1.

“Come now, Mister President, you did sign on the dotted line.” Pale, thin lips curled into a mockery of a smile.

“This kind of contract would not hold up in the court system!” Anxious and frightened. A Texan drawl muddied the words, giving them a rustic sound. The son of a rich socialite who somehow managed to be elected as a salt-of-the-earth candidate chuckled. Brown eyes darted around the room.

“Mister President,” the thing that looked like a man answered. “Are you not aware that I work above the law? Now, we agreed that you would be elected for one term, and then I would get what I came for.”

“I never agreed to such a thing!” he sputtered.

“But, you signed the contract, did you not? The contract binds your soul to me, Mister President.” The thing that could not possibly be human advanced towards the desk. Time around them had stopped. Birds froze mid-flap outside the windows of the Oval Office. The Secret Service agents stood impossibly still.

Panic stained the president’s features. Shrinking into the comfortable desk chair, he began to stutter. Spittle flew from his mouth as he pleaded and begged without any coherency.

A black-nailed finger rested against the president’s lips. The son of a socialite stopped talking. Sweat rolled down his forehead.

“You had your fun. You waged war on random groups of brown people for oil and plenty of abstract nouns. If anything, one-half of the population will hold you in the highest regard eternally, and the other will revile you as they do Hitler. You should consider yourself lucky to be remembered.” The thing stopped and ran a pale hand through long black hair. The hand returned to the sides of the black dress pants.

“Please, I beg of you! Oh God, please help me!” He fell onto his knees and pleaded with the unseen forces.

“I believe that your Vice-President will be quite pleased. The old man has been waiting for his time since your father’s reign.” A low chuckle. “God has abandoned you long ago, my friend. He abandoned you the day your blood hit the paper of the contract.” The pale hand stood out in front of him, palm out. A black light erupted from that palm, that which cut the president’s cries short.

2.

The thing that could not be real closed its eyes and smiled. With the elegant strides of royalty, it walked down the crowded street. The commuters, as they passed, wrinkled their noses and stood clear from it. Dogs barked and urinated upon themselves as it walked by.

Smog filled the air of the city. A dove with large bald patches in its feathers perched atop a stop sign. Its caws were croaks, without substance and harmony. The smog of the city was killing it.

The entity that had lived before time began stretched its hand out. The dove, as if in a daze, flew down and perched upon the thing’s index finger.

That same mockery of a smile curled around his lips. The bird let out its croaks. What was left of the dove’s feathers began to smolder. A croak, and all that was left of the bird was a scorched feather.

It sailed lazily down towards the pavement, only to be strewn about in the maelstrom of boots and dress-shoes.

The air began to smell of sulfur and burnt chicken.

3.

“I do believe that you and I have a contract, my fair lady. We made this gentleman’s agreement together, and you shall hold your bit of the bargain.” The black-nailed hand opened as he gestured to the girl, dressed inappropriately for the weather. “You wished to be famous. You did not specify being liked or particularly useful in any way.”

The heiress pouted her sickeningly collagen-enhanced lips. Bleached blonde hair lengthened with extensions rippled as her hand plunged through its depths. Blues eyes enhanced with colored contacts filled with tears as her hands fell to the lumps of silicone affixed to her chest. “You’re being uuuuunfaaaair!” she whined.

“Being fair is not what matters, my sweet. You signed the deal. You may not go back on your part.” A small chuckle, and he continued, “As it is written, so it shall be.”

The heiress gasped. Ungodly thin legs propelled her upwards. The unnatural blue eyes sparked with fury as she slammed a tiny fist onto the table. No customer of the expensive café noticed her. “Ex-yoooooze me? Do you know even knoooow who you’re speaking to?”

The thing looked up at her, lazy smile planted on the thin countenance. “I know who I’m talking to. I made you. The only reason you exist, my fair lady, is because of luck. Any bit of sperm could have come into connect with your mother’s ovum, but the sperm that birthed you made it through.”

She stared blankly, unaware of what the ovum was.

“You were born into a rich household, yet you still craved more. You craved fame. You, above all else, craved attention. I have given that to you. You have stayed the same.” Thin fingers encircled a glass of water and raised it to pale, thin lips. As the water hit his flesh, it shifted into steam. “My beautiful sinner, I have made you popular beyond all else for your unintelligence and inability to comprehend common decency.”

The snobby whore of heiress gasped. “You! You take that back! Daddy will hear about this!” She slammed a cell phone against the table. The flimsy, silver thing broke under her small weight. The money that was wasted could have fed a family in Africa for days.

“Oh, I believe he will. I have a meeting scheduled with him in a few hours.”

4.

The thing sighed. It leaned against the wall of a tenement building and watched the slumming rich.

“Once, you were beautiful.”

Somewhere near him, a father beat his child to death. The victim let out its last cry, blood gurgling between young lips. The father turned and continued to watch television.

“They stain you with their existence. It is because of them that you are dirty.”

In a far-away country, dozens of civilians died in an explosion from a missile dropped by a military plane. The leaders later gave that pilot a medal.

“Their anger cultivates, and these people attack each other in blind fear.”

In a crowded street in Palestine, a man detonated a bomb glued to his chest. The explosion destroyed a nearby school, killing all of the children and teachers. He did it in the name of God.

“They create these weapons out of their greed and fear. These things called humans are destroying you.”

In the upscale suburbs, a man walked into his bedroom to see his wife and best friend together. They looked at him with the shocked eyes of a deer caught in headlights. Without thinking, the man pulled out a revolver and fired two shots, and then he turned the gun upon himself. He was a well-loved town preacher.

“I do not know why they exist, or why I exist. I know that they cannot continue doing this. They deserve punishment, but it is my job to cultivate this anger, to take away the final imprints of their souls.”

Far away, in an alley, a man took a switchblade from his pocket. A young girl walked by. Quickly, the blade sunk into her throat, and quickly, the man fled. Later at his expensive apartment, he tried to remember this event for his own pleasure.

“I am sorry for my existence and for theirs.”

5.

The winds of autumn swept through the park, teasing the leaves from their orderly piles. A young man sat upon a bench. A ball-point pen scurried across a notebook that laid atop his lap. Sparkling eyes of icy-blue gazed at the pond overrun by squawking ducks.

The thing sat next to him. The sad parody of a smile flashed across its face. “What is that you’re writing there?”

The young male did not look up. He stared down at the notebook and continued writing. “My novel.” Hand swept unruly bangs from his eyes. A black hoodie wrapped around his torso, and a pair of jeans clung to his legs.

“Hm? A novel? That is quite a noble thing to do. In this day and age, the art of subtle verse is rarely explored.” A small smile. “My friend, do you wish to be famous? Famous for your writing and only that?”

The writer did not pause. He only wrote. “But, what if I was famous for the wrong reason? What if I was famous for being horrible at writing?”

The smile did not falter. “No one ever thinks of that. All the people think about is the idea of fame. You’re a smart boy.” The colorless eyes glittered with a little bit of life. “Stay the same, my friend. Don’t let the darkness of this world overtake you.”

“Who are you, anyway?” Annoyed and snippy.

“Non sum Deus,” it answered lazily, staring into the sun. “Et non sum vita. Sum nihil.”

The writer looked up from his book, and the man was not there. He shrugged and went back to work.

Somewhere, an old man saved a child from drowning, and somewhere, light shone upon the dark world.