u/RigidDan2

So, as all of us do when we try to actually write that one story we've been thinking of since forever, we try to make it good. And as you can already guess based on the title, yes, the magic system is based on wishes. The main problem is the sheer amount of possibilities this system can fit inside itself.

Like there are people in the story who can control gravity, bend the elements( Like in avatar) and even control concepts. Fucking concepts! to be fair, they do act as the gods of the world, but still, tell me someone who governs the concept of action isn't op. Or someone who wished to be beyond death and now represents Oblivion isn't powerfull.

How do I make this fair? Like i already have made some rules and restrictions, but i fear they'll just make it more convoluted and hard to understand. There are just so many little things for the reader to wrap their head around... I'll give you a few examples:

The Trial: This is the main barrier to entry ive placed. A sequence of painfull sensations that starts off as a migraine that expands to a throbbing headache. The second phase begins as heat slowly builds up in the chest, followed by the heart's sudden, rapid pumps that shakes ones bones. Then the last part comes, the coinflip. After enduring all of the pain, the Whisperer decides if you can live or die. It's a fifty fifty. (The Whisperer is the one behind the whole wish granting part)

Dreamers: People who have used their Wishing star and passed the Whisperer's trial. They get what they wished for based on the description they gave, and a Cost that gets told to them in short cryptic lines by said Whisperer. They are divided into Grades, from the First, to the Ninth. To move up a Grade, a Dreamer needs to consume a Wishing star of their own Grade and one higher. Each advancement has a small but not negligible chance of resulting in their death. (Another rule to balance things a bit. I'm not sure if it's a good rule, maybe I should change it?)

Will: The mana of this world. But It works a bit differently mainly because none magic users both have it, and can use it, they just have less of it and it's just harder for them to use it. In its raw form, it can be used to impose your will on the world in small ways. Like making yourself stronger, faster or change the color of your hair. For low Grade Dreamers, it is impossible to make any changes to something other than their own bodies, meanwhile, the Grades Six and above can reshape someone's bone structure with raw Will alone.

Nightmares: People who failed in the trail. They are monstrosities that have been completely misshapen by their wish and have lost their sanity. Nightmares are dangerous for two reasons: 1, they can advance just like normal Dreamers, 2, they have access to their wish. Good news, they still have their Cost and are generally stupid.

Artifacts and Anomalous Artifacts: When a Dreamer or a Nightmare dies, it has a chance to One, lose it's Wishing star if it was damaged, or two, For it to transform into an Artifact. These wonderous tools keep a small part of the Dreamer/ Nightmare's power in them. The same goes for the Cost.

Anomalous Artifacts however, don't take the shape of an object. Instead, they pick the form of a living creature. This is a rare phenomena, hence why they are called anomalies. These creatures have no solid form, instead acting more like a manifestation of the power the wish had granted to its previous wielder, the Dreamer or Nightmare it originated from. They are highly intelligent, meaning they can take full advantage of their powers and find work arounds for their Costs or even uses for them.

This, all of that you just read, was only halve of the basics for the system and still, I think this alone is already overwhelming. Don't get me wrong, i'm not going to info dump on the reader as i did to you (Sorry for that btw) but Still, I have no idea how I should go about making it coherent, less confusing, and stupidly unbalanced...

Can you help me?

I'm currently writing a fantasy novel with a world that is heavily inspired by that era. So, to emulate the feel of that time to my best abilities, I wanted to do something more than referencing people's fashion or the tall brick apartments lining up the cobble streets.

I want to check out the prose of the writers of that time period (The ones who didn't write historical dramas, so I guess I'll be mostly limited to the crime and mystery genre) To use them to enhance immersion and believability. I'm focusing on places most affected by the technological boom, mostly the western and europian continents.

So, If you have any suggestions, tell me. Thank you in advance.

The beeping of the heart monitor, the ticking of the clock and the heavy breathing of the nurses,  all mixed up in my head like a whirlpool of distant and foggy memories. Antiseptic smells, blinding lights, and half-forgotten figures. They collapse into one endless moment of agony.

I was an athlete, a runner. It was a habit I had developed over the years, something I enjoyed doing. The refreshing air flashing past my face, the exhaustion and ache after every run that made each breath more enjoyable… Even now I can't help but reminisce. 

They say it will be painless, that you won't feel a thing. They are right. I haven't felt anything ever since. Ever since I was dragged out of that car, bent and broken like a ragdoll. Ever since I agreed to the extension of my existence. Ever since, I haven't desired anything but its end. 

They say surgery will be painless, they love to talk about how it will change my life for the better. They never talk about the pain. 

It starts as an ache. A dull, faint ache in the neck. Then it picks up, becoming stronger and sharper till it covers your whole back. It feels like your skin is burning, as if hot needles inside your flesh are protruding outwards. The burning worsens. In your spine, you feel hot molten metal dance around your insides, striking every nerve with one goal: to cause maximum suffering.

It's as if it knows what it does. Hitting where it hurts most, pulling the strings that will get a reaction. But the ache is manageable with the pills. But the knowledge that this relief is fleeting however, does not. I spend each waking moment dreading the ticking of the hanging clock. Each and every second of those painless hours are stretched into long minutes of anticipation. 

If I had just slept a bit more that day… If only I didn't drive down that road… Only… 

There are countless ways I can think of. Countless routes that wouldn't have led to this horrid outcome. This… Dread I feel in my very bones, the fear I share with a zapped dog when it hears the taser. I feel the same as I  turn to look at the nightstand, the glass of water and empty bottles. 

That should make it painless.

I can't run. Can't stand for more than a few minutes at a time. I can't go for a long walk with my dog. Not anymore. There's only pain and pills occupying my life, no relief. No release. Not even for a second. I'm tired of it.  Inebriation is my only way of living, so, I've decided to cut the problem at its roots. 

Even if I go to hell, the flames won't burn as much. 

There, there will be no pain. 

No burning inside.

No steel spine.

Part 2 The spire pierces the sky, overlooking the hills and the valleys. Today would be his last, for I, have come to slay the dragon. Across all of Lilishia, stands no being above the dragon of destruction Kerkoros. But I, Melissa, am here to slay him. As if sensing my intent, and my intent alone, he lets out a deafening roar from his Ivory throne, shaking the world to its core. 

“Are you alright Melissa?”  Asks the little fairy on my shoulder as he examines me closely. “Yes I am.” Our exchange of words only gives him time. Time to work his magic on the land. The violets beneath my stallion enlarge. Each petal becomes taller than a man, housing more eyes than a dozen. Its roots and pollen scatter, slithering like snakes searching for prey. They find me. 

With a swift slash I cut his beast down. This is all his fault. Kerkoros, the plague of the lands. I have spent decades as a valiant mercenary, no beast has bested me. That fact will not change with him. His Ivory tower, controlled by the dragon’s will moves, uprooting trees as it flees. The spire travels from dawn to dusk, ravaging dynasties along its path. I follow close behind. 

He wills it like a weapon. The tower bashes through mountains, through families and households. His roaring tongue chants in a language so foul, even the sky turns sour. He tries to sway me with a silvery tongue, but I am aware of the dragon's tricks. Without caring for his words, I gallop on towards the spire. 

Drunk driving…It's been a while. Who cares anyway, right? It's not like I'm the only one doing it. It's not like I'm the only… What was I thinking again? Oh, yeah, yeah I needed to buy groceries. But… When did I come to the store? I glance around me. At the shelves, the few customers and the staff, looking for a clock to tell the time. I find one on the wall. 

It's 2AM. But what day? Asking the cashier yields me no result. It's like I'm talking in a different language. The way they look at me, the disgust and disapproval. They think I don't notice. But I do. I see it as clear as day, just like how I saw through her that night. 

I'm driving again. I don't know where I'm going, I don't know where I am, what I'm doing, the time or the day. All I know is that it's night. A quiet, tranquil night just like the day she… No. It wasn't my fault. I just had a little after so many years, why did she have to blow it up that much? Just a single drink. Yeah, just a single drink. Nothing more. My hand reaches for the canteen, and I pop the lid open and gulp it all down.

It's getting harder to wash it away. The memory. Her face as I hit her with my car, the rattling of her body as my bumper hit her in the chest. Her rapid, frantic gasps as she laid on the cold asphalt. She didn't die then. That was god's last grace on this servant.

The vortex lunges forward, sending sharp needles the size of a man flying towards me. I barely manage to move out of the way. I turn fast, trying to check for any incoming projectiles. That's when I see her. She's looking at me. We're inches apart, yet so distant. Her watery eyes stare me down in the tornado of shifting doors, her face one of a  mother caring for her baby.

She burns. Her skin flakes off as her body, out of nowhere, ignites. She doesn't react however. Amidst the crucible of burning flames turning her graceful figure into ash, as her flesh sizzles and smoke rises from her cheeks, she only smiles at me. One she gave as she talked to the caped man. Her killer. One she gave to me. One she held as she was cremated for our solace. One that we never got again.  

I keep imagining her screaming, wailing in pain or writhing in her coffin just to give us closer. I imagined my father burning more than she did for all he had done. To me. To her, and to my sister. I envisioned a purgatory. One never ending. A realm full of possibility and wonder which I am the god of. One filled with all the torment he inflicted.

One where he has to hide like how he made us do. Like how I had to seek out doors for refuge from his fury. Hide in the dark from his mighty hands beating tattoos into my soul for his own mistakes. She was the only light in the dark. Her words worked better than any painkiller. She  always encouraged me, saying  that I was talented, that I should show the world my craft. Here it is mom.

I'm coming to the light.
 
I always find myself coming back to that moment. The night I called mommy to tell on dad. The boys at the playground say it's a bad thing to snitch. Daddy gets angry if you make a sound, and I couldn't keep silent. Over the phone, mom said she'll do all she could to not let us stay with him, that he's not my dad anymore, that I should hide like Michael. Those were her last words to me. Because of me mommy passed away. I distracted her on the street. It's my fault. It's been a week and dad hasn't come home. 

At first I was happy, you know? I could draw more. But as I drew once, twice, thrice, I became hungry. There's nothing to eat. I don't understand how Michael has been in his room all this time, he hasn't come out in days for days and his room stinks. But unlike him I won't hide. Not anymore. 

I'm at the dragon’s den. Above the clouds I have climbed, battling my way through the onslaught of his horrid abominations. His tower is empty now. And soon, I will empty his veins as well. “Melissa, what are you doing?” he says, his voice reverberating through the spire. 

“I am here to slay you.” 

He laughs, bending the air to move forward, aiming for my head with an open palm. I attack with my blade. “Aw… what was that for?” Dad retreats his hand, a hurt expression on his reddened face. “Give me that!” He takes away my sword, turning it into a spatula in his hands. He stares down at me, his eyes two dark pools of mixed emotions I can't make out. 

“I-I'm sorry—” A slap. A hand, the size of my head hits me in the cheek, sending me  tumbling to the ground. “I do everything for you and this is what I get?!” I feel dad's foul breath on my skin as he raised me by the shirt, shaking me around like how I play with the dolls. 

“This is your fault. You killed her.” She struggles as I hold her in place by her neck, kicking my stomach with her frail hands. So I punch down at hers. Once, twice, thrice. With each one her movements slow down, eventually stopping completely. But I still go on, beating some sense into her for what feels like hours.

Her stomach, hands, legs and head. I bash all as I let out everything I kept in for the past weeks of my life. But it's not enough. “Where is Michael?” I ask clearly, but she doesn't answer. Irritated, I shake her body. But she doesn't respond. So I drop her and go to find my son. Opening his bedroom door slightly, a foul smell hits my nose. The potent stink of death. As the door opens completely, I see him. 

He's sitting on his chair, the light of the monitor outlining his hunching figure. Near him lay a kitchen knife, one he had used to slice open his own stomach. I stumble back, my breathing becoming more uncontrolled, frantic. With each breath my mind clears more and more as the alcohol slowly wears off, allowing me to perceive details I missed before. His body… it's rotten. Maggots are crawling all over his skin, dropping down onto the puddle of bile near his feet or burrowing their way in. His one remaining eye dangles out of his skull, looking at me. 

The computer behind him displays a single message. The last line of an open document. “He can't hurt me anymore.” I hurry out of his room, fearing with each step of mine about what I might have done to her. Stepping to the guest room, I'm confronted with heaps of trash and a smell worse than in Michael's room. There are dead animals and drawings. Dirty plates filled with half finished, moldy food and torn open trash bags everywhere.

And lastly, her. Thrown carelessly near a pile she lays, motionless. Each of my steps is heavier than the last, each breath harder to let out but and take back, but I reach her. Standing above my daughter, I can see it. Her chest doesn't move. Her body is bruised and her face is blue. My knees buckle and give way as I drop to the ground, staring at her skinny frame. 

No. I can fix this. Yeah, it’s fixable. S-she’s just hungry. There’s no need to worry, yes, exactly. My Melissa is just hungry. I open her mouth, shoving a chewed-off rodent lying on the ground into it. She stares back at me as I close her mouth for her. Her glassy eyes reflect my face, covered in sweat and splashes of her blood. I feed her more, and more, and more. I give her all I have… but she’s still limp, lying in the corner of the room. Her head is down, but I know she’s watching. Judging.

She’s still hungry.

I search the room for something, anything to feed my Melissa, and that’s when I spot it. The source of all my problems. It was never Jean, never my sweet angel, my son, or me. Yes, it’s you who did this. I stare at it, and as if acknowledging my attention, it rolls ever so slightly toward me. A bottle. An empty bottle lying amongst the remains of half-eaten vermin and scattered trash. I’m not at fault. It’s the habits. It’s the drinking, the frustration, the rage, the…

Why can’t I stop lying to myself? Everyone’s gone. I killed them all and yet I can’t be bothered to accept the truth for once. Raising the broken bottle to my throat, I hesitate. But only for a moment.

I wake up to the buzzing of fluorescent lights. As I raise my aching body, I try to focus my eyes. Am I in a hospital? No. The ground is hard and I'm in no bed. My eyes filter the harsh light and allow me sight. There are no curtains, no nurses or the distant beeping of heart monitors. Only dusty tables and unkempt vases. Only doors lining rose-colored walls. Only…

A hotel hallway.

Part 1 The corridor lifts to no end, creeping up to the dark ceiling far off my sight. There is no hallway. Just a dark cave with wooden doors lining its sides. Up, down, left and right. No matter where I touch, I feel their texture. Hard, rough and damp. I can't see anything. Can't hear anything but the creaking of hinges as I step over the doors on the floor. As much as I love to act like it doesn't affect me, it has started to weigh on me a little.

I was never claustrophobic. But as the cave's rocky walls begin to close on me, their immovable surface now starting to hug my body tight, I can't help but feel fearful. An insidious dread creeps towards my heart. Latching onto each thought that passes through my head. What is at the end? Why am I here? What if I can never leave? Was she right?

Yes. She has to be. She would never lie, never deceive, never—I stop. Stop long enough for my body to warm the cold rocky walls. I don't know why I stopped, I'm not sure what came over me. Picturing her beneath those white sheets, her shaking hands holding mine, as cold as these embracing boulders. That memory which isn't mine flashes in the dark. 

A face. Her foggy face. Looking through plated glass, I watch as she talks to another, a man I recognize. I bang at the door, but it stays close, not letting me in. From the toll of my weight, the door beneath me opens. I hurriedly clasp the knob and for a second, I'm stable. Suspended above endless black. But in the end, my grip fails me. And I fall.

Hello. What's your name, little one? …It doesn't matter. Don't feel shy, you're safe here. Why am I whispering? It's not to wake the others of course. Tell me, do you want to hear a story?  

Once upon a winter's day, in a vacant street full of thieves and rotten hay. In a world full of poverty and dismay, a girl lived inside a shoe. At day she scavenged trash for food, at night she huddled up and ate tear stew. There was nothing to find and nothing to eat, so she wept her nights to see the day. The morning comes and falls again. Dewdrops gather near her bed, wetting the soil around her shed. The shoe is uncaring, empty and cold, its walls riddled with many holes. But she is happy nonetheless, for her father is out for rest. 

I can't anymore. They don't care. Neither of them give a shit about me, themselves, or her. I've been going less and less to home, more and more to bars. That home... It's just a cage. A familiar, suffocating cage filled with her. Her belongings, her smell, her memories, her children. It all seems to blend together. Day, night, seconds or hours. All of it flatlined, crammed into one synchronized motion. Maybe. Another sip. It slides down my throat, sharp, stinging and cold at the same time.

I don't care anymore. I don't care that I'm falling back to old habits. I don't care about my job. That I'm wasting my time. I don't care about her…I don't care. Another sip, and it all goes away. How many bottles has it been? How many hours? I'm not sure. But it's comforting. I find myself drifting further away with each gulp, with each passing minute, into a distant past. When I was just a little boy, only caring about comics. 

She is back! It's as if the very world brightens with her presence. The crowd makes way, the sun shines brighter, the birds sing louder and the hero's smile dies on his face. “What are you doing Hank?” She asks, her voice a melody to my ears. But then a sudden fear grips my heart. What if she leaves again? No. That can't happen. She wouldn't do that to me. 

“I…I was just…” I can't explain myself. 

“Come on.” She says, grabbing my hand, dragging me along with her. I feel safe. Happy. Like a boy in his mother's arms.

“Babe, what are you doing?” The hero asks. 

She turns, glaring, “How can you act like such an asshole? Can't you see what you did to your son?” The hero opens his mouth, trying to argue for his case. But she stops him. “I won't sit here and watch you ruin yourself again. You're too much. Both for me and yourself. We’re done.” 

“Take care of them Hank.” No blue skies or a sunny day. Just curtains and a hospital bed. The beeping of the heart monitor echoes through my head as I stare down at her pale face. Jean turns to me, tugging at the cape on my back. “Promise me, you'll take care of them.” 

Daddy likes to tell me stories. At least he used to. After mom went to heaven he only sings ugly songs. From his bedroom, from day to night. Brother is busy as always. But I don't know why, he just lies. It's not hard to lie.  He scribbles them down like the drawings I make. But his are ugly. Just lines and no shapes. I can't understand why anyone would like it. 

But mom did. She would always tell him that he is amazing. That he's talented, that he should let the world see his craft. She liked my drawings more though. Look, I made one today. That little guy is my brother, the tall man is daddy and that's me, in my pretty red dress. We're standing on her grave.

I'm sure I didn't write this section of the story, there's no doubt in my mind. The story didn't have any caves. It was supposed to have ended already. But it doesn't. It's as if a hand propels me forward, compelling me to go on. To keep pushing through. It's as if the story has taken a life of its own… but how can that be? I'm its architect, without my guiding hand it doesn't know what to be. 

But…It's as if it knows how I feel. It knows what Michael feels. But no need for worry. Yes, no need.  I will help it, guide it, make sure it takes the right steps. Everything is still in my control. This is my story after all. I will propel him forward deeper in. There will be no end in sight. His story will never end. Michael's story will never end.

Nothing. Just pure black as I fall deeper and deeper into nothing. There is no sound but the buzzing of my ears. There's not even air to whistle around me. What is this place? Is it even worth asking questions? What would knowing change? I know I shouldn't have come here or step into the branching paths. I should have kept going.

But why did I stop? I wasn't tired or needed to catch my breath. It was… like a feeling. A pull. A strange attraction towards a certain outcome. It's like I was meant to fall. I'm not at fault for what happened. Yes, exactly. I'm not. It's his fault. HE did this, HE made me fall, HE KILLED HER—I'm in the hallway again. The same hotel hallway with rose colored walls and dusty carpets and buzzing lights. I'm the same me with my stomach torn open, guts dragged behind. But…where are the doors? There is nothing. Just a corridor with no exit. Only wallpaper, tables and vases. I can feel my lips quiver as it dawns on me. I'm trapped here aren't I? 

The wall behind me explodes to a myriad of pieces, sending me flying along with them. It takes me a second to get a hold of my bearings. As I try to understand what had happened, I turn towards the explosion. I wish I didn't look. Doors. Hundreds of thousands of doors twisting and circling around a single figure, bending the walls towards themselves like a black hole, turning the flat surfaces into jagged spikes. All aimed towards me.

Did you like the drawing I made? Sorry that I have to whisper, the others are sleeping. At least I think they are. I haven't heard anything from dad's room all day and Michael is just doodling like always. I think daddy went outside, because I haven't heard his ugly song all day. He does that often lately. Singing I mean. It's hoarse and hiccupy, like when Michael used to sing. Dad also drinks a lot of water. I'm not sure why though, maybe he's sick? 

Mommy always told me with a lot of water and rest, any sickness will go away. Maybe all grown-ups know that. But I wish daddy knew how to cook too, or stay home more… I'm a bit hungry. But nevermind that little guy. Say, do you want to hear a story? …Why do I even bother asking? You're just a rat after all. 

Part 1 The corridor lifts to no end, creeping up to the dark ceiling far off my sight. There is no hallway. Just a dark cave with wooden doors lining its sides. Up, down, left and right. No matter where I touch, I feel their texture. Hard, rough and damp. I can't see anything. Can't hear anything but the creaking of hinges as I step over the doors on the floor. As much as I love to act like it doesn't affect me, it has started to weigh on me a little.

I was never claustrophobic. But as the cave's rocky walls begin to close on me, their immovable surface now starting to hug my body tight, I can't help but feel fearful. An insidious dread creeps towards my heart. Latching onto each thought that passes through my head. What is at the end? Why am I here? What if I can never leave? Was she right?

Yes. She has to be. She would never lie, never deceive, never—I stop. Stop long enough for my body to warm the cold rocky walls. I don't know why I stopped, I'm not sure what came over me. Picturing her beneath those white sheets, her shaking hands holding mine, as cold as these embracing boulders. That memory which isn't mine flashes in the dark. 

A face. Her foggy face. Looking through plated glass, I watch as she talks to another, a man I recognize. I bang at the door, but it stays close, not letting me in. From the toll of my weight, the door beneath me opens. I hurriedly clasp the knob and for a second, I'm stable. Suspended above endless black. But in the end, my grip fails me. And I fall.

Hello. What's your name, little one? …It doesn't matter. Don't feel shy, you're safe here. Why am I whispering? It's not to wake the others of course. Tell me, do you want to hear a story?  

Once upon a winter's day, in a vacant street full of thieves and rotten hay. In a world full of poverty and dismay, a girl lived inside a shoe. At day she scavenged trash for food, at night she huddled up and ate tear stew. There was nothing to find and nothing to eat, so she wept her nights to see the day. The morning comes and falls again. Dewdrops gather near her bed, wetting the soil around her shed. The shoe is uncaring, empty and cold, its walls riddled with many holes. But she is happy nonetheless, for her father is out for rest. 

I can't anymore. They don't care. Neither of them give a shit about me, themselves, or her. I've been going less and less to home, more and more to bars. That home... It's just a cage. A familiar, suffocating cage filled with her. Her belongings, her smell, her memories, her children. It all seems to blend together. Day, night, seconds or hours. All of it flatlined, crammed into one synchronized motion. Maybe. Another sip. It slides down my throat, sharp, stinging and cold at the same time.

I don't care anymore. I don't care that I'm falling back to old habits. I don't care about my job. That I'm wasting my time. I don't care about her…I don't care. Another sip, and it all goes away. How many bottles has it been? How many hours? I'm not sure. But it's comforting. I find myself drifting further away with each gulp, with each passing minute, into a distant past. When I was just a little boy, only caring about comics. 

She is back! It's as if the very world brightens with her presence. The crowd makes way, the sun shines brighter, the birds sing louder and the hero's smile dies on his face. “What are you doing Hank?” She asks, her voice a melody to my ears. But then a sudden fear grips my heart. What if she leaves again? No. That can't happen. She wouldn't do that to me. 

“I…I was just…” I can't explain myself. 

“Come on.” She says, grabbing my hand, dragging me along with her. I feel safe. Happy. Like a boy in his mother's arms.

“Babe, what are you doing?” The hero asks. 

She turns, glaring, “How can you act like such an asshole? Can't you see what you did to your son?” The hero opens his mouth, trying to argue for his case. But she stops him. “I won't sit here and watch you ruin yourself again. You're too much. Both for me and yourself. We’re done.” 

“Take care of them Hank.” No blue skies or a sunny day. Just curtains and a hospital bed. The beeping of the heart monitor echoes through my head as I stare down at her pale face. Jean turns to me, tugging at the cape on my back. “Promise me, you'll take care of them.” 

Daddy likes to tell me stories. At least he used to. After mom went to heaven he only sings ugly songs. From his bedroom, from day to night. Brother is busy as always. But I don't know why, he just lies. It's not hard to lie.  He scribbles them down like the drawings I make. But his are ugly. Just lines and no shapes. I can't understand why anyone would like it. 

But mom did. She would always tell him that he is amazing. That he's talented, that he should let the world see his craft. She liked my drawings more though. Look, I made one today. That little guy is my brother, the tall man is daddy and that's me, in my pretty red dress. We're standing on her grave.

I'm sure I didn't write this section of the story, there's no doubt in my mind. The story didn't have any caves. It was supposed to have ended already. But it doesn't. It's as if a hand propels me forward, compelling me to go on. To keep pushing through. It's as if the story has taken a life of its own… but how can that be? I'm its architect, without my guiding hand it doesn't know what to be. 

But…It's as if it knows how I feel. It knows what Michael feels. But no need for worry. Yes, no need.  I will help it, guide it, make sure it takes the right steps. Everything is still in my control. This is my story after all. I will propel him forward deeper in. There will be no end in sight. His story will never end. Michael's story will never end.

Nothing. Just pure black as I fall deeper and deeper into nothing. There is no sound but the buzzing of my ears. There's not even air to whistle around me. What is this place? Is it even worth asking questions? What would knowing change? I know I shouldn't have come here or step into the branching paths. I should have kept going.

But why did I stop? I wasn't tired or needed to catch my breath. It was… like a feeling. A pull. A strange attraction towards a certain outcome. It's like I was meant to fall. I'm not at fault for what happened. Yes, exactly. I'm not. It's his fault. HE did this, HE made me fall, HE KILLED HER—I'm in the hallway again. The same hotel hallway with rose colored walls and dusty carpets and buzzing lights. I'm the same me with my stomach torn open, guts dragged behind. But…where are the doors? There is nothing. Just a corridor with no exit. Only wallpaper, tables and vases. I can feel my lips quiver as it dawns on me. I'm trapped here aren't I? 

The wall behind me explodes to a myriad of pieces, sending me flying along with them. It takes me a second to get a hold of my bearings. As I try to understand what had happened, I turn towards the explosion. I wish I didn't look. Doors. Hundreds of thousands of doors twisting and circling around a single figure, bending the walls towards themselves like a black hole, turning the flat surfaces into jagged spikes. All aimed towards me.

Did you like the drawing I made? Sorry that I have to whisper, the others are sleeping. At least I think they are. I haven't heard anything from dad's room all day and Michael is just doodling like always. I think daddy went outside, because I haven't heard his ugly song all day. He does that often lately. Singing I mean. It's hoarse and hiccupy, like when Michael used to sing. Dad also drinks a lot of water. I'm not sure why though, maybe he's sick? 

Mommy always told me with a lot of water and rest, any sickness will go away. Maybe all grown-ups know that. But I wish daddy knew how to cook too, or stay home more… I'm a bit hungry. But nevermind that little guy. Say, do you want to hear a story? …Why do I even bother asking? You're just a rat after all. 

“When we run from reality into the arms of fantasy, we don't escape the nightmare. We just bring it with us.” 

A quote from a nice crocodile.

I push, and the door of my room closes, blocking off any remaining trace of light finding its way inside. Leaning in towards the lone source of it in my life, leaning in towards the epicenter of my magnum opus, the work, the lion, the salt of my craft, I smash the keys.

But the pages remain empty, yet so full. Filled to the brim with possibility, an infinite ever-branching web of growing mystery and wonder I can be the god of. A man running through a alley in a far galaxy. A woman weeping for the child she killed herself. A father setting out to avenge his family. A wolf chasing butterflies in a sun kissed field. A hand reaching out from under a sleeping boy's bed. I see all as I stare down the pixelated screen. Oh the joy. The great blessing I have been gifted. Let us begin. No aimless meandering. Yes, no more. It is time, let's write a story.

Have you ever been to a cosmic escape room designed by a god who hates OSHA regulations? Well that's where I am. The door in front of me groans open, welcoming me to a foul smelling room. Great, another hotel hallway. To be honest, the smell is not that bad… It's not bad at all. It's just that I haven't inhaled anything other than still air and dust in a lifetime.

This corridor too stretches and twists, like my own spilled intestines I drag across the carpeted floor. I reach another door, and walk inside. This hallway is a bit different… Maybe it's the color? It…Shifts. Like a  Chameleon camouflaging, or a worm burrowing its way out of the dirt, it shifts. Its color, its shape, its length. The door of the breathing hall comes closer while growing distant. It is mahogany at first, then becomes a pine wood door, then as black as the void between the stars.

Yes… The stars. For how much have I longed to see them again? I clutch my guts, my own blood painting the sleeves of my black coat blacker. I walk two steps, and the door shifts before me. I reach out, turn the handle, and step inside.

Birds chirp across Metropolis, some banging at my window for food, others flying above and enjoying the cerulean sky. Another day. Wake up, brush, piss, make breakfast, go to work, come back and do nothing. It's the same every day, for normal people that is. I have my own routine too, hey I'm doing it now. I repeat a phrase I told myself once,   “Being a supervillain will never get old.” I scoff at my own younger, naive self. How stupid could I have been? 

Never mind, never mind. I can always just make hot chocolate to feel better… Maybe I'll make one right now.  Glancing at the hanging clock in my living room, I hurriedly dismiss the idea and rush to my closet with ever lengthening gait. ‘God, I'm late for Robert's funeral!’ Robert, good old Robert.  Most knew him as Reaper Jack… He stole jack-o'-lanterns. Of course many never even heard of him. It's normal, really.

Us small-time supervillains are less known than some goons. I let out a long sigh, tugging at my navy blue wrinkled suit. I try my best to straighten the collar as I get down the stairs and into the street. “Taxi!” after waving my hand for a few minutes, one pulls over. I step in. “Where to?” The driver asks. “Raphael Cemetery.” I answer. The car jerks backwards sharply, causing the driver to flash a sorry smile in the rear view mirror. I return the look. As the car moves forward, I wonder if I'll get there in time.

I don't. By the time I found his grave, the funeral had already ended. No one's there but me. It was supposed to be an open casket funeral… He liked it that way. But from his clean and tidy tombstone, I can tell he's been buried for a while. They've already put him in the dirt. All I can do is say sorry to my old friend. All I have to say and give everyone is that, an apology. I'm sorry mom that your son is a failure. I'm sorry love, I can't make more than this. I'm sorry Rob… I'm sorry. Something wet and small taps against my hand. I look up. It's not raining. But I want it to be. Another droplet drags itself across my face before it falls from my chin. I couldn't even buy him a bouquet…

Why did we pick this job? Is it because we have no power? Why do heroes have everything? Why do I have to lose?  I don't want to destroy the world, I just want to make people feel what I do. Can I not even do that simple thing right? I wish it was raining, but the sun is shining brightly in the sky. But thankfully, no one's here to see me crying.

My son has never been normal, but ever since Jean passed he's only gotten worse. We all have…I don't know what to do. My daughter talks to animals, and as soon as Michael wakes up, he locks himself in his room. I can't, I just can't with this. I loved her, do they not see that I feel the same as them? Can they not share a morsel of empathy for my loss? 

They are children, I know. But they say children are more emotionally sensitive. More understanding. But all the understanding I have gotten from them is…Nevermind. I want to help them too, I shower them with attention and love but receive none in return. I don't want to be selfish, but is it too much to ask?  Just a single pat on the shoulder, just a “you’re doing great”, just a knowing, understanding look. That's all I ask for. 

If Jean was here she would have helped me. She always had her ways. She was such a thoughtful, caring woman… So why? Why does she have to go? Why did the lord allow her to leave? They say loss makes one's belief in god waver, makes the most pious servant of the lord no better than a blasphemous demon. They are right. I pray no more. 

Back to normal hallways. Lovely. I always get a headache from the breathing ones. This one's a little bit longer than usual though. After straining my eyes I come up with an estimate. About ten miles should be right, yeah ten miles.  Miles upon miles of the same rose-colored hotel hallway with side doors leading to nowhere, branching off the main path. I know I should go in a straight line. I know I shouldn't deviate from the main path. How do I know? I'm… Not sure myself, it's like I have these memories of a conversation. My last human talk with another person. She told me to keep going in a straight line and don't look back. She said it'll be painful. It'll be hard, but there will always be something to look forward to.

Every now and then I muse the idea that this is all fake, just an elaborate prank or an early surprise birthday party. But it's not.  I mean what kind of technology can keep a guy whose insides are behind him alive? What building can reverse gravity or stretch and twist to the horizon and back?

But no matter how much I attempt to explain the weirdness, it doesn't matter at the end. This is my reality now. Just from one corridor to the next, door after door, chasing for a way out. To be fair I'm not really “chasing” anything, I'm sure if you put a snail beside me it'll be faster than me. But hey, why would I hurry? Although the place is completely desolate save for the dusty furniture and is a bit creepy, I have no reason to make haste…I'm sure when I get out everything will be back to normal. My time spent here will become just an illusion, a dream. Yeah. It'll turn to a distant memory I can leave behind and look back at like a town on the road. 

I reach the next door. Time flies by when you allow your mind to wonder. It's a nice feeling, day dreaming I mean. It's a joy, a blessing we all have been gifted.

I went back home with another taxi. It's still early morning, but I already feel tired. To clear my head I decide to walk out and get some fresh air. But their faces annoy me. Lovers, husbands and wives. They look at each other with wanting eyes and knowing smiles as they part ways for the day. And…A hero. Yes a hero, giving signatures and taking photos as he occasionally flashes a bright smile with his handsome face. 

“Hey you.” He says, pointing to me on the sidewalk. “What's with that frown?” I go on walking, ignoring him as I raise my collar in case someone recognizes me. “Smile a bit, what's there to feel sad about?” I halt in place for a moment, reminding myself of what I need to do. Take four deep breaths. “Come on, don't be shy.” Exhale six times. “Don’t play hard to get, It's a beautiful sunny day friend!” At that, I turn, rushing towards him with hastened footsteps, pushing through the crowd circling him. “Oh, what's the hurry my guy? Do you need my help?” He asks. “You think you can do anything, don't you?” I say, causing him to raise an eyebrow, “I don't think I follow—” 

“No you don't.” I state sharply. “You  think you have the right to take even this away from me?!” he looks at me and then at the crowd, his gaze shifting from one phone camera to another. “Hey, I didn't mean to upset you man… Do you want anything? A picture? A fly-by?” my erratic breathing gets worse, I know I shouldn't say this but I do. “Give her back.” 

“Excuse me?” He says. “If you're as much of a god as you act like, then give her back—!” my rampage is cut off by a familiar voice from behind me. A soothing voice calling my name. “Hank?” I turn, and there she is, just as beautiful as the last time I saw her.

A blank page again. I am stuck at the beginning and the end. I don't even know what I'm supposed to be writing. Can I not just start in the middle? Yes, that'll make things much easier, much simpler. But what should that middle be like? A bloody struggle of life and death, or a traveler in a path paved by past events? What should the journey of the story be? An arrangement of questions to solve with minor clues, requiring the reader to piece by piece make up the full picture? No. Too tedious. A fantasy adventure about a knight? No. Too generic.

How about this for the middle?

A maze. A never ending prison of stretching and twisting halls. But why should the protagonist go inside? Why is he even there? That's the intrigue, next is motivation. A reason to keep going through the never ending escape room….Yes, an escape room will do just fine. I think I worked out the genre too. I'm going to write a horror story.

I have a lot of tragedy and dark elements in my novel, and I fear the readers might not like it. (Quick note: The story is heavily leaning towards dark fantasy genre wise, but I'm not sure if it really fits in. Take that into consideration.)

For example: The characters. A lot of them, (not all) have tragic backstories.

People who want to get access to the magic system have a fifty fifty chance to die, turning into monstrosities.

There are immortals that will perish if one does as little as sneezes on them. So they create monopolies, gather wealth, influence, power and just generally make life difficult for others just to keep living.

The average monster is either someone who failed to (As previously mentioned) get powers, or is something a random guy carelessly wished into existence.

Everything has a cost attached to it. A magical artifact someone finds from the corpse of a monster? It has downsides. Having survived the coinflip that can kill them? The powers they get has a downside. A character wants to join the immortal club? They get stripped of the setting's mana.

I think you get the idea at this point. Tell me, am I overdoing it?

He rises upon the throne of faces
a thousand mouths open in silent scream,
a thousand eyes wide in the moment of turning,
all gold, all gold, gold forevermore.
Bodies twisted into armrests, limbs fused to the backrest,
cheeks and breasts and spines melted into seamless splendor.
No crack, no seam, no mercy of decay.
The sun itself bows near him,
ashamed of its ordinary light,
for he outshines it without effort.
Golden blonde cascades blend with the metal sea beneath,
hair and beard a living river poured molten,
then cooled into eternal radiance.
The crown upon his brow, 
not forged, but grown, 
is a girl's face alone,
frozen mid-cry
lips parted in dread that will never close,
eyes that still plead though the plea is centuries old.
He wished for the touch of Midas.
Not mere riches, but everything valuable.
The god, laughing, perhaps, or pitying,
granted it exactly as the old tale warns:
a blessing that devours what it loves.

Now bread turns to bullion in his palm,
wine to chalice, water to a mirror of himself.
A child runs forward with a flower 
it stiffens, gleams, and falls heavy as a scepter.
A lover offers her hand 
fingers gild, then the wrist, then the arm,
then the heart that once beat for him
becomes a perfect, hollow ornament
on the ever-growing throne.

His servants kneel, voices trembling in reverence:
“Oh Almighty, King in Yellow and White,
your power shines brighter than the light.”
They do not see — or dare not see —
that yellow is the color of jaundice, of fading,
of warning flags before plague.
White is the pallor of bone, of marble statues,
of skin that no longer breathes.
Together they make a light too pure,
a light that sterilizes, that kills shadow
and with it all warmth.
He sits enthroned in a room without dust,
without wind, without time's gentle rust.
The sun streams through high windows,
but even it grows cautious, slanting away
as though afraid to linger too long
lest it too be claimed,
turned to another face
upon the endless, screaming seat.
He is the golden light of the sun,
they say.
Yet the sun still moves across the sky each day,
kissing fields, warming skin, allowing rot and bloom.
He does not.
He only shines fixed, flawless and fatal 
a star that has forgotten how to set.
And in the silence between their chants
he hears, very faintly,
the girl's frozen mouth
whispering still:
Undo me.

But the gift answers for him.
His own finger lifts, 
and even regret
turns to gold.

My posts keep getting deleted and the only thing reddit tells me is this: "sorry, this post was removed by reddit's filters" If you have any ideas as to what i should My posts keep getting deleted, what should i do, please tell me.

My tenants say they see strange things inside the apartment, but I want to keep the rent as is. So I inherited my family's land, sold some of it and made a two-story apartment complex. You can probably guess how great the possibility of financial liberty was to a college student. I just thought I'd be living the rest of my life happy and unbothered, get fat, maybe marry and have a few kids too. But for some god forsaken reason, my tenants keep attracting the supernatural!

There's Erik and Rob, the weed heads who keep trying to hit on Lilith. There's also a guy who I don't even remember the name of. Don't get me wrong though, he's the only good one. Didn't break a single wall, keeps his apartment clean, and hasn't called in the middle of the night chanting in Latin yet.

On top of those four I have an elderly couple and a single shut in. Despite what you might assume at first, an elderly person can cause as much, if not more trouble than a young adult. Mainly because they're more prone to possession. Last week, though, things got especially bad. And I’m pretty sure the way I handled it is why I’m in this mess now.

First, Lilith who lives right next to the elderly couple, kept sending complaints. Saying things like, “the screaming won't stop.” Or asking me to “check the sound of pounding flesh coming from the walls.” She made sure to emphasize that the sound came from the walls.

I don't get the difference but okay. When I went to check for myself, guess what? The couple were saying the same thing! So, to calm and reassure them like the good landlord I am, I stayed for a night and pretended like I didn't hear the screams of thousands. To reassure them even more, I placed some cameras in the hallways —with permission of course— to capture the “culprit”. Dont worry I made sure to pick the ones with the worst quality microphones. They needed a logical reason not to pack up and leave. So I gave them one. I always do.

I know it sounds bad but trust me, telling them the truth isn't going to help. Let me ask you this, if one day your landlord came knocking on your doorstep and said: “the walls are alive.” Or “there's a man that watches you in the shower when you're not looking.” You'd think he's crazy right? That, along with the fact that I keep them safe—for the most part—makes me feel better about the situation.

Thankfully, I had the best suspects to pin the wall incident on. Erik and Rob. Considering the fact that they can’t stay sober for their lives and have the short-term memory of goldfish, makes them prime suspect material! They can't even object since not even they know what they actually did. But Erik is a bit hard to convince. He always sticks to his rationale as he argues with me.

One of his quotes from last month, “we couldn't have possibly placed a megaphone in George's room to scare him or anything. We don't even have the keys!” that one was really hard to dismiss. But luckily, I had conveniently “lost” my set of master keys a few days back. At least that's what I told them.

Another example, “we couldn't have possibly worn pitch black clothing to just watch people from the corner of their beds. I mean what kind of fabric eats light?” I don't know who George is by the way. I think they just brought one of their friends in. I know for a fact George isn't the polite, good tenant whose name I don't remember… I know his name starts with an S… I'm sure it has an S somewhere in it. Anyway, even with the current tenants, I still have two whole empty rooms.

If any of you is looking for an apartment with the breathtaking view of a mountain and a lush, beautiful pine forest, contact me.

Back to the situation, Erik wrote me an email yesterday. Leaving a complaint regarding “the man in the shower.” I dismissed it as hallucinations and told him that he should stick to weed and not mess with crack. After that I reassured him even further. I told him that even if it's real, he'd probably be able to erase the problem with a few rounds of buckshot. I thought that was it. But then I woke up today to find that he sent me a message. The same message, for I don't know like…a hundred times or so? Begging me to read it. The message in question:

Erik: [ Sat a cabin in the pines Its lights a dimming glow, creaks came and went its smoke hung always low

The witch cooked and brewed, held her cats tightly near, In fear of the wolf that always hunted here.

Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Read Please.]

I don't know what poor soul's poem they stole, but I gotta commend their effort. They didn't pick a bad one. I know for a fact this is the addict's doing. There are no beings in the apartment capable of doing this. None of them can make a comprehensible combination of words, let alone a short poem. More importantly, dear Erik, if you're reading this, kindly put a bucket of water in the basement with your name written on it. Thank you. And second, what am I supposed to do with this? Like am I supposed to laugh? Cry? Beat myself with a hammer? What is the end goal here?

Oh and also, before a hundred copies of that he sent me this message: Erik: [ Hi Mark. I know we aren't on good terms, but can you tell that lanky wrinkled old bitch to stop messing with me? A few days ago I woke up in the middle of the night to see nothing but black. Guess what? That hag had cut the fuse! How do I know? Well, when I was walking in the hallway to fix the damn thing, I saw her. Standing near the window in the middle of the hallway like the omen of death she is.

I kept to myself and went downstairs. Lo and behold, she's right there. Standing exactly where she was on the previous floor. I continued on my way, but every time I stepped down from the staircase, I would come to the same hallway. The same her. I would see her and that stupid, ugly, ear to ear grin of her's. So logically, I shot the bitch.

As soon as she heard me fire the gun, her long saggy ears jumped up. After which she decided to throw herself out the window. Running like a deer in the headlights to the woods. But I still see her. Every time I walk down that hallway I can feel a pair of turbid gray eyes watching me. Every time I close my eyes I see her, I see her in my dreams, in every shadowy corner. She sings to me Mark. The lullaby of the woods. So I ask again, Mark, I know what you're hiding. So please, tell the granny to leave me alone.]

And that brings us to my problem. How am I supposed to deal with this? There was always a sliver of doubt, some logical explanation I could give. But as you just read, Erik knows I'm full of shit. He has the potential to leak everything to the rest of the tenants, and I still have half my student loans to pay…

The trees flash by in a blend of shadow and bark along the asphalt street. The only lights in this dark forest come from my car and the apartment on the distant hill. I'm currently driving to the complex.

I've made up my mind.

Between the unexplainable and the ordinary, only one of them pays. And I'm not going to let my life get derailed by the other. Turning the keys and grabbing my gun, I step out. Cold night breeze caresses my skin as a sign of hospitality, welcoming me back like an old friend.

Standing in front of a monolith of concrete in the middle of the mountain. Standing exactly where I stood all those years ago. Now watching the lights get turned on one by one, I can't help but shake my head.

They really did my house dirty.

So I wrote a few incantations for my novel, but feel like it might not have turned out the way I wanted. But since I have already edited them to hell and back, I'm asking you for help. Take look at them, and tell me if they are:

1: Lyrica. I wanted to create something that could be easily remembered just by its rhythm. Like a song stuck in the back of your head.

2: The length. I'm not sure if they are the proper length. Some feel really short to me, but I feel like adding more would just feel like fluff and padding. (If you feel they are long, tell me as well.)

3: Symbolism. Im not expecting a three hour analysis YouTube video. Just tell me if you think I over did symbolism.

THE ACTUAL INCANTATIONS:

Song of The Storm:

Struggle all you want, your will can not withstand. May you find peace, albeit in his depths. Ships and boats, crushed against tides and waves. Clouds will form above, blowing gales far bellow. They'll unavail your surroundings…so listen carefully, The Winds Are Howling.

Melody of Death:

Let the lady harm you, allow her embrace to warm you. For when everything perishes, like withering leafs against blowing winds, when mountains topple and seas float up to the sky; her hollow, hungry embrace, will be all left to find.

Open Curtains:

A thousand eyes open wide, to grant you the sight to see the end. The more you behold, the further you fold, and Into the madness you'll descend.

Asking for Truth:

O keeper of truths, your power greater than the suns. Grant me a part of yourself, for we have a bond.

Favor of Luck:

Lady of Black and Green. Your love is a basket of thorns. Your wrath as ever consuming as ivy, a rapacious need for another try. Your grace a bouquet of peony, an ephemeral winning spree. At best we're like the rest. Another side, another mess. The match is set, but I am still willing to bet. Give us your blessing, queen of fortune.