Craft: Stories I Wrote for the Devil

“The devil was in the room and he was eating a donut.”

Writing for the devil feels less like a sin and more like a collaboration. He stays in cheap hotels and drinks bad coffee just like any other roommate.

Being an immigrant often means feeling like a ghost in your own kitchen. You look at a vending machine and realize you are the only one who sees the strange magic in it.

“Everything I write is a way of staying.”

Small things like a dried bird or a forgotten photograph carry so much weight. They are anchors for people who have left their whole lives behind.

“He was a very good reader, which was the most terrifying thing about him.”

The devil is surprisingly polite when he critiques your work. He knows exactly which parts of your soul you are trying to hide behind big words.