HARVEST
by: TJ Dimacali


A story can be the subtlest of traps. It is like a fine gossamer 
net woven from wool gathered from the collective subconscious, drawn 
out in a web of half-implied meanings and invented truths. 
But my students could not understand this. As it was, I could barely 
hold their attention for anything more than three minutes. 
"Can anyone tell me the significance of the albatross in Coleridge's 
Rime of the Ancient Mariner?" I asked.
A young man at the far end of the room cleared his throat. A few others shuffled their feet. 
"That's all. I'll see you next week," I sighed, slamming my textbook shut.
As I closed the door to my apartment, I began to feel a deep heaviness 
in myself. It was an all too familiar numbness that ate away inside 
like lead maggots in my stomach. I lurched across the room, falling 
facedown onto the sofa just as my feet finally buckled beneath me. 
The leaden heaviness of failure washed over me completely.
The overhead fan spun lazily above me. A long time ago, my father 
had warned me, had told me that there was no money in writing stories 
and poetry. But I, full of youthful hope and arrogance, smiled in 
defiance. "Just wait and see, Dad," I had said, "I'll write a bestseller. I'll be famous."
I should be famous by now.
For some reason or other, fame had escaped me like an elusive butterfly 
in the net of fate. My life had slipped by so fast that I could 
do no more than stare into the nothingness ahead of me and curse. 
"I wish to Hell I could write so well!"
Rap rap rap!
I peered cautiously outside.
"Who is it?"
The man was dressed in a neatly pressed pinstriped black suit. His 
wavy gray hair was slicked back behind his ears. His thick, bushy 
eyebrows emphasized his deep brown eyes. His chin, strong and firm, 
framed a bright smile that would otherwise have been quite handsome 
were it not for the peculiar impression that it was more of a leer 
than anything else. With him was a large leather bag which, despite 
its size, seemed quite light in his hand.
"Whatever it is you're selling, I'm not interested!" I snapped.
"Oh, but I think you are!" The man insisted.
"Go away!!" I slammed the door in his face.
I gasped as I turned away from the door only to find the man inside, 
standing just a few inches away from me.
"Actually, truth be told, I'm not selling. I'm buying," the stranger leered.
For a brief instant, the man's eyes seemed lit with some unholy 
fire. I stood immobile, cold like a doomed animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
"What's the matter? Haven't you read stories like this before?"
"Wh-who are you?"
"Oh please, sir! Don't be so naïve. You summoned me here."
"What?"
"Come, now! Think! Surely you've read Goethe? Yes? Then you know 
quite well the fate of Doctor Faustus…"
"Then… you're…"
The stranger burst into a fit of discomforting laughter. He put 
down his bag and stretched himself out comfortably on the sofa.
"Ah, finally! For a while there I was beginning to doubt your… intellectual 
gifts. But to erase any shadow of a doubt, yes, I am who you think 
I am. And, yes, the same rules apply."
I could only gasp my disbelief. "I-I can't… This isn't… This is impossible!" 
The stranger sat up suddenly, raising his hand. "What's so surprising 
about it?" he argued, "You, an English teacher of all people, should 
know the power of words. Why, the ancient Hebrews believed their 
god's name to be so holy as to be unpronounceable!" 
With his hands clasped behind him, he began to pace the room, stopping on occasion for emphasis. 
"…also, it was a common belief among some Cabalistic sects that 
knowledge of a demon's name brought absolute control over the creature." 
The stranger waved his hands in the air as if to conjure up the beast in question.
"Add to that the American Indians' belief that evil spirits could 
be warded off by scratching sacred markings into the ground. Even 
the word 'Abracadabra,' so often heard from the mouths of so many 
sideshow charlatans, once held magical significance."
"In fact -" here the stranger stopped directly in front of me "-all 
over the world, there are still cultures which believe that mystical 
power could be gained through the proper reading of certain texts."
The stranger looked directly into my eyes. "Words have power, mortal. 
They can bind, control, or even destroy souls. It's only a matter 
of knowing how to use them. And I can show you how."
His hot gaze penetrated deep into my flesh. "How will you do this?" I asked.
"Simple!" he exclaimed. He stood up, towering over me like some 
predatory animal about to pounce its prey. Deliberately, he moved 
towards his bag and unfastened its clasp. The inside of it glowed 
an eerie red, the same flickering evil which shone through his eyes. 
"All you need," he said as he flashed his unsettling smile, "is this."
The man held in his hands a large black construct, as wide as a 
man's torso and about a foot tall. Whatever it was, it was clearly 
mechanical. Intricate rods and levers ran through the machine. 
It looked to all the world like an antique Remington typewriter.
"This," the stranger grinned, "is a soultrap. It eats away your 
soul for each precious word you type on it. It transmutes your life 
force into words so beautiful that generations will marvel at how 
you placed your soul into your work! A fair price, no? Literary 
immortality in exchange for your soul!"
His stare bore into me like a hot ember through paper. Already, it seemed, I was trapped. 
But then it dawned on me.

* * *

"Ah, you are not as dumb as you seem," he said. "Perhaps I underestimated you."
"Then it's settled?"
The man paused a moment, frowning in thought. "Of course, a few 
adjustments to the machine are in order and I shall have to revise 
your, um, contract, but yes, it can be done." 
He pressed against a side panel of the typewriter, exposing an array 
of knobs and dials. He reached in and touched some of these, then closed the opening again. 
The demon rose and shook my hand. His touch burned like searing 
coal. "There," he said, "It is finished."
With those last words, he disappeared in a sudden flurry of wind 
and sand. The storm faded without a trace, leaving me alone with 
the infernal device at my feet.
I knew what I had to do. I placed a clean sheet of paper into the 
machine, carefully considering what I was about to type. I smiled 
as I recalled the maxim of an old forgotten college professor: write what you know.
Ahh, the perfect soultrap. I began:
A story can be the subtlest of traps…

Inner Self