POSSIBLE WIP INTRODUCTION: YOUNG DEMONS
pov: first person / past tense
Cecily Young has demons, literally. They have names, sentience, and a habit of not knowing when to shut up. Cecily is a witch. She’s only ever done one spell in her life and it went terribly wrong. It gave her two ‘figments’ to deal with: Dean and Annie. Others may know them as Depression and Anxiety. Dealing with mental illness was bad enough to begin with, but now it’s no longer thoughts in her head, but people that only she can see.
Because of this mishap, she swore off magic: going back on her deal with the forces of the universe. She has repressed her magic effectively for the last year but it’s building - brewing: a storm on the coast of Louisiana. The hurricane by the name of Talia now threatens the livelihood of millions. And it’s all Cecily’s fault.
She knows the storm will follow her, leaving a path of destruction in her wake until she finds a way to free the power inside. Cecily has convinced herself she has a choice: attempt another spell to release the energy or find a way to break the deal which granted her magical powers.
The first option means facing her fear of failure and setting loose a tidal wave of energy that, if not controlled effectively, could be just as catastrophic as the storm. And the second option, according to every grimoire her family owns, is not possible.
If Cecily doesn’t do something soon, she could lose her home, her girlfriend, and her family. If the magic goes wrong or the storm hits, Cecily may be stuck with nothing but the presence of the dreadfully invasive demons she created.
There are some things in life that are impossible to avoid. If you decide to become a witch, you add one more thing to the list of the inescapable: magic. And while that seems like a given to most people (witches and magic go hand in hand) the consequences of trying to dance away from that fact can result in some pretty catastrophic repercussions. Repercussions, which in my case, took the form of a superstorm destined to destroy Louisiana.
I used to like thunderstorms. Growing up in the south you either love them or hate them, because either way you have to deal with rain a lot. Some people would hold newspapers or their purse over their head when the showers started; running to some sort of cover. But I would stand in place, momentarily unmovable, lift my face to the sky and enjoy it. Louisiana was humid enough at all times, that from the second I stepped outside the damage was done: my clothes were wet and my hair was unbelievably frizzy. I didn’t see any reason to avoid the rain, in fact, I preferred it. Rain was resolute, it made the decision to be droplets and not vapor. It demanded to be felt, seen, and heard. I respected that.
