the street type of normal; more like watching Saturday Morning cartoons on a fourth-hand couch while eating my sixth bowl of Fruit Loops with extra sugar because Mom had to work a double shift type of normal. My friends and I had worn-out skateboards from the local pawn shops because our parents couldn't afford the bike prices. Well, when I say "parents," I mean my Mom. She was going to school and working at a diner when I was growing up. Then, she put on a white dress shirt, navy slacks and went to work as a paralegal so we could afford a better, less-shitty place to live.

But what did I know? All my friends in the barely above the projects apartment complex had the same life. We all went to the same school. We all wore the same crappy clothes from Goodwill or second-hand shops. During the summer, one of the parents would act as day care, usually someone's Dad who was laid-off from the factory, and we would run the streets looking for stuff to do. When it got too hot, we'd hit Josh's place. He had an old PS we found in the trash. He hid it from his folks in case they'd try to hock it when one of them fell off the wagon.

It was good, right? We didn't get hurt beyond the scraped knees or occasional bruises. We were never bullied, probably because the type of guy that would was too afraid to come into our neighborhood. The crackheads never bothered us, nor the homeless. We didn't bother them. There are worse ways to grow-up.

Hell, I didn't even think about my dad. Plenty of my friends never saw their dead-beat fathers. I figured mine was the same. Mom must have been waiting on pins and needles for me to ask, but I didn't. I learned at an early age that parents aren't gods. They're just human.

What did I know?

* * *

"Dad, the car's on fire."

Verily, childe, how did this come to pass?

"Dad! I'm in a rented tux and my date's corsage is about to go up in flames. Would you please do something?"

* * *

On my thirteenth birthday, my mom took me to the local ice cream shop. A single scoop of Superman ice cream didn't make up for all the years without cake or presents, but it was good enough for that day. Mom laughed as I raced to keep the ice cream from running onto my hand. The sun was out. The summer was hot. I remember hearing someone mention "Friday the 13th" by the screened, ordering window.

"Nathaniel? You know, I love you, right?" Mom said. She smiled. It wasn't something that Mom did often. I think that's why I remember it. She smiled. "No matter what, I love you."

"Okay, Mom, geez."

Later, I hung out in the vacant lot waiting for Joey to get out of summer school. We planned to build a fort, but we were still in the planning stages. It wasn't like I could gather supplies or something while I was waiting. I kicked around a few rocks before I heard his voice.

My childe. Oh, my childe, the day has come. I bid you a hail and hearty day of your birth.

I ran all the way home. Don't ask me why, but I wanted home and Mom and to hide under my bed. I covered my ears. It didn't help.

I am your father. Fear not! I shall not harm ye.

Mom tried to coax me out. She promised cookies and TV dinners and whatever I wanted to watch, but the voice wouldn't stop. It was deep. It rattled my skull like a gong. I started crying and didn't stop until the voice noticed.

'Tis far too much for ye wee mind, childe. Rest. Your mother will explain. Interrogate the woman that bore ye.

* * *

"I don't know, Dad. I have no idea who set the car on fire."

Were you not in the motorized vehicle?

"Yes, I was, but I was talking to Maggie."

The wench was the distraction. We should smite the conspirator!

"She was nearly burned to death. I don't think so."

The automobile’s operator?

"According to the EMT, fried right up."

Many a soul wishes to keep me in Hell. You have many enemies, my son.

"What else is new?"

* * *

Six weeks. Six weeks of my Dad yapping on like he does, about our destiny and how we would do great things together. We would conquer the world and set it right, blah, blah, blah. My mom thought I had hit my emo phase because I did nothing but blare her Smiths' albums as loud as I could. Don't ask me why The Smiths drowned him out, but Metallica, Manilow, and Mozart didn't work. Weird, but whatever.

After six weeks, I asked Mom about my Dad. She made this face that I will never forget. It was like she smelled dog shit on top of baby puke wrapped in moldy newspaper. I don't know if it was the memory of him or something else. Whether she knew about me or not was impossible to tell. She turned off the TV. She sat next to me on the couch and told me about my father.

He picked her up when she was in Reno, dealing black jack. She was eighteen, but lied about her age across the board to get work. She said he looked normal: nice eyes, regular hair, not too skinny, and not too stout. She remembered he was funny. While he kept losing, he made the funniest comments. She said she just laughed and laughed - until the pit boss told her to go on break.

He asked her out for a drink. The next night was dinner. She said, "One thing led to another, and he spent the night. I don't know why he didn't try anything before that night, because he was so nice that I would've done him after drinks."

These are things a son should never know about his mother. Anyway, after that night, she never saw him again. About a month later, she started to worry. Sure enough, pregnant with no way to reach him. So, she had me and moved back with her Mom and Dad for a while. That didn't last long. Grandpa the alcoholic never let her live it down - his slut of a daughter. She figured it would be better on the streets with me than in that environment. It didn't happen. She worked whatever she could get to keep a roof over our heads.

I asked her if Dad was weird, if he showed signs of hearing voices or anything. She said, "No. He was funny and nice, not the sort of thing she ran across every day."

"So, there was nothing wrong with him. Did he ask you anything weird or wear anything weird?"

"No," she scowled until a thought crossed her mind. Her face lit up. "Yeah. On the second round of betting, he asked what denomination I was - what my faith was."

"What did you tell him?"

"I'm an atheist."


All Short Stories by Mary Lewys is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

If you ever wonder why I have fanophobia, here is another reason (on top of the thousands I have posted here) why I hate fans and will not support them or have anything to do with them in any way.

And no, I don't want you to explain it to me. I don't want to hear some fucking stupid justification about how it's okay to shit on another human being for simply writing a television show. If anything, justifying bad behavior pisses me off more than the actual bad behavior! If you have to justify it, then you know what you did is wrong!

Comments are off because there are more than a few people who read this who would want to try to make sympathetic noise yet continue being the type of person who James Moran is talking about.

Back in my youth, when I started college, I didn't have enough time to write in my journal every day. As a way to track my days and what would happen, since I'm an emotional memory person, I started writing quick quips to keep the memory tangible in my brain. My friend, Lisa, read it one day and asked if I was going to publish my poetry. I stared at her for a long time.

So, I won't say this is poetry, but it is a way for me to remember what happens today.

Cassandra Didn’t Have Enough Time

Cassandra didn't have enough time.
You know her story, right?
A Princess of Troy so beautiful
She caught the eye of a god.
But because she didn't love him,
He gave her the perfect gift
Wrapped in a bow:
She would always know the truth.
She could see what was coming.
She could warn those around her.
The bonus part of this gift was
No one would ever believe her.

Madness, right? That’s what it
Would look like:
Talking nonsense words.
I bet not a one of them said,
With their dying breath,
"She was right!"
Because the curse worked
That well.
Imagine her frustration of
Always being right and
Always knowing and
Being surrounded by fools.

She was killed by the conquering
King's wife or lover, maybe both.
So she didn’t have enough time
To work it out. She didn't have
Enough time to see that no one
Wants to hear the truth, curse or not.
She would have to hide the truth
In story and in song in order
For those around to learn of their fate.
If a hero in a song was to suffer the
Same fate as Agamemnon, maybe he
Wouldn't have walked them both
Into that trap.

She just didn't have enough time, poor thing.

(again, it's been a little while. Sorry about that. You can review at my website. - ML)

Three days passed before she slipped her key into the lock. The bolt slid into the door with ease. She smiled at the thought of the cleaning crew keeping the place warm for her. She pushed open the heavy metal door secured with an electronic alarm and keypad. She stared down a long hallway painted white. The frames for doors marred the antiseptic walls. Nerissa let the door close behind her before she walked down the hall.

The first door to her left opened on the work-out room. The weights, benches and machines waited for a work-out. Nerissa saw herself in the mirrors along the back wall; brown overcoat flapped around her legs as a black, soft suitcase dangled from her hand. Behind her, the door to the locker room was closed. It was quiet. She noticed how very quiet it was.
The next door was to the training room. Thick mats covered the walls and floor. The one-way mirror allowed Nerissa to see more of the room as she walked past the closed door. She could see her shadowy reflection in the smoky glass. She stopped to pull her sunglasses down her nose. She sighed.

She passed the meeting room with the long, oval, oak table and accompanying chairs, the research library filled with bookshelves, books, and two computers, and a small janitorial closest that held the emergency kit she'd pulled out at least once a week in another life. Nerissa reached out with her finger tips to brush the door before she stopped at the end of the hallway.
The door was closed. The brass holder for the name plaque was empty; it was bolted to the center of the door at eye level. She took off her sunglasses to stare at it for a good long while.

She slipped her glasses into her coat pocket before she grabbed the door handle.

She inhaled. The office was clean. Wood polish shined the desktop. It was littered with stacks of paper. Mail from the past month was stacked in the inbox. She circled the desk. Her coat tails brushed against the filing cabinet. The antique, wooden chair slid on its old granite wheels until its back bumped against the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Nerissa set her briefcase on an empty spot on the desk.

Her coat slipped from her shoulders. She stepped to hang it on a standing rack. As she cleared her throat, she stepped between the desk and the chair. He cleared his throat from the doorway.

"Oh," Nerissa stopped herself from sitting down. "Mel. Hi. I see the carrier pigeons worked."

With his arms folded over his chest, he winced. "Stop sending them. Honestly, they are making a mess of my living room."

"You wouldn't answer your phone."

"There was a reason for that."

"I wanted to apologize." Nerissa pushed the chair under the desk. She watched her pointy boots peek out from beneath her wrinkle-free dress slacks as she walked around the desk.
"For what, exactly?" He lifted his chin.

"For – for everything." She laced her fingers. "I should've told you I still loved Tom. That my heart wasn't available. That I only slept with you because I was afraid I'd kill myself if I stayed alone."

Mel stiffened. His fair brow drew down onto the bridge of his slender nose. He frowned.

"You're a good man, Mel, too good for the likes of me."

"How about I decide what's good for me?" He took her hands after he crossed to her. Nerissa looked up into his crystal, blue eyes. He smiled.

"Excuse me." While wrapping his knuckles on the door frame, Nathaniel stuck his head in the door. "Is this the too-honest hour or are we meeting?"

Nerissa withdrew her hands. Mel shot an angry scowl over his shoulder before he stepped away. With his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, Nathaniel slumped and hung his head.

"Come in," Nerissa extended her hand before she walked back around the desk. She sat this time to open her soft satchel. "Yes, I wanted to meet."

The young man hung in the door way like some sad, lonely shadow until the half-elf clamped a hand upon his shoulder and dragged him in. He staggered and fell into one of the two, over-stuffed chairs in front of the desk. He slouched even lower, as if he was sure he did something wrong. Mel patted him lightly before moving to the other side of the room to look over the books on the dark, wooden shelves.

While she busied herself pulling folders and ledgers from her bag, Nerissa looked up to find her sister in the other seat. Dressed in her running gear, Evie sat with fingertips pressed together and her elbows resting on the arms of her chair. She did not smile and she did not frown. Her sister nodded before pushing green folders towards them.

Nerissa watched her sister while she held her breath to the count of five. She exhaled and smiled. The corner of Evie's mouth turned upwards slightly. She took the folder.

"These are the rest of the forms I need you to complete. The first one outlines damages for the various work-related possibilities. The next one is for next of kin, legal contacts, and banking information." Nerissa folded her hands. "After you've completed these, we'll discuss our next assignment."

"Are we going after that bad ass that wandered off the other night?" Nathaniel riffled through the paper without reading a page. He eyed the boss lady.

"No."

"No?"

"But didn't he kill your husband that I didn't know about?" Evie dropped the papers into her lap and slumped down to Nathaniel's level.

"Listen. If you're going to be on this team, you will do as I ask." Nerissa looked from one to the other in a point of making eye contact. Her face remained serious. "It is not to be touched. Not now. Not for a while."

No one said anything. Nerissa stood from her desk. "Right. Let me give you a tour and then we'll discuss our first assignment."


Project 365 Short Stories by Mary Lewys is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

In case you're not following, you need to follow Tony Lee on Twitter. For the last two nights, he as made several posts about writing that are amazingly insightful and helpful. I highly recommend you read.