The darkest timeline

I got a Daily Deviation today on this!

BrujaMister Curses was Gina's threadbare, stuffed black cat made of old t-shirts. Her abuela made him as a gift two Halloween-birthdays ago. Now abuela was gone, Mom was passed out again on the couch, and it was just little Gina, Mister Curses, the blinking security status panel, and the gunfire beyond the door outside.
She clutched the floppy cat to her chest as the shouting started. She didn't know the language, but it wasn't English and it wasn't Spanish. She'd heard it before, the men who ran the building they lived in and collected money or other things from Mom used it all the time. They scared little Gina. They scared Mom too, but she tried not to show it.
After they scared Mom, Mom usually ended up the way she was now. On the couch. Needles on the floor.
The security panel was red. Gina knew that meant not to open the door. It meant the air was dangerous, or there were guns. She heard screaming, in the men's voices. Then nothing. She hugged Mister Curses.
She heard a w

Thank you doughboycafe. These features, and those who drop by to read them, fave them, leave a thought on them, and follow me because of them, mean a great deal to me. Always have. 

I don't name her in that story, but the "bruja" is Nuri, a character who has been occupying more and more of my imagination lately (if you follow me on Twitter, you've probably seen all my microfiction farts about her on various hashtag writing games). Since posting that story, she has turned up in this one, as well:

Bruja 2: Brick WitchcraftThe stadium roof was a steel spider web, lit pink and red from above by digital sakura falling from a passing promo airship.
Nuri stood in silhouette against the giant springtime display behind her. Far below, pyros fired, bold colors reflecting from her left eye. A crowd roared. She shifted her weight, leaned against the metal support of the huge LEDs that craned over the stadium like wide-eyed insects. Final score. Somebody won, somebody lost.
Nuri clicked through her feed brought through her right eye. Money changing hands. She could see it pulse through the stadium like a heartbeat, fed through satellites, wire transfers, currency exchanges. She smiled a little as she confirmed one exchange. Why not? She was here anyway.
She clicked over to the social feeds, then VR, then news crawls, all the while watching her cameras. Killing time, until.
Her mouthpiece slid into place from her ear like a grass snake, and Gardener's voice crackled in, right on time as always. "Is he moving?"
Quic

...and I have two more to come, following. This may be developing into a novella situation. I don't want to say too much along those lines, because I've been down that road before only to stop cold and leave people hanging. I hate that. All I can say is that Nuri has formed in my mind very clearly. Her life is not a happy one and I'm trying to go beyond the usual cyberpunk tropes in how I delve into it. The world in which she inhabits is becoming a platform for me to say some things I've been wanting to say about our own, and her story is allowing me to scare myself by writing about some things that I haven't before. I may not do it well, but that's kind of the point.

Anyway. If you're sticking around, thanks for doing that. 

Oh, and sleepran? Thanks for this. It's helped a great deal. The air in Nuri's world is made of smog, industrial waste, Danger, Glitch Mob, and Carpenter Brut.