Soul Sale
by William Doreski
When I try to get Satan to sell it back he says, “You can have it. What do I want with that filthy rag?” We’re sitting in a coffee shop in Midtown. Buses hustle past, snoring and shaking the plate glass windows. “You have to accept payment,” I say. “Contract law requires both parties to benefit from a transaction.” The waitress refills our cups. She thinks Satan is cute, with his pert little mustache and his crimson cassock. She glares at me, a grumpy wrinkled old man, and sneers. She’d spill coffee into my lap if she weren’t afraid of losing her job. “No benefit involved. You have to realize that it’s worthless,” Satan explains. “If I accepted payment for returning it, I’d be adding to my burden of sin.” “But if it’s worthless, what does that say about me?” “You sold your soul. You sold it so long ago that it became obsolete. I made a poor investment. That’s on me. Just take your soul and drink your coffee while it’s hot.” He hands me a slip of rumpled tissue. I tuck it into my shirt pocket. It’s so tiny I’ll probably lose it. “You might as well face it. Hell isn’t for you. You wouldn’t last five minutes before vaporizing.” “What about Heaven?” I ask. “Yeah, sure,” Satan says. “You wouldn’t last a second.”
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.