Flames. Devil. Pitchfork.
"?" he asks.
"All those words," the devil says. "Where'd it get you?"
"So what happens now?" the comms guy says, no good answer to the question, watching the pitchfork nervously.
"We write."
In hell they use Macs. Day 1 is free writing. Day 2: the same. The comms. guy, we'll call him RICH, he writes.
Day 3.
RICH: So I've been writing.
DEVIL: How's it going, buddy?
RICH: Relieved. I think it's pretty good, I think I'm almost done this first part. I think you might like it.
DEVIL: removing stray eyeball from pitchfork. Great. Sounds good buddy. Better save, our systems are a bit wonky since the last downgrade.
RICH: clicks save.
Macintosh pinwheel spirals
RICH: How long you think that'll take?
DEVIL: Not sure, chief. Maybe a few minutes, maybe forever, amirite?
Hell days pass. Double long to normal days.
RICH: File's lost.
DEVIL: Great. Time for workshop.
***
Workshop table stretches farther than RICH can see in either direction. Papers stack in front of each writer, further off the table's surface than his eyes can gauge. The writers have been coached to read slowly, to savor the flavor of their own cooking. The conversation is a closed loop: writer to self. Each, it would appear, is happy here.
DEVIL: RICH, my guy, it's an honor to welcome you. You read first for us.
RICH: reminds file not saved.
DEVIL: Happens, boss.
Workshop proceeds counterclockwise.
RICH: How long does this go?
DEVIL: Sorry buddy... might be a few hours, might be forever (pops Diet Dr. Pepper, the Official Drink of Hell, and leans back to watch the expression on RICH's face.)
RICH: How long does this go?
DEVIL: Sorry buddy... might be a few hours, might be forever (pops Diet Dr. Pepper, the Official Drink of Hell, and leans back to watch the expression on RICH's face.)
At first the words are words. But soon for RICH the words amount to something. Now the words are hornets stinging his heart. Now they are ash burying him alive. Now the words are hell words, each punctuated by fire emojis made of real fire.
Slowly RICH loses the meaning of the words themselves. And he comes to know them as demon's names, each an incantation, meaningful only for the hideous shapes their syllables can conjure.
RICH falls into his nightmare, without agency, without terminus. In the back of his mind, a story yearns to break loose, kept at bay by the shrilly certain noise surrounding him.
