[Writing] Summons

I had meant to make some new art to post today.

Instead, I found myself endlessly frustrated by my tools and unable to create anything to my satisfaction. I should have expected this–I was trying to work in paint and inkwash, materials I have never been very good at using. (My preferences are pen, marker and crayon. Well, and my tablet and GIMP, but I’m trying to make more traditional work and less digital.)

So instead, have some old work–a micro-story I wrote on assignment in college, six years ago. I could post something more recent… but given my seeming obsession with writing about demons and demon-deals, this humble little offering seems a decent start. Hopefully, new content tomorrow!

(Quick note: The misuse of thou is intentional.)


The runes weren’t written in real blood. Tinted egg yolk was surely good enough.

Michael walked around the edge of his creation, reigniting one of the tealights along the way. It was coming, his big break.

Only one step remained. Michael took a deep breath, pulled his black hood up, and shouted:

“Lucifer! Satan! Beelezebub! Dark lord, I swear fealty to thou, if you grant me just one wish!”

For a few moments, nothing happened. Then the smoke from the five tealights moved in defiance of air currents and believability. It coalesced into a thin, hazy form.

“Master?” Michael croaked.

The smoke, half-visible and about the size of a chipmunk, seemed to face him. It looked cross.

“Do you really think,” the aberration said, “that I have time for every misinformed Faust wannabe who hates his parents?”

Michael could not quite work up a reply.

“Look,” the tealight demon continued, “I’ll give you a few tips. Your soul is worth nothing to me right now. Not only are kids notoriously unreliable—yes, fifteen counts!—but you haven’t done anything with it!”

This was too much. “What do you mean!? I’m selling it!”

“No. You’re not.” The demon started dissipating. “You want help? Listen: Your soul only gets a value if you at least try to do something notable. Listening to Rammstein in your basement doesn’t count; I can have as many useless teenagers as I want. And finally…”

Michael looked up; the demon was gone. He heard, as a breath on the wind, “Do something about this mess. Your mother will have your head.”

It was an odd moment, standing on the edge of two worlds. But both seemed the same. Words passed through his brain, none seeming quite right. Finally, he settled on one:



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