His pen tapped erratically against the creaking oak beneath him--his right foot nestled in worn out docker shoes tapping out an inharmonious rhythm along with it--while his office chair creaked with each rocking of nervous energy as he bounced between the open book in front of him and the figure leaning against his doorframe. Stubble rubbed harshly against the collar of his open sweat stained button down and his nose twitched at the smoke curling up from the still lit cigarette he had put down in the overflowing ashtray just moments again.
But still his attention never wavered between the two entities that had the hairs on his unwashed body raised in alarm.
"An-...and that's all I have to do? That's it?"
He hated how his voice seemed to rasp so loudly in the narrow room, the sound of overwhelming city life somehow muffled out as if there was a bubble around them.
The figure nodded, a long smile of gleaming teeth spreading across its face as it confirmed, "That's it."
He glanced at the blank pages before him, so bright and white against the weathered leather that held them together. It seemed so simple. A task he could easily complete as his mind was overwhelmed with the madness required for it.
Still, his breathing was shaky with fear as it continued to crawl like a snake coiling around his body.
"What is it worth to you," the figure asked, shifting its position and he swore he could see the insects crawling within its translucent belly shift and scatter up its lanky frame as if disturbed out of slumber.
"What is it worth," it repeated, "to finally be free of the insanity that rattles the bones under your feverish skin, hmm? What would you give to ease the voices in your mind, to find silence and peace in your thoughts?"
"Anything. Everything," he replied, desperation and need coating his words.
The cloaked figure's smile spread again and one of its bugs slithered between its teeth and up out of its mouth like words looking for something to consume. It gestured towards the book and he felt himself tugged closer to it, leaning now towards the rotting wood it sat on instead of away from it.
"Then it is worth it," the figure encouraged, picking up his well chewed pen with long boney gnarled fingers and slipping it between his trembling fingers.
"Why are you doing this for me," he finally asked, his eyes now solely focused on the pages before him.
He didn't have to look up to see how bright the figure's empty eye sockets had lit up at those words, the flames licking like candle light from them bounced off of the paper in front of him.
"Because it is a balanced agreement for the both of us," it practically chortled the words in his ear, its rancid decaying breath stirring the cigarette smoke swirling around them.
He nodded his head. This was true. This would solve everything--for the both of them.
"Alright," he whispered, his nervous energy bleeding away as his focus grew sharp and his no longer twitching hands moved towards the pages, pen poised with thought.
"Alright," he repeated and as he pressed down, blue ink from the pen sinking into the pores of the paper, he sealed the deal between them.
The gleeful figure dissolved like a closing black hole as words began dripping from his mind down his arm and into the pages. He could feel the seal of the contract tug on his soul as the madness that had drove him to this brink began to ease but he cared not.
What price would you have paid to be free of the weight of creativity?
What Writer wouldn't sell their Soul to Chaos in order just to let it all go?
Yes, he would fill this book with his very essence until his blood clogged, his skin shriveled up and his bones brittled into dust. He would carve worlds and breath life into characters that would live on in the eyes of others because he wanted to.
He needed to.
As was the Master and the Syphoned Muse.
But still his attention never wavered between the two entities that had the hairs on his unwashed body raised in alarm.
"An-...and that's all I have to do? That's it?"
He hated how his voice seemed to rasp so loudly in the narrow room, the sound of overwhelming city life somehow muffled out as if there was a bubble around them.
The figure nodded, a long smile of gleaming teeth spreading across its face as it confirmed, "That's it."
He glanced at the blank pages before him, so bright and white against the weathered leather that held them together. It seemed so simple. A task he could easily complete as his mind was overwhelmed with the madness required for it.
Still, his breathing was shaky with fear as it continued to crawl like a snake coiling around his body.
"What is it worth to you," the figure asked, shifting its position and he swore he could see the insects crawling within its translucent belly shift and scatter up its lanky frame as if disturbed out of slumber.
"What is it worth," it repeated, "to finally be free of the insanity that rattles the bones under your feverish skin, hmm? What would you give to ease the voices in your mind, to find silence and peace in your thoughts?"
"Anything. Everything," he replied, desperation and need coating his words.
The cloaked figure's smile spread again and one of its bugs slithered between its teeth and up out of its mouth like words looking for something to consume. It gestured towards the book and he felt himself tugged closer to it, leaning now towards the rotting wood it sat on instead of away from it.
"Then it is worth it," the figure encouraged, picking up his well chewed pen with long boney gnarled fingers and slipping it between his trembling fingers.
"Why are you doing this for me," he finally asked, his eyes now solely focused on the pages before him.
He didn't have to look up to see how bright the figure's empty eye sockets had lit up at those words, the flames licking like candle light from them bounced off of the paper in front of him.
"Because it is a balanced agreement for the both of us," it practically chortled the words in his ear, its rancid decaying breath stirring the cigarette smoke swirling around them.
He nodded his head. This was true. This would solve everything--for the both of them.
"Alright," he whispered, his nervous energy bleeding away as his focus grew sharp and his no longer twitching hands moved towards the pages, pen poised with thought.
"Alright," he repeated and as he pressed down, blue ink from the pen sinking into the pores of the paper, he sealed the deal between them.
The gleeful figure dissolved like a closing black hole as words began dripping from his mind down his arm and into the pages. He could feel the seal of the contract tug on his soul as the madness that had drove him to this brink began to ease but he cared not.
What price would you have paid to be free of the weight of creativity?
What Writer wouldn't sell their Soul to Chaos in order just to let it all go?
Yes, he would fill this book with his very essence until his blood clogged, his skin shriveled up and his bones brittled into dust. He would carve worlds and breath life into characters that would live on in the eyes of others because he wanted to.
He needed to.
As was the Master and the Syphoned Muse.
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