His Great Short Story

His Great Short Story


By: Evan Boyd

He sat transfixed. The glow of the monitor giving him an otherworldly appearance. Briefly he considered getting another diet dew from the kitchen. “No!” he told himself. “No more excuses, I can do this.” The blank page on the screen seemed to taunt him as he set his fingers upon the keys of the keyboard for what seemed the thousandth time.

Snoopy’s classic tales of adventure flashed through his mind as he toyed with the phrase “It was a dark and stormy night...” “Bah, too dramatic” he thought. After several more minutes of staring at the blank page, he did begin to type. Slowly at first, not even focusing on the screen. The sound of the TV, the clatter of the keys,. The occasional car on the road out front, nothing disrupted his reverie.

Odd visions began to dance like gossamer phantoms before his staring eyes. At first they held no real shape. Then slowly they made more and more sense. This blob over hear was an eye. Hmmm, could this long thing be a mouth? If it was, it was grinning. The were moving. How odd he thought. It was at this point that he realized he had been typing. The face before him took no concentration to appreciate now. It was an awful face. It reminded him of how a face might look through a block of ice. All the features looked normal, but somehow ...off. Was the right eye a bit too large? Were there just a few too many teeth showing in that haunting grin?

He looked past the face at the screen. He was still typing. It took all of his concentration to see the words he had typed. “He sat transfixed.” it began. As he read the story unfolding from his unthinking fingers, his breathing stopped. He saw the words which he had just typed describe the last few minutes of his existence.

“The last few minutes of your existence” said the face. Startled that he could now hear the previously soundless words, he looked up at the face. He looked to see his fingers type “He looked to see his fingers type....” “What the hell is this?” he shrieked, to no one really for he was alone. He looked again at the face which mouthed every word he typed. With a sudden jerk, he tried to take his fingers from the keyboard, but only one hand came away. The other continued to peck away as the face mouthed a silent narration.

“Who are you?” he babbled to the face. “ I am your ...Muse” the face replied audibly. “Your final flash of inspiration, your moment of epiphany. I am the last, and truly the only great thing you will ever do. “Wh-what do you m-mean by final“ he stammered. “Oh, don’t you recall the Agreement?” asked the face in a silky, sarcastic tone. “What the hell are you talking about” he screamed. Am I losing my mind he thought, or perhaps reliving a dose of blotter from a mis-spent youth.

“Let me see.” said the face. “It was just about 3 hours ago that you said, and I quote “Damn it all!! I would give my soul to be able to one great thing. Just anything to be remembered for. Invent something, publish a great story, save someone’s life.”’ Now it seems to me that your contract is very open ended, yes, very... generous” intoned the face. Now the face was clearer, the reptilian slits of the pupils were clear to see.” So, here I am” it continued, “ to fulfill your desire. Now any good contract has it’s fine points that need to be clarified. The first clarification is that you did state that you would give your soul. Did you not?” “I d-d-d-don’t kn-n-n-now” he responded, blubbering now, but still conscious of the fact that he was continuously typing. “Well, trust me son, you said it. I never make mistakes about such thing. Point number two, would relate to the incredibly non-specificity of your price for afore mentioned soul. An invention?Bah, too much thinking. Save someone? That do-gooder stuff is just not my style. A story, now that is more my style. I have some that would surely curdle your blood, but this is not about me, now is it? Of course not.! This is your moment of glory!” the face smiled broadly, causing the unwilling author to think of Jack Nicholson in “The Shining”. “Forgive the shameless self-glorification” chuckled the face” but this is really a joint venture. That brings me to point number three. The true lack of creative effort required by you in this venture. You did not specify that it had to be a story of your creation, only that you would publish it. Now I am a fair, all powerful, evil demon, if I am anything at all. I could not in good conscience, let this story that you typed, that you wished, or better stated, bargained into creation, be credited to anyone but you. “
”However, in appreciation for giving you the full recognition as author, and the promptness of my service to you, I only require that I receive your soul tonight.”

In desperation he tried to pull his hand free of the key board, but every effort was futile. His fingers flew faster toward the keys. His wrist felt as though it was manacled. “ You can’t control me!!!” he screamed “Ah, but I do now. Once you promise me a soul, you are mine. Of course, I can’t take it to it’s new home until your demise, but that is coming soon enough” the face calmly stated.

He searched his immediate surroundings. Nothing but an empty glass seemed to spark any ideas. “Break the glass” reverberated in his brain. He had no idea if it was his thought or the words of the demonic face. “Does it really matter?” purred the voice.

He saw his hand reach for the glass. He gripped it by the base, holding it before him like one might hold a knife. In a smooth arc, the glass came down hard against the edge of the desk. A small drop of Diet Mountain Dew splashed into his eye. Absurdly, he wondered whether soda in the eye was something to be concerned about as you attempted to sever your wrist from your hand. The sharp point sank easily into the space on the wrist three inches up from the center of the palm. The amount of blood that flowed startled him. Would this ruin his keyboard, he wondered? The face continued to mouth words, though, mercifully, they were silent. His jeans began to appear more purple than blue as a small Niagra of blood flowed over the keyboard and down to his lap. His white T-shirt was showing fine spray from the impact of his fingers upon the keys. A wave of drowsiness washed over him as he tried to saw through the tendons on his wrist. “Sleep, sleep. This is the last peace you will ever know. A few seconds of peace before an eternity of torment. Trust me, you really want too. Don’t worry about ending the story. Your readers will understan..."