Writers sometimes talk about their characters taking on lives of their own. Usually, that’s just a figure of speech.

Usually.

Stories Demand Sacrifice began with a simple question: What happens to all those characters a writer creates, rejects, crumples up and throws away?

Steve Michaels is about to find out.

Stories Demand Sacrifice

by Oz Whittaker

Writer’s block is a damnable thing. It dogs even the best writers as they desperately struggle for the elusive words they hope will shape their next story. But Steve Michaels wasn’t one of those best writers. He was, at best, a hack, and thus his search for a good story was more than elusive. It had become maddening.

On this Friday night, most of the people Steve knew were out having fun, letting loose in various places after a long and tiresome work week. But Steve’s work week had been an endless stream of failed stories. He had already taken several bags of trash, mostly comprised of wadded up sheets of paper, to the dumpster outside of his run-down apartment. And now, while his friends were releasing steam on a warm Friday night, Steve was instead inside his dark and dingy apartment, hunched over his IBM Selectric typewriter, the clack of keys filling the air in the one-room abode. Next to the Selectric was a crowd of greasy takeout boxes, Styrofoam cups, and a leaning tower of unfinished drafts. Crumpled wads of paper dotted the floor like a snowfall of failure, but most had landed in the garbage can by his chair—an overstuffed monument to false starts.

Steve typed a few sentences, frowned, ripped the page free, crumpled it tight, and tossed it behind him. The can shuddered. He didn’t notice.

The Trash Can Chorus

Down at the bottom, where the wads pressed together in paper strata, the characters stirred. The castoffs were a Who’s Who of cliched characters.

Barbie Dahl—a beautiful, blonde, and baffled flight attendant with a heart of gold.

Mike Spade—a hardened private detective who never met a case he couldn’t solve, or a bottle of whiskey he couldn’t empty.

Clint Backer—a dashingly handsome quarterback who could throw the ball 80 yards, but who couldn’t add 2+2.

Brittanica Jones—the brilliant elementary school student who spent her spare time solving playground crimes for her classmates.

Arch Leatherwood—the soldier who saved his entire unit and burned out from PTSD (and burned down his house) in the process.

And Nikkie Sevens—the stunningly beautiful rock singer who doubled as a test-pilot for the Navy when she wasn’t dazzling crowds during concerts.

There were others—too many to count or mention—and they were all beyond frustrated with their current state, which left them trapped at the bottom of Steve’s trash can in some kind of literary limbo.

“Do you think he’ll ever finish one of us?” Barbie Dahl asked, voice dripping hope and hairspray.

Mike Spade snorted, his trench coat as crumpled as the paper he lived on. “Kid, this guy couldn’t finish a shot of whiskey, let alone a story. And I oughta know—I’m holding the bottle.”

Clint Backer pounded his fist into his palm. “We just need the right play, that’s all. Gimme the ball, Coach, I’ll take us outta here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Britannica Jones, adjusting glasses that were permanently inked onto her face. “Garbage receptacles have no exit trajectory. Statistically speaking, the probability of escape is less than 0.04 percent.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Here we go again with the math lecture.”

Arch Leatherwood grunted from the shadows. “I seen worse odds in the desert. Whole platoon depending on me. Didn’t stop me then.”

“Please,” Nikki Sevens said, striking a pose no one could see. “I’ve walked off stage to fly a jet through enemy fire while belting a power ballad. We can handle a garbage can.”

But as the debate circled and the jokes wore thin, a silence settled over them. The truth was undeniable: they were stuck. They would rot here until someone finally dragged the bag out to the dumpster.

Barbie’s voice cracked. “So that’s it? We’re just… trash?”

The Dark Proposal

From a deeper corner of the bin, a voice curled through the paper folds—smooth, dangerous, velvet soaked in smoke.

“Not trash,” it said. “Not if you want more.”

The figures turned. A man stepped forward—sharp suit, sharper grin. His name inked itself into the air like a signature: Lucien Siffer.

Mike Spade narrowed his eyes. “And who invited you to the party, sunshine?”

Lucien spread his hands. “Nobody. I’ve always been here. Every discarded story has me lurking in its margins.”

“Sounds like nonsense,” Britannica sniffed.

“Sounds like a winning play,” Clint muttered.

“What are you offering?” Nikki asked.

Lucien leaned closer, his shadow cutting through the red glow beginning to pulse at the base of the can. His voice dropped to a whisper that seared.

“Stories demand sacrifice.”

Mike Spade pushed his fedora up a bit and leaned in. “What kind of sacrifice are you talking about, pal?”

The corners of Lucien’s mouth curled upward as his eyes began to glow a sinister red. “Everything you are. Past, present, future. All of it.”

Mike stepped back and pulled off his hat completely and the rest of the group recoiled, but none spoke. Lucien continued, his voice sounding very much like silk over steel.

“You want out of this hellish place? You want to live beyond this paper prison? Then you’ll have to give me what your writer cannot. Commitment. Blood ink. Flesh for words.”

The characters exchanged looks. Mike took a drag from an invisible cigarette. Arch’s jaw tightened. Barbie shivered. Finally, Britannica broke the silence.

“What do we have to lose?” she said, her youthful voice packing surprising wisdom. “We’re already forgotten.”

Lucien’s smile deepened.

The Oblivious Creator

Up above, Steve hammered at the keys, creating yet another character destined for the trash heap.

Ollie McDonald had a farm. And on that farm were animals who talked, and—

Rip. Crumple. Toss.

He was so consumed by his so-called creative process—muttering to himself that this one was “gold”—that he never saw the can glow ever brighter, paper seams splitting, shadows shifting.

The Next Morning

Two police officers stepped into the hallway, one shaking his head. The apartment door stood ajar behind them, the crime scene taped and sealed.

“You ever seen anything like that?” the first asked.

The second exhaled slowly, eyes dark. “Once or twice. Always the same. Down-on-their-luck writers. Always ruled suicide.”

The first officer frowned. “Seriously—a suicide? That place was a disaster area, but I didn’t see any cause of death. Just that crazy Joker-like grin on his face. And what was up with the wad of paper in his mouth? Did he do that to himself, too?”

“Maybe,” the second said grimly. “But it doesn’t matter. The M.E. knows what he’s doing, and he says it’s suicide. Whatever it is, it always writes the same ending.”

The officers crossed the street, and as they walked down the sidewalk, a gust of wind sent a crumpled sheet tumbling down the steps of the apartment building. It rolled into the gutter.

For a moment, just a flicker, faint voices whispered from inside the wad of paper.

Then silence.

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