I woke up to heavy breathing next to me in bed.

I live alone.

Before I can turn around, claws grab at my sides.

I look back to see large, bright yellow eyes.

The creature hisses, loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.

My cat's an asshole sometimes.

“Send me your daughter and I will be yours”,

Those words haunt me daily.

It was exciting at sixteen

To imagine the Devil’s daughter,

Naked and flaming

Her eyes glowing,

Her horns growing

As she took me to another world.

Of course it never happened.

Until I was forty.

She was sensuous,

She was sexy

She was interested in me.

I never stopped to wonder why.

She laughed at my jokes,

She complimented my smile,

She touched my hand

And kissed my neck.

Blinded and flattered

I accepted.

In bed

She was angelic

At first.

But her passions heightened,

Her eyes flashed red

I could see flames in them.

Shaking her wild hair and baring her teeth

With a flash of white.

My hands went to her head, as I thrashed below her

On the bed.

I felt the horns emerge, before I saw them

I watched them growing slowly

It was exciting and sexual

And

I accepted.

Behind her

As she rode me hard

Her tale elongated, waving and curling

In triumph.

“Shit!”

I thought

“This is it.”

My long forgotten wish.

Suddenly we passed

Through time and space

Surrounded by the flames of Hell

Demons in ecstasy around us

In orgasmic throes

Echoes of our own elation.

We roared, we bucked, we kissed

Reaching the peak together as I filled her,

The Devil’s Daughter,

With my love.

I blacked out.

The flames faded,

Darkness covered me.

In the morning I woke.

She was there.

I kissed her neck,

Craving more.

Un-scared by the demons of Hell.

She turned and kissed my lips

“You are mine.”

And I accepted.

“I am bored,” the demon muttered.

“Lighten up, ’Stoph,” Mary replied far too cheerily.

“Do not call me that.”

“Don’t call you what?” Mary asked, her tone dripping with playfulness. “’Stoph?”

“Must we play this game, child?” the demon grumbled.

“What’s wrong with ’Stoph? We’ve been together for what,” Mary pretending to be counting on her fingers, “a long fucking time, now, and you still won’t tell me your name. I have to call you something. I figured you’d like Mephistopheles. From, uh…”

The demon sighed. “Faust.”

“Right, Faust. So, what’s wrong with ’Stoph? He was a big deal right? Agent of the devil and all that.”

“Just… do not.”

“Or what?” Mary prodded, “…’Stoph.” Mary’s bladder seized suddenly sending an abrupt warm spurt of urine into her panties.

“Oh, fuck you,” Mary hissed through clenched teeth. Most of the dialogue carried between the two unwilling companions occurred internally, sounding as hushed words spoken in the bottom of a deep well. But the sudden uncontrollable pissing caused her to inadvertently say this out loud.

“Asshole,” she said, returning to their shared internal speech. At the word, her anus flexed involuntarily, and her stomach bubbled violently. “No, no, no!” she sputtered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was just messing around.” The demon chuckled quietly, satisfied his point had been made. His laugh sounded of two large rocks being scraped together in stops and starts. Mary’s bodily functions quickly returned to some semblance of normal.

********************

Normal was, of course, relative for a woman occupied by a demon for nearly a century. He had wooed her with whispered fantasies of righteous revenge on a cheating boyfriend in her late teen years as she spent a lonely heartbroken autumn watching the occasional Ford Model T drive by her stoop like some inconceivable magic machine. She kept her hair boobed back then and kept a secret short skirt under her mattress for when her parents were away, working or trying to find work. She wanted so much to be like the flappers, those free-spirited women who flaunted their feminine power unashamedly, drinking and smoking like the boys and fuck anyone who had a problem with it. But her parents would have wept tears of blood if they ever saw her knees peeking out from under that secret skirt.

The demon, of course, found her discontentment to be a ripe opportunity. Still, it took him another decade to move in completely. In Mary’s twenties, he finally attempted full possession and that is when matters took an unusual turn. He had not considered that her parents were Catholic by convention if not observation and dutifully had Mary baptized shortly after birth. As a result of an unfortunate technical oversight on his part, the demon became fused to Mary’s soul, unable to leave her and unable to take over completely. He was stuck. Forever.

For Mary’s part, this was extremely disconcerting, at least initially. She endured this unending desperate raging voice screaming the most awful things in her head and she was powerless to shut it out. Soon, the demon had realized he had some degree of power over her and consoled himself with torturing Mary in childish ways. This often involved involuntarily voiding her bowels, random blindness, or sending her into the deep throws of powerful orgasms in very public and inconvenient places.

On an unbearably hot and humid night in the late summer of 1934, no longer able to endure the demon’s tantrums, Mary threw herself from the roof of the six-story tenement building in which her family had been living. The demon, for his part, laughed the whole way down. He stopped laughing abruptly when she struck the pavement, breaking her neck, fracturing her skull and snapping one arm and both her legs. He felt every ounce of the indescribable pain as if it were his own body broken and bleeding into the moonlit gutter. It dawned on him then that if she died, he would cease to be as well.

So, he kept her alive. He had helped her bones and flesh knit back together, slowly, painfully. He also realized that she was not powerless against him and Mary now understood this as well. An uneasy and unspoken truce was made that day and they had lived together as reasonably as possible ever since, the demon growing more and more cynical and disinterested, Mary ageless and undying.

********************

“What is he doing?” Mary asked, seemingly over their last encounter now that the piss in the crotch of her pants was drying. She was surreptitiously eyeing a man rocking in choregraphed synchronization with the rest of the passengers in the subway car.

“Who cares?” the demon replied.

“He’s acting strange,” she said. The man was leering intermittently at a woman seated nearby nursing her baby beneath a small lavender blanket draped over her shoulder. Looking more closely, Mary realized that the blanket had slipped just enough to expose the soft pale side of the woman’s engorged breast. The man would grin and then cover his mouth, looking away suddenly then, just as quickly, look back.

“Pervert,” she said.

“Many men rather enjoy breasts. Is this news to you?” the demon asked lazily.

Mary rolled her eyes, which she supposed made her look a little strange to casual observers. “No, it’s not news to me,” she said mockingly. “He’s just… I don’t know… being more pervy about it than you might expect.”

She sweetened her inner voice, suddenly. “You know, you could just…”

“No,” the demon interrupted.

“What?” she asked, feigning indignation. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Really?” the demon asked exasperatedly.

“Ok, maybe you did,” she acknowledged. “Look, couldn’t you just reach out and see what’s going on behind those rotten peepers? It sure would make me feel better.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on! When is the last time I asked you to do any of your demon act?”

“This morning. At breakfast.”

“What? No.”

“The oil splashed you and burned your hand. I healed it.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Mary said. “That hurt you too.”

“Why in the world would I bother? I sincerely hope he begins violently masturbating right here on the subway. It might break up the monotony.”

“You are so fucking messed up,” The constant bargaining always wore gratingly on Mary but she knew it was expected. “What do you want?”

“Whatever could you mean?” the demon replied coyly.

“Stop fucking around. What’s it going to be this time? Male or female?” Mary asked, prodding impatiently. The demon often required some sort of act on Mary’s part that was either immoral, illegal, or more often than not just degrading and distasteful. Mary had grown accustomed to it decades ago and could no longer find the will to be appalled at what the demon thought of as entertainment employing the casual use of Mary’s body.

“Hmm,” the demon considered. The leering man began tapping his foot nervously and was no longer trying to conceal his enrapture at the scene in front of him. “Canine.”

“For shit’s sake, I’m not fucking a dog.”

“Ok, then kill one… painfully.”

“What is wrong with you? No!”

“Maim?”

“No.”

“Ok,” the demon grumbled, his disappointment obvious. “Male,” the demon said. “No, female.”

“Which is it?” Mary said frustration building while she continued to eye the creep across from her.

“Both.”

“Both?” She sighed.

“At once.”

Mary shook her head. “Fine,” she conceded. “But, only if I find willing participants.”

“Agreed.”

Immediately, she felt the demon’s presence unspool from her in sickly tentacles, reaching for the man. Mary could see the demon’s manifestation as a yellow-green vapor, but he was invisible to all but her. The green spiraling branches surrounded the man’s head like a gauzy hood.

“Hee hee hee,” the demon giggled. “Oh, this is… fantastic!”

“What?” Mary asked, her inner voice carrying her irritation heavily.

“Well,” the demon said softly while the tendrils of vapor retreated back into Mary’s body. “You need not worry for mommy. He has no interest in breasts.”

“Then what’s his deal?”

“He’s hungry.”

“Oh, that’s fucked up,” Mary said, looking disgusted. She supposed offhandedly that breastmilk was a natural thing in the right context; but the visual that came unbidden to her mind made a bit of breakfast threaten its return.

“No, no,” the demon said, still giggling. “I told you he has no interest in her ample provisions. His tastes lean more toward a certain sort of, well… veal.” This time, a healthy portion of breakfast did make the trip up and Mary quickly swallowed it back down.

“He wants to eat the baby?” she asked unbelievingly.

“Indeed,” the demon answered. She knew he was not lying. He could not, in fact. It was a strange side effect of their fusion. “He plans to take the child at the next stop.”

“New deal,” she said, a new rage boiling in her chest.

“No changing the deal now,” the demon growled warningly. “Sexual congress with one male, one female, at the same time. Anal optional. A promise has been made.”

“No one said anything about anal,” she started offhandedly. “It doesn’t matter. How would you feel about a murder, instead?” Her eyes were boring hard into the monster across the aisle.

“Oh,” the demon said genuinely surprised as their smiles merged as one. “Agreed.”

To be continued…

I took a deep breathe and looked down at the water. All’s well that ends, right?

“Can we can talk about what you are about to do?” a voice from behind me said.

I was startled, but I kept my composure.

“I don’t want to talk. I don’t want help. And I don’t want to ruin your day. So let’s just say you saved me. Ok?”

“I’m Todd. What’s your name?”

I had driven over this bridge maybe 40 times. Vomited over the ledge looking down, maybe a half dozen times. And in none of those visualizations had I ever imagined meeting a heavyset bearded man named Todd.

I turned around.

“Your shaking,” he said.

“Must be the cold.”

“It’s 70 out.”

I stared ahead blankly.

“Would it be ok if I gave you some hot chocolate? My wife made more than I can drink. It’s just over there.”

He motioned for me to walk in front of him, and, not knowing what else to do, I obliged.

We walked silently towards a utility room that was attached to the bridge. The walls in it were lined with folksy pictures of cottages.

“I monitor suspensions of old bridges for the state,” he said as he poured me a mug of cocoa.

“Must be nice,” I said.

“It’s alright,” he responded.

I started crying, and then talking.

He listened to it all, ocasionally chiming in with: It’s alright. It’s alright.

After a few minutes, I screamed at the top of my lungs.

We stayed silent for a few minutes afer that.

“You don’t have to have a fucked up life to be fucked up,” he said, finally breaking the silence.

Another silence.

“My wife is cheating on me,” he said.

I took a sip out of my mug.

“I came home early from work a few weeks ago. Saw her through the window on the couch with a guy I knew. I just left. When I came back he was gone and I didn’t bring it up then and haven’t brought it up since. Ain’t that fucked up? I’ve rather be a cuckold than lose her.”

I pretended to take another sip of my luke warm cocoa.

“My wife didn’t even make me this hot cocoa. And my shift ended hours ago. I just come here to sit and think.”

It was his turn to pretend to sip from his mug and my turn to break the silence.

“It’s actually nice to hear somebody else’s fucked up story. It’s comforting in some strange way.”

We sat in silence again.

He offered me another cup of cocoa and I accepted.

When I left two hours later, we didn’t exchange numbers, we didn’t agree to write, and I still wasn’t sure if I even told him my name. Instead we shook hands.

“Those meds seemed like they were working, you just weren’t on them for long enough. Plus, another therapist might be better than the last guy.”

“I’m going to try, Todd,” I replied.

“That’s all any of us can do.”

“I’m sorry about your wife.”

“Me, too. But can’t stop living just because you feel like it.”

“Right.”

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight,” I replied.

I never saw him again. But I think about him often, especially on those warm days when I’m drinking hot cocoa.

it’s been two years.

i kissed a guy the day after you broke up with me,

a vain attempt to hide the pain.

i told him something was bothering my eyes,

but the tears were for you.

i thought it would get better with time,

so i slept with random guys,

and i kissed with even more.

i became an expert at creating an alibi for tears.

as much as i tried to,

the alcohol only numbed my mind,

not my heart.

as much as i longed to,

love was always mocking me

with your eyes.

they told me they loved me,

and as i said it back

i imagined that you were here

instead of strangers.

it’s been two years.

but every time something funny or sad or happy happens,

the first thing on my mind is to tell you.

and then i realize.

you aren’t here

anymore.

i love you,

but just like with all my lovers,

i am beginning to realize our love

was one sided.

I struggled with this for a long time as well. I thought that if I wrote about characters with other races and cultures then I would offend someone. For a long time, my main characters were all one race, and all one gender, and so were most of the supporting characters. But I'm currently going to an art school, and I get exposed to all kinds of people, whether asian or african or hispanic or white. It doesn't make a difference. I've met people with similar interests, similar experiences, even outside my own race. So I've kind of adapted the strategy that I'll write a good character no matter what race, gender, religion, or sexuality. Some of these (mostly the religion ones) will require some research on my part. I am also writing stories mostly for Young Adults, and so I've read a bunch of popular YA novels and series. One of the authors that has influenced me for the better is Rick Riordan. He's a white, straight guy, but he writes about people from all walks of life, and that's what makes his stories so relateable and real. Through experience, I would say that, if you want to be a good writer, you virtually have to include varying cultures. It makes your writing more real. I can understand perfectly where you're coming from, but yeah. Do it.