writing

The Hell God

First of all, happy Fourth of July to everybody! I’ve always thought of it as the Fourth of July, rather than calling it by its proper name, Independence Day. I don’t know why. But I hope everybody has an absolutely splendid day!

Anyway, I mentioned one or two posts ago that I was doing July Novel Writing Month, which is basically a version of NaNoWriMo, except it’s done in July. My friend roped me into it. Ten minutes before the month began, I still didn’t have a plot.

With a lack of anything else, I fell back on a project that I’d wanted to write for a long time: The Hell God. It’s a spin-off from my Angel books, about the character Hell, and his old life.

I’m never going to do anything with it, but it’s just something that I’ve wanted to write, so I went for it. It’s turning out to be ten times more interesting than I’d imagined, and I’m having a lot of fun with it.

And that is basically the gist of this post, because I have lots of fun things to do with my family today. Since I don’t like the look of short posts, I’m giving you guys an excerpt. Hold onto your hats! Haha.

They had him on the treadmill. His short legs ran hard, muscles pumping, cramping, aching. Sweat poured off his body in waves, and his vision blurred. How long had he been running? Days. How far had he run? Hundreds of miles.

Everything inside of him hurt, and burning tears stung the back of his eyes like hot coals. But he didn’t let a tear fall.

Did they think he was weak? Did they think they could break him?

Fury, hotter than the tears, hotter than the cramping muscles, boiled in his stomach. He didn’t give a damn what they thought they could do. If they thought they could see him fall, they were wrong. He would never fall.

“You can stop when you’re ready,” Dr. Spike said.

He hated him. God, how he hated him.

The doctor stood to the side of the treadmill, his hands in the pockets of his white lab coat. Curly brown hair decorated the top of his head, and calm and cheerful hazel eyes stared out of his just-wrinkling face.

“This isn’t a contest, Darius,” he reminded him, his voice gentle. As if he gave a damn. “If you’re tired–”

“Piss off,” Darius got out, his voice a gasp. They didn’t think a two-year-old could run for five days? What did they know? He would show them.

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