The Deal

THE DEAL

        As I sit here writing this, trying to figure out what to write for The Daily Slice, I’m staring at the computer screen. It’s an open prompt for God’s sake, so why can’t my Muse come up with something?

         I am, Angus. I am. Just look at that finger.

         I pretend I don’t hear him. But I still have to look at the finger. It doesn’t look good. It’s laying on my desk beside my computer in a small pool of blood. My Muse usually comes up with some pretty good ideas, or so we’ve been told, but tonight I don’t think I should have listened to him. Otherwise I might still have that finger.

         What am I going to write about, damnit? This is the last day of that open prompt. I’ve got like about a hundred half-finished short stories that I’ve tried to finish, so why can’t I finish those?

         Another finger finds its way to my desk. I take some gauze and wrap it around my hand over the previous gauze as best as I can, but the blood is still soaking through. It’s getting a little messy in here, not to mention how difficult it is to type when there’s two digits missing from my left hand. Two hundred and twelve words in and two fingers gone. At this rate I’ll barely have enough to make that thousand word limit.

         Hey, you can always take a toe, Angus.

         Shut up, Quex. Why should I listen to you anymore?

         Because we had a deal, remember?

         It’s true. We did make a deal, but now I’m beginning to wonder why I made it. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if I should write this or not. I could always go back and try to finish one of those other stories. I mean, it’s only midnight. I could just shut the computer down, go to bed, and I’d still have time left before the contest deadline tomorrow. As well as some fingers left.

         Yeah, you could. But you won’t.

         Fine. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

         I cut the small toe off of my right foot, put it with the fingers, and wrap my foot up with more gauze. Word count as of here: three hundred, seventy nine. Thank God I have all that guaze. Even Vincent Van Gogh wasn’t this stupid.

         True. But at least you’ll have a story to get into that contest, right?

         Maybe. But will it be any good? And is it going to be worth it? Oh, what the hell am I doing? I’m talking to a Muse!

         Before I realize what I’m doing, or I can even stop nyself, I take the hatchet and cut the index finger off of mu right hand. The blood is starting to get all over my keuboard. I guess I’m loosing it a litle faster than I should ‘caise I’m getting a little ligjt headed.

         Oh, get over it, Angus. It’s not that bad.

         Shut up, Qux. It’s hard emough trying to tupe this just pecking around with eght fingers.

         Seven fingers, my friend. Now keep typing!

         I don’t tjink so, Quex. I think I’n going to shut tjis dowm and go to thee hospitel. I dont feelso good. hey how did thaat thum get ther?

         Just keep typing, Angus. Only a few more words and you’ll be done.

         Ok i’ll try,bt i’m awfely tired. Wut shoud I write/

         Anything.

         oky. I rite enythiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

         Good job, Angus. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?