“Hello, Mom.”

7 AM rolls around and my alarm clock lets out an electronic buzzing sound. It sounds like what an AI might think of buzzing bees without ever having been fed a recording of them. I am already awake. I was awake when my next-door neighbors began arguing in Spanish about who the real father of little Ana is. I was awake when an old Chevy pickup with a blown-out exhaust pipe made donuts in the parking lot. I was awake while a group of teenagers smoked underneath the no-smoking sign outside the apartment complex. I was awake when my mother called and left a voice mail message, saying “I love you, call me.”

I was awake, but I simply did not move. Not until the alarm went off.

Silencing the buzzer, I swung my legs off the bed, stood up, and walked to the bathroom. I disrobed, throwing my underwear into the laundry hamper, turned on the shower, and went on with the business of scrubbing yesterday off of me. After I dressed, I drove my car to the Park-and-Ride and took the 7:30 train to downtown. I got off at the 5th and Market station and walked into Jackson & Son’s Marketing Firm. A mirror monolith of a building, Jackson & Son’s Marketing Firm towered over the other sky crappers, reflecting only dark grey concrete and a florescent bulb sky. I walked in and merged with the other workers inside one of the six elevators on the first floor. I got off on the 7th floor, clocked in with my ID, and went to my cubicle. On my desk was an envelope with only one word written on it: “Dorothy Burns.” I took the envelope off the desk and placed it in my dark brown leather handbag. It was time to work.

At 12PM, I took out my lunch box and ate the cold cob salad I made last night. My cubicle neighbor, Ruth, came over and tapped me on my shoulder.

“There’s cupcakes in the break room. You want some?” she said.

With a mouth full of Romaine lettuce and ranch dressing, I nodded.

“Okay, I’ll go grab you one,” she said.

I swallowed the masticated morsel and took a sip out of my water bottle before continuing on an Excel Spreadsheet, documenting the change in consumer engagement. My cob salad, my bottle was empty, and the lunch hour was over by the time Ruth came back, holding two chocolate cupcakes.

She handed me one and starting munching on the other as she went back to work. I looked at the cupcake. Someone with very calm hands had painstakingly wrote the words “Happy Birthday” with royal icing on the cupcake. I placed the cupcake aside and continued typing.

By 7:00 PM everyone except me and the janitorial staff remained I continued to work until my cell phone began to buzz. I picked it up and turn off the alarm. I saved my progress and sent out the last report before logging off the computer and clocking out. I remembered to place the cupcake in my empty Tupperware before exiting the building.

I repeated this morning’s commute in reverse and in the streetlight-speckled darkness. Once back at the apartment, I checked the mail. There were many cards, all with “Dorothy Burns” written on them. But no bills and no tickets. Just cards. I emptied the mailbox into my handbag and went upstairs.

I undressed and threw my cloths into the laundry hamper. I emptied my bag and prepared lunch for tomorrow. I placed the cupcake with the cards scattered on the table. I took out a glass and filled it with sherry and stood for a while looking at the cupcake and the cards.

I downed the glass of sherry in one gulp, sat down, and read each card. One from Mom, one from Big Bro, one from a classmate from college, another from a classmate form high school, one from that guy who lives two hours away, and some from people I don’t remember. After reading them, I organized the pile on the table and took out some pens and paper. I wrote a thank you note to each sender, using a thank you note template I had found on my phone, and sealed each with the same white envelope I use to send checks. I poured myself another glass of sherry and I checked my phone. There was only one message, still. I hit redial and waited for three beeps. At the third beep, my mother answered. I said, “Hello, mom.”

Call Me Grandma

Human blood is my favorite drink, especially, young warm fresh blood. Thirty years old is just young enough to still have that sweetness of infantile wonder but old enough to have a tinge of disillusionment and a splash of mundane fears. On this day, I was finishing a thirty-year-old graduate student from the University of Washington. His blood was a mixture of one-night stands, homesickness, and too many bottles of mountain dew. Yet, his fear as I drained his body was worth the trip and I do love playing with my food.

They are so cute when they beg.

As I was about to leave through the pentagram on his hands (why do “edgy” humans make it so easy for us?), I heard a knock at the door. Usually, that was my cue to hurry up and leave but I was still thirsty. Maybe it was that girl he was texting. She was twenty-five and therefore so much sweeter.

I listened as the faint knocking continued. After the third rendition of “Shave and a Hair Cut,” I heard a feeble voice.

“Larry, Larry, it’s your grandmother, can I come in?”

A grandmother! Grandmothers are terrifying. They are so close to death, that they know not to fear it. Worst of all, the wisest ones know how to deal with demons…The last one I dealt with sprayed me with holy water and threw a saddle at me.

I began rushing to open the gate through Larry’s hands when I heard the door unlock. My foot was halfway inside the gate when Larry’s grandmother came walking in. She was bent over like a cane and have a pink floral shawl draped over her shoulders. In her hands she carried a casserole dish that smelled of tomatoes and cheese. Her face was leathered and creased like a good book that has been read too often, but her eyes were tiny blue dots behind huge thick glasses.

I stood frozen. Not sure how she would respond to seeing her dead grandson and a red naked demon.

But she didn’t even look my way.

Instead, she beelined straight to the kitchen and began fiddling with the dirty dishes.

“Larry, honey, where did you place the soap? Oh, never mind, I think I found it.”

There was a crash and I started to smell blood.

“Oh, Nancy look what you did not.”

Against, my better judgement, I took my foot out of Larry and left the living room. I took a peak into the kitchen and saw Nancy holding a dirty towel to her hand.

“Larry, I think I need a Band-Aid. Can you go get one for me dear?”

Without thinking, I looked around the kitchen and found a first-aid kit above the fridge. That was the only thing I found easily. The kitchen was a mess, dirty dishes piled high to the ceiling, a fold out chair covered in dirty clothes, and empty boxes of Mountain Dew assembled around a tattered table. I pushed the clothes to the floor, and guided Larry’s grandmother to the chair.

She had not looked up at my since she cut her hand.

I took her hand, cleaned the wound, and bandaged it up. How would Larry let his grandmother see the state of his domicile? Shameful.

By the time I was done bandaging her wound and patting myself on the back for getting rid of yet another neckbeard, I finally realized that Nancy had shifted her gaze upon me.

She was smiling at me. The sweetest smile I had ever seen.

“Thank you, dear. My eyes are not what they use to be and there seems to be a lot of sharp objects in the sink.”

I stumbled backwards and ran back to the living room.


I stopped as I reached Larry’s lifeless body.

She was standing in the kitchen doorway, her tiny blue eyes locked onto my back. I could feel them burn into me like dry ice. The floor boards creaked as she walks towards me.

I spun around. My pride already dashed. Who ever heard of a Hell Spawn Demon being afraid of a hunched back grandmother?

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” I say, staring right into her eyes and raising my claws into the air.

“I am so lonely. Larry lives right in my apartment complex, ignores me every day despite living rent free, and you see how he lives? I was hoping you might want to stay instead.”

I lowered my claws closer to her and tilted by head.


“Stay. Live here rent free and take care of security around here. Larry was supposed to do that but, well, he never was good at anything was he? Except for tattoos. He was good at getting them. I designed the pentagram on his hand. Told him it would be his birthday present.”

At this point, my arms fell to my sides.

“You’re telling me you wrote the pentagram?”


“To invite a demon, like me…”


“To replace your deadbeat grandson?”


I looked down at Larry’s body and gave it a good kick.


I haven’t heard something that crazy in centuries. I knew I could kill her and leave her to rot by her grandson but the last time I said no to a crazy scheme I ended up being the only demon not apart of the music industry. Maybe security is the next best thing.

“How many young’uns cause you trouble here?”

“Too many to count.”

“And I get free reign over how security is run here?”

“And all my other apartments in the city.”

“And the catch?”

“Visit with me every week and for every holiday.”

I quickly drafted up a contract, with the regular Deals with The Devil clauses. I signed it in and had Nancy signed with the blood from her hand.

“I look forward to working with you, Nancy.” I smiled as I shook her hand, sealing the deal.

“Oh, please, call me grandma.”

The Thin Man and His Rice

Once upon a time there was a thin man who lived on a farm with his twelve brothers and elderly parents. His parents were in their twilight years and knew that they were not long for this earth.

As per tradition, the couple gathered their offspring together around their large bamboo bed. Starting with their youngest son, the family’s patriarch gave out their inheritance.

The 13th son received his father’s staff and his mother’s shawl. The 12th son received his father’s youngest carabao and his mother’s cat. The 11th son received his father’s books and his mother’s lamps. The 10th son received his father’s pots and pans and his mother’s silverware.

This continued until the first born, the thin man. By then, nothing was left to give except for “the farm and your mother’s rice seeds,” said the patriarch.

“You will stay on the farm alone and live here as we did. Grow and prosper as I have, my son. May this land give you 20 healthy sons and a beautiful wife as it has given me.”

The thin man did not speak, but instead raised his father’s hand to his forward.

“Go now, my sons, and rest,” said the mother.

The next day, both elders passed away. The funeral was arranged and within one week, both farmer and wife lay in the ancient cemetery on the hill overlooking the village.

Following the funeral, each of the 12 brothers left with their inheritance and with one word of advice for their oldest brother:

“Give and receive as Father and Mother did. Give up on your bad habit.”

The bad habit in question was his stingy nature. The thin man was not generous to himself or others, hence his thin form and emaciated chest. Despite his family’s prosperity,  he never ate more than was necessary. Now, without his brothers they feared he would never eat.

However, he thanked them for their concern and, as the last brother left, he let out a sigh.

“Finally,” he thought, “No one to nag at me.”

Just as the elders wished, each son prospered in his chosen field of interests and the farm flourish. However, despite producing the most rice out of any farmer on the island, the thin man grew thinner and thinner.

With each visit from his brothers, the thin man wasted away, until he was just skin and bones. Yet, despite his brothers worries and fear, he looked happier than ever. The thin man rejoiced in how productive his farm had become and he prided himself on his own frugality.

The farm continued to produce bumper crop after bumper crop, which in turn attracted local mice. Fat black mice began to raid the thin man’s storage and swam in his rice paddies. Enraged, the thin man began to set traps for the mice and scanned his field with a scythe, hunting for more. He cooked the pests outside his house on a fire, hoping the smell of roasted meat would scare others away.

Three moons have passed before his 13th brother came to visit. As the brother walked through the fields of rice, he noticed the decaying remains of mice scattered here and there in cages or decapitated by traps. By the time he reached the thin man, the 13th brother had vomited his breakfast. The smell of mice feces and rotted meat was too much for the young man.

“Kuya,” he said, opening his family’s door, “KUYA! What has happened to the farm?”

“Huh,” said the thin man as he turned to his brother, “Mice, Raul, mice! They have come to take my treasure. So I had to do away with them. Look.”

He held by a bundle of dead mice in his bony hands. The thin man had tied ten mice by their tails with hemp rope.

“I will scare them off with this for sure,” said the thin man.

“Kuya,” Raul said, “No, STOP! The mice are not the problem, Kuya.” Raul held his brother’s arm. “You have too much rice here. I passed a dozen or so mountains of harvested rice just sitting there. Sell the rice and be done with the mice, Kuya, please!”

The thin man stroked his chin while studying the dirt caked on his foot. He click his tongue twice. “You have a point, Raul. I will go to market tomorrow and sell as much as I can carry with the old carabao.”

“Yes, yes!” said Raul, “And I will help you.”

The next day, as promised, the thin man and his brother left for the market with a mountain of rice piled high onto the family’s old cart. At the sight of the rice, many villagers cheered. Their farms had not been as prosperous as the thin man’s and they grew hungry and thin with each passing day. Families by the dozen began flocking towards the cart and shouting, “SELL, SELL, SELL, GIVE, GIVE, GIVE!”

Raul quickly found an open spot in the marketplace and spread out a large blanket.

“How much should charge the people,” he asked the thin man.

The thin man’s eyes glimmered as he looked at the mountain of rice.

“No less than 9000 pesos, Raul,” said the thin man, still staring at the mountain.

“9000 pesos!” Raul laughed, “No, Kuya, I meant per pound? Cup?”

“9000 pesos per cup,” the thin man said, not looking at his brother.

“Kuya,” Raul touched his shoulder, “No one here has that kind of money. 10 pesos is pushing it but 9000 is impossible.”

The thin man looked at his brother, “9000, and that is all, Raul.”

Both brothers sat down and turned family by family away. Before the day was half way done, the crowd became agitated as news of the price of rice spread. Eventually, the village elder were called and brought to the thin man and Raul.

The elder approached the thin man.

“Is it true that you are charging 9000 pesos for a cup of rice?” said the elder.

“Yes, po,” said the thin man.

“Anak,” the elder said, “As you can see the village is poor. Every farm but yours has failed this harvest. I know you and your family. Your parents taught you and your brothers to be generous.”

“Yes, but if I give for free now, what will I get in return later? How can I use you are not hording your money somewhere else, po?” said the thin man, “I will not be tricked out of my wealth.”

“If you will not give freely to the village that fed you, then will you sell at a lower price?” said the elder.

“9000 is as low as I will go,” said the thin man.

The two men stared at each other for a while. The sun extracted a thick bead of sweat from the elder’s brow.

“So be it,” the elder turned to the crowd, “live this man to his fate.”

The crowd dispersed and left the two brothers alone.

Raul and the thin man walked silently to the farm. Raul did not look at his brother. Instead, he packed his things and left without a word. The thin man took no notice.

“Fools,” he thought, “It is about supply and demand, the higher the demand the greater the price for the supply.” He click his tongue.

As he started a fire in his stove, he heard a large thud coming from the barn, where he stored his rice seed.


He took up his scythe and walked into the barn. The thin man flicked on the lights. The old carabao was eating his hay. The tools still hung on the walls. The bags of rice seed seemed undisturbed. There was only one thing amiss; a small trail of uncooked white rice lead behind the larger bags of seed.

The thin man crept to the seed bag and looked behind it to find a cowering small boy.

“They grow vermin larger than I remember,” said the thin man.

“Please, po,” said the boy, “I only wanted a handful of rice for my sister and I.”

“A vermin and a thief, huh,” said the thin man, “May God have mercy on your soul.”

With that the thin man swung his scythe, missing the boy and striking a bag of seed. The boy darted between the thin man’s legs and ran out of the barn, screaming. It had begun to rain outside and the boy’s feet slipped in a puddle.

The barn door swung open as the thin man screamed after the boy, “Come back here, thief!”

The boy ran behind of the dozen mountains of rice scattered around the field.

“Come out little mouse,” said the thin man, as he stalked around each rice pile.

The boy’s nose began to itch and he was about to sneeze when a hand covered his mouth.

It was Raul. He had come back after he heard a scream. Raul placed his finger to his mouth and motioned the boy to stay.

He came out from behind the rice and faced his brother. “Kuya, what is the meaning of this?”

“Ah! Raul! Good. Have you seen a little thief? He stole some rice from me.”

“Kuya, he is just a boy. What is one bit of rice to you?” The boy came out and hung onto Raul.

“YOU!” shouted the thin man. He raised his scythe to cut down the boy and Raul. Raul ducked and shielded the boy with his body as the earth began to shake.

The earthquake collapsed a mountain of rice onto the thin man and drowned his cries underneath the roar of moving earth.

As the quake subsided, the rain stopped. Raul dug into the rice for the thin man.

He found him, dead, suffocated by rice.

After the funeral, the remaining thirteen brothers decided Raul should keep the farm. Under him, the farm and village prospered. As for the young boy, Raul adopted him and his sister and they lived happily ever after.

Update + Short Story Draft

Hi all!

Sorry for the extreme lack of posts. It’s been a busy semester/year. This is just a quick update that I may, as the tide tells throws me, post drafts of works I have no intention to publish at the moment. To begin this new trend in posts, here is a short story I wrote for class this past weekend.



How to Ruin Someone’s Life in Five Minutes

She’s in there now. She’s in the house at 3535 Elmwood Drive. The house is surrounded by a white picket fence, lined with geraniums and tulips. A yard of blue-green grass stretches out from the front steps, lightly brushing against the sidewalk. A blooming hawthorn shades the windows while a tire swing sways in the breeze. The house is a pale pink, trimmed with white, to her taste. The woman, the mother, the wife, is in there now, doing what she always does on a Sunday morning.

She is baking. Usually, she is baking bread, preparing for Monday’s tuna salad, Tuesday’s ham and cheese, Wednesday’s Reuben, Thursday’s salami, and Friday’s BLT. Usually, she is kneading the bread with her computer on, playing NPR podcasts. Usually, her brow relaxes as the chemical reaction of eggs, yeast, flour, and water release a pleasant perfume into the air. Usually, the perfume lingers and seeps into the curtains, the leather chairs, her denim jeans and white cotton blouse. But that’s not today.

Today is her son’s birthday. He has turned 7 at exactly 5:35 am. That morning, she had prepared breakfast as he was getting dressed. Today, he would chose his clothes; the X-Man T-shirt he worn the day the Giants won the World Series, the tattered denim shorts bought the previous summer (peppered with stubborn grass stains). His mother laughed at the sounds of his heavy feet as he stomped upon the hardwood floorboards upstairs. She cracked an egg into the pan, imagining him rushing to the bathroom in the hiking boots his father had bought him last August. The sound of 7 years of life mixed with the sound of sizzling bacon, eggs, and pancakes.

Her husband came down before their son, walked up behind her as she was washing her hands, placed his thick arms around her waist, and pulled her close to him. She leaned back into him, taking in the cologne and after shave with a kiss. Her husband was muscular, but his height always gave the illusion of a slim frail man. As their son raced down to dining table, hopped into his favorite chair (the one closest to the living room and TV), and began piling his plate with food, both smiled at the stubby child they’ve made. Her son poured strawberry syrup straight from the bottle onto his pancakes. Her husband had winked his left eye at her as he took his seat at the head of the table. She had chuckled, then, before announcing the necessary errand. They were out of several sundry items but she needed to be home to watch for a special delivery from Grandma. She had already missed the delivery man twice this week; if she missed him again, the package would be sent back to sender. Her husband volunteered to do the shopping and urged their son to come along for the trip. At first, their son looked up at them, wide-eyed with strawberry syrup dripping from his lips. He had asked why he had to go too and what about his birthday and several other questions of the like, but eventually her husband convinced their son to join in on the grocery expedition. Before he entered the blue-grey station wagon, she kissed her son on his forehead, brushing flaxen strands of hair away from his eyes. His eyes were the color of hazel nut butter and shone in the morning light. They were the same eyes as his father. They were lovely eyes.

She had watched them drive off towards the Safeway in the next town over, waving her hands as the car faded out into the distance. Once the car was out of sight, she went back inside and began making phone calls. First she called her brother, who lives three streets down the way. Then, she called the families of Emily Johnson, Thomas Fresno, Erik Bernard, Jacob Featherweight, Michael Ocean, Jessica Bunny, Susan McLanester, Anthony Bee Suzette, Rachel Airline, Desiree Jones, Frankie Miles, Jonathon Jacob, Ginger Jiggle, Frederick Hammersmith, Abby Church, and Mitt Vandersmith. She called each in turn, announcing her son’s departure and when they would be expected to make an appearance at 3535 Elmwood Drive.

“Oh, I hope you can make it Mr. Johnson. How is Tommy today, Mrs. Fresno? Are you free today Mr. Bernard? Yes, they just left, Mrs. Featherweight. Their welcome to come, Mr. Ocean. Yes, of course Mrs. Bunny, thank you. No, Mr. McLanester, that isn’t necessary. Yes, thank you Ms. Suzette. Whenever you’re able to make it, Mr. Airline. Yes, please bring the streamers, Mr. Jones. Please be sure Frankie will behave this time, Mrs. Miles. Oh, that’s fine Mr. Jacob, no need to worry. No, thank you Mr. Jiggle, I have that covered. Of course, Mrs. Hammersmith. God bless you too, Mr. Church. See you soon, Mrs. Vandersmith.”

That was a while ago. Now, the backyard is full of colorful streamers, packages wrapped in ribbons, cards signed with happy wishes and stuffed with the occasional President Jackson. Adults are wandering around the yard, children are playing around their feet, and she is inside, baking the birthday boy’s cake. She has preheated the oven to 350 degrees and lightly oiled and floured three round pans. In a large clear bowl, she sifts together the flour, sugar, baking soda, salt, and cocoa powder. In another, she whisks together the oil, buttermilk, eggs, red food coloring, vinegar, and vanilla. She uses the standing mixer she got on her wedding day to mix the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients, until the batter is smooth. She is dividing the cake batter evenly between the three pans. She is placing them into the oven. She is sighing and wondering where her family is.

Five minutes from now, the cake will be forgotten. After my car pulls up to the house on 3535 Elmwood Drive, after she opens the door, after “Hello, Officer Hammersmith. What brings you here? Frederick is out back with the others.”  Five minutes from now, I will have to sit her down and say “Mary, Henry was in an accident.” Five minutes from now, she will ask a torrent of questions, “What accident? Is Henry okay? Where is he? What about Bobby?” And to each question there is only one answer, an answer that will toss a black shroud over her small frame.

But that’s not now, that’s five minutes from now. Currently, she is baking a cake for a little boy who will never see the sunset on his 7th year and for the man who kissed his wife goodbye.

CPU (post 1)


From a dusty window, orange light poured into a room filled with cardboard boxes. Some were labeled “books, clothes, shoes, and junk,” but most were labeled “fragile” in a haphazard pen. One box, battered and bruised, was labeled “Not Fragile, kick around to your heart’s content!” That one sat quietly near the trashcan by the door. Five large boxes labeled “Bed Stuff” and one small box labeled “Pillow” took up one wall while the other boxes were pilled high to the ceiling where an electric lamp flickered with wasted light. A loud snort came from the fabric boxes, and then a large sniff followed with a mucous filled spat. An arm sprung out from the fabric box closest to the window and hung listlessly from the side of the box. Clear thick mucous dangled from the finger tips for a while before being wiped off on the outside of the box. The hand, nail-bitten, bruised and stubby, felt on the ground for a moment, looking for something. Failing to find anything within reach, the hand and the arm retreated back into the box. There was a rustle, a mumble, and a very low curse as the box shook. Out from the fabric box the quilt-clad head of Corvus Parallax Ursa appeared.

Corvus, Para or CPU to her friends, lives, breathes, eats, and sleeps her whole life in a box. When her parents found her as an infant, she was in a box. Whatever she ate had to come from a box. For Halloween she would dress up as a box. For any formal occasion, including her cousin’s wedding, she would wear a dress with brown squares on it from a designer specializing in box fashion. She never goes out of her box, so long as she can help it. Unfortunately for her, though, she lived in a very non-box oriented world, a world where humans live peaceful (for the most-part) lives with beings of pure energy and beings that resemble animals, insects, plants, and everything in between. Corvus unhappily occupied the “everything in between” part of her world’s spectrum.

An orphan raised by a brain surgeon and a mechanic (both of which claim to be human but act suspiciously un-human), Corvus was soon found to be an ANGEL, an Anthromorphic Neo-Generation Electric Life-form. These beings have a distinct birth mark that resembles a pair of wings on their back, commonly called Wing Slits, which are used to identify ANGELs when they are born. CPU’s parents saw a simple pair of black wings on her back that happened to resemble crow wings, hence her first name. Of course most Wing Slits are black but who is to fault two loving parents. Being identified as belonging to a certain group is all well and good in CPU’s eyes, just another box to fit snuggly into, but ANGEL and international law dictates that once an ANGEL turns 2 they are to be assigned a personalized set of wings that match the mark on their back and a HALO (Hovering Analog Locating Office-port). The wings are usually hand crafted for the child by one of the elders of their village. Unfortunately for Corvus, she was an orphan living in a far away from any ANGEL village. As the saying goes, “ANGELs do their work in Maya, but live in Nirvana.” Since Nirvana is hard to get to, even by air, CPU’s parents had to go to a local wing dealer to get her a pair. Wing dealers use a government-backed system to produce wings for ANGELs born in Maya: they scan the child’s back, send the desired information into a computer, lay the child down on a cold metal table, and let the machine create and fit a pair of mechanical wings onto the child. It is a pain-less process, most of the time, and if the job is done in central Maya, the wings would not only be functional, they would be beautiful. That, unfortunately, was not the case with Corvus’s wings. Her parents went to West Maya to get her wings, an area notorious for both violence and mechanical know-how. They had a family friend, Jacob McNeal, who was at the time going into the wing crafting business. He was cheap, near, and a celebrated genius when it came to mechanized technology. Completely imbecilic when it came to children, safety regulations, and painkillers, but a genius nonetheless. Her wings to this day are among the most advance, black steel crow wings ever created. They are also the most painful. Corvus had to have her whole collar bone and part of her spine replaced with steel ones. Growing up, she was the only kid in class who wasn’t allowed to play with the magnets. And . . .

. . . .

SHUT UPPP!!!!!!!

Okay, I am taking over my own narrative! You gave them more than enough back story to satisfy even the most anal of critics. Yes, I like boxes, Yes Uncle McNeal, though sweet, is an incompetent boob when it comes to medicine, but for Gods sakes get over it. Oh and you there reading this, you probably forgot what was actually happening so let’s recap: it is late at night on the day I finally move into my apartment across the street from my university. I have just woken up from a very long nap (I went to sleep the moment I closed the door after Mom and Dad left). Oh and I am not 2. I am 23! And NO, I do not plan to keep these boxes around like this in my room; they were just for moving for Heavens sakes. Oh and that narrator you were listening to, THAT was my HALO. It talks. None stop. All the time.

“I do not!”


Okay, it mainly talks when it knows I can hear it. It drives me mad! But, before I get to that little mechanized mistake, I should probably get out of bed, I mean these boxes, I mean, well you know what I mean. Sheesh!

So here I am. . . Getting up . . . Just got to find my glasses. They must be somewhere in this box.

“Why not try, oh say, the box labeled ‘Eye Glass?’ You know the one by the foot of your make-shift box bed?” says my annoying government issued torture device.

There they are. Man, my room is a mess.

. . .

Aside from being a very bad morning person, CPU, is for the most part, deep down inside, a very good person. To everyone except her HALO. Where did all this animosity come from?  Well, it isn’t the HALO’s fault to be sure, but it may have something to do with how she acquires such a unique device. Most ANGEL’s receive their HALO’s after birth, right there in the hospital that same day as their parents rest. Receiving a HALO is all apart of the ANGEL registration process, you see. An ANGEL is born, registered into the hospital database, and their information is then even to ANGEL HQ where a blank HALO is selected for processing. Processing usually takes about an hour but on CPU’s birthday, something went wrong. Their was a malfunction at HQ during her, and countless other ANGEL’s, registration. Someone had hacked into the system in an attempt to send a virus into all new HALOs. Thankfully it was caught in time before anything too drastic happened. Unfortunately HQ could not destroy the virus programming in its entirety, they could only take away what made the program dangerous to others. In the end it was decided that the virus should be quarantined in the last HALO that was infected: CPU’s HALO.  It is a harmless defect, to say the least, but it did leave one very unique and disturbing quality to her HALO which has already been dealt with.

“And who ever heard of a flimsy metal disc that could talk and behavior like it is some higher sentient power! ARGH!” shouted Corvus into the darkness of her box-crowded room!

Still feeling the effects of a three day all-night packing binge, Corvus stumbles out of her box on her very shaky legs. Her hair is wild, curving up in little black tendrils all around her head. In the darkness she looks like a black sun rising above a mountainous range and into an orange sky. She kicks around some boxes, stumbles over the smaller ones and finally, with many blasphemies under her belt, she reaches the light switch next to the door. She releases a heavy sigh as she places her hands on her hips and stares blankly at her new abode.

“I guess I should start by fixing myself up, no sense in going back to sleep. Took me three hours just to get my happy ass up,” she says.

“Well, to be accurate you took about 4 hours to get up but who’s counting?” replies her imprisoned HALO.

“I want none of your sass today mister!” she replied.

Bending down by the trash can, CPU lifts up the badly bruised box labeled “Not Fragile, etc.” She peels back one side of the cardboard top and pulls out her silver HALO. With as little grace as it is possible for one of the female gender to perform, she tosses it on to her head and walks on before it has had sufficient time to connect to her DNA.


To be continued.


Well this isn’t exactly the beginning but . . .

You see, I have actually two story beginnings, both of which are for NaNoWriMo . . . One about a dragon and another about a sci-fi angel character. One is new and one is old. One has been a day dream for about a year or so and another was a past NaNoWriMo project.

The problem comes in where I don’t know which to put on the blog.



Yes both!

Depending on my sporatic writing ideas and work-load I will post two different stories: One with the working title of CPU and the other DL (Dragon’s Lair).

Is this insane?


Why do both in one month?

Because I am weird like that.

Look forward to CPU before Midnight tonight.


Much love,