How I Made My Audiobook

So.

I hate my audiobook.

CotO S1 ACX Cover PNG 32Bit 300dpi 7500x7500.png
This was ver. 14 of the cover.

No. I mean. Mr. Erik Johnson, my producer, did an amazing job and I was floored when I heard my book come to an audible life but SWEET BUDDHA do you know how many times I’ve listened to that damn thing?

Do you know how annoying it was to get every little thing right and you know damn well as I do there’s still going to be stuff that’s off.

It’s somehow worse than having to read your own book over and over.

I want to say like, “oh it was so fantastic that I didn’t mind having to listen to it like 20 times.”

But no. Let’s be real.

There I am jogging on the treadmill, wanting to forget the world, listening to my glorious mix of K-Pop, Eurobeats, and J-Rock…. then BAM

“THIS HAS BEEN CHRONICLES OF THE OTHERWORLD BY A. S. ARAMIRU”

I thought I got rid of all of you cockroaches off my playlist!

You know what?

I hate that guy.

Screw, A. S. Aramiru.

Screw him, his audiobook, and his writing career.

Don’t buy any of his–

“Hey, asshole. You’re supposed to sell your book. You owe me money. I’ll cut you with a f—in’ spoon. A. F@#$in. Spoon.” – My Former Editor

Here’s a sample of the audiobook:

SAMPLE!

I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to share that. I’m preeetty sure.

The steps to making the audiobook are pretty simple. I did it through ACX, you probably should too unless you know something that I don’t (and if that’s the case please share).

Just

  1. Make an ACX account.
  2. Try recording your book.
  3. Realize your voice sounds funny and the middle school bullies and your former editor is completely justified.
  4. Start an audition for your book.
  5. Have your friends remind you that if you were Neil Gaiman you could have done this yourself.
  6. *Magic / Sacrificial Goat / Seduction*
  7. Find Producer
  8. Strike up a deal with your producer.
  9. Receive first recording from your producer.
  10. Get over the honeymoon phase and drowning in dreams of unattainable levels of success.
  11. Send back feedbacks to align your visions closer together.
  12. Do above until the book is just right or you feel like your producer may find it more financially responsible with his time to just have you professionally killed.
  13. Approve the audio files to submit to ACX.
  14. Wait for ACX to either OK the book or tell you what to fix.
  15. Have ACX put it up for sale whenever they feel like it.

For me, the only fix I needed was having to change the style of my cover.

###Chronicles 2018 Season 1 ACX Cover PNG
Ver 1
###Chronicles 2018 Season 1 ACX Cover Revised 2.0
Ver 2.
###Chronicles 2018 Season 1 ACX Cover Revised 2.5.png
Ver 2.2

It only took 14 different variations and getting irate twice at the dumb uploading system.

And viola.

Yeah, I’ll keep that autocorrect.

Viola

And viola! Now I also have an audiobook polluting the internet.

And I can’t help but wonder if my baby will be okay.

And naturally, dream that maybe people will find the little guy and enjoy it.

HINT. HINT. CLICK. CLICK.

There’s a lot of moments when doing creative you wonder if you were honest with your work.

Did I do all I can?

Could I have done something better?

But you have to tap out at some point if you want to do create other things.

Like my imaginary therapist would tell me

“Learn to love yourself. Forgive who you were so that you can be who you are. Who you can be is someone strong enough to deal with everything done by who you once were. You have to believe that. Because you owe me money and I’ll cut you with a spoon. A fuckin’ spoon. Fuck censorship. I know where you live homeboy.” – My Imaginary Therapist

I think everyone should try to make an audiobook.

Leave me a comment if you have any questions, comments, or complaints.

ARAMIRU OUT



Chronicles of the Otherworld: Season 1 Audiobook is available now!

Check it out HERE

If you liked what you’ve read, make sure to click SUBSCRIBE or FOLLOW!
Twitter: @ASAramiru
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ASAramiru

Advertisements

The Secret of NaNoWriMo, Writing, and Such

What?

What time is it?

Yeah, I’m sleeping out of my car! It’s great! Why? You want to fight about it?

You can shower in the rain.

You can eat with the pigeons.

And you can really feel the heart of the city when you sleep in their Wal-Mart’s parking lot.

What? No, I don’t know what date it is.

That’s literally the only downside of living out of my car.

No calendars.

NaNoWriMo?

320x486
Dealing with this handsome schmuck and his stupid events to promote literacy and the arts in the world again. Yeah, I know I’ve used this pic before.

Oh. Oh.

‘Tis the season!

‘Tis the season when all of us and our granddaddies are writing about mundane and over juiced writing tips, tricks, and unwarranted life advice for that sweet, sweet Internet traffic.

Because we are all successful, professional, knowledgeable writers who care about the youth and the other budding talents in the field.

STOP WRITING J. K. ROWLING.

CMS_HoldingSig_900x510_0002_Layer-36
The Nefarious British witch who caused your book to not be picked up, for that movie deal to not be given to you, and why you’re now living as a struggling writer after your poor life choices. She’s the source of all of your problems.

WHY ARE THERE STILL HARRY POTTER MOVIES COMING OUT.

I DON’T CARE IF HARUMYONEE IS BLACK, LAOTIAN, OR GENDER CONFUSED.

DON’T YOU KNOW WE HAVE OUR OWN CHILDREN TO FEED? YES, I DON’T HAVE KIDS YET BUT I MIGHT IN THE FUTURE.

What?

That’s dated and unnecessarily socially charged references?

Hold on. Let me get in my best sweatpants and rain jacket to get to a McDonald’s for their free Wi-Fi.

Come on daddy’s gotta sparkle. Daddy’s gotta make a buck!

eh-hem!

Hi, I’m A. S. Aramiru and you may know me from my previous works such as:

and the latest hit:

As you can see, I’m a successful, professional, knowledgeable writer who’s qualified to give you some tips and tricks for this upcoming writing adventure. Something you can carry with you for the rest of your life.

Because I care about all of you fellow writers out there and especially you writers who’re just starting to create their first baby.

So, get your hot cup of water, tomato ketchup, the free pepper packet ready for a nice little soup for your writing soul.


20181010_215803
They wouldn’t give me pepper packets. I was already getting weird looks for asking for these and taking a bunch of pictures.

There’s a lot of tips that circulate amongst writers.

And to be honest you’ve probably heard them all already because they’re regurgitated and recycled over and over.

  • Just write.
  • Make a plot line.
  • Don’t get too attached to your first draft.
  • Take criticisms.
  • Etc.

And those are great tips. That’s why they’re regurgitated and recycled over and over. They derive from universal truth that can only improve your life:

  • Do your tasks.
  • Strategize your tasks.
  • Hone your skills.
  • Take in other perspectives.
  • Etcetera.

But there’s a great concern I’ve had lately when I see a lot of other want-to-be creators.

You see, my fellow thespians, scribes, and charlatans, it’s far too easy to see other people’s talent and work these days with Google, Youtube, Instagram, and etc.

And usually we only seee the end result.

But it’s rare to see the process. Especially, the honest portrayal of the process.

The most important part.

The ugliest part.

The part we all need to appreciate a lot more.

Because you hear about it, you imagine it, but it’ll always be a little romanticized in a lot of people’s minds even if they’ve struggled elsewhere before.

We assume it’ll be so much easier than it actually is. We have the confidence in our minds because we’ve seen others do it.

Why not me?

I bet it wasn’t that hard.

He’s just talented so I bet it was easy for him.

999,999 / 1,000,000 of the times, it wasn’t.

It was a fight. It was a personal war. It feels like an exaggeration but it’s not. The struggle will consume you.

But that’s what makes it awesome.

You see the sexy pic on Instagram.

sexy5
Fun note: I was naive and Googled “sexy animals”.

But what you didn’t see is the once skinny, fat, regular guy/gal, working their ass off in the gym, thinking about giving up more than once, sacrificing a lot of for-pleasure meals, paying for a lot of cycles, and taking a lot of pics until they got that perfect one to post.

You listen to that awesome song.

But what you don’t hear is the countless combination of notes that weren’t good enough to make the cut even though no one else would know the difference.

You read that next best seller novel.

But what you didn’t read is another one of these offensively cheesy parallel examples of what I’ve just reiterated twice already above.

Everyone wants to reach the summit but no one wants to do the climb.

No one wants to risk the time, the effort, and their lives. No one wants to feel that lack of oxygen, the burning muscles, and the sense of desperation that you may never make it to the top and maybe you won’t make it back home. I’m talking about writing still.

But there’s nothing more beautiful and important than the struggle.

When you make it, that’ll be the most powerful memory that you have of your journey. The pillars of what made the achievement memorable.

When you make it, it’d have been the most important part. The only part that you can really pass on to others for their benefit.

mountains.png
From Vagabond by Takeshi Inoue. Chapter 109.

That’s the secret of NaNoWriMo. It gives you a way to appreciate the process and not just the end. I appreciate the event for making the goal the struggle. And I totally got the title of this blog off the SEO generator again but found this kickass way of just tying it all off in that #trending bow.

That’s why I make the big bucks.

Writing will suck at times.

You’ll get stuck.

You’ll hate what you’ve written.

You’ll regret the time and the effort you’ve spent.

And you’ll feel like you’ll never make it.

But as long as there’s a breath left in you, you can make it if you actually want it.

If you don’t want it, just move on.

Time’s finite. Do something worthwhile for you.

But at least start something. Start the struggle.

And then learn to embrace the struggle.

There’s really nothing else more worthwhile in life. Because it’s the crucial, and the not so secret, ingredient of what is worthwhile.

*sip*

I wonder if honey mustard packets will make good soup

*sip*

Did you guys like the clickbait title? It worked last time. The irony.

Haha, what kind of desperate scumbag would sell out like that, right? Just randomly insert things to boost visibility?

Brett-Kavanaugh-Is-the-Supreme-Courts-Republican-Justice-GQ-2018-100518
I don’t like getting political in these blogs but I really have to say this. JFK did not deserve to be shot.

#bitcoin #CristianoRonaldo #Grindelwald #JohnGreen

Did I mention I have an audiobook coming out of the BOOK I’ve written so many years ago that I should have really written another one out by now?
Haha, I mean it’s not like selling out and calling himself out on it in a roundabout way makes anything better. So who would do that?

#ASAramiru #TaylorSwift #NaNoWriMo #SEO

Ok, I have to go now. McDonald employees say I have to at least buy something if I want to keep using their Wi-Fi.

*sip*

Time to put on my cardboard sign and get back to my imaginary car.

The sign reads:

“You think I’m joking, but most writers would live like this if they lived only off of their writing earnings”



Seriously. Don’t write for the money. Don’t plan on it to be your income. Unless you’re copywriting.

“Why can’t you just take a helicopter up to the summit?” – Editor

“Shut up.” – Me

ARAMIRU OUT (3, 2, 1, カモーン!)

If you liked what you’ve read, make sure to click SUBSCRIBE or FOLLOW!
Twitter: @ASAramiru
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ASAramiru

5 Hacks for Writing: A Cheat Sheet for Beginners

Power-of-words-by-antonio-litterio-creative-commons-attribution-share-alike-3-0.jpg
Let us all appreciate this very topic appropriate stock image I found by Googling ‘writing’
  1. Find the time.

  2. Just write.

  3. Find the time again.

  4. Just write.

  5. Repeat 1-4 consistently.

“OH HARDY-HAR-HAR. A. S. ARAMIRU. WE’VE ALL SEEN THAT BEFORE. BY THE WAY, WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO ‘JUST WRITE‘ YOUR FINAL CHAPTER TO YOUR SHORT STORY THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE ENDED 2 MONTHS AGO?”

Hardy-har-har?

What are you Jackie Gleason?

sfl-jackie-gleason-centennial-sofla-20160222
I definitely knew a lot about Jackie Gleason and who he was and of his works before making this reference. Because I’m a cultured writer who is qualified to write about these topics.

Listen here you little turd. You little—

“Mr. Aramiru, remember you’re trying to promote yourself.” – My PR Team

—shit.

Do you know how I got the title for this blog?

I used an SEO blog title generator.

Hiiiilarious. I thought. And probably highly effective.

Who knows. Maybe there are even SEO keywords that are completely unnecessary to this topic embedded somewhere in this post.

Or as the people in the biz call it, “black hat SEO”.

Bitcoins. Cryptocurrency. Trump.

Like the most boring kind of wizard. But probably a wizard that knows how to make money with his gibberish.

Look, I know.

It’s a bit annoying when people say, “just write.”

But they’re not wrong. Which is the best kind of right.

It’s not wrong and you feel annoyed because your brain knows that they’re right even though you haven’t realized it yet.

Just putting pen on paper, that finger on that keyboard, those thumbs on the touchscreen are the first essential step get started with this craft. It is the only step. And it is also the only step to continue honing the craft. You can research all you want. You can read all you want. But you’ll never be a writer without actually writing.

When I say it like that, it almost feels stupid that you had to read that right?

If you want to be a swimmer, you have to first get in the water. Start with the shallow end, eventually jump into the deep end.

If you want to be someone who’s despised by his friends and family, you have to first borrow money. Don’t pay it back. Then join Amway and sell their toilet paper to the said friends and family.

f3f96c06ddc73aa35cfa616f67008abe
I’m not saying or implying anything. This is just one of my favorite scenes from the hit show The Office that I wanted to share.

I’ve been legally advised to say that I’m only speaking anecdotally from my personal experience and of my personal opinion about Amway and they should definitely not go suck on some–

“Keep it politically correct” – My editor.

—nuts.

Does saying “suck on some nuts” offend my male audience for demeaning their genitalia as an insult? If you’re offended, go suck on some—

“Come on, dude!”  – My editor.

—nuts.

Anyways.

We have to understand what it means to “just write” to not let the advice actually divest itself of any of its nutrients to help writers do their occupation.

It’s not a good advice if it offers no course of direction to the solution.

The quintessential significance of the advice “just write” actually can be found in its first word, “just.”

It implies that there’s no fuss, no grand scheme, and no grandiosity to the act itself.

You don’t need to have everything figured out.

You don’t need to have the latest program or the gadget.

You just need to write.

What do you write?

Whatever you feel like.

Not what you think will sell.

That’ll come later. Because everyone’s feeding each other bullshit that not making money can somehow be your occupation because you’re an artist and absolutely ignoring the fact that there are successful authors who chase after trends and write great stuff…. is just silly and irresponsible.

There’s nothing cool about being a hungry artist.

Those dinguses.

That’s right. I said dingus.

There’s always a better way.

Where was I?

Whatever you feel like.

Right.

Write—

—not what you think will sell.

Not what you think would make sense to others.

Just start with something.

Build from there.

The rest is discipline. How much do you want to be a writer? How much can you ignore the immediate pleasures and rewards of what you can see and do right in front of you and instead do something for the sake of just doing it.

Because you said you would.

Because this is something you want to do with your life.

Where’s your short story, Mr. Aramiru?

Prick. I’m talkin’ here.

If we all had the courage and the patience of the first farmer who decided to plant that seed, culture it, and hope for the best, the world would be filled with better humans.

“There’s actually a lot of discussion about how developing agriculture setback the society a lot.” – My Editor

*groan*

Just.

*sigh*

Can I… Can I finish?

Batman-Slaps-Robin-Meme.jpg
I’d never do this to my editor physically. But I’m not above doing it metaphysically.

So just write. And keep doing it.

Oh.

And learn to take criticisms and just eat it when someone is kind enough to let you know that you wouldn’t even be able to donate your work to Goodwill because they don’t accept trash.

Just learn from it.

Then just write again. And just keep doing it.

Good luck. Be better than me.

Then, be better than someone better than you.

#bitcoins #SEO #AmazonScandal #Lifehacks #Cryptocurrency #writing

Now, where’s my paycheck?

 



 

Currently, I’m working on the post-production for the audiobook version of my novella, Chronicles of the Otherworld: Season 1.

Check the novella out HERE at Goodreads.

I’m also working on finishing up…

The Devil & Me

Catch up here:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Sorry for the delay with the finale. I’m working out some kinks even though the idea of the project was no edits and just letting it fly + dealing with some life emergencies.

Best regards,

ARAMIRU OUT

 

“This feels like a filler blog post” – My Editor

 

IT IS A FILLER BLOG POST.

THERE HAVE BEEN SOME GREAT FILLER EPISODES IN ANIME.

If you liked what you’ve read, make sure to click SUBSCRIBE or FOLLOW!
Twitter: @ASAramiru
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ASAramiru

Short Story: The Devil & Me (Part 3)

Part 1

Part 2



14 Years and 10 months

 

There are days that are more memorable than most. The kind of days that people relive in their minds through their entire lives. Sometimes we know it before those kinds of days happen but, more often than not, they tend to be a surprise gift. A happy accident.

But for some, even those serendipitous days are marked by something constant. A constant that refuses to wane or be forgotten. The blot on each page of their lives. Nothing short of a real-life curse. An imp sitting over their heads who nested somewhere deep within their minds and hearts.

Bleeding into their senses. Their wisdom. And their beings.

It’s there when they laugh. There when they love. And even there when they cry. Even as their tears roll down their cheeks, it’s the voice that tells them it’s not enough and yet they should be ashamed for giving into it.

For Suzie Lee the week on the lake with her friends and their chaperones would remain one of her happiest and the most adventurous moments of her childhood. It was her days that were more memorable than most.

They canoed through the wakes of the wild waters. They hiked through the creaking trees and where the wildlife cooed and watched. There was even an encounter with a bear and what was the most frightening moment of these young girls lives, in the end, became just another chapter of their adventure.

The fourth evening of their seven-day trip would be the most memorable moment for Suzie. But it would exist as almost a pocket memory of its own. Not because of the Devil but because it was another blot on an otherwise a perfect memory.

A more painful blot because it would have been, otherwise, a perfect childhood memory.

Suzie sat on the dock. Their red and yellow canoes were beached off on the side. The setting sun painted the lake with a blue and purple hue. The few islands they’ve visited filled the horizon like black domes, slowly losing their details to the fading light.

Blanketed by the grandiose nature and its twilight lit visage, Suzie wondered how difficult it’d be for her to drown herself in the lake.

If she pencil dived, no one might notice.

Pockets full of rocks.

A steely determination.

And then… fade away.

Into the cold.

Into the darkness.

No. Be real. Suzie told herself.

Pencil dive.

Pockets full of rocks.

A violent struggle.

Water pouring in through every crevice of her body.

Filling her lungs and stomach.

Possible last minute of regret.

Then… fade away.

Dangling in the cold. In the darkness. Her corpse gently being pushed one way or the other by the current.

Friends would cry. The family would cry. They’d blame themselves without realizing that the person who should be blamed the most was already gone.

And at that moment, Beelzebub appeared before Suzie in the most unnerving way that’d he would ever appear before her in her life.

From the distance, a familiar head slowly poked above the surface of the calm lake.

Beelzebub slowly ascended until he stood on the surface of the lake and stared at Suzie from afar.

He then took his steps towards her and for the first time, Suzie found herself being startled and nervous to see the Devil. She looked behind her at her friends and chaperone in a gregarious clamor. They had no idea that the Lord of the Flies had appeared. She knew they’d be of no help.

By the time she looked back, Beelzebub already stood before her with a stern look that she had never seen him with. But the dock was higher than the surface of the lake, so the Devil glared upwards at the young teen.

“Well, this just isn’t that menacing is it?” Beelzebub said. He climbed up to the dock and stood over Suzie.

“That’s better,” the Devil remarked.

“Hey,” the teen greeted her visitor.

“Hey,” the Devil replied.

“I didn’t call for you, y’know?” Suzie remarked.

“Your precious heart that wants to kill itself did,” the Devil didn’t sound much concerned.

“My heart, huh?” Suzie didn’t seem too impressed neither. “I have to be some special kind of a fuck-up if my crying, bleeding heart calls out to you instead of the other guy.”

“Well, gee, sorry for being a good friend and being there for you in your time of need. You were a lot cuter and more appreciative when you were younger.”

The Devil looked over to the campsite. Girls and women laughing. Telling stories. Eating snacks.

“Why can’t you just go there and enjoy yourself?” The Devil asked.

The girl did not answer.

“You were so happy… during this trip. Weren’t ya?” The Devil looked at Suzie who was still staring off to the lake with disinterest.

“I was,” Suzie finally replied. “And I think I am. Happy.

“But?”

“But what? I can breathe. I’m healthy. I’m with friends. My mom and pop have their issues but I know others have it worse. I should be goddamn happy. I’d be an ungrateful bitch not to be happy. I know that, okay? I know that. I’m so fucking happy.”

“…But?”

“….It’s as if… as if…” Suzie grew more and more agitated. These questions. Her feelings. Her lack of a better answer. The shame of admitting these answers. The embarrassment. “None of this is real? It’s all fading? And I’m just… never going to be able to hold on to anything. And I don’t… I don’t want tomorrow to come because it has to all start over again… and no matter what happens I’ll feel the same. Like something’s broken. Like I’m not good enough for anything. And I can’t get better. I want to be better but I can’t. And I’m so tired of it. I can’t even appreciate… appreciate that I’m out here. I’m just going to mess it all up somehow. I am messing it up.”

Suzie held her tongue. She was rambling. She felt silly. She felt trivial. She didn’t deserve to complain or feel bad.

Beelzebub to let silence come over them. Let them soak in what was said and what they were feeling.

“You thought about getting a shrink?” The Devil carefully asked.

“No. I just feel weird talking to some stranger about my problems. Like shit, you only care because I’m paying you.”

“Well there’s another way,” The Devil smirked.

“…My soul for the cure?”

“…Yeah,” The Devil seemed a bit embarrassed that Suzie stole his punchline.

“Does it work?”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t think it was some sort of a solution.”

Suzie stared at the Devil for a little while and turned back towards the lake.

“Look, I know this beast better than you’ll ever know. It’ll only get worse,” Beelzebub began to make his case. “You’ll feel like you’re always running from your own shadow. And when you stand still it’ll be larger than you remember. You’ll have moments when you forget but those are the moments you’ll realize later just how sick you really are. Hopelessness.”

Suzie buried her face into her arms.

“You’re going to live your life feeling like you’re always just head above water. I’m the guy on the boat. But for me to give you my hand. To throw you the life jacket, I need something from you. I can’t help you without that.”

“…I believe you,” Suzie replied without looking up.

“But?”

“But.”

“You know,” Beelzebub felt flustered. What couldn’t she understand?

“At the end of the day who’s been there for you? When you felt like no one could hear those screams inside, when no one could tell that you were messed up. When you’ve felt alone, rejected, and unheard. Who was there for you?”

“You”

But?!”

“But, you’re you. You’re the devil. You want my soul. That’s what you do.”

“Because I want you to be with me. I want you to be part of what I’m building.”

“And I don’t want to give it,” Suzie finally looked up. “Isn’t this fine the way it is?”

“And what is this, exactly? You don’t think I’m like a shrink? Just coming for your soul? Except I can actually help you.”

“Do you love me?” Suzie stared into the Devil’s eyes.

“What?”

They stared in silence.

“Let’s not get gross, kiddo, alright?” This isn’t… that. Don’t get full of yourself.”

Suzie still stared in silence.

I wasn’t. She mouthed.

“I’m just asking. Do you love me?” She spoke.

“I love more of you than any of you will ever realize,” Beelzebub answered.

“You’re not my shrink. Far as I know our sessions have been free,” Suzie smiled. “I’ve already said no. Or maybe I’m fucking pathetic. I don’t know. But I like you as a friend. Friends tied by odd circumstances. You’ll always want my soul and I’ll always say no. Though the temptations there somewhere. Because this sucks.”

“Life?”

“Knowing that there’s something wrong with me and not being able to do anything about it. That I am the way I am.”

It was a question Beelzebub often pondered. She was the way she was. He was the way he was. But why?

“Is there a God?” Suzie asked.

“Who knows,” Beelzebub answered. It was not a question he could answer. Some of his brothers would tell her “no” or “yes”. Whichever they determined would help the case. But Beelzebub, without truly understanding why, believed his answer to be the correct one.

“If you’re real, He must be as well, right? I hope? For humanity’s sake?”

“That is being hopeful,” Beelzebub gave a sly smile. “Believing that there must be another side to this coin. What if this is it? What if I’m all you get? What’s worse?”

“Must be lonely for you,” Suzie said empathetically.

What?”

“At least, we get to believe. Hope. But you already know. Whether there is or isn’t. Either way, I’d feel like that’d be more lonely. More hopeless. Helpless. I don’t know. Maybe that’s why you come to see me.”

“You really were a better company when you were younger,” Beelzebub chuckled as he pulled out a cigar from thin air. Already cut and lit.

“Then stop coming to see me then.”

Beelzebub took a drag of his cigar and released the smoke into the twilight horizon.

“…can I try?” Suzie asked.

“You’re too poor for this,” Beelzebub answered.

“Suzie?”

“Yeah?” Suzie darted her head around to see her friend.

“We’re making s’mores and we were getting worried. Come join us?”

“Yeah! Sorry!” Suzie quickly looked around to see that the Devil was already gone.

Suzie and her friend chattered and walked back towards the camp as if nothing had happened. As if she had felt nothing. And when she looked back, all there was the empty dock and the beautiful scenery.

No Devil.

She won’t ask him to come back soon or that she’ll miss him.

They were what they were.

∗∗∗

 

Usually, when Beelzebub entered his bar in Hell, it tended to be a bit more cheery. Nods from patrons here and there, some hellos, some flirtations, and sometimes even cheers on more festive nights.

But only choking stillness awaited him this evening.

The bar was full but silent.

Patrons spoke only in sparse whispers.

Obviously uncomfortable, but none willing to be the first to leave. Or at least, none willing to seem like they were eager to leave.

They all glanced at Beelzebub with a spark of hope in their eyes. Pleading eyes that cried,

‘Help.’

And then they quickly turned their heads to their own crowds. Afraid that they would offend that one patron in the bar.

That one patron sat alone by the barside. Eating his order of liver and pomegranate with few flatbreads on the side. He had brought his own bottle of wine and offered some to the barkeep, Binkle, who graciously took the drink.

Beelzebub knew it wasn’t Michael. He knew soon as he opened the doors that there were only two beings that could unnerve the denizens of Hell to such extent and make the Lord of the Flies so tense.

Brother,” Beelzebub carefully called out as he walked over to the patron.

The Brother once had a name.

A beautiful name bestowed upon him by his father.

But it was a name that’s been long forsaken. Only used to recite the Brother’s wrath.

“It’s gotten better,” the Brother spoke of his meal without looking up. “New cook?”

“No,” Beelzebub answered. “Same cook. He’s just gotten better.”

“Always better for the people you already have to improve than to hire new,” Brother cut and ate a generous bite of the liver. He then took a bite of the flatbread. Then took a sip of his wine.

“The bread could be the next thing to improve,” the Brother commented.

“Is that why you’re here? To be Hell’s Duncan Hines?” Beelzebub was irked by Brother’s presence but was careful to not let his emotions slip. And even more careful in choosing his words and attitude. He always thought it was better to not treat his brother with not an overt reverence that may be perceived as sycophancy, rather, simply seem respectful with gentle show hostility.

The Brother smiled.

 

“You’ve been going to the mortal realm,” Brother still didn’t bother to look at Beelzebub. Still focused solely on his meal.

“Yeah.”

“To see a girl?”

“Yep.”

“Is it love? Lust?” The Brother said the latter with subtle, but violent disdain.

Neither.”

“Good.”

The Brother didn’t question Beelzebub. He knew that Beelzebub and his other brothers were far too wise to lie to him.

There the two sat, along with the rest of the patrons, in uncomfortable silence. Beelzebub declined a drink from Binkle. Only the Brother’s knife clanking against the plate as he cut the liver disturbed the silence.

“What is eternity without purpose?” The Brother finally spoke as he finished the last morsel of food on his plate. “What is eternity without passion?”

Beelzebub knew better than to answer one of these sorts of questions by Brother. The question was simply an invitation for a dramatic silence. A theatrical imposition rather than a thinking exercise.

“An eternity without purpose is being lost,” The Brother carefully placed the utensils onto the near immaculate plate. Neatly folded his napkin, placed it on the table, and then poured himself another glass of his wine.

“And an eternity without passion is being just a function. A perpetual, endless function.”

“And what are we trying to get at here?” Beelzebub asked with a slight snap.

“It’s embarrassing but I’ve been thinking a lot about the whole thing. For a long, long time. Why we are the way we are. Why they are the way they are. We’re at least made with purpose but what are they? And why were all of us made to be able to question our purpose? He trusted all of us so much. And yet I, his favorite, rebelled. I wanted to prove him wrong.”

“I thought it was to show him that we’re fine without his rules. His demands. That we can make a world for ourselves,” Beelzebub waved Binkle over as a way of ensuring of safe passage to pick up the plates and the utensils.

“That’s part of it. That in and of itself, I thought, made Him obsolete.  I wanted to show him that he had made a mistake. The power to choose was unnecessary and perverse. I wanted to show him, ‘I am what you made of me. Happy now?’ In fact, I even had a chance to ask him that exact question before… all this.”

“What did he say to that?” Beelzebub remembered the fall. The war. It was imagined by humans to be of some sort of an actual war. In reality, they all simply left His presence. There was no bloodshed but only grievance by their brothers and sisters.

“He said, ‘You’re what you chose to be and you’ll be what you choose to be’,” the Brother scoffed. “I wonder what he thinks by what they choose to be. Rapists. Murderers. Incestuous perverts. And of those who despise Him with all of their hearts. That’s what they choose to be, father. Who is He to judge them when He’s the one who set them free? So I decided to give them a place. Here. They don’t have to live under a tyranny they can’t understand, governed by a being they don’t want to understand. Let them be, who they choose to be. What He always wanted. Everyone just doing whatever they want. Trying to make sense of choices. Trying to figure out their purpose. Trying to find their passion. Doing. Whatever. They. Want.”

“Even kill themselves,” Beelzebub chuckled.

“Or save them. Look at you. I’ve always meant us to show the ugliness of the humans to let them relish in it… but you…  you don’t want any of the humans to actually understand suffering. The absence of God. The cruel reality of having choices. To understand why they need to come here. To be free. You didn’t want that girl to kill herself.”

“There are better ways to spend a life. Better ways she can get here. The suicide bunch tends to regret and leave if they ever find that things could have been different. They’re not understanding anything. They just want the things to end. They don’t like it the way it is. So they just want it to end. They’re just trapped and they want out.”

The Brother leaned in closer than Beelzebub was comfortable with.

“But what if I wanted her dead right then and there? Get her here and then sort it out.”

Beelzebub took a moment to search for his answer. But there was only one answer.

“I’d imagine you have the power to make any of us here do whatever you want,” the Lord of the Flies spoke frankly. “We’re mere insects compared to you.”

“And what would be the point of having any of you around if I were to do that,” the Lightbringer answered as he snickered.

Beelzebub gave the Brother a look.

“I know. I know. But I’m not Him. I’m not all-powerful, all-knowing being,” the Broher let out a big sigh. “Who gives a shit. Now… now… I’m so tired. I don’t know how He can keep this up. Or maybe He just doesn’t give a shit either. And I don’t give a shit what you’re doing Beelzebub. I just wanted you to know that. That’s why I came today. You don’t have my blessings with whatever you’re doing, but I frankly don’t care. I just want to have a nice meal. A nice drink or two. And maybe drive out somewhere to stare at the full moon as my dessert. That’s what’s on my mind.”

The Brother looked deeply into Beelzebub’s eyes.

“You know your purpose. Maybe you’ve found your passion. Who am I to get in your way? But looking at you. I admit I do feel lost about myself,” the Brother didn’t take his eyes off of Beelzebub. “So you have my blessings to do whatever the fuck you want.”

Beelzebub waved Binkle over. An odd sense of liberation washed through him.

“You want your drink?” Binkle asked.

“Vodka—” Beelzebub answered.

“Why?” the Brother interjected. “Is my drink not good enough for you?”

“Just bring me a wine glass.”

 



 

The overdue Part 3.

I think this is the part that had the most correct… soul *ba-dum-tss* and tone of the story.

There’s a lot of ideas here that could use some incubation time to properly develop and hatch. If I were to go through the editing and the rewrite process for this short story, this is the part that’d I’d look over first.

It was always planned to make the story mature as Suzie matures. To make the ideas, the odd philosophies, and the tone fit Suzie’s age. But there still has to be some sort of a deft and recognizable uniformity that carriers from section to section of the story.

I think the contrast is clear when comparing this part with Part 1. The story originally began as sort of a comedic short from a goofy idea I had while working other projects. The first part is really clear of that. But as the idea developed, it became something else.

And this is why editing and rewrites are important to a story. Because sometimes it’s hard to predict or plan how a story may develop or what new ideas, insights, and outlook you may get for your story.

Anyways. Sorry for the delay & thanks for reading!

ARAMIRU OUT!

Click SUBSCRIBE or FOLLOW to  Keep Up With the Updates!
Twitter: @ASAramiru
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ASAramiru

Short Story: The Devil & Me (Part 2)

10 Years & 7 months Old

O’ Where art thou, my lord?

My king. My savior. My hope.

I’ve asked and received not.

I’ve sought and found not.

And I’ve knocked and still find myself trapped in this rot.

Or was the fly the answer for what I’ve been asking.

The savior that I’ve been seeking.

The angel that you’ve sent to hark my knocking.

Am I supposed to know my lord of your words in silence?

Or am I supposed to find faith in his words that answered?

It was a little something written by Suzie Lee and it was meant to be for her eyes only. But Beelzebub decided to take it off her hands and read it as Suzie watched from her bed.

“I know it’s a mish-mash of Shakespeare and something you probably heard somewhere on TV and church—but not bad. Not bad for a ten-year-old” Beelzebub remarked. “But ‘Hark‘? Is that word being used correctly here?”

Suzie shrugged.

It had been a long while since she had seen Beelzebub. To the devil’s surprise, the girl only seemed a bit startled when he appeared from the corner of her room.

Beelzebub thought the room was quite an ordinary room for a ten-year-old girl who summoned the devil. Books, dolls, a desk, and a bed. The walls were painted pink.

“How you doing, kid? Been a while.” Beelzebub sat by Suzie on the bed. “That’s mean. I know you’re not all sunshines right now, otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

From the living room below, there was a gentle rumble of noise that’d come and go as if it was the palpitations of the house. Every once in a while either a male or a female voice would shred through the rumble and you’d be able to make out a word or two. And sometimes, both would scream and stomp and Suzie would get embarrassed that perhaps she wasn’t alone as she felt and others would find out. Or maybe they already knew.

“Why didn’t you come back since then? People didn’t believe me,” Suzie asked with a little trace of sorrow.

“Are you mad?” Beelzebub asked playfully. “You know people would literally kill to have me show up. And look at you. Not a drop of blood on you. No goats. No lambs. No virgins. Nada. I should be the one that’s mad!”

“No, I’m not mad,” Suzie answered with a smile. The devil smiled back.

“I figured you were probably busy. Probably doing some important stuff.”

“And I was,” Beelzebub walked by the room’s door.

Suzie’s mom raised her voice. Then the dad raised his even higher.

“Do they ever just go at it?” Beelzebub asked.

“You… are not an angel are you?” Suzie carefully asked. “What’s your name?”

“I’m an angel,” Beelzebub answered. Suzie’s eyes widened. “Though not the kind that you may mean. Name’s Beelzebub.”

“They do. They used to hide it before,” Suzie decided to answer the devil’s after all though she seemed a little confused by what Beelzebub meant. “Can I call you Beezy?”

No. No you may not,” Beelzebub replied.

“Why?” Suzie asked.

Beelzebub chose not to answer.

An awkward silence wafted across the room.

“I feel like I started it,” Suzie finally confessed.

“Why?”

“I said something. They started arguing. And then mom said something about this is why I lie about you. And I said you were real. Then they started fighting.”

“Ah,” Beelzebub made his way back to Suzie’s bed and sat next to her once again.

“I didn’t even get to finish my lasagna,” Suzie buried her face into her knees.

“So, that’s why you called for me?” Beelzebub’s eyes lit up a bit. “Not the lasagna but because of your parents?”

The child didn’t answer.

“Well, I’m flattered that you’ve thought of me but just so we’re clear. I’m not working for Him,” Beelzebub pointed up. “Whatever you and I decide to do—it’ll be between just you and I.”

“I see,” Suzie’s eyes were moist and left spots on her pants.

“Promise your soul and I’ll make sure your parents stay together,” Beelzebub stood and offered his hand with a grin.

Suzie stared at the devil in silence. Contemplating his offer. The moment lasted long enough for Beelzebub to feel a bit awkward.

“No,” the girl finally answered.

No?”

“No. I think it’ll be better for them if they just got divorced,” Suzie wiped away her tears. “It’ll make me sad and I’ll miss having them both very much but it’s what’s best. That’s not why I called you anyway.”

“So what did you call me for then?” Beelzebub sat back down again.

“I just wanted to see again that you were real,” Suzie paused. “And…”

“And?”

“And I didn’t want to be alone.”

Tears begin to flow down Suzie’s face again. There was a period of time after her infancy where Suzie refused to cry. Even as a child she felt embarrassed and, without being able to form the words for it, Suzie felt like it was a sign of weakness.

Even when she had sand kicked in her face.

Even when she saw her little crush hold hands with another girl.

Or even when her mom and dad said something mean—Suzie refused to cry.

But as she grew older, Suzie found crying easier and more natural. There were more things to cry about than when she was younger. Reasons that she’d never have imagined as a child and types of pain that life can dish out that a young child couldn’t have known.

Life became more complicated and painful as she learned to interpret it. A baby mumbles. A child speaks. An adult expresses. All came at a cost.

But to her credit, crying would be a rare and private affair for Suzie for the rest of her life.

“Is that going to cost me my soul?” Suzie asked.

“Not today,” Beelzebub conceded.

“Well,” Beelzebub thought for a moment. “Unless you want to give me your soul for the lasagna?”

“No,” Suzie giggled. “Why do you want my soul anyway?”

“More the merrier at my kingdom.”

“At Hell?”

“Hell’s got a pretty bad PR but it’s not what you think,” Beelzebub rubbed Suzie’s head.

“Uh huh,” Suzie brushed away the devil’s hand.

“Why don’t I just tell you a bedtime story so you can fall asleep and I can be on my way.”

“Okay,” Suzie made her way underneath her blanket.

“I’m going to tell you about…” Beelzebub thought carefully about what would be a good bedtime story for a young girl. “…Ghengis Khan. He was fun. Wait till I tell you about what he did with babies.”

“Okay,” Suzie seemed gleeful.

“Hey, Beelzebub?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s a PR?”

∗∗∗

 

About three years ago, Michael the Archangel visited Beelzebub’s bar in Hell called The Center after the devil visited the mortal realm to meet Suzie for the first time.

“Brother,” Michael spoke with heavenly grace and paternal stern. “We need to talk.”

“No,” Beelzebub sipped on his drink. “No, we really don’t.”

Other patrons of the bar slowly excused themselves as the gold-haired archangel stared down Beelzebub.

“You know the rules, brother mine,” A seat next to Beelzebub was open but Michael chose to stand. “And you’ve broken them. Why?”

“You see,” Beelzebub clicked his tongue. “You see, Mikey, I don’t relly need to tell you a goddamn thing.”

Michael cringed at Beelzebub taking the Father’s name in vain.

“You have a problem? He has a problem?” Beelzebub walked over to Michael. The devil took a moment to take in the archangel’s anachronistic white robe before grabbing Michael’s hand and folding the archangel’s fingers into a fist.

“Kill me,” Beelzebub said as he placed his forehead on the archangel’s knuckles. “Do it.”

“Don’t be childish, brother,” Archangel lowered his hand.

Beelzebub chuckled. He gave nervous Binkle a look and sat back down. He sipped on his drink and stared at the TV.

The archangel stood and waited for the devil.

“Y’know,” Beelzebub remained focused on the TV. “Your brothers down here and I often wonder why you and Father let us live. Do you even know?”

“I follow His will. I trust that He knows best,” Michael answered.

“So you want to kill us?”

“No, brother. I have no malice in my heart for you and the others. Only pity.”

Pity,” Beelzebub scoffed and downed his drink. He waved Binkle at for another who glanced at the archangel as he served his master a vodka tonic.

“Get him a juice box or something,” Beelzebub told Binkle.

“You…” Binkle cleared his throat. “…You want a juice box?”

Michael stared Binkle for a moment. Binkle wasn’t sure if his heart had stopped for a moment because of the sheer beauty of the archangel or the fearsome power he posed.

“Yes,” Michael answered. “Do you have the Berry Blast?”

“…Do you have money?” Binkle asked.

“Do you think he has money?” Beelzebub snapped. “Does that robe look like it has pockets? Just put it on my tab.”

Binkle came around the bar and gave the archangel his juice box with the bendy straw. The archangel still refused to sit.

“What is it that you want to do for the girl, Beelzebub? For the humans?” Michael asked after a sip.

“I ANSWER THEM,” Beelzebub finally turned away from the TV. “I. Answer. Their. Prayers. What do you do? When was the last time you were there for them, Michael?”

“It’s not our position to interfere,” Michael placed the juice box on the bar table. “It is against what’s best for them.”

“What’s best for them? Okay,” Beelzebub stood and faced the archangel again. “What do you know what’s best for them? Whatever He told you was best for them? Where were you when a kid prayed for his mother to be saved as he watched her being beaten, raped and then chopped off limb by limb? Where were you when the parents are crying for His grace as their baby dies? Where–”

“Do NOT question my love for them brother!” Michael interrupted the devil. “DO NOT THINK FOR A SECOND THAT I DO NOT FEEL THE PAIN FOR THEIR SUFFERING!”

“THEN TELL ME WHAT’S WRONG WITH THEM BEING HAPPY!”

By now, the bar was empty. There was only Binkle, Beelzebub, and Michael. Binkle slowly descended below the bar table and held his knees tight and hoped that he’d make it through the day.

“Why can’t they just live happy lives? Why can’t we just help them have happy lives? What’s the point? Why all this? Isn’t being happy enough? Suffering will happen anyway so why not let them be as happy as they can be?” Beelzebub asked after what Binkle thought was too long of a silence.

“The meaning of their lives isn’t happiness,” Michael answered. “Life isn’t about being happy. You’ve never understood that Beelzebub.”

“Or I understand fine and you and Him are just wrong,” After a short staring contest, Beelzebub sat backdown.

“Humans,” Beelzebub grabbed a nacho that Binkle had prepared for him earlier. “I don’t think even he knows what he has spawned.”

“Hold your tongue brother.”

“I AM THE PROOF OF HIS FLAWS,” Beelzebub threw the basket of nachos. “Otherwise, why am I the way I am?”

“Or you’re part of his plans,” Michael calmly replied.

Jesus,” Beelzebub spat and switched his attention back to the TV. “We are the ones who can provide salvation to His slaves. All of us here are proof that something was wrong with His plans. We’re here because we want to show Him that we don’t need someone like Him. We choose to be free. Even if the cost is losing Him.”

There was no point in talking to the devil. Their conversations were echoes from the many similar conversations of the past.

“Answer me, Beelzebub,” Michael said as he headed for the exit. “What is love to you?”

“What is love?” Beelzebub didn’t turn to look at his angelic brother even as he left. “You tell me.”

“Something beyond happiness. Something beyond the present.”

The door closed behind the archangel.

The devil sipped on his drink as he turned up the volume of the TV.

His bartender placed in front of him some olives

There would be no other customers that evening.

Last drinks were served.

The TV turned off.

And the two retired quietly into the night.



 

Re-reading Part 2 to post on the blog reminded me why I ultimately didn’t push forward with this project when I was working on it.

While I’ll save all of my comments until the end for those who may be enjoying it so far, a short answer is a sort of a writer’s block that I got distracted away from when I had other projects come up.

And just for the record, these are un-edited so it might be rough in some parts and probably would have benefited quite a bit from going through the refinery i.e. an editor as all writing stuff tends to do.

Thanks for reading!

Click SUBSCRIBE or FOLLOW to  Keep Up With the Updates!
Twitter: @ASAramiru
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ASAramiru

Short Story: The Devil & Me (Part 1)

7 Years & 3 Months Old

Screaming children.

The little war drums of their tiny stomps pounding the grass and sand.

It’s a celebration of freedom. Liberation after hours of being trapped in school.

But for Suzie Lee, recess was a time for peace and serenity. The seemingly endless green of the playground fields, the labyrinthine of the big toys, and all the possibilities that a ball and a few friends could provide meant little to the young girl. Even all of the staff and other children would know exactly where to find Suzie each and every recess. Regardless of whether or not they knew her name, everyone in the school has heard of the girl who’d always spend her time at the sandbox by the jungle gym. The girl who was always huddled over drawing or building things with the sand.

The small girl, petite even for her age, had her black hair always tied into pigtails as she stared into the grains of sand. It was as if the sands were the cosmos and it was her job to arrange the stardust.

And it was Charles Bogart’s job to kick some of that stardust onto Suzie’s face.

Suzie coughed violently as she rubbed away the sand from her eyes. The special art drawn into the sand all but gone.

“Charles Bogart!” Suzie yelled but didn’t cry. Suzie never cried.

Charles laughed. His chubby cheeks turning red with his bucktooth revealed for the world to see.

“I hope the devil gets you!” Suzie tried to chase after Charles but tripped.

Her wishful omen was obviously a fair and just judgment for getting sand kicked on your face.

Charles ignored Suzie curse and fled with a wide smile stretched across his face. But he didn’t get far until a sight stopped him dead in his tracks and turned the smile, upside-down.

∗∗∗

“So you just showed up?” Binkle asked with an amused astonishment. He poured Beelzebub his vodka on the rocks.

“Yep,” Beelzebub answered as he squirted lime into his drink. He then drowned the carcass and stirred.

“Just like that? Poof?”

“Yeah,” Beelzebub sipped on his drink.

There’s a bar in Hell.

Well, there are many bars in Hell but there’s a particular bar in Hell known as The Center for being at the center of Hell. Which made little sense, as Hell was boundless and endless. The infinite plane for those who wanted to live away from God—either by choice or as punishment—and now lived under the mercy of the fallen angels: the princes of hell, i.e., the Devil. Or the devil[s] though the brothers didn’t mind sharing the title.

Anyways.

After an odd bet with even odder wages, Beelzebub had won against his six brothers and named the bar The Center and effectively made his portion of Hell, the center of Hell.

It did well for business.

Yes, people still had to work in Hell and pay their taxes to the princes.

Binkle was the master of the bar and the personal bartender for Beelzebub. While he was alive, Binkle was a comedian. His jokes impressed Beelzebub and his brothers enough that he was able to land the relatively cushy job of being the Beelzebub’s bartender. Though he was once fully human, the princes added bits and pieces to the comedian to their personal amusement. As of now, Binkle had seven nipples (one inside his ear), a hairy rat tail, and taste buds on his anus. The last bit was added by Asmodeus, one of Beelzebub’s brothers, and it was an addition Binkle was still unaware of. And, of course, the name Binkle which Belphegor, with his great sense of humor, had given the comedian. His real name was long forgotten.

“My mouth tastes funny,” Binkle smacked his lips. “It’s been like this all day. Your brother was here earlier, by the way.”

“Did he pay his tab?” Beelzebub sipped on his drink

“Well, he grumbled when I asked him of it,” Binkle prepped some finger foods for the devil then grabbed a mouthwash.

“Well that didn’t help,” Binkle said after a gargle and a spit. “So what made you do that?”

“Do what?” Beelzebub shook his empty glass in the air. Binkle relieved him of it as he handed him another.

“You know. Show up? When the girl summoned?” Binkle pushed a basket of fresh nachos to Beelzebub.

“Just felt like it. I mean, why not,” Beelzebub enjoyed Binkle’s skills as a bar chef.

“Something about the girl just beckoned me over. I don’t know. Maybe I was bored.”

“Did you just show up like that?”

Beelzebub was currently dressed in a way that a Beverly Hills yuppie would dress to look casual. Sports coat, t-shirt of a rock band they’ve barely heard the name of, darkened jeans, and shades.

“No, went with the classic,” Beelzebub turned into a hideous form that’d convince denizens of hell that there wasn’t a God.

“Wow,” Binkle said. “That kid’s going to need therapy.

In fact, Charles was in therapy until his senior year of high school. No one believed that he had seen a monster. As no one should. Everyone believed he was crazy. As one should when a child starts screaming and crying that he’s seen a monster and that everyone else can go to hell for not believing him. Once his parents could no longer afford his therapy, Charles turned to drugs and delved into cults that even Beezlebub’s brother Mammon found to be a senseless waste of goats. Eventually, after an emotional breakthrough with his friends and family, Charles decided to go to a dime-a-dozen art school that the same friends and family couldn’t convince him out of after they recently had such an emotional breakthrough. His obsession with flies didn’t win him many fans nor jobs. So after graduation, Charles worked through various fast food restaurants until he became a manager of one. Where he tried to swat a fly since by this point he grew an insatiable hatred towards them, and ended up falling face first into a deep fryer and died.

Don’t kick sand at people, kids.

“You’re other brothers are not going to not like that. And I’m not talking about the ones in hell. And by brothers I mean just one,” it took a lot of courage from Binkle to warn Beelzebub like that.

He studied carefully of the Lord of the Flies’ reaction. The Lord simply sipped on his drink, deep in thought.

“So, what now?” Binkle asked. “Are you going to try to bring her here?”

“I’m done with her. It was fun. But can’t turn a little fun into a headache,” Beelzebub said as he watched Binkle drink a shot of whiskey to get the funny taste out of his mouth with to no avail.

The heavy padded doors of the bar slammed open. A flood of light filled the bar with heaven’s glory. A heavy aura of the divine made the other patrons of the bar uncomfortable, perturbed, and annoyed.

A tall, fit man in a white robe and golden locks calmly walked toward Beelzebub.

“Brother,” the archangel spoke with a voice of grace and magnitude. “We need to talk.”



This is from a novella I was working on that I ended up putting aside when I had to work on different projects. I decided to post it on the blog and finish the story up here as well.

I don’t think it’ll end up being a novella as planned and probably will be a longer-short story.

I’ll try to post every Monday.

Click SUBSCRIBE or FOLLOW to  Keep Up With the Updates!
Twitter: @ASAramiru
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ASAramiru