I feel its presence before I hear it speak to me. Its voice greets me with more familiarity than I’d like. Though I despise the monster, I have to admit: part of me enjoys its companionship. I shouldn’t, I know, but I am its master after all. My slave is a formless spirit; a vile cretin that has claimed more lives than anyone knows. There’s an uneasy comfort in its company. Like it could end me at any moment if it wanted to. It has taken stronger men than me.

“’Lo, devil,” I acknowledge.

“Come now, is that any way to greet a friend?” it replies.

“Friend? Is that what you are? I could use one of those right about now, but you are not what I’d call...a friend. Don’t you have anyone else you could bother?”

“Yes, but there’s no one else I’d rather bother. Besides, I came because I knew you could use the company.” It pours me a drink of my favorite spirit. Two fingers of whiskey over a solitary cube of frozen water.

“I don’t want company. I said I could use a friend. I’d rather be left alone than be in your company,” I lie. There’s more harshness in my tone than I intended.

However, instead of leaving, the beast recommences pouring, stopping at about three-and-a-half fingers. My demon knows me better than any friend. “Nice act, my good man,” it says as I take the whiskey, “but I’ve owned you since you were a teenager. I know you better than any friend.”

It’s like it can read my mind.

Sitting in my black, leather recliner, I swirl the amber perfection in the stout glass cylinder, eyeing it with rabid intensity, momentarily hypnotized by the ice cube caught in the eddy. I gulp down nearly half of the contents before my brain processes what my company just said. “You mean known. You said, ‘owned.’ You misspoke.”

“Whatever you say,” it says, brushing off my commentary.

“Don’t ‘whatever you say’ me!” I yell.

“Or else, what? You gonna keep trying to self-medicate me away?”

My eyes jerk to the glass in my hand. “Wait a minute, who the hell do you think you are?!”

“Just a friend, my good man.”

“You are no friend, demon! How dare you barge into my house uninvited and make such false accusations!”

“Whoa now, calm down, sir.”

“I am calm! Now, I command you to leave!”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Then I’m going to have to make you.”

“You sure you want to go toe-to-toe with me?”

I’m seething with anger. Too much. Why won’t it just leave me alone? I don’t want confrontation, but the whiskey’s already removed my restraint.

“You will not win. I have conquered the likes of Nero, Van Gogh, Robin Williams, Hemmingway, Marilyn Monroe, even Cleopatra. I’ve taken the lives of politicians, artists, athletes, and emperors; rich and poor; the young, the old; men and women of every ethnicity throughout all of history. Millions of them! What makes you think you’re strong enough to beat me?”

Horrified, I set the glass down, suddenly unaware which of the trio is master and slave. Woozy with the revelation and the emotions swirling within, I’m not sure I can win, but I have to try. I take out my phone and dial 1-800-273-8255, the national suicide prevention hotline.

I sit alone at the table-for-two with my cup of coffee and look out the window, waiting. It's 14:00; she'll be here any minute. When I see her, hands hugging her hips in the pockets of her navy blue dress, arms dancing with her body with every rhythmic step, my pulse quickens to allegro. I close my eyes and gulp coffee over the silver rim of the mug. The earthy smell and nutty taste transport me to another world. As I bring the cup from my lips and open my eyes, she's standing over me.

"Hola, Miguel," she says, playfully. "Couldn't wait for me?"

"Hey, Sofi. Here ya go," I say as I slide a caramel macchiato to her seat. It's been her drink of choice since our first date in high school. "And it's Michael. You know how I hate it when you call me Miguel."

"Sorry, mi amor. You know that's why I do it." Sofi kisses my cheek and takes a seat.

We talk, about work, about life, about everything, like usual. Our coffee breaks together are always too short, so we quickly get to the point where we discuss the terms of our next rendezvous. Last night was my place, so tonight it's hers.

I pick up sweet and sour chicken with fried rice and spring rolls from our favorite Asian restaurant on the way. One pair of chopsticks for me, and a fork for her.

"I'm just saying, you'd think after eating Chinese food like every week for at least the last five years you would have learned to use chopsticks by now," I joke.

"I'll learn how to use chopsticks when you lose one of your two left feet," Sofi says as she salsas in her chair. I nearly snort miso soup out of my nose.

We snuggle on the couch, sipping wine and streaming another episode of Jane the Virgin. I spend this episode intoxicated by Sofi’s hair. Cascading waves of black, like the ocean after nightfall. Only up this close can you tell it's really a dark, espresso brown. I lose myself in thoughts about how lucky I am to have her in my life. Before I know it, the episode's over. We share a shower, then bed.

My alarm buzzes me awake. Sofi's a heavy sleeper and doesn't need to get up yet. I kiss her forehead, lingering long enough to wake a normal person, and head to the kitchen. She doesn't have enough eggs for omelets, so I whip up french toast instead.

"Something smells amazing," Sofi mumbles as she pulls a chair away from the table. Her nose woke her before her alarm would have. Her sultry pajamas steal my gaze as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. I smell one side of the french toast starting to burn. After breakfast, we share another shower and get ready for work.

"Buen día, Miguel. See you at coffee. Adíos, mi amor," Sofi says as she blows me a kiss and gets into her car.

"Bye, Sofi. See you at coffee," I reply and wave as I get into my car.

My workday flies by as I think about how perfect things are right now. It's already time for our daily coffee date. I sit at the same table, looking out the window, waiting for her. I see her in the park across the street and close my eyes as I take a long sip of my earthy, nutty salvation. As I bring the silver-brimmed cup from my lips and open my eyes, I see that it's empty, and I'm transported back to reality, to regret.

My watch says it's 14:15 now. I look out the window and see Sofi, a vibrant latina in a navy blue dress with wavy, espresso hair. She beams as her husband brings their child to play together at the park.

I get up from the table to pay my bill and return to work. Honestly, I'm happy for her—for them. But, I'm happier for the me in a parallel universe who had the courage to talk to the girl of my dreams in high school. Even if that parallel universe only exists in my dreams.

Here I am.

Despite so many fears, after so many years I am

Throwing it all away.

Who are you all to say

What I don't and do all day?

You want me to slave away

For pay

While I pray

The void inside subsides until one day

It all eventually goes away?

Instead, it grew and it grew.

And I knew—I just knew,

That it would come down to this.

It's impossible to fix.

So that does it.

I quit.

I don't know where I'm headed,

But I know that the dread that's embedded

Deep

As soon as I awaken from sleep

On a Monday

Has been replaced without chains! I'm not waiting for Someday.

Someday will take your dreams to the grave.

Chin up. Be brave.

You've got this.

The whole world is your office.

Anything you want, just

Reach out and make it

And take it

And mold it

And grow it

And go with

The path as YOU chose it.

The bumps along the way

Trump months, or even years, of long decay.

Resolve to dissolve the gap in

Value and worth you feel wrapped in.

What's the worst that can happen?

Own the unknown over a dead-end job you feel trapped in.

I'm torn. You say you are going to write a novel for NaNoWriMo (major kudos, by the way; it's a goal of mine too one day), you have so many ideas, you can't decide, but you want me to write about my favorite genre? I would much rather tailor advice to you based on your ideas and desires, my favorite genre be damned.

Why do you write? To bring something into existence? To challenge yourself? To let your soul sing?

What excites you? If you had to write ten thousand words about anything, right now, due before midnight, what could keep you so engaged that you didn't even notice your coffee went cold...two hours ago?

Do you have stories and characters scraping and clawing and rattling around in your head? Those are the manifestations of your creativity and individuality. You are doing the world a disservice by keeping them locked in their padded cells. They are but passengers stowed away on the vessel that is You. Will you let them sink to Davy Jones' Locker or grant them the immortality they deserve?

Spend an hour and write down every idea you have. Every. Single. One. Take two if you need it. Characters, ideas, scenes, time periods, dialog, descriptions, histories, etc. Write them all. They can be as high level as "a time-traveling sci-fi story about dinosaurs in space" or as low level as "Timmy opens the closet and finds pink wrapping paper for his mom's Valentine's Day gift. Instead of grabbing the pink roll, he grabs the baby blue one. The one with Spider-Man and snowflakes and the words 'Merry Christmas' emblazened in white. The one he happily ripped to shreds to uncover a beloved Lego set nearly two months ago. His jaw drops in disbelief as he connects the dots, and the magic is lost, forever." Then pick your favorites from that list and spend a half hour or so fleshing each one out. Some of them will die on the vine. Others will bear unforseen bounties. Put all of those elements into a story. All of the good ones. And then write and write and keep writing until the story is done.

Let your story pick its genre.

As for my favorite genre? Much like this non-answer answer to your challenge, I love the genre-buster.

Best of luck in November. Feel free to challenge us again if you get stuck. :-)

I'm standin' in the kitchen thinkin', "What do I make?"

The family's hungry and needs some food on a plate.

Nothing's defrosted. Nothing is planned.

I'm out of ideas. Hope the kids'll understand.

I shout over T.V.s, "What do you want for dinner?"

"Something not yucky!" Sounds like a real winner.

"How about specifics?" No one answers my question.

I should've never asked them, that'll teach me a lesson.

Then it hits me. Eureka! There's only one thing they like.

It's super simple. I got this. Even I can get it right.

I grab one ingredient from the pantry, another from the fridge.

The last from the countertop, then I screw open the lids.

I snag a knife and a plate, now we're ready to cook.

I know the recipe by heart. You can't find it in a book.

"Dinner," I yell. Silence echoes once more.

"Dinner's ready!" I scream. Now pitter-patters on the floor.

"Mmm," one says as we sit at the table.

Single parent. Three kids. But our family's stable.

As the last of four sits, a resounding, "Hooray!

Mine's cut like a heart. Mommy's made my day."

I wish I could do more, but I just can't today.

Today, I have to spell LOVE with P-B-N-J.