The Deal

A Short Story

She dreamt of a field where the flowers and grass were white, their shapes painted with rosewood. She walked through this field brushing her palm on the tops of these flowers. Her hands became wet and red, and the bottom of her white sundress was soaked. On the horizon, she saw a muted mustard sun setting. She walked towards the sun. The sun became smaller and within the sun she saw a boy. “Chuck!” She cried out. “Chuck!” The boy had a crimson blanket slung over his shoulders like a cape. She ran towards the boy. “Please, Chuck!” She cried out. She sliced through the red and white field and left a wake of pink puddles. As the sun shrank, it became brighter. And as it became brighter, the boy began to disappear. “Chuck, please!” She cried. She pumped her legs harder. Her legs burned. Her lungs burned. Her thoroughly wet sundress burdened her movements. “Please!” She cried. She stretched her arms towards the boy but the boy fully disappeared within the sun’s glow. She tripped over her red and white dress and stumbled forward. The field rushed at her.

She was woken by her plates crashing onto the kitchen floor. She had sweated through her white tank top. The ceiling fan spun on its maximum setting but it only gave a slight relief from the summer heat. The light from the street lamp squeezed through her tiny window behind the head of her bed. It provided just enough light to allow shadows to be cast about her studio apartment walls. From lying on her back, she could see a shadow that looked like a pine tree, which she knew to be her coat rack. She could see the shadows from her two chairs and her dresser. She laid there for a moment wondering whether she should clean the fallen and most likely shattered plates or attempt to go back to sleep. She sat up and removed her wet tank top and flung it onto her chairs. She then fell onto her bed, topless and wearing her boxer shorts. Sleep didn’t come to her. She lay in her bed trying to remember what she dreamt. All she remembered was a white field and a feeling of dread. The dread was deeper than any dread she felt in her life. She felt as though she made a terrible mistake that could never be taken back. This dread sat so heavy in her stomach, it tighten her chest and limbs. She turned to her side and grabbed her phone that lay on her hardwood floor. The phone displayed one forty in the morning and a message from her fiancé. The message stated, “Good luck on ur finals!” She replied, “Thx!” She then placed her phone back on the floor and closed her eyes. She theorized her dread may stem from her upcoming law school exams. She tried to wear this justification, but it just didn’t fit comfortably. As a matter of fact, nothing felt comfortable she thought; everything, including the commonplace city noise, just felt off.

She heard cars driving by her apartment and a distant siren. She heard men and women stumbling home. They yelled. They laughed. They fought. She recalled the quiet of her small Minnesota town. There was no noise at night, except for the occasional freight train horn. She remembered, when she was a child, she would look out her bedroom window and watch the snow slowly accumulate on her father’s twenty-one year old pick-up truck. It ran until she graduated from high school, which was also when her parents separated. Her father would beam if you inquired about his truck. After going through a list of previous truck self-repairs, he boasted how his truck saved his life when a speeding sedan smashed into him during a Minnesota blizzard. And if it was not for his truck and the accident, her father explained, he would have never met her mother who was working as a nurse in the Twin Cities. Her mother, on the other hand, would sigh and roll her eyes when her father talked about his truck. Her mother would later, usually in her bedroom, confided a list of her father’s inadequacies to her. Her mother would wonder out loud how her life would have been if it wasn’t for that “damn pick-up truck.” She hated her mother, but as she grew older she noticed the dinginess of their ranch house. The charm of the old truck became an embarrassment to her during high school. She started to see her father’s limp as a weakness. And she too started to criticize her father’s inadequacies. She ran to college and law school to do whatever in her power to accomplish what her father did not and to be never inadequate to anyone.

She was running through the white field. The sun was high in the sky and bright. Her hair was wet with sweat, and her white sundress clung to her body. In the horizon she saw a small figure that looked like a boy standing on a table. She ran to the figure, but as she neared him, her feet sank into the field as if it was made of quicksand. She struggled and plodded through the white field until she was a couple of yards from the boy-like figure. The boy-like figure had his back to her. “This is not my Chuck,” she murmured to herself. He was short, maybe three feet tall. He was thin and he had almost no torso, just skinny arms and legs. The figure, however, had a very large spherical head, four or five times larger than the rest of his body. He had a shape of a marble balanced on top of a vertical needle. He wore a tiny black suit that shimmered in the sun. He wore no shoes. His feet were thin but almost as long as his legs and half their lengths were made up by his toes. His toenails were more like talons than human nails, sharp and hooked that looked like they were made for gripping and tearing flesh. His skin had the color of concrete, grey and pockmarked with black spots. She imagined his skin would also feel as rough as concrete. The figure was bald and he had small button ears. There were piles of stacked gold coins on the picnic table, on the benches, and some on the field. On the table, the gold coins surrounded the figure and one large black stock pot with a black lid. There was a sudden crack of thunder. She looked up and saw no clouds, just a beaming sun. Another inexplicable thunder boomed and then a few flakes materialized in the sky and started to float down. When the white flakes touched her skin, she felt a deep cold that pierced through her skin and invaded her muscles and bones. She shivered. More flakes fell from the sky, and they started to bury her. She shook and brushed the flakes from her but to no avail. They continued to bury her. She attempted to move closer to the picnic table, which had not been covered with snow. The flakes were coming down heavy, and they impaired her vision. She could only see glimpses of the table, the gold, the stock pot, and the figure through flurry of white. “Please help!” She shouted. The figure began to turn towards her, and the dread and uneasiness that fermented in her gut burst into a panic.

She woke to find she was laying in a fetal position shaking. The bed sheet was wrapped around her, and with both hands she was clenching the sheet under her chin. She threw her sheets off to the side. She felt goose bumps all over her body. Was she sick she questioned. She sat up and swung her legs out of her bed. She leaned forward and picked up her cell phone. The cell phone glowed three eleven. She sighed and placed her phone back on the floor. She slid out of bed and shuffled to her dresser on the other side of the room. The room was dark but it was bright enough for her to find her way to her dresser without pawing blindly in the dark. She noticed that some of her plates had indeed shattered across the floor. She sighed. She was so tired, and she didn’t want to be exhausted for her finals. She opened her top drawer and blindly grabbed a t-shirt. She pulled over her head an oversized t-shirt that unraveled to her knees and covered her boxer shorts. She then shuffled back to her bed. Halfway to her bed, something brushed past her left ankle. She simultaneously shrieked and shot her left leg up in the air. She felt her heart furiously beat in her upper chest. Any feeling of fatigue quickly vanished. What the hell was that she nervously wondered. She took a deep breath and leapt towards her bed. When she landed on her left foot, she felt a sharp searing pain surge from her abdomen, slightly below her naval, into both of her legs and feet. She yelped and collapsed onto her bed. Her abdominal muscles tightened and squeezed. She rolled her hands into fists and pressed them into her cramping abdomen and then brought her knees to her chest. The pain intensified and her body shook. She felt a sudden hotness and a flowing wetness between her thighs. The street light revealed blood had soaked her boxer shorts and even the oversized t-shirt. “Oh no … oh no!” She yelled. She crumpled her bed sheet and squeezed it between her thighs. She moaned. The bleeding didn’t stop, and her bed sheet became as red as her shorts and t-shirt. She felt woozy and light headed. While still squeezing the sheets between her thighs, she leaned to her right and picked up her phone. The blood on her hand smeared the phone’s screen, and she could not find her dialer icon.

The whir of her ceiling fan became low frequency hums. The sound was soothing and it calmed her. Whatever light that remained in her room dimmed. The heat of the room also seemed to have been turned down. A comfortable warmth blanketed her. She felt more relaxed as the world became more muted. She struggled to hold onto her phone and on the verge of succumbing to the darkness, she found her fiancé’s quick dial icon on her phone. With her bloody thumb she pressed it but nothing happened. She pressed the icon again and the phone finally dialed her fiancé. “Uh … uh … hello,” her fiancé sleepily answered. “Caaarlooss … heellp … call 9 … 1 … 1 … blood … dark … a lot,” she slurred. “What? Hold on! Hold on!” Carlos pleaded. She dropped her phone. The floor began to shift and bend like melting candle wax. Within the peripherals of the closing darkness, she thought she saw something scurry into the puddles of blood on the floor. She moaned and closed her eyes.

“And I saw her squealing young one in the vermin’s mouth!” The goblin-like figure exclaimed. “Whahahaha … hahaha.” She laughed, but then she paused, suddenly realizing she had forgotten the joke’s setup and where she was. “Umm … I,” she muttered. She confusingly looked around. In her right hand was a bitten peach. Its juices ran down her hand and forearm and dripped onto her lap. She was sitting at a pine picnic table that was splintered and cracked, beaten from the snow, rain, heat, and cold. The table was in a white field that stretched out to the horizons. The lack of topography and the vast expanse of the field made her feel as though this picnic table was the center of the universe. The sun was either setting or rising. She wasn’t sure which. The picnic table was strewn with a wide array of vegetables and fruits; piles of pears, peaches, persimmons, parsnips, red and green grapes, greens, leeks, and carrots. In the middle of the table, there was a large black stockpot with a black lid that rocked up and down as steam escaped from the pot. She didn’t see any fire underneath the pot. How strange she thought. Standing on the table in front of her, there was a smiling goblin-like figure. The figure had a large spherical head on a pin thin body. He had large green eyes, a stout but sharp nose, thin lips, and a very large mouth that nearly extended from ear to ear. His large smile revealed hundreds of tiny yellow-stained incisors. “Are you alright my dear?” The figure questioned. “Um … yes. I was just … um confused for a bit,” she answered. The figure frowned. The largeness of the figure’s facial features exaggerated the emotions he conveyed. A smile didn’t just convey happiness but an extreme joy, and similarly his frown didn’t just convey worry or disappointment but a profound sadness. The figure’s angry face would have been terrifying she thought.

“I’m sorry Mister um … Medford, is it?” She asked.

“Yes, my dear. You look terribly disorientated,” Mr. Medford said. “I am the one who should apologize. Apologize for my, no doubt, obscene and, at the very least, inappropriate joke. And most of all apologize for being such a crude guest,” Mr. Medford apologized.

“No, I … just totally blanked.”

“Yes my dear. It is quite normal. I have had many times where I have um … blanked. On one occasion in front of a lord! I stood in front of him mumbling and bumbling with ums and uhs. How embarrassing. I attribute my lack of articulation from my missing tongue and the overwhelming emotions caused by my lord. Perhaps you too are missing a tongue or overwhelmed with emotions?”

“Hahahaha. No, Mr. Medford, I have my tongue. You must have just made me laugh so hard I just forgot things.”

“Well you are too kind. Thank you my dear. Now, what did you think of that peach? Is it not the most juicy, sweetest peach?”

She raised her peach and took a bite. The peach juice exploded into her mouth and ran down her chin and neck. The sweetness was like honey. She wiped the juice from her face with her forearm.

“Mr. Medford, this peach is awesome! It’s out of this world!” She exclaimed.

“Thank you my dear. Well, my stew is almost done. If you like the peach, you will love my stew. It is too unworldly.”

“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Medford. I don’t eat meat. I’m a vegetarian.”

“You do not eat meat? How odd.”

Mr. Medford had a look of profound sadness. “Well, I suppose, I will have to eat all my delicious stew by myself,” he stated. His pointed slender tongue licked the entire length of his upper teeth. “Mr. Medford, I see you grew a new tongue!” She exclaimed. “Oh my. You are quite observant. Yes, I did grow a new tongue, and this one is much better than the old,” Mr. Medford replied. Mr. Medford sauntered to the stock pot. His talons scratched and loudly rapped against the top of the picnic table. He took off the lid. The smell of meat and spices filled her nostrils, and she began to salivate. Mr. Medford with his other hand reached into the pot and pulled out, between two slender fingers, a big toe sized cube of meat. As Mr. Medford slowly placed the meat into his gapping mouth, the meat dripped rendered fat and other juices onto the table and on his black shimmering suit jacket. He slowly chewed the meat with his large eyes closed. Mr. Medford had a look of profound ecstasy. He swallowed and opened his eyes. Mr. Medford then placed the lid back onto the pot and turned back towards her.

“Wonderful!” Mr. Medford exclaimed.

“It sure smelled good,” she said.

“Oh it was more than good, my dear. It was unworldly. I can not eat anything else. Bah to your roasted or grilled meats. Stewed meats of young beings are magnificent! Well my dear, I have loved your company but your time is short. We must get our deal done before the sun sets. You have invited me to your pleasant home, and now I must ask what do you seek from me?”

“I have everything I want, and I think I’m on the right path.”

“Oh I see. I am most content that you do not wish anything from me. And that you only called me so that we may converse and enjoy each other’s company.”

“But … I don’t want to mess it up. I mean, I don’t want to mess up my plan. I don’t want any hiccups or bumps or other unforeseen events.”

“Ah. How marvelously determined, self-reliant, and confident you are! You don’t ask for riches, power, or love, but you ask that you may fulfill your will. I have met many who sought riches, power, or love without labor or sacrifice. I will grant you your wish, and I will whisper to you on how this must be done. You must follow every word and if you stray, uncertainty and cataclysm will most likely befall you. But I must ask. Can you not live without your plan?”

“No.”

“Wonderful.”

Mr. Medford bent close to her and whispered her fate to her. He smelled of pine, dark chocolate, and lemon to her. After he was done whispering, they laughed and told stories. They ate fruit and Mr. Medford’s delicious stew.

She woke up in a hospital bed. Her head was throbbing. A blood bag was attached to her arm. Carlos was sitting in a chair next to her bed reading the news on his phone. “Carlos,” she groaned. Carlos turned to her. Carlos had a round and plump face with a short boxed beard. He had chestnut hair that partially covered his comforting hazel eyes.

“Margie!” Carlos happily exclaimed. He grabbed her hand.

“What happened?”

“Thank God! How are you feeling?”

“What happened?” Margie weakly repeated.

“I … man, you scared me. I came into your room with the paramedics, and thank God I had your apartment key. When we entered your apartment, there was blood everywhere, I mean everywhere. There were smashed plates too. It looked like you got into a fight.”

“I … There was no fight, I think.”

“Yea. There weren’t any cuts or bruises on you, but … I … I don’t know how to tell you. I ….” Carlos bowed his head.

“What?”

“There was a lot of blood, and the paramedics and I couldn’t see any cuts … but there seemed to be a lot of blood below your … your waist. I’m sorry. I … I don’t know how to tell you.”

“What!? Carlos, I’m tired. Tell me what happened.”

I … didn’t know about your condition. If I did, I, we, could have done something. I’m sorry, Margie. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t.”

“Margie … Margie, you were pregnant.”

Margie let go of Carlos’s hand and closed her eyes.

“Margie, I couldn’t find it. I went back and looked. I don’t know why I did. Maybe, you know … give a burial or … I don’t know. But I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find it anywhere. Margie?”

She fell into a restless sleep. She dreamt of the Minnesota woods.

In a pine forest clearing, Margaret stood knee deep in the snow, cradling three year old sleeping Charles in her arms. A Minnesota blizzard raged all around Margaret and her child. Margaret was only wearing her white nightgown, which was soaked with melted snow, and a red down jacket. Charles was swaddled in a crimson blanket. For a moment, the wind became still and the snow just gently fell from the night sky. Margaret looked down at her child and apologized. She didn’t shed a tear; she shed them all, the night before. This was the deal, it is my fate Margaret thought, and she shuddered and wept dryly. Then a gust rushed from the sky and nearly knocked Margaret to her knees. The gust revealed a smiling crevice in front of Margaret. The crevice was long and curved much like Mr. Medford’s gapping, hungry mouth. The crevice howled and screeched. “Oh my Chuck!” She wailed. “Please Mr. Medford, please,” she pleaded. As if in response, the crevice roared loudly. Margaret moaned and wailed, and she hugged her child for the last time. Then she threw her child into Mr. Medford’s mouth.

The sun was setting over the pine forest. Craig removed his mittens and placed them in his snowsuit cargo pockets. He then took out a pack of spearmint gum from his pocket. The Minnesota January cold instantaneously numbed his fingers, which made unwrapping the piece of gum difficult. Craig finally unwrapped his piece of gum and popped it in his mouth.

“Hey Craig, can I have one?” His partner asked.

Craig rolled his eyes and stared at his partner with disdain.

“You serious, Josh?” Craig replied.

“Yeah, please.”

“You really need to stop mooching off of me.”

Craig tossed his pack of gum to Josh.

As Josh fumbled with the pack, he asked, “You think we’ll ever find him?”

“Dunno,” Craig replied.

His partner unwrapped his piece of gum, and he was now happily chewing.

“We should probably head back to the cabin. It’s getting late and I don’t want to be stuck out in the woods at night.” Craig told his partner.

“That kid is dead,” Josh blurted.

Craig pondered this a bit.

“Yeah, probably,” he replied.

“Then why in the hell are we out here for over three weeks!?”

“Well, for one thing, that kid is Congresswoman Margaret’s kid.” Craig recalled the Congresswoman being gaunt and half-mad when he first arrived at her cabin. What disturbed him the most was her constant lip biting. Often it would bleed and drizzle down her chin.

“Yeah, I know, and I don’t care. Phfff politicians. They’re soulless. Brrr, I’m so cold. I would totally sell my soul for some hot chocolate with marshmallows. What’d you sell yours for?”

“My soul? I wouldn’t trade it. Nothing is worth hell.”

“Hell sounds pretty good in this freeze. Brrr, I’m freezing my … what the?”

“What?”

“I think … I”

“What?”

Josh started to sprint to the setting sun. “Hey Josh, what the heck?” Craig yelled. “I think I saw that damn kid. He’s alive!” Josh screamed back. “Shoot,” Craig said, and he started to chase Josh. Craig weaved through the red pines while attempting to dodge their branches. “Josh, hold up!” Craig yelled. Craig pumped his legs harder through the packed powder until the snow and ground gave away, and Craig disappeared into an abyss.

Craig opened his eyes. He found himself laying on his back in a cave that was dimly lit by a sliver of star light above him. He tried to sit up but an intense pain shot through his lower back to his legs. He screamed. Craig rummaged through his jacket and found his pocket flashlight. He switched on his light. Craig saw that he was in a crevice pit with over thirty feet sheer walls. Sharp rocks littered the cave ground. He saw his legs were twisted and bent. To his right, about two feet away, he saw a red bundle with a tiny leg emerging from it. The calf muscle was torn from the bone, and the flesh looked like it had tiny bites taken from it. He realized he would also suffer the same fate as the kid, except his death would likely be long and painful as he starved. “Heelllllllpp! Heellllllllpp! Please help me!” Craig desperately yelled. He continued to scream for help until his voice was hoarse, but he heard no response except for the howling wind above him. Craig wished he had his brains splattered on the rocks. He wished his body wasn’t broken. He wished to live. He struggled and fought to sit up. He screamed through clenched teeth. The excruciating pain and stress caused him to vomit blood and the remnants of his lunch. Craig collapsed in exhaustion and passed out with vomit frozen on his mouth and neck. When he awoke, the sunlight was shining on his face. He was overcome with warmth. His stomach growled and his mouth salivated as he smelled the spices and cooked meat.