Hey Writing Peeps!

Today's post is a little unusual because it is not a tutorial, nor does it have anything to do with Anybody Can Write a Novel. I'm writing this because, for the first time, I have a solid feeling that I am about to write the last draft of my first novel. I've had multiple people look at it, received encouraging feedback, and so I feel that it is time. But before I begin revising my final draft, I would like to get input from you. I have posted the first chapter of my novel, as it currently stands. It contains the main event that launches the story and features the primary protagonist. From this chapter, the story will go back in time, before the birth of the protagonist, so that the reader can gain a full understanding of the situation that the characters find themselves in and learn about the nature of the world. 

What I need is feedback. Unlike the chapters I've been posting as examples for my tutorial series (Atticus and Blake's Buddycop Adventure), I would like every bit of feedback I can get about this chapter. Whether my sentences need improvement in a specific way, whether I've made something too confusing, whether there is a plot hole, I would like to know. There is no detail so minute that I wouldn't want to hear about it. So if you have the time and would like to give feedback, I would greatly appreciate it. If you don't have the time or don't have any ideas, that's alright too! I appreciate you just being here  

So please: 
-let me know if you see anything that can be improved in any way. 
-give me ideas for how to fix the problems that you see. 
-feel free to either comment or send your critiques through a private note. 
-please be completely honest about my flaws (though please word it politely so I don't cry, haha)
-write down how you would like your name to appear in print on a special thanks page when the book is published (or if you want to stay anonymous). 

I will use the feedback you give me for the first chapter in order to find the same types of problems later in the story. 

Sincerely,
Blake

Chapter 1

2016 – The Year of Ammon's Challenge

In the dawn hour of a crisp Alabama autumn, an adolescent male in tattered clothes walked along train-tracks into a small town. It was comprised of small shops that lined one main road, three intersections, and a red brick train station that had been remodeled as a historical monument. This train station marked what history that the people of the town could actually remember, while the rest lay forgotten.

Even in the small southern town, the world of humans had long since moved forward from the ancient days. Spirits, monsters, and the old races had all been forcefully pushed from existence through natural selection. For how could the products of divine imaginations hope to compete with the plants and animals birthed and adapted singularly to survival? Only well-hidden traces of the old world remained.

The young man who walked unnoticed was one such trace, though he might not have looked it. His wiry chin-length brown hair was caught in tangles, and a twig dangled below his ear. His brown eyes had dark circles under them, and his hairless face was covered in a heavy dusting of dirt and ash. The grime almost hid the long scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, and it further darkened his grim expression.

He had many names—a legal name, an alias, several nicknames, and one that had been given to him at a point he couldn't really remember. Which one was most appropriate depended on who you asked, although he preferred the name given by those who had raised him.

That name was Exousia.

Exousia put his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, to protect them from the chilly morning breeze. The hoodie was made of a green cloth that had faded with time, was covered in stitches from where he'd sewn up various holes, and had a brass-colored zipper in the front. He wore this over a gray tee, loose-fitting jeans, and sturdy brown sandals.

Had anyone (a couple jogging nearby, an elderly man on his porch with a cup of coffee, or the pharmacy clerk getting out of her car) been paying attention, they might have noticed that how he carried himself was a little off. He walked with heavy steps that somehow could not be heard, even from up close. They might have also noticed the singed black ends of his jacket cuffs, which smelled like burning fabric. If they had, one of these people might have alerted the authorities that a strange drifter had come to town.

But Exousia was not much concerned with the suspicion he might have caused; and that sort of confidence meant that he carried himself in a way that people were less likely to notice. He'd been taught that the surest way to attract attention was to worry about being noticed. So he walked, relatively unobserved, past the train-station and onto the sidewalk. He took a right at the corner beside an antiquing store, and then made his way towards the small-town police station.

Light of the early morning sun reflected off the window of the police station so that he had to pause and cup his hands to the glass in order to see past it. Inside, there was nothing but a waiting room, a front office desk, and a woman who sat at her desk with a bored expression and sleep in her eyes.

Exousia very nearly walked in, but stopped when he saw a bulletin board beside the door. He glanced over the few posters neatly stapled to the glass-encased cork-board and saw three of interest. The first was a public notice of the new town curfew, except for on designated streets that were posted in a poorly rendered map. The second poster was an advisory to stay indoors whenever possible, to avoid hitchhikers, and to travel in pairs due to a recent increase in violence.

The last poster was least noticeable among the other advisories. The print read: “Wanted – Any information leading to the capture of the Woodcutter Killer.” It was accompanied by a phone-number in small print and the promise of a reward. This was the one that stood out to him the most because the Woodcutter was yet another of his aforementioned names. They had been searching him out for a while and still had no picture by which to recognize him, but that didn't make the threat less real.

Exousia wondered if the local police had taken to stopping anybody who passed through town. If they were, there would be a small risk of getting caught on his way out. Of course, he could always claim that he was from one of the larger neighboring cities. He'd explain that he'd come this way for a weekend of camping and fishing—an entirely plausible excuse.

He glanced at the glass again and took a step back so that he saw his own reflection. Somehow, he didn't feel think that his face looked like that of any sort of serial killer. Apart from the scar, the only things that seemed even a little unusual about his appearance were the thin and nearly imperceptible brown lines that went from the whites of his eyes, through the irises, and into the pupils. But he reminded himself that one's appearance told as little about them as their reputation, and then returned his attention to the work at hand.

Closing his eyes, Exousia reached through the life force that comprised his being, and drew upon a small and hidden power within himself. The energy he searched for was like a small pocket of foreign water, lost in the lake of other energy that comprised his being. But after years of practice, he had a mental map of this figurative lake, and was quickly able to find that energy which he'd used so many times before. Then, with practiced will, he touched it.

The surface of his skin immediately reacted with a tingling sensation, and then became numb. The outer boundaries of his physical form transitioned from their physical existence to an ethereal plane. Opening his eyes, he watched his reflection as the features of his face and the outline of his frame became blurred and shadowy. This old and inhuman magic was a very subtle one. It would not make him invisible but it would make it so that not even cameras could focus on his features.

Exousia then opened the glass door of the police-station and stepped into the air-conditioned lobby. He resisted his body's impulse to shiver from the unnatural temperature of the building, and faced the woman at the front desk.

The woman widened her eyes in surprise and made a sour expression. She took off her glasses and began to polish them with the fabric of her floral print dress. “May I help you, sir?” She seemed to find the use of this last word, in regard to him, too distasteful for her liking. He couldn't tell if her tone was brought out because he was dressed like a vagrant, if it was simply his age, or something else entirely.

“Tell me where to find the morgue,” Exousia said, before he caught a whiff of the air around him. To him, the stench of decay was heavy on the air, though other humans might have missed it. It wasn't a normal sort of decay, judging by the smell. It was as if … living flesh were trying to fight the decay; and this resulted in a taste like feverish heat on the air. So he shook his head, and then said, “Never-mind, I'll find it.”

“Excuse me!” the woman said, looking him up and down with something between a smile and a scowl. The odd expression said she might have been amused by what he thought he was going to do, were she not on the verge of having him arrested. “You are not going in there. Stanley!”

Exousia's reached into the pocket of his hoodie, and then tossed a small amount of powder at her. The substance coated her face perceptibly, and caused her to sputtered and cough before falling unconscious. He then walked towards the door that was behind the front desk.

But as he reached for the handle, he saw it move. He moved swiftly to the side of the door, and waited as it was opened by a large male officer in a tan uniform and sports sunglasses, whose gun was drawn.

Exousia lunged and used the momentum of his movement to power his right fist into the man's elbow—creating an audible snap. He then pulled that fist backwards to elbow the man in the temple, knocking him unconscious. He then stepped over the man and towards the morgue, following the smell of decay down to the far end of a short hall.

Opening the door to his left, he found a small room with a single gurney upon it. Of course, such a small town would have no forensics lab or even much of a morgue. They'd transfer the body to Huntsville, Birmingham, or maybe even Decatur if they cared to find out the cause of death. So he stood over the body, lifted the sheet, and dropped it to the floor beside the table.

The corpse had belonged to a very tall and lanky man, with a large gray beard, and warm brown skin. He was clothed in a mix of flashy colors and animal skins. These were all covered in a thick coating of dry blood that had sprayed from the grotesque hole in his throat. Rigamortis seemed to have already set in, so that the body was stiff and a bit swollen. It was strange to think that this lifeless decaying husk, whom he had killed by pulling that chunk out his throat, had once been a powerful shaman.

Unfortunately for Exousia, there hadn't been much time for introductions when the shaman attacked, so he knew very little about the man. Judging from the Cajun style of his clothing, the shaman might have come from Louisiana. But that would have meant that he had traveled far outside his own territory with an intent to kill.

Though he wanted to know more, his first priority was to make sure that there wasn't a rematch. He placed his fingers over the shaman's throat, the source of the feverish air with the sickly smell. It was even warmer than a living human's regular body temperature. This was the result of a healing process, a reanimation. If unhindered, the shaman would soon breathe again.

So Exousia began to search through the shaman's blood-encrusted pockets. When he touched a felt bag, about the size of a purse and hand-stitched from various animal hides, he felt a static discharge. This was the source of the shaman's power, the reason for his unnatural strength and speed, and what was slowly bringing him back to life. And there was something moving inside the bag.

He placed both hands on the bag, closed his eyes, and allowed some part of himself to be drawn into the power. It beckoned him; it wanted him to take it for his own. There were definitely human spirits in this bag, young ones without even the words to speak for themselves. So instead of speaking, they raged with pure emotion and power, unrestricted by coherent thoughts or mental constructs. Among them, barely making a whisper among the torrent rapids of power, was the spirit of small animal. This animal was what was moving in the bag—a small coral snake struggling for some control over its own body.

Once he'd identified the power, Exousia withdrew from it and removed his hand from the bag. He picked it up by the opening and then looked around the room until he saw a bulk-sized bottle of antibacterial disinfectant. He placed the cloth sack on the floor away from the shaman, lifted the bottle, unscrewed the top, and began to slosh the gel up and down over the body. Within a minute, the clear substance coated the shaman in globs, which produced strong-smelling fumes. Then he reached into one of the many inside pockets sewn into his green jacket, and pulled out two small stones.

Before he had a chance to use the stones, he sensed a rapidly approaching presence. It was a powerful shadow, moving so quickly that it could not hope for any stealth, almost visible if he closed his eyes. The presence passed through the front door of the building, causing glass to shatter in the lobby, threw open the door to the morgue with a heavy slam, and collided with the shaman's body. The impact was immediately visible and the corpse seized violently.

Then, its head lifted and its dead eyes opened. These eyes, hazel and bloodshot, looked glassy and confused. But this expression was quickly overtaken as oily blackness spilled from the pupils and completely replaced all other color. The corpse then gurgled, for a moment, in an attempt to speak. But viscous globules of semi-dried blood just oozed from the hole in its neck. So it looked its killer in the eyes and spoke into his thoughts.

“It's time, Exousia.” the corpse said. But this was not the voice of the shaman. Its deep and confident tone, touched by a taint of sorrow, belonged to a demon who had possessed the shaman's body.

Demons occasionally used humans like clothing for reasons that ranged from walking unnoticed in a specific person's place, to using their body as a meat shield. In this case, it was the latter. He knew because this demon was one of his old teachers … and now his mortal enemy.

Exousia lowered his arms and left his defensive stance so that he stood straight. “ Ammon … you found out that I was alone.”

His former teacher did not answer for a moment, creating an unusual silence before he finally spoke. “You're of age and you've made yourself ready in every way that one could, in order to contest me. Now, I formally challenge you.” The announcement was a solemn one, and both of them could only pause to absorb the weight of it.

Exousia lowered his gaze. For as long as he could remember, he had always known that the challenge could come at any time and could be of any sort. And he'd been trained by both Heaven and Hell for this purpose. But with stakes as grave as the war their contest was designed to prevent, there was no taking it in stride. He could only listen and abide by the rules long since agreed upon.

Neither champion could kill other, that was the first rule. The second was that the challenge had to bear relevance to the stakes they were fighting for. Since they were fighting as a precursor for a war between Heaven and Hell that could decimate Earth, this created almost limitless possibilities for the terms that Ammon could fairly demand.

Still, Exousia knew his former teacher well enough to trust that the challenge would not be impossible. The terms would be fair, and his teacher would give him every chance to win. This was the demon's nature, his character, his conviction.

But Exousia still didn't feel completely prepared for it; and he suspected that Ammon didn't either. But both of them knew that this day was inevitable. Neither of them was going to back down from what they had to fight for. And waiting any longer would just be a dangerous exercise in procrastination and cowardice.

Exousia looked up and asked, “What are your terms?”

“We will test the humans—young ones whose souls are far from darkness and corruption. We will use them to determine whether the Creator's balance is a farce. As the Creator's champion, you must prove that the human heart can withstand the corrupting influence of my kind, if it really wishes to. You will guide and protect these humans in the woods where all of this began, while I push them to their limits.”

“What about your magic?” Exousia asked.

While demons only used their telepathic powers to plant thoughts, ideas, and systems of control into humans whose hearts were already corrupted, this limit only existed because of the Creator's balance and the demons' personal standards. It was necessary to guarantee that these standards would not be compromised, as not even the purest of hearts could withstand the direct control of a demon.

“I will never break the rules of the balance except for being seen and heard if I wish it. Nor will I use my abilities to directly control their minds.” Ammon replied, his eyes completely calm. The way that he said it was strong. It was almost like a promise, because he had no need to resort to such cheap tricks. “If I communicate with the humans, it will be only that. They will have to decide whether they want to listen.”

“And what do humans have to do with a war between Heaven and Hell?” Exousia asked. He knew that the challenge was fair, even without asking. But he wanted his former teacher to talk, to give away anything that might prove an advantage. And he was free to ask, because it was his duty to make sure that the challenge was an acceptable one.

“It's not about the humans, it's about the entire balance of power that the Creator has forced upon every species in this universe. To prove that this one key part of the balance, human will, is a lie will show that no other part of it can function. Heaven and Hell see that the Creator's champion cannot even protect a few strong and pure human souls for a day. Then they will realize that human existence is nothing more than that of livestock to be corralled and feasted upon, as much of a joke as every other piece of the Creator's convoluted balance.”

Exousia thought about this and replied, “The Creator will be proven a tyrannical fool, its angels will be filled with self-doubt, and all of Hell will be united in outrage.” It was a brilliant plan … one that would unite the broken factions of hell into one unified body, while weakening the enemy. Even if war came despite the challenge, the demons would have a chance at victory.

“My only rule,” Ammon said, his voice becoming softer, “is that you cannot kill any of the humans before they make I to safety.”

Exousia studied the demon's words to make sure that he had not added any subtle trickery to his language. The challenge seemed absurd … and yet it had its own logic and appropriateness. The difficulty was he himself did not believe in the freedom of human will or the balance. In fact, he fully agreed with his opponent's view on the wretched state of human existence. How could he not? One look at the parasitic nature of human society, which taught the right of the powerful to fully take advantage of those at their mercy, was enough to understand what it really was. And that was nothing more than a machine, created in order poison the souls of the predatory humans with power so that they were ripe for the picking.

The genius of Ammon's plan was that he was forcing his opponent to defend something he did not believe in. But having been chosen as the champion meant that, like a lawyer defending someone who is obviously guilty, he had no choice but to accept his role in the challenge.

Exousia had no idea whether he could succeed, but he could perceive no legitimate grounds to protest the challenge. Nor was there any sense in trying to stall, as any such attempt would be obvious to the demon. His only option was to counter the demon's corrupting influence with his own, to play these humans like pieces in a game of checkers. He would manipulate them with his own actions and make sure that their souls would not be corrupted, nullifying the purpose of the challenge and preventing a war that would destroy everything. So he stood as tall as he could, and looked at his nemesis with cold determination. “We will begin at sundown then.”

“Just like that, you simply accept this foolish game! Don't you realize it doesn't have to happen like this?” Ammon shouted. His face contorted in a rage that was so wild and foreign to him, that it could not have been his own emotions. When he had finished shouting, he blinked a few times and looked around himself, with a confused expression. He exhaled and his shoulders lowered tiredly. “These humans don't deserve this, what we've done to them in order to survive. I don't want to bring them harm. Not them, not my kind, and especially not you.”

He could tell that his former teacher was struggling to maintain his sanity against the madness that had taken hold of him more and more over the years. And it wasn't just that he was trying to resist, he was fighting. It was evident in the way his hands balled into shaking fists. He was a pale shadow of the kind, wise, calm spirit who had once taught him everything from war to philosophy.

So Exousia took a deep breath and remembered what the demon had once been. This allowed him to be calm as he replied, “It doesn't matter what you want or don't want. The only thing that matters is the result. You will try to destroy these humans so that you can win the right to battle directly with the Creator. And whether you win or lose, the resulting emotions of angels or demons will inevitably lead to a war that will turn this entire world into a battlefield. And if you were to lose that war, our people … all demons … will be punished in a way that makes their current prison look like paradise. Something has to change, but you've been down this path before and nothing good became of it.”

He then paused, realizing that they'd had this conversation before. There was no sense in trying to change his former teacher's mind. So he sighed heavily and said, “You know that I don't disagree with what you're fighting for, liberty for demons. And I would gladly fight, given any sort of realistic chance that we might succeed. But I see no outcome in which this war ends in anything but oceans of blood.”

“But-” Ammon said, a small spark igniting in his black eyes for only an instant before it was gone. It was reminiscent of an old professor whose mind was filled with brilliance, but plagued by a dementia that voraciously devoured his thoughts before he could speak them. And this sickness left the demon looking empty, hollow, and confused when he said, “It's something that I know I have to do, even if I can't remember why. But you know that I would never risk all of this if it were not essential.”

“I know that you wouldn't,” Exousia replied. “But the thing inside of you … that's what I doubt.”

Ammon wrinkled the shaman's face and the veins in his temples became visible. He looked like he was trying to go back and catch that thought, even now that it was long gone. “I know that there is a way to win … and that this is the only way to make that happen. I just … know. But the madness makes everything so cloudy.”

Exousia did not reply, he didn't know how to.

Ammon looked at him with a worn and sorrowful expression. “I don't blame you for siding against me in this matter. Without sound reasoning to convince others of my truth, it falls upon my own shoulders to assure my success. The best we can hope for is that if we do not murder one another, we will find ourselves on the same side in the war to come. And if I'm wrong and the madness has taken over … it falls upon you to defeat me and find a way to free our people.”

Then the blackness in shaman's eyes seemed to melt away like thick wax, his head fell back onto the metal table with a heavy thunk, and the demon's nearly invisible presence left the building. The suddenness of it caused all of the lights to flicker. Then the electricity failed so that the room was completely dark, except for what light leaked in from the broken front window down the hall.

Fighting his own conflicting emotions of anger, fear, and pity, Exousia shook his head to force his thoughts clear. He then lifted the stones and brought them together. This created a spark that ignited quickly and spread with a small blue flame across the shaman's body. The fire flickered and crackled as it cooked the dead shaman's corpse and then eventually began to char it. Yellow-blue light illuminated the darkened room, and the smell of human flesh with the chemical smell of the disinfectant filled the room.

Exousia turned his back on the body and whispered. “I will find a way to free you from your madness.” He retrieved the felt bag with the snake and human spirits inside and placed it in his outer jacket pocket. Then, as the body burned, he returned the way he came. He didn't stop walking until he was on the train-tracks, just outside the town.

There, he picked up a long staff, which he'd left to avoid attention. The staff was taller than he was, and made of the spiraling root of a juniper tree. A leather cord was tied to two points along the staff, so that he could carry it on his back. He threw it over his shoulder and continued on his way.

After an hour of walking, Exousia stopped and opened the felt bag. The coral snake and the spirits inside, caused the animal's body to writhe upward in a desperate attempt to escape. He pinched the animal gently but firmly behind the head with one hand, let the bag fall to the ground. Then he reached into his jean pocket with the other hand, pulled a black Swiss knife from his pocket, and used his teeth to open the smaller blade.

The snake writhed as he held it, whipping its tail around though its head and upper body were firmly secure.

Exousia bit his lower lip and drew a deep breath. He turned the snake upside-down and made a precise cut through the uppermost layer of the snake's belly. The incision caused the animal to writhe with pain, as did the spirits of children within. He did not stop but cut through the animal's muscles, and around its arteries, organs, and bones—straight to its still-beating heart.

Though anyone else who saw the creature would have simply seen a tiny heart, he saw something more. He saw a small, ethereal, glowing pocket of energy that was embedded in the beating red organ. The glow was dimming and became more dark with every second that the animal's life-force left it. If the animal died in this state, it and all the spirits inside would be bound together in the spiritual realm. There was no telling where this sort of combined chimera spirit would find itself, or what it would do once it was no longer bound to its body or the earthly realm. It might wander the universe lost and alone for the rest of eternity. And there was no taking that chance, despite the pain now being felt by the spirits inside.

Moving quickly, Exousia cut the small pocket to separate and released the raging spirits of the children within it, as well as the spirit of the snake. They became little confused wisps of steam, no longer bound together in rage and madness. Each would be free to pass naturally from the mortal plane. Soon, all of these dissipated into the air, and only the animal's corpse remained.

With a tired sigh, he left the snake's body far enough from the train-tracks to not endanger any scavengers. Then, he laid it neatly on the ground and allowed sadness, remorse, and anger, well up inside of him. This had always felt foolish to him, but his oldest teacher believed that doing so would allow the emotions to be partially purged from his psyche.

For Exousia, however, it only felt like a marker. Forcing himself to feel was the least he could do to give significance to the tragedy and cruelty of what these spirits were forced to endure at his hand. It was the only vengeance and retribution he could take against a universe that allowed them to endure such suffering. Then, after a few seconds of feeling, he willed himself to stop. He buried what was left of that emotion deep within himself. It would become yet another source—another spiritual doorway—by which he would be able to access the powers he needed for the challenge ahead.

As he began to walk west toward the woods that he'd accidentally cursed so many years ago, he savored the sounds of crickets, the wind, and the chirping birds. He allowed them to nourish his spirit before returning to the woods that were devoid of all life.