Faustian Pacts - and the Problem with Science Fiction

Two new short flash fiction stories now, both darkly humorous, starting with Greg Beatty on how science fiction can make us human – except when it doesn't! Followed by Carl Jennings on a Faustian pact that didn't turn out quite as expected.


Science Fiction Makes Us Human
by Greg Beatty
 
She was stunning. He was young, and male, and so he postured, as young males of many species do. He tried to get her attention, talking about his interests, hoping they’d draw her closer.

He expounded on money and fitness without response. He moved on to futurism, launching into a summary of something he’d recently read. “—and I’m telling you, science fiction makes us human. The act of imagining ourselves forward into the future is essential to species self-identity.”
           
She leaned in and said. “I don’t like science fiction.”
           
It was a warning and a rejection, but since she had leaned in, he read it as encouragement. “What’s your genre? Romance?”            

She walked away. “Romance enables desire. Romance makes us…animals.”
           
Hooked, he was followed her out the closing door into the alley. Where she was drawing a large and gleaming knife. “Now, horror – horror makes us divine.”


* Greg Beatty lives in Belligham (Washington) with his wife, and a dog called Drake.When not writing, he teaches college online, and does some freelance writing, and walk my dog Drake. He says his main hobby is martial arts, so he should be safe if he ever encounters a woman with a large and gleaming knife! you can find more at http://www.greg-beatty.com/


Faustian Sweets
by Carl R. Jennings
    
The young boy stamped his foot petulantly on the linoleum floor, the resulting draft from his flapping, fuzzy black bathrobe causing the cinnamon apple scented candles flicker.

“But why, demon?” he demanded, his voice cracking with frustration and the first overtures of puberty.

“Look,” said the demon’s head. His tone was one of patient explanation. “I know you put a lot of thought and effort into this but it just can’t work out.”

“I summoned you didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. And you got really far for a kid, but there are some elements about this that are seriously wrong.”

The young boy now had a mingled look of indignation and worry, but he crossed his arms and glared defiantly at the floating head surrounded by ferociously blue flames, all the same. “But why?” he said again. The demon continued.

“Okay, first, it’s the setting,” the demon said, not unkindly, “A kitchen isn’t the place for this sort of thing. It should be a darkened study, its walls lined with books of the occult and grimoires that have lived infernal lives of their own. And look at this chalice you put me in. Is it made of plastic? Did you get it from a Halloween party supply store? Also, it’s sticky and smells like soda. There should be a certain ceremony about this kind of thing, you know.”

The young boy looked down at his feet but still spoke defiantly, even if the defiance was beginning to wane. “Well, I can only do so much.”

“I know,” said the demon, sympathetically. If it had arms it would have patted the young boy kindly on the shoulder. “And that’s the other point: You’re just a kid. How would it look if I gave unlimited knowledge of all things to a child? I mean, I’d be laughed out of Pandemonium! Learned, long bearded sages are supposed to do this sort of thing. It makes it all the sweeter when their arrogance causes their downfall because of their hubris and my clever misleading. Doing that to someone like you wouldn’t be sporting at all, or anything to brag about.”

​The young boy’s shoulders slumped. He looked so miserable that the demon felt compelled to cheer him up a bit.

“Hey, don’t look so down,” he said. His voice became bright and chipper. “How about this? How about I fill this... cup with some sweets after I leave? Would you like that?”

The young boy looked up, hopefully. “You will?” he said.

​“You bet! All the way to the top ‘til it overflows!”

“Will they be powerful, demonic sweets formed in the bowels of Hell itself?”

“No,” said the demon, “they’ll be sugary sweets. From the shops.”

“Oh,” said the boy, his shoulders slumping once again.


* Carl R. Jennings is an author, a self-described International Man of Misery. His stories are dark and depressing, overflowing with black humor and horror. He adds that by day he is a thickly Russian accented bartender in Southwestern Virginia. More at https://www.facebook.com/carlrjennings.author/