Excessive Verbage

Writing, like most any hobby, can be therapeutic. Cathartic, even. It can be used to understand one's problems or expel them entirely. This could be why a lot of my less inspired writing involves "demons". They serve as embodiments of less desirable attributes that I see in myself or others. Writing about them is a way of vicariously coping with such things in ways that would otherwise be impossible.

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Deros drifts down from the top of the of the building to our level. His bug-eyed face

bears an expression of mock pity. My jaw clenches, preparing to shut out whatever patronizing

statement the demon had been preparing. It doesn't work. His weight-of-the-world voice digs

into my ears like so many self-entitled maggots.

"What now, poor Jack?" he sighs. "Will you try to play the hero again, or will you be a

coward and-"

He is cut off mid-sentence by a blast of lightning. The blow sends him careening into

the side of the barn. The familiar warmth of lightning dissipates from around my arm. I'm

tired, I'm pissed, but more than that I'm reached the end of my patience and cannot stand a

second more of his condescending jabber. He shakes off my attack, pulling himself back into the

air, readying a counter. I've already leaped forward, letting magic boost my speed and reach.

The distance between us disappears in the blink of an eye and my knee buries itself in Deros's

gut with the force of a truck. The side of the barn folds like paper as we smash through,

bouncing to a stop in the middle of the second story loft. I come out on top with one hand

choking his neck. Unfortunately, not tight enough to keep him from continuing to blather.

"Impressive, Jack, your power is-"

The floorboards crack as I bring my other hand down on his smug face.

"Shut up!" I bellow, wide-eyed, verging on hysteria. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

I punctuate each cry with a savage, satisfying strike. After the fourth blow the floor

sags as the support beam buckles. I bring my hands together high above my head. There's a brief

moment where Deros stares upwards, befuddled by my new found prowess. Then I bring my clenched

fists down in apologetic explanation. The beam running beneath us shatters and sends us

plunging to the cement below. Deros howls, more out of gall than pain, as he lands.

"Very-"

I interrupt him with an high pitched shriek, aggravated beyond the capacity for

coherent speech simply by hearing his voice. Spittle and gibberish spew from my mouth as I rain

heavy blows downward. Still unsatisfied, I shove one hand in his mouth, digging my fingers into

the bloody flesh, while the other I plant onto his pudgy face for leverage. I yank viciously. I

am rewarded with a slight pop and feel something give. I roar and wrench my hand back again,

even harder. There's a wet, sickening crunch as I tear off Deros's lower jaw. His howl turns

into a gurgle as his tongue is ripped away and blood spills into his throat. I climb off of the

demon and dance away, grinning madly and gripping the blood soaked mandible like a trophy. Deros

climbs onto his hands and knees. I can see the hatred in his eyes but hear nothing but blissful

gurgling.

"Yes!" I howl, returning from caveman dialect. I brandish the jaw at him. "You have no

idea how long I've been aching to do that! Oh god, finally you will shut up! Yes!"

He raises a shaky hand to cast something but I bring my fist down through the air like

a hammer. Chunks of wood pelt me as a pillar of pure light explodes through the floorboards

above and slams into Deros. My brain registers a noise but my ears report only ringing. If

Deros is screaming, I can't hear it. The lightning bolt doesn't dissapate, but flickers through

the air like a giant Tesla coil, rooted in Deros's twitching body. The band of superheated

plasma pulses as it pours more and more juice into the demon. The jaw clamped in my fist pulses

along with it. I vaguely remember Aravis saying something about blood magic, but am too elated

by the spectacle before me to care. Finally, the jaw snaps and crumbles like charcoal, and the

massive lightning bolt fades.

Deros lay motionless in a small crater of broken cement. I breathe heavily, keeping my

arms raised, ready for whatever trickery he has planned. A full minute passes. Deros hasn't

moved. Possibility swells within me.

I take a cautious step forward, watching the charred, blackened form for any signs of

motion, trying to suppress rising hope. Surely, it would be too good to be true. Deros has

played dead once before, in the house fire back in the city. This time, though, he's looking

pretty dead. I nudge an outstretched hand with my foot. The blackened fingers crumble away into

ash. My gaze travels up to his face, contorted in pain. There's no pinpricks of light in his

eyes. No sign of life. I lean a little bit closer, peering into the dark pits, then laugh.

There aren't any eyes at all.

Reboot

So I've been trying to write on a daily basis, simply as practice for getting what's in my head in order and clearly communicating it. I figured I'd take this blog, that I haven't touched in two, three years, and repurpose it as a place to dump what I write. My writing isn't very good or consistent, but I hope that by posting it here I'll eventually get feedback. At the very least it may spur me to keep up a schedule.

Of course, I'm hesitant about posting what I write. After all, isn't the second greatest fear of any creative person that of having their work stolen? (The first greatest of course being crippling self-doubt). But then I take a moment to reflect on the quality of my daily musings, sigh ruefully, and ask myself what great loss I would suffer if it were stolen. To which my subconscious replies, "No loss at all, dear self, so post that shit and pity those who think it valuable."

As I said a moment ago, one of the biggest hurdles for a writer is self doubt. One can hope that fades in time, but if the testimonies of successful authors hold any truth, it doesn't. The only thing to combat the doubt is conviction. Conviction to what is being written and the conviction to keep writing it.

On a less presumptuous and precocious note, I did some self reflection on what is keeping me from writing. I was surprised to find that my biggest personal blockage was the habit of listening to music. Music is of course a source of inspiration, but there are days when I turn on Pandora or something and just let it play all day. While entertaining, it has the unfortunate side effect of drowning out most thoughts.