The Dispute

Derick spotted Craig Devon as soon as he walked through the door. The hostess came up to him. "How many?"

"I've already found my party." Derick pointed to Craig Devon.

The hostess, following his finger, nodded, smiled and let him pass.

Tippy's, a fine dining restaurant, was dark, lighted by dim spotlights and candles on each table. The leather booths and glass tables made Derick slightly nervous. Derick didn't know how he knew the man he pointed to was Craig Devon, and he hoped he was right. As he got closer to the table, Devon didn't even look his way. Maybe I should have asked the hostess. He thought.

"Hello." Derick said as he approached the table.

"Oh, Derick, nice to see you." Devon signaled for Derick to take the seat across from him.

Derick could see the man clearly now, even in the dim light. His face appeared to glow. Cherry-colored hair framed Devon's Romanesque features. Derick's manuscript was in the center of the table; even the title page had red ink splattered all over it. Derick waited for Devon to speak.

"I've reviewed your writing, and I must say, it's quite exemplary. Your descriptions of every major religion's afterlife, with special attention to the underworld, or "hell" as you call it, are exquisite. However, a few things have crossed my mind." Devon began as the waiter appeared.