The Best Advice

Posted on by sereichert

You all know I’ve been going through some stuff. And there are good days and bad days that cycle through (sometimes it seems endlessly). I’m more than certain that friends are getting tired of my shit. I’m tired of my shit. I’m tired of the ceaseless parade of thoughts that run over, and over, and over in my head. The same story, and the injustice that it carries. And my powerlessness to fix it, to solve it, to gain back my power.

And my friends have been wonderful. They’ve listened they’ve helped me get through the toughest points. They have been soft and understanding. They’ve allowed me space to rant and cry and feel all the things. But I’m getting tired of my own emotional stink. I reached a breaking point last night. I was laying in bed, hoping I could somehow manifest a small tear in my own heart. A weak blood vessel wall in my brain. Anything that would silently open in the night and insure I wouldn’t have to wake up today and face another round of my emotional baggage. That’s how exhausted I am of all of this.

But I did wake up. I woke up and my depression sat heavy on my chest and begged me to stay in bed. But I know if I don’t get up and move in the morning, it will hold me hostage for the whole day. So I got up, dressed, checked my email and had a response from an older lady in one of the groups I’m a part of. I’d written her, irate, and kind of rudely (not proud of that) last night about some issues with the group.

I expected her response to be in kind. But it wasn’t. But neither was it coddling to my tantrum. In essence she grabbed me by the shirt front, pulled me up off the floor, looked me in the eyes and said: Yeah, you’re going through it. We all do. It’s not the end of the world, stop being a little bitch about it and do something. (This is complete paraphrasing). She’s too decent to use that kind of language, but the salt-of-the-earth response was the same.

We all suffer. Get over yourself. You’re not going to get better sitting in your self-pity. We can’t change the way of the world but we get to decide how we let it change us. So stop being a little bitch. Do something about it.

I dunno. I think that’s actually the thing I needed to hear. Pull yourself up kid. You’re tougher than this. So you took a loss. Don’t we all? Move the fuck on.

So this morning I worked out, went through the normal morning routine and looked at my to do list as a series of steps towards something better. Even if it’s just more sanity. Even if its just away from the pit of vipers I barely escaped. Even if its just a step towards something else to be determined. It’s better than sitting still, with the loop of regrets and hurt running over and over in my head. Some days we step far, some days we shuffle a few inches. But today when that loop threatens to run, a broken megaphone on repeat, in my head…I’m going to give it that response… Stop being the victim. Get over yourself. Get back to work.

Poetry 9-21-23

Posted on by sereichert

Hey kids. Just a quick note to remind you that my next, unrelated Vella The Three Hearts of Eve is up and available (first three are free) at Amazon. It’s a fun little romp into espionage, genetic experimentation, forced proximity and questions of ethics. Still, oddly light hearted.

Also, I’ll be in Wyoming the weekend of September 29th through October 1st to celebrate their annual Bookmarked Literary Festival. If you’re in the area, come check it out, lots of awesome writers looking to connect with new and equally amazing readers.

And now, enjoy some Verse:

The Heart is A Terrible Driver

I am the owner of a body in the trunk
the forgotten musty trunk
in recesses of my memory
muffled and tied up
speechless to the ways my heart fell

Hearts do what they do
and mine
she is so big
so eloquent a speaker
so deviously soft and swaying...

she convinced me that 
she was the only one 
who could drive the beast of me 
through life, and it would all
work out

while my brain 
sat in the back seat,
shaking her head and looking at me 
in the rearview mirror
mouthing the words

You know better
Your gonna hate yourself for letting her drive

Brain was right
Heart took us off a fucking cliff
the first chance she got
giggling with the thrill
the free fall of Love
drunk on its chemical cocktail

all the way down
Brain stayed silent, 
arms crossed over her chest
as if to say

nothing I tell you will matter anyway
We were already over your head
the minute you gave her the keys

the carnage at the base of the canyon
was ruinous
the destruction, 
complete
Heart took the hardest hit
split down the middle in two ragged
pieces of desiccated meat
devoid of reason, or rhythm 

Head pulled her from the car, drug her through
the sharp pebbles and burning metal
shook with disappointment and 
carried her to a lesser used path
and I followed complacently
my own wounds stinging

Brain barely spoke, 
in all of those tender months-turned-years
up from rock bottom
winding on trails
of drunken malestorms 
and pious sobriety
We are a heavy load

Heart sometimes regains consciousness
and clings to the brush, on the side of the trail
striking out with bloody, broken hands
against the pull
trying always trying to get back
to the wreckage
to somehow make it all work out
make that car and joyous ride
run again

Brain cuffs her, hard
Sometimes it's just easier to knock her out
and keep her from making any decisions
then to try and reason 
with her stitched up pieces

from here on out,
my heart must remain bound and gagged,
the body in the trunk

we won't survive another crash like that

Learning to Say Yes Again

Posted on by sereichert

Gentle readers, its been a tough 9 months to say the least. In all actuality, it’s probably been more like a tough year. Year and a half? The point is, I can’t remember feeling good, and so this haze of depression and anxiety has been with me for too long a while. It transcends my short term memory cut off date.

Photo by Evelyn Chong on Pexels.com

That’s not to say wonderful things haven’t happened this year. They have. I’m eternally grateful for the opportunities and experiences I’ve been given (and earned). But all totalled, this last year has been the equivalent of having half my heart ripped out while the other half worked in vain to make up the difference. It was doable, it was survivable, but it wasn’t living.

Time may not heal all things, but time gives you the tools to learn how to go on living despite your losses, and the perspective to help you learn from those losses. In that period of learning and readjustment, I didn’t do a lot of saying yes. Only when absolutely necessary. Only when I couldn’t afford not to. And rarely to things that threatened to open the stitches of my past wounds. I just didn’t believe I was strong enough to suffer that kind of blood loss. I was barely strong enough to make it through the benign and even the enjoyable events of my post-loss world.

Photo by George Shervashidze on Pexels.com

But a few weeks ago, I said yes. To something I thought I’d never be able to do. A small step. Hardly a big deal for most people on the outside of my traumatic experience, but kind of an epic ordeal for me. And it brought up a lot of feelings and emotions and tugged at those stitches, now solidly grown into my heart and skin…but it did not tear them. And it did not sign a contract, and it did not change my mind about certain things. But it wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be, as I feared it would be. It wasn’t impossible.

That one yes, opened opportunity. Not to go backwards, by any means, but to have the choice to go forwards. Sometimes saying yes, reminds us of our ability, our strength, and the experience we earned through going through some kind of awful shit, that leaves us stronger and more prepared to set boundaries and protect ourselves.

Photo by Stijn Dijkstra on Pexels.com

I’m saying yes more now. Yes, to events I would have bypassed before, yes to opportunities and possibilities. Yes to challenges that keep me from being stagnant. Yes to moving on. Yes to resting when I need to rest, and yes to pushing my comfort level when I’ve grown too at ease.

Yes to myself. To my future, to the things that I want as part of my distant horizon. I’m leaving the no’s behind me. The ones that showed me what wasn’t meant for me. What didn’t deserve me. I’m leaving behind old hurts, but taking the scars to remind me. How strong I am. How capable I am, How I own the capacity to say yes, and mean it.

Poetry 9-7-2023

Posted on by sereichert

These are a pair. And a combined homage to a novel I’m currently and carefully crafting. One that’s been itching in my soul for over twenty years probably. I’m out of words for a scholarly post, so I’ll leave you with these instead. May you always tag along in all the adventures you can… and when you are weary, may you always find a port in stormy seas. 

She confesses, if Only to Herself...

I have always loved you.
In darkened closets, 
in alleys devoid of hope
in all the twisted ways 
propriety and opportunity
told me to back away
slowly

my heart connected 
and remembered
would not let go
through a thousand days and
the ups and downs
of a character arc
I never felt I was writing
myself
Still you saw me, front and center
wasting time on fallible side characters

You were there…
a reasonable voice
that seemed crazy
but for an unreasonable world
you were a calm sanity
a smile
I can’t help smiling
a joke at the ridiculous
that no one else sees
a port...
my port
in such an unimaginable storm

and I thank the universe
that I could read your stars
between the angry clouds
and find myself
in you
 


When He Looks at Her, the Voice Inside Says...

years are unkind
to souls that sit 
stagnant in their fate
you and i were dreamers
swaying towards
stories in the stars
to the detriment of the souls
already in our company

i never saw you coming,
didn’t know your name
or the hurt you spawned from

i didn’t know, because
you hid the scars so well
until we were thrown together
and i wondered,
where your prologue was
beneath them all
where did you begin?

i have always loved you
in quiet acquiescing,
of what i could not have
from afar,
a statue, ever smiling and dancing
round the fountains
a muse to keep me enamored
with a life i was resigned to grow still in

you made me feel 
young
as though I could tag along with you
on every adventure
even when my ship had long since sailed
you were the coastal drift
keeping me afloat

The Tumultuous Writer’s Mind

Posted on by sereichert

I’ve struggled with a post this week. Either to launch into some deft and cuttingly beautiful poetry, or as Melanie Griffith once said in “Working Girl” to hit you with my smarts. I don’t have a lot of poetry or smarts today. Sorry.

Life has been chocked full of events. Some of them are little, and benign. Some of them seem like…not a big deal, but they rift something deep within the surface and you end up spending the week dealing with the ripples that have become tsunamis. Part drowning, part relishing the destruction of old temples and ideals that held you for far too long in subjecation. In any case…you start to question, where you’re at. What you’re doing? Are you living well? Are you loving well? Are you taking all the advantage of this one wild life? Or are you… stagnant? Have you slept too long in comfort and stopped fighting for something…far greater? Have you given up truth and freedom for discomfort for blissful ignorance?

And why not? Out of fear? Out of habit? Out of…this is how it’s always been and why should I wish more for myself?

It’s hard. As humans. As writers. To trust our own individual worth. Our creativity. What we offer the world. Why does it even matter in dark and vast sea of a million different voices?

Especially when cookie cutter, and formulamatic fiction seems to be the thing that draws in the most eyes… Well…shit I don’t know. There’s very little money in truth. There’s very little fame or fortune in telling the general masses something interesting and thought provoking and…god help us…challenging to their idiom. Please, as the Briar Rabbit once cried, don’t throw me into the thorn bush…Please don’t make me…think…

Is there room for the artist in this world? Is there room for the intellectual? The person disconnected from the constant spin and pizzaz of what constitutes journalism and entertainment (trick question, there’s no difference between the two now) these days. Is there room in the world for the person who chooses to turn of their screens and the voices and the barrage of constant, dumbing down information to sit still…and think… and write? About an original idea, about the absolute absurdity of life? To write something that makes us think? When was the last time you read such a thing? Such a strange soul-stirring thing? When was the last time you sat in silence, and contemplated the idea that in your not-so-distant-past, your brain kept you alive in a world full of real dangers and still managed to tell a decent story. That you were designed…for far better things. Not monetary, not status related. But…soul worth…When did you last wonder if all of this noisy bullshit was beneath you? Because I’m pretty sure it is.

I am weary of this world. It holds so little that matters. It has become so much neon pink and drowning narcissism.

I don’t have a blog for you.

I’m too busy thinking. On my own. Observing, with eyes, not videos. Listening to all perspectives, shouting to be heard… And even if I had something worthwhile to tell you, about you, your existence, about the white washed reality you’ve been fed, all the anxieties they’ve readily given you to keep you engaged on numbing little pills, I’m not sure anybody is ready to listen.

Poetry 8-24-2023

Posted on by sereichert 
Discovery

I did not find myself
in the bottom of a glass
The burn to numb poison
and all the untethering promises
she made

I did not find myself in 
the narcissistic hearts
parading in poets' clothing
promising ideas of my self-worth
while making me kneel before them

I did not find myself
by losing pounds
or cutting hair
or searing the wrinkles of 
a thousand laughs away

I did not find myself
by giving my love and my years
away to those who only wanted
to own me
collect me, 
objectify and fantasize
who never gave credit to the soul within 
only loved
the pretty, fading paper

I found myself beneath
the starlit sky, high up
in a meadow between mountains
cold and alive
brave and scared
breathing deep as though
it was my first air taken

I found myself in tumbling footfalls
one after another, up and down
careening not controlled
alonside pain
pacing with anxiety
but listening to my own heart
beating out

you can
     you can
         you can

I found myself in the holy land
of pine needles 
and mocking bird cries
silent stage, calm in a chaotic world
and herons in silent coasting flight above me
communing with their soul's solitude
in search of quiet shores

I found myself between pages 
and tattooed in ink
words and ideas and truths 
unknown to any other heart but my own
learning that, 
without meeting requirements first

I am enough
     I am brave
         I deserve love

I found myself in the faces
of women I've raised
to listen to themselves in ways
I am still learning
I found myself in their beautiful complexity
knowing I would never allow them to be hurt
in the ways I have accepted hurt for myself

I am finding myself 
and it has taken a lifetime
I just hope
I can take my heart
and lead her away from the dark

I hope I can find myself 
in time.

What’s in a Name?

Posted on by sereichert

Good morrow sweet readers. Today I’m going to talk about the importance of names in your fictional writing. Every writer has a process, and some of them are very organic while others are tortuous. I have been in both of those phases. Sometimes a character is just who they say they are when they pop into my head. And even if I wanted to change the name, I couldn’t. Sometimes the same character goes through an evolution of two to three (to seven–jesus, Elle Sullivan) names before the right one lands.

So how do we do it? Well… Here’s a bullet list because… we love bullet lists. Keep in mind that a character can be named for one of these reasons or for a combination of them.

  • Naming your character with meaning
    • This is where we get into the baby name sites and books and start with a meaning and back search what names correlate. I’ve done this a lot with my more urban fantasy/paranormal characters. I’m pretty sure none of my readers go around looking up the name and finding the little easter egg of their arc and purpose matching up. I do it more for me.
  • Naming your character Regionally/In Situ
    • Naming your character something that originates from their homeland, family, or region. This is important in some cases, to ‘show’ the reader a little bit about who they are by where they came from (like dialect but in a word).
  • Naming your character with sound
    • I think this is especially important in childrens’ and middle grade books. Lemony Snicket, Severus Snape, Skippyjon Jones. Not only does it make it more fun to read outloud but if you do your job right, you can intonate character with name. Severus Snape, ‘esses’ like a snake on your tongue.
  • Naming your character in tribute
    • There’s absolutely nothing wrong with this when it is done out of love and respect. My grandma Emma became Em. I even inadvertently wrote in a dear friend’s mother, Carmen into Back to the 80s. I know a Jamie, and love the name and fella but since it would be weird to write him as the MC, I made sure it was ‘Jameson’ in Composing Laney. I’ve used friend’s last names or nicknames. Sometimes its a way to pay tribute to them and be a little lazy.
  • Naming your character for foreboding
    • Gage in Pet Cemetery. Hodor from the Game of Thrones. Damien in The Omen. Even Remus Lupin, gave us some insight into the direction of the character. You can either spoil plot twists with this one or make your readers stop mid page to gasp at your cleverness. The trick is subtlety and not thing more than the name away before the twist. It could even be that an evil name (Severus Snape) is actually not attached to a villian.

Well, there you go. A few ways to start thinking (and probably overthinking if you’re like me) about how to name your next character. For a few more resources, check out the list below. Some of these are way more in depth than I like to go, some are fun and you can just keep spinning the wheel until the right one comes up. Good luck out there.

  1. Masterpiece
  2. Fantasy
  3. Listophile
  4. The Story Shack
  5. Reedsy Villains

Poetry 8-10-2023

Posted on by sereichert

Good morning all.

I took a little break from the interconnected world of social media this week, but despite that little vacay, I’m still not feeling up to par. At first I thought I was approaching burnout. That I needed a reset. But the truth is, after self-reflecting…I’m past the point. So far past, that I’ve built up a whole township on the far end of it. I think for the last year I’ve been operating in the midst of burnout…just digging myself deeper into a hole of meeting demands I had no energy for. And now, I’m, smack dab in the middle of my own little cavernous oubliette.

I don’t have sunlight, or stars to navigate by, and the walls are much too steep and slick to entertain hopes of climbing out. So…I’m going to sit here, in the dark for awhile. Contemplate my purpose. My next move, if any.

Here’s a poem I wrote months ago. Seemed appropriate on a day such as this. A week. A month.

Last Day

If this is the last of my days
will I have done enough?
loved enough?
Fought enough?
   smiled
    and danced
      and kissed enough?

Did I hold their hands long enough?
   Did I forgive?

Did I let go so much
   of this useless weight?
      to travel light into the next world?

What are the chains I regret most?

The lack of wonder in my eyes
   a boredom with the world
      a seeing through of everyone's angles?
  
Or is it the rusted and heavy links
 cutting in tetanus scrapes 
   boring out the sinking pit
      dark nemesis, regret?

That I was unkind
   to myself.
That I gave away heartbeats
    to the undeserving?

That I don't remember 
the last time 
   I told you
      that I loved you?

If this is the last of my days
   will I have done enough?
      Loved enough?
        Fought enough?

For them?
For myself?

Process and Perfection

Posted on by sereichert
Photo by Gu00fcl Iu015fu0131k on Pexels.com

Look at us, surviving (nearly?) another summer, a Camp NaNoWriMo, and one of the most interesting and invested writer’s strikes in a while. I’m so proud of those on picket lines and, though I still produce my blog, I do so for the other writers out there, and for my own sanity. That being said, if you’re a writer, artist, (struggling or not) or simply someone who believes in the arts, keep your eyes and your voices raised. This battle is one that is fought on every screen, newspaper, and blog post. Support all of our artists and dreamers. Because creativity is not just the source of our humanity, it is the building blocks of our survival. Engineers build bridges but someone must first imagine the bridge. You know what I mean? Survival takes all the bright and brilliant we can offer as species, so support all the bright and brilliant with a living wage, and do not pay into the corporate machine.

Okay–let me just….step down from that…soap…box (grunt). Now! Where was I? Well, I’ve been promoting and reviewing and doing all sorts of extraneous writing/marketing fluff, so today I wanted to get back to writing and talk about PROCESS.

If you’re a writer, I know you own at least three to 50 books on writing. And every single one of those offers you advice, usually from someone who “made it” in the world. We could say “experts” in the field. And where, yes, there are some constants that should be paid attention to (the book won’t write itself, you do have to put in the time, no its not easy, yes you will fail…repeatedly) I want you to take my advice (Ha! hypocrite!) on these few things…

Why take my advice? I’m not Stephen King, or Dan Brown, or Robin McKinnley, or Connie Willis…Who TF do I think I am? Well, beyond the fact that I’m a pretty average writer, with a good community, and an interesting background…I care. I actually care about your success as a writer (see above rant about artists and creatives).

And the thing about us, is that no single writer is in the same life or head space as the next. Stephen King isn’t raising two toddlers and working full time. Connie Willis isn’t supporting a family of seven with a night shift job. I’m not trying to cope with dyslexia or ADHD… We are all on a similar journey but we’re not all wearing the same shoes. Some of us may not even have shoes. And it may be night. And there are wolves chasing us…okay…back on point…

  1. PROCESS ISN’T AN ABSOLUTE: No singular way to write is the RIGHT way to write. (that’s a lot of goddamn ‘right/writes’) Write everyday, write in the morning, write at night, sit in the chair and don’t come out until you’ve got 5,000 words…NO. There’s absolutely no truth to any of this. While, you do have to write (to be a writer) how and when are defined by your life, your energy, your day, and your ability. And ALL of those factors continually change (especially if you’re a parent or care giver, work multiple jobs, have learning challenges or are facing mental health crises). SO–your process is your process and it might look like 15 minutes in the morning and 20 minutes at lunch, and note taking during your kid’s practice, and daydreaming in the bath. Which leads me to the next absolute.
  2. NOT ALL WRITING IS WRITING: WTF does that mean? Well, daydreaming, is writing, downtime with a movie that inspires you, is part of writing. Getting a good night’s sleep and going for a walk are all parts of the writing process. The human brain is not meant to be stimulated the same way for hours on end. It’s complex, it needs variety. It needs challenge, it needs downtime. Nearly every writer I know has said…”It wasn’t until I took a break, and a walk that I got through that problem.” You can’t bash your brains against a plotline and hope the hole gets fixed. Being a writer is in large part being a shiftless daydreamer. So don’t discount the times you’re not in the chair clacking away.
  3. ONLY YOU SET YOUR LIMITS: This is both to the advancement and detriment of your craft. Someone says you should write 2000 words every day, but you are struggling to get 700, or maybe you’re throwing down 5000 words in one afternoon and don’t write for a few days…You are responsible for the ‘rules’ you make about writing and only you know the best possible route. I have a lovely friend, brilliant, funny and talented, who struggled with her first book, until she realized that she didn’t need to write every day. And that night writing wasn’t her thing and that she had to ‘let’ herself be okay with what her brain and her heart needed on whatever day the universe was giving her. Brav-Fucking-O I say to that. How many of us ascribe to preordained writing gospel only to be disappointed that we are failing that particular process? And what happens when we get discouraged? We stop writing. We fall into self-blame, and defeatism, and a general giving-up on ourselves and our work because we’re not a ‘real writer’. KNOW YOURSELF, TRUST YOURSELF. GIVE YOURSELF THE TOOLS, SPACE, and PROCESS YOU NEED.

Well, that’s all I have for today. Get out there, or go inside, sit down or walk around and take voice notes. Take a bath, take a walk, spend three hours at a desk, or fifteen minutes at a coffee shop. Just write. In the best way you know how.

Book Launch and Something Fun

Posted on by sereichert

Hi kids…

Just a friendly reminder that my writing partner and I will be at Totally 80’s Pizza here in Fort Collins for our book (Back to the 80s) launch, next Tuesday (August 1st) at 6 pm. There will be prizes for best 80s costumes, giveaways for trivia, and books for sale! Also, we’ll be rocking some utterly disgusting neon so… come and at least laugh at me. Maybe buy a book while you’re there. (AND enjoy some pretty good pizza and all the amazing nostalgia that Totally 80’s offers)

The book release for Granting Katelyn is the same day as Back to the 80s, and since I can’t be both morose and Scottish and 80s Retro Bright at the same time, I’ll be hosting that launch in September. Stay tuned for details on that and a possible get together after the signing.

That’s the news that’s coming up soon. I’m currently making arrangements for a book tour up in Wyoming in November (may the road and weather gods smile on me) and so far only have the set date of November 21st at the Saratoga Branch of the Public Library. I will have all three of The Sweet Valley Series Available (signed) and will give a little talk about the books, the characters and how the state shapes great stories. More of that to come.

But–because I don’t just want to sell you books (in neon and blue eyeliner nonetheless) here’s a little flash fiction piece to entertain. It’s, as Monty Python would say, something completely different. Enjoy!

Demon-O’s

The day I summoned the demon was a normal Tuesday. I’d been reading the back of my cereal box, as usual. Milk dripping from my bottom lip as I tried to decipher the answer of the puzzle, by reading the letters upside down. My lips spattered sugared milk, through the white bubbles as I muttered and remuttered the words. Finally convinced, I shouted them out a third time, in fluffy robe victory. And there, before my eyes, sprang up from a tear in the fabric of time a blackened corpse, tattered wings, and one broken horn. It’s eyes bored into my soul as he asked, in gravelly tones.

“What is thy bidding, master?”

The milk dribbled down the front of my batman t-shirt and soaked into my robe from my agape mouth as I tried to reason with the smell of brimstone among the vanilla, frosted sugar bombs (now with extra marshmallows!)

“I—Do I know you?”

“You have called upon me, on this day, to aid in the wreck and ruin of this failing world.” Its voice rose in melodramatic glee. I put my spoon down and considered.

“Well, I hadn’t thought about that just yet. I haven’t even finished breakfast—” The demon heaved in deepening breaths, stoking up the fire of destruction that glowed like coals being blown on inside the empty cavern of its exposed ribs.

“What is thy bidding?”

I sat back, considered for a moment. One should always think clearly when presented with the opportunity for rampant destruction. I picked my spoon back up, tapped it in the air before, folding my hands in my flannel covered lap.

“Well, I—I do have some laundry needing folded.”

The demon stared at me, head cocked to one side, a bit of ash fell from its one decaying horn, dirtying my carpet.

“Laun–dree?” its voice croaked.

“Yes. Definitely.” It was my most hated chore. If I had someone at my beck and call, I wasn’t going to waste the resource on a world already destroying itself when I had three good sized piles waiting on my bed to be folded.

The demon’s boney shoulders shrugged up to its ears, clawed hands rose up in the in the universal gesture meaning ‘what in the fresh hell is wrong with this guy?’ and a disgusted look turned its mouth and stony forehead down.

“We do not fold laun—dree.”

“Are you or are you not at my bidding?” I glowered back. The demon grumbled and a hot coal fell from its grinding teeth.

“I am.”

“Well, then. Laundry first, world domination second.” As though versed in the obstinate language of teenage defiance, the demon threw its clawed hands up into the air and rolled its glass-like eyes skyward.

“This is bullshit!”

“Whatever! Get the chores done first and then I promise we’ll go find some havoc to wreak!” I argued back. You may not know but demon sighs are punctuated with smoke and spits of sparks that float on for seconds. Still, to his credit, he trudged up the stairs all the same, even if grumbling all the way.

“And don’t forget to separate the delicates!” I poured another cup of cereal into the bowl and looked at the answer again. I’d misread it. Thrice perfect times over.

“Oh—that’s an L not an O.”