I rattle thirteen sparse coins
in a pocket more used to moths than money,
the soft click disappointingly
empty.

Going once!

I need, I need, I need.
Instead, I frown.
Young, healthy, secular, loving: my soul
could fetch nine hundred, minimum—
        enough for a year of food and a year of school and
        twelve full months for my daughter to forget my fatal missteps.
An appraisal will take, what, two hours? And then I’ll

be gone.
It’s for the better, of course.

Going twice!

A soul is a valuable commodity
even with a body still, unfortunately, attached.
As if they can taste my despair I’m swarmed by curse-makers,
opportunists, street urchins, anyone
who can make use of my soul—which is, of course,
nearly everyone. I shove them off, their voices
rising and screaming and then

a single, gentle, wheedling tone.

A bid? Yes, sir, you in the dark coat?

He tugs on my arm. I pull away.
He’s a small, wiry ghost of a creature
stringy hair shadowing deep-set eyes,
less human even than a woman with no soul.

What do you bid, sir? The going rate is nine hundred—

I know better
        than to fall for terrible bargains.

A reasonable policy:
one born of horror tales and past mistakes
and my great-grandmother’s stolen sense of humor. I drag my arm
from his long, sharp nails and barge away from his wheedles
and his pleas.

I offer time.

I stop.

He smiles.

His eyes trail over me with the hungry wanting of a nightmare.
“You’d sell your soul for a few coins?” His voice has the lilt
of my own splintered fears. “Why, what
a terrible bargain, when you could fix every error
that led you here?”

The man in black offers a second chance, who will raise him?

The other curse-makers do not fall silent,
although their offers have been shoved ceremoniously from my mind. What
can compare to this?

I could fix
everything.

Going once.

His nails bite into my arm.
“Throw in a few happy memories, and I’ll even
        make it painless.”

Going twice.

To step back in time. To fix
the misstep that ruined everything. To guarantee
my daughter’s future.

The arithmetic is simple.

Sold, to the man in black!

And then I scream
as my life
        rips out of me.

© 2026 Nico Martinez Nocito