A Journey Through Hell Visions of the...

                She looked into her wine glass and tried to ignore the small pieces of cork floating in the red liquid.  “So, do you have any thoughts on the subject?”  She asked him.
         “Kind of.”  Derick replied.  “I know what I should do, but what I want to do seems out of my reach.”
         “Oh yeah?  What do you want to do?”  Maria asked, swishing the wine around in her glass.
         Derick took a sip of his Merlot.  “I want to write a book.”
         Maria laughed.  “A book?  How did you come up with this spurt of spontaneity?”
         “I was reading an article in the New York Times, and noticed that it was very well written, and it didn't look that difficult.  If others can make a living at it, why can't I?”
         “Simple.  Those people have got college degrees in it.  You don't even have a high school diploma!”  Maria, a senior editor at a prestigious New York publishing house, smiled.  “Do you know how much time and effort goes into writing even a two page piece?  Never mind a novel!”
         “Yeah, what about it?  Damn it, Maria, I'm sick of working the night shift at the factory.  Can't you pull some strings?”
         “You'd have to write something before I can pull anything.  Any ideas?”
         “Religion.”
         “Excuse me?”
         “Religion.  I want to write a religious book.”  Derick explained.
         Maria shook her head.  “It's unlikely to be published, even if you did finish it.  Too controversial.  Only seasoned writers can pull off something like that, and sometimes not even them.” 
         Derick's jaw was set.  “I can make it happen.”
         “Go ahead.  But don't be surprised if you're disappointed.  I'll help you wherever I can.  Consider yourself warned.”
         “Why?  Don't you think I can do it?”  Derick asked defensively.
         “Do you want my honest opinion?”
         “Yes.”
         “Don't quit your job at the factory.”



                Derick sat in the rain on the front stoop of his apartment building, his manuscript in hand.  The rain drops were quickly wetting the page, turning the printed words into a pool of ink.  He had sent it to three different publishers, two literary agents.  No one wanted it.  He flipped through the pages, watching as his hard work, his time, his tears, washed away.  “This is bullshit.”
         A black Cadillac pulled up to the curb on the street, stopping in front of the building.  Derick tried to look past the tinted windows, tried to see the driver.  The passenger's side window rolled down, revealing only blackness inside the car.
         Derick had an urge to go up to the car and peer inside the open window.  He tried to resist, but the feeling was too strong.  He carried his manuscript with him as he walked over to the car. 
         “You wanna get that into print?”  A voice from inside the car asked, presumably the driver.  The voice was male and husky, reminding Derick of the Godfather.
         Derick looked down at the soaked manuscript.  “Yeah, but no one wants it.  Too controversial.”  He paused for a moment.  “Can you do it?”
         “No questions.  Get in the car.”
         “Um, I don't think so.”  Derick backed away as he felt the manuscript get hot in his hands.
         “Don't trust me?”
         Derick looked at the paper now completely dry, the words not smudged with water, despite the driving rain. 
         “I-I-I...”  Derick stammered.
         “Get in.”  The passenger's door opened for Derick.  Intrigued, Derick got in the car.
         Derick found his voice as he looked at the faceless stranger.  “What's this all about?”
         “This, my friend, is about you getting what you want, what you deserve.”
         “I'm not interested in buying anything.”  Derick said hastily as his hand touched the door handle, ready to open the door.
         The handle turned red hot, so hot that Derick had no choice but to let go.  “I can get the manuscript published, for a small fee.”  The voice continued, as if it was never interrupted.
         “Are you an agent?”
         “Of sorts.”
         Derick flipped through his manuscript again, debating whether or not to take this stranger up on his offer.  “How about it?  Have we got a deal?”  The voice asked.
         “What's the payment?”
         The man laughed heartily, hacking toward the end as if he had a few too many cigarettes.  “Derick, why don't you trust me?”
         Derick was silent.
         “I understand that your manuscript is one about religious affairs.  Tell me, do you think you portrayed God and the Devil correctly?”
         “I believe so.”
         “So, much research went into this book?”
         “Very much.”
         “Well, then, I believe it's worthy of a chance.  That's why I'm here.”  The voice took on a more sinister tone.
         Derick stared at his companion, unable to see his face in the darkness.  “Who are you?”
         The man chuckled.  “Unimportant.”
         “I think it's important.”
         The man shook his head.  “No, but what is important is that you trust me.”
         Derick looked at the book in his hands.  “Alright.  Fine.  What's the payment?”
         “We'll discuss that at a later date.  For now, just let me take care of business.”
         The manuscript disappeared from Derick's hands and reappeared in the man's hands.  “You may go now.  We will be in touch.”  The passenger's door flew open, signaling for Derick to exit the car.  As soon as Derick got out, the door slammed shut and the car sped away.