In celebration of the release day (today!) for CONFESSIONS OF A DEMON by S.L. Wright, I'm pleased to present the following service announcement:
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Demon Anti-Defamation League (DADL)
We stand united for demons everywhere, the maligned, the slandered, the feared. Demons have rights, too. Why should vampires get all the good press? WE are the real vampires, but the blood-sucking myth gets all the glory. We live off people's emotions, and yes we tend to prefer one particular emotion above them all (hence our names – Allay, Dread, Bliss), but isn't that more poetic, more intoxicating than mere blood?
DADL makes no claims about the veracity of Confessions of a Demon. Yes, humans can become possessed though it's rare. Because of the discrimination we face, DADL cannot say who is and who is not a demon. But know demons are out there living among you; your friends, your coworkers, your family. We may not come out—not yet—because of the persecution we face. But DADL will stand up for demons everywhere.
The Demon Anti-Defamation League (DADL) defends the civil rights of demons around the world. www.susanwright.info

Confessions of a Demon (excerpt)
by S.L. Wright
It was the usual Friday night at the Den on C, the neighborhood bar in New York City I had managed for almost a decade. That was a long time by human standards, but then again, I wasn't a standard human. I was something more—or less. The jury was still out on that one.
A group of pool-playing coeds had stopped by after hanging out at the beer garden in the East Village, but they were starting to trickle away as the midnight rush eased off. Some would end up in the chic bars popping up just to the south on the Lower East Side, leaving behind the regulars; mostly older Latino men and a smattering of working-class guys covered in ghostly drywall dust. A few crowded tables of arty hipsters still filled the back, where everyone was loudly talking over one another.
I swung open the front door wide to catch the mild night air of early spring, trying to ignore the metallic tang of exhaust. A few streets below Houston was Delancey Street, where the lights were much brighter and the avenue opened up wide to accommodate the steady flow of cars over the Williamsburg Bridge. The congestion always got worse late Friday night, choking the streets with fumes and honking horns as too many people tried to get in and out of Manhattan at the same time.
I could see my own reflection in the narrow glass pane; the light from the aluminum shade overhead cast a speckled pattern across my face. Wisps of dark hair touched my forehead, cheeks, and neck. I had tried to stay faithful to my original, human appearance, a heart-shaped face that was pretty enough, capable looking rather than delicate. I had aged myself over the years to look like I should—twenty-eight this spring.
Behind me, the opening strains of “Kiss Me,” the original version by Six Pence None the Richer, with its tinny drums and silly, sweet vocals, came through the speakers hanging high in the corners. I knew the words by heart: “Kiss me, beneath the milky twilight. Lead me out on the moonlit floor. . . .”
It lifted my heart for a moment, like the song always had ever since the year I’d been turned. But that touch of minor key, the slight note of sadness, resonated much deeper than it should have. It meant so much more to me—all that I had lost; all that I would never be.
I knew better than to try to ignore my regret. That made it worse. The pain that came with the past was something I just had to endure.
Since I became a demon.
“Possessed” is the correct term, I reminded myself. I’m possessed by a demon.
I was a human-demon hybrid, the only one alive. No longer sustained by food or drink, I lived off emotions—any would do, but my preferred elixir, the feeling I’d do anything to provoke, was the simple yet all-powerful feeling of respite: relief from sorrow or pain. That was why I was known as Allay.
Plenty of people came to my bar looking for a little release from their pain. I provided all of the usual services bartenders typically gave their patrons: I served them drinks and listened to them when no one else would. And when it was really bad, I would pat their hand and steal away some of their pain. But taking energy from people, even the bad feelings, caused an imbalance in their system. I took only enough to make them feel better, and then for my reward I would sip a drop of their brief contentment.
I had to be careful not to go too far for their own good. When people were drained of their emotional energy, they could turn schizophrenic, manic, or so depressed they killed themselves. Some people became physically ill and died.
I wasn’t sure, but I thought emotions were the seat of the soul. That was why they radiated so much energy.
But how can you recognize a soul when you don’t have one?
www.susanwright.info