F.A. Fisher sat in his office, hands on the keyboard, eyes fixed intently on the screen of his laptop. The only problem was that the screen was blank.
And his fingers weren’t moving.
And his brain cells weren’t firing.
With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair. He’d made a promise to himself that he would submit a story to the anthology, A Contract of Words. But now the deadline for submission was practically on him, and he still hadn’t started.
Maybe he should just give up. He’d broken promises to himself before. But this particular promise held him with an almost supernatural power. He’d stopped attending to his usual tasks, let his business fall by the wayside, and given up on his other writing. It was even hurting his family relationships. He had to get this story written.
And yet the only story ideas he could think of containing a contract all involved that beaten-to-death idea of a deal with the Devil. Probably two-thirds of the submissions would fall into that category, and he did not want his to be one of them.
Still, all that came to mind was: the Devil, the Devil, the Devil…He’d even started imagining the odor of burning sulfur on occasion. He’d developed a fixation. Maybe it was time to see a psychiatrist.
He groaned and buried his face in his hands—and there it was again. Burning sulfur. Brimstone. He jerked his head up, determined to sniff out the source, but his attention was caught by the computer screen. The blank page was now full of words. What…?
Before he had a chance to start reading, the page faded and was replaced by the leering, behorned face of the Devil.
That’s it. I’ve totally lost it. He reached out and slammed the lid on his laptop.
It popped back open.
“Now, now,” Satan said. “That’s no way to treat a fellow who’s trying to do you a favor.”
Right. Even if it was only a hallucination, he was not going to make any deals with that…that…Well, with that.
“Don’t decide so quickly,” Satan went on, apparently reading his mind. “You haven’t even heard what I have to say.”
“Don’t have to. Don’t want to.”
“Tut-tut. No need for petulance.” With a poof! accompanied by the smell of fried electronics, Satan stood next to him.
“Aah!” Fisher jumped away so hard he and his chair fell over backwards. He rolled off carefully—he wasn’t as young as he used to be—stood, and backed against the wall. His laptop, still on the desk, smoked. Huh. Yeah, some favor. “Just beat it, will you?”
Satan grasped the overturned chair with one red hand. “Allow me.” He set the chair on its feet, leaving a charred handprint in the wood. “Have a seat.” He snapped his fingers and another chair appeared, already on fire. Satan took that seat for himself.
Fisher hesitated but finally sat. He wasn’t going to get out of this by closing his eyes and clapping his hands over his ears. Satan clearly wouldn’t leave until he’d had his say. Best listen and get it over with. “Go on, then.”
Satan grinned. “That’s better. Now, we both know the problem you’re having. I can solve it for you.”
“At what price?”
Satan shrugged. “The usual. But payback’s a long way off—”
“Like hell—uh, I mean…I’m over sixty already.”
“But think of how miserable you are!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Fisher closed his eyes. “Go on.” No point arguing. Let Satan make his pitch and then refuse.
“I can give you a thousand great story ideas you could use for this anthology. Pick one, write the story, and submit it. And then, even if it turns out your anxiety over the issue really has nothing to do with this story but is just because…well, you know…because you’re a little crazy—”
“Ha!” Of course he was crazy! Talking to the Devil. He didn’t even believe in the Devil. Which didn’t make him any more inclined to bargain. No point taking chances.
“Don’t interrupt. Even if that’s the problem, I can fix it. Well…” Satan waggled his hand. “I can fix it like you were before you found out about this anthology. No crazier than that. I’m not all powerful, you know.” He cast a nervous glance in the direction of the ceiling.
Fisher shook his head. “Not interested. I can’t write stories based on other people’s ideas. They’ve got to come from inside me—”
“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do!” Satan beamed. “The ideas will well up from your subconscious, bringing all the excitement your own ideas generate. You won’t be able to tell your ideas from the ones I supply.”
“But…if I can’t tell, how will I even know I’ve picked one of yours? I might have my own idea and write that—” He caught himself. Why was he arguing? Just say, No!
“Not to worry!” Satan waved his hand carelessly, nearly setting fire to some papers on the desk. “If you get your own idea, why should I care? If you write a story and submit it and feel better about the whole thing, then I’ve done my part, right?”
The barest glimmering of a way out tickled the back of Fisher’s mind. “You mean it doesn’t matter what story I write? If I submit it, you’ll still guarantee that I’ll feel better? And you guarantee that I will be able to write something?”
“You got it, bud.”
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“Hey, don’t I always? And, uh,”—Satan glanced at the ceiling again—“if I ever, even once, go back on my word, all the souls I’ve harvested get set free. That would be a disaster. I’d lose the respect of all my subordinates, you know?”
Fisher shook his head. “Listen, Satan—”
“That’s Mr. Satan, to you.”
“Whatever. I just don’t know—”
“What’s not to know?”
“Well, there’s my computer—”
“A trifle.” Satan snapped his fingers. The laptop stopped smoking, the screen flickered, and the blank page reappeared.
“O-o-o-o-kay.” That was easier than he’d expected. Might as well try for the kicker. “One more thing. The story I submit has to be accepted.”
Satan narrowed his eyes. “You trying to trick me?”
“Who, me?”
“Yeah, you. You’re smarter than you look. Of course, you look rather stupid.” Satan thought a moment. “Okay, we’ll do it this way—yeah, if the story isn’t accepted, the contract is void. But you have to submit a story that meets the requirements. So no submitting a story that doesn’t have a contract in it or that’s over seventy-five hundred words. And you have to write it as well as you can—no deliberate grammar or stylistic errors. If you fail in any of those regards, I win.”
Rats! Those were exactly the things he’d been planning.
“So, then. Here’s the contract.”
Fisher read it. Not that he was going to sign, not with Satan having figured out his dodge. But how often does one get a chance to read an actual contract with the Devil? To his surprise, it wasn’t full of legalese. It was, in fact, very clear and easy to understand and had exactly the conditions they’d arrived at.
And then Fisher had another thought, one that Satan couldn’t possibly have read in his mind and guarded against in the contract, because he hadn’t had the thought till after the contract was prepared. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll sign this. Uh, what with?” He hated getting his finger pricked and didn’t think doing so would supply enough blood anyway.
“Try your pen,” Satan said. “Maybe you aren’t so smart after all.”
Fisher signed the contract.
Satan ran his finger underneath Fisher’s signature, burning the name Lucifer Satan into the paper. Then he snatched the contract and said, “See you in a few years, sucker,” and disappeared.
Fisher smiled. His spirits weren’t dampened, not even by Satan having left his burning chair behind. The ideas were popping up in his head already, and wow! they were good.
But he didn’t plan to use any of them. Not for this anthology. He was going to write what actually happened.
It met all the requirements, after all. But it was one of those make-a-deal-with-the-Devil stories. It would never get into the anthology. No way would a story like that be accepted.
No way in Hell.
The course of F.A. Fisher’s life was determined in...
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