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Magnum Opus

Prologue

When God writes a Story,

It is filled with hardship, miracles and challenges

When the Devil writes a Story,

It is polluted by temptation, sin and damnation.

Let the average man write a Story,

And they will only go so far as their imagination lets them.

Let No One write a story,

And experience a tale where nothing and everything is possible,

Where all you need is a pen.

The Appendix

The soft trickle of water echoed in the vast canyon-like expanse. Still, reflective ankle-deep waters stretched from horizon to horizon. Intimidating stone monoliths rose all around him, each one a spire of coppery rock that had been smoothed over centuries by weather and erosion. Stripes from every eon that had passed marked the sides of each of these towering, silent giants that reached up to a sky that was obscured and blurred by a pale, teal fog. Though it was bright, no sun was visible. Now that Cliff looked down, he could not even see his own shadow. Just his reflection in the strangely reflective waters.

Starting back at him was the 23-year-old English Major graduate that worked at the local library. Dark brown hair sprouted from his head with a reddish tinge to the wavy curl that swept from his right temple across to his left. His angular features and heavy brow shrouded bright green eyes. A lightly muscled body built from riding his bike every day to the library since he was fourteen years of age was compacted beneath a black shirt with a large, inverted green triangle pointing towards his navel. A brown belt hung around his waist where he kept a small, brown, leather satchel that normally housed his phone. Black trousers with a few purposefully torn and worn design on his thighs and shins hid his fit legs.

“Where…?" he mumbled in his soft, raspy tenor. That sole word bounced around the walls of the seemingly endless and empty canyon. Hanging around dusty books for a good portion of his life had developed his voice into a bit of a gravelly tone. Many thought he smoked but he never touched nicotine in his life.

The stone fingers and this eerily calm lake seemed to stretch on forever. A maze of natural beauty and mystery. There was nothing in the air. No scent of silt baked in the hot sun, no heaviness from humidity or even any semblance of freshness from the water. Even though it was so bright, his skin didn't prickle like it normally did given how pale he was.

“Me oh my, what is that I spy?"

The playful and melodic voice made him jump and turn his gaze upwards.

From above and from the misty sky dropped two figures.

The one on the right was a ghostly, wispy being whose lower half was a whirlwind of twisting, silken ribbons that were too many to count or seemed to change number every time Cliff tired to actively keep track of them. As they twisted in the nonexistent wind, they shifted in hue from an almost transparent white to a deep, abyssal blue. These ribbons were clamped around the slim waist of the entity by a silvery cummerbund that looked like it was crafted by the most skilled of silversmiths to look like a tangle of feathered wings that, like the ribbons, seemed to shift and change in number every time it was perceived. The upper torso of the creature was indiscernible in gender as it was masked in a long, gaseous cloak with no apparent arms or other features save for a deep, red and black diamond that sat where the center of its chest would be. This jewel seemingly clamped the cloud it was wearing as a coat over its body. A blue-white nimbus of fire that tailed off into what looked like a fading scrawl of letters in different languages served as its head, two dark eyes as deep as the gem on its chest symbolizing its gaze.

The other, on the left, was the direct opposite. It was covered in a long, black robe with bright red highlights. Every color was defined sharply and the edges of its coat were ragged and torn. Flakes of the fabric seemed to fall off and dissolve into a reddish-black scrawl much like the head of the other. While predominantly black, a red sash ran down the middle of the left creature's robe, billowing in the mind. The sleeves of this creature ran all the way down to the ends of its arms, concealing its hands completely. Around its waist hung a belt made of three interlocking and criss-crossing golden chains which seemed to constantly be moving, rotating around the spirit's waist. Like the other, its gender was indiscernible. A spherical gem sat at the center of its chest, glowing with a blue-white glow. It's head was a deep, consuming abyss; a black shadow that radiated a sinister red flare like an angry crimson sun with a darkened core. However, within this head were kind eyes the same color as the gem it held on its chest.

“Who are you!?" Cliff demanded, taking a step back away from the descending creatures.

Both spirits stopped just short of their lower extremities touching the reflective surface of the still river.

“We are Constants of the Narrative," answered the one on the left. Though it had no mouth, Cliff just knew that it was speaking. It's voice was a strange mix of a woman with a more tenor's voice and a deep, masculine baritone. “We have always been. We always will be. For we are part of the Magnum Opus."

The other spirit, the blue-white one on the right, spoke next. It spoke with a lighter tone; a woman's light-hearted falsetto and a man's bright tenor.

“I am the color of words unsaid,

Story told through whimsy,

Tales in lines between read,

I am known as Poetry."

Then the left spirit, the red and black one bluntly said, “And I am Prose."

Poetry and Prose _…?_ Cliff thought to himself. This can't be real…

“Okay…" he rumbled softly. “My name is Cliff. Cliff…" He frowned, glancing down at his reflection in the water. “Cliff… I… I should have a surname but…"

“Then it has already started," said Prose grimly.

“What has?" he asked.

“Your essence consumed," Poetry said.

“To feed a Story unfinished.

Unwritten you will subsumed,

Identity of own diminished."

Cliff scratched the back of his left ear, a nervous habit he had developed a while ago when hiding in the back of the library reading stories that he was not allowed to read. His nerves and paranoia would always build and it would somehow culminate in a sense of heat behind his left ear which he would rub to dissipate.

“Something is eating away at who I am?" he asked, his voice growing increasing desperate. “And it made me forget my surname? What? Where the hell even am I?"

“The Appendix this place is called,

A place between the pages.

Within time beyond is stalled,

Delay not lest the Holder rages."

Prose hovered forward a little, ahead of it's brighter twin. “What is the last thing you remember, Cliff?"

He furrowed his brow, pinching his nose as he tried to remember. “I… I was going to D. E. Oaks' place." Then his green eyes snapped open and he snapped a finger in realization. “That's right! I had submitted a short story as part of a competition to world-famous author Desmond Eli Oaks!" A bit of pride rose from his chest as he beamed. “He's the guy that brought erotic novels to the mainstream! He's sold billions of copies of his books all over the world! Not only are they fantastic reads for their plot but they are some of the most steamy and pornographic novels out there!"

“Is that right?" Prose asked darkly.

“Yeah!" Cliff exclaimed happily. “When he was starting out, there was this push against his works. Critics said that he's peddling smut to children and stuff but the fact that he actually created multiple editions of his books with some of them that do not contain the smutty stuff is a brilliant marketing strategy! He's actually sold multiple copies of his books because of it!"

“Then that is where the others must have ended up."

Tilting his head to the side, Cliff asked, “The… others?"

Poetry hovered to the side, turning to face the giant monoliths.

“Many have touched these hallowed waters,

All have been lost to the Story or the Unwritten.

The Magnum Opus does not choose who it slaughters,

You but have a choice to live in Story or be smitten."

He backed away a step. “So… you're saying others came here and they have a choice to be part of this 'Story' you're talking about or be killed?"

His eyes drifted across the enormous stone columns that looks so natural. However, as he looked closer, he noticed that there was something… odd about them. Stepping closer to one of the monoliths, he noticed that there were faint etches across their surface. Following these tracings upwards, he noticed that the closer to the top where they vanished into the fog, these drawings grew more and more defined. They weren't just typical writing.

Shock immediately filled him and his jaw fell open.

These towers… they're… they're not just made from natural erosion! They're… they're sculptures!

The etchings grew more and more defined closer to the top. Shapes grew clearer. Images were crisper. It was almost possible to make out the mosaic of images and artistry that they were depicting before they vanished into the fog.

The young college major shook his head. “Wait… I remember that I actually won that competition from D.E Oaks. I went to his place. Flew all the way to Nebraska for a summer as his assistant! He was going to mentor me."

Cliff frowned, crossing his arms in deep though. “I remember knocking on his door. Never expected him to be this big bear of a man. He seemed nice enough. He showed me around his place and then he asked me if I wanted to see his…" Then his eyes widened in shock. “… his Magnum Opus."

“And that is where he got you," Prose sighed mournfully. “You are within the Magnum Opus_. It is a magical artifact of exceptional power. Long ago, it was intended as a writing aid. The Holder would be able to simply hold the book and its pages would write out the very scenes that the holder would imagine._"

“Imagine your most gorgeous scenery," Poetry lamented.

“Given form in excruciating detail.

A novel and benevolent tool in theory.

But in ages gone, intent and use did derail."

“What happened?" Cliff asked.

Prose slowly began to drift one of the paths, beckoning to Cliff to follow. The young, lost adult followed. As they walked with Poetry bringing up the rear, he could see that Prose was leading him to a pillar of light in the near distance. Strange images began to dance across the surface of the mirror-like water, scenes playing out with every step he took.

A man who looked like he was a Pharaoh of Ancient Egypt, holding up a large scroll towards another person and that person being sucked into the parchment. Then a woman in ancient Greek attire who was holding a tome towards a group of men and watching them scream and scramble away from the power of the book. A wizard draining others into the book. A queen doing the same to her enemies.

More and more of these scenes played out until…

… the book fell into a heavily bearded man who now held the book.

Desmond Eli Oaks.

“Somewhere throughout history, mortals realized that if they willed the Magnum Opus to imprison someone within its pages, then if brought in close proximity to that person, it would draw that person in," Prose said grimly. “The original intent was simply for imprisonment but soon, the Holders of the book would use it to torture the souls trapped within, extract information from them or even create entire fantastical worlds that they would be forced to participate in."

“The Story…" Cliff breathed, his voice quaking in terrified realization. “But why would D. E. Oaks do this? Why did he trap me here!? What did I ever do to him?"

Poetry approached him, its gentle, hidden hands reaching out and grasping his shoulders from behind. A light sense of calm entered him from the spirit's cool touch.

“It is not what you did to him,

But rather what you can offer.

His spark of imagination is dim,

Victims' unwilling do they confer."

Cliff pulled back, holding a hand against his chest incredulously. “He wants my imagination?"

“Why he does it, we can only speculate," Prose continued darkly. “However, the current Holder of the Magnum Opus has trapped many young and aspiring writers like you within the book."

In the images on the silvery water, he saw other young men wandering the same path as him. They were being led by Poetry and Prose into large stone monoliths but each one looked more like a true sculpture. A beam of light jutted out from the tip of the spire coming from a door. As those men disappeared into the spire, the light would fade. Then time and erosion would take its toll and the tower would be worn into the smooth, featureless fingers that now sat around them.

“Our purposes have changed from Holder to Holder but we know we must guide you to the Story that he has been built for you," continued Prose. “Within, you will play a role. You have no choice. It is your new life. Your old one is forfeit."

“What?" Cliff demanded, his voice rising in panic. “Why? What does he get from all this?"

“He provides the foundation of the Story. A rough outline. Story beats for you to follow. A beginning, middle and an end. The Plot. You have to fill in the gaps."

Cliff grit his teeth in anger.

Is… is he using me to write his story for him!? Making me live out the story so… so what? He can publish it!?

Prose stopped. Cliff came up beside the sprite. In front of him, jutting out of the mercury-like waters was his spire. A colossal tower made of chiseled rock sculpted with meticulous care and masterful craftsmanship. Like the other spires he had seen in the river, this one had an archway at its center from which the spire of light originated. To the left of this portal stood an enormous grizzly bear, its jaws open, claws out and seemingly reaching across the gap of the arch. On the right stood a heavily muscled man wielding two axes, sporting a thick beard and screaming at the bear, his outstretched axes meeting the bear's claws to form an arch over the door. At their feet were what appeared to be a sleeping woman and a children. Opposite to them were a pair of bear cubs that were similarly slumbering. These four formed steps leading up to the tower. Above the bear and man were a variety of other figures which were quickly being obscured by the fog above them.

Is… Is that my monolith? The Story I'm meant to fill?

“And if I refuse?" Cliff asked defiantly.

“The Opus does not ask," Poetry answered grimly.

“But it will also not be beaten.

Live the Story and fulfill your task,

Lest you invoke the Unwritten."

Cliff regarded Poetry with confusion. “Who or what are the Unwritten?"

A dark gurgling and bubbling noise rose up from behind him. Cliff spun. Horror gripped his heart. Strange, oozing globules began emerged in the middle of the space behind him. Each one dripped purplish-black ichor that landed on the surface of the mirror-like river. From within each one sprouted hollow, white eyes; featureless, emotionless and soulless. Clawed hands jutted out from the pools, each one dripping with the same ooze.

“Enforcers of the Narrative," Poetry explained. “Born of the Ink."

“Power of the Opus_, Holder_'s will manifest.

Naturally they sleep, defy and they wake from the brink.

Corrupts all to the Holder's will, defiance they detest."

Cliff staggered back, pulling away from the emerging monsters while drawing closer to the glimmering door. The creatures that emerged were tall, thin, wiry. Each one look like someone had barely sketched out a vaguely humanoid being with a single stroke. They appeared almost two dimensional with bents legs that ended in sharp points, somehow impossibly holding up their five-foot figures. Their backs were arched in animalistic curves and their long arms looked like they were built completely out of purplish-black ribbons that ended in five crooked, bladed fingers. Each of their heads were vaguely pointed and ended in a curl-like twist at the top of their ends like the flourish at the end of a particularly artistic form of calligraphy. Those hollow, white eyes glared at Cliff, freezing him in place.

“Hurry," urged Prose. “Step through the portal. You need to start the Story. The Holder of the Magnum Opus grows impatient. He is eager to have his next Story start."

He turned and glared at the dark sprite. “I thought time stood still here!"

“For us, yes, but the Holder is one of us. Connected to the Magnum Opus_. He is here with us. Watching us. Do not keep him waiting._"

Cliff shook his head in defiance. “No! You expect me to just jump into some story someone else wrote for me?" He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “I know the kinds of stories that Oaks writes about! And while it'll be hot to have sweaty, muscle sex with another guy, I'm not going to have it published all over the goddamn world!"

For a second, Prose and Poetry seemed stunned by his proclamation.

“I admired Oaks!" he barked. “Like I said, he brought erotic fiction into the mainstream. He taught the world that it's okay to be horny! That it's okay to have these fantasies! He taught the world to be more accepting! Showed even the conservatives and highly-religious people that it's natural to have sex and have desires!" He lowered his arms, gazing at his own reflection in the mirror-like waters. “… That it's okay to be gay…"

With renewed conviction, he lifted his gaze and glared defiantly at the two spirits floating beside the entrance of the door to the Story.

“So if you're here with us, Oaks, listen to me! You don't have to do this! You don't need me to write your masterpieces! You're already an amazing storyteller!"

Then pain. A radiating agony that pulsed out of his chest. His eyes drifted downwards… and found the five spikes of one of the Unwritten's claws jutting out of his chest. Instead of blood, however, there oozed the same purplish-black ichor that the monsters had emerged from. It was creeping through the wound, seeping into his veins… and crawling across the corners of his vision.

Oh… Oh no.

The same dark goo pooled at his feet. What stability the water had provided faded away and he suddenly plunged a foot into the ooze. Tendrils of this inky substance reached out, grabbing his thighs and pulling him down.

Poetry danced across his vision. “Such a pity,

To die without ever stepping into a Story.

You ended too quickly,

Rejoice that your death is not too gory."

Then there was Prose. He reached out for the spirits but he was dragged deeper and deeper into the Ink.

“The Holder will be displeased to have put so much effort to crafting your Story and you being too stubborn to have even tried it. Some would have taken the opportunity to delve into the adventure. Yet you defied him. This is on you."

Then, all went dark.

The Synopsis

Within the spinning labyrinth of the place simply called the Synopsis, Desmond Eli Oaks sat at his desk. In front of him was an immense paperback book resting on a slanted lectern. The heavy-set man with a large, thick, brown beard that hung down to his chest with a streak of silver running from his bottom lip right down the middle regarded the words shimmering in front of him on the lightly tan pages. His deep, blue eyes narrowed slightly behind his small, rounded, black glasses that sat on his hook nose.

His lips peeled apart beneath his bushy beard, showing bright, straight teeth.

“Oh you poor, short-sighted child," rumbled the author. “I know I'm an amazing storyteller. You, however, watch far too many young-adult movies and anime."

With a swish of the shimmering, crystal quill in his hand, the book in front of him closed.

“… and you are a disappointment," rumbled the ruthless author. With an exaggerated sigh, he placed his fingers on his temples. “I had such high hopes for you. Your short story was so hopeful, so filled with idealism. I had crafted the perfect Story for a bright and doe-eyed youngster like you. And you threw it all away… Pity."

In Between the Pages

Cliff gasped. His hands immediately scrambled to his chest, expecting to feel pain or even the holes that the Unwritten had made against his torso… but nothing. A glance down and he found his shirt was still intact. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary… except that he found himself sitting on a bench facing a broad, shimmering lake. All around him was lush greenery and a clear, blue sky. Distant mountains with silvery peaks glimmered between fluffy, white clouds. Emerald blades of grass tickled at his ankles.

“Where am I now…?" he asked.

“A place I thought would be a little more appealing to you."

He turned to his right and was greeted by a young man, perhaps in his early twenties. The guy had lightly tanned skin and was dressed in a black shirt and denim jeans. His eyes were hidden behind silvery wrap-around sunglasses while his black hair was only interrupted by golden-blond streaks running through his temples.

“Mind if I sit here?" asked the man, gesturing at the seat beside Cliff.

“Yeah, I guess," he rumbled, inching away from the stranger. “Who are you?"

The man scratched his head for a moment. “Hmm… I guess you can call me 'Realism'. Pleased to meet you, Cliff Bolt."

The sound of his surname brought back a sense of strength like he had just been injected with a dozen shots of adrenaline. Cliff sat straight up and regarded 'Realism' with a surprising look.

“What… What did you do?"

“Just reminded you of who you were," answered the stranger. “And quietly hoping that you'd have a chance to stop this insanity once and for all."

“Insanity?" he repeated. Then, recalling what happened, his eyes widened. “Oaks and the Magnum Opus!"

“Indeed." Though he couldn't see the stranger's eyes, he could tell there was sadness behind those silvery glasses. “Sad as it is to say, the book is not to blame for how it is used and it certainly isn't entirely Oaks' fault that he is using it the way he is. He just inherited it."

Cliff remained quiet, waiting for Realism to explain.

The mysterious stranger lifted a hand, shrugging the same shoulder absently. “At its very core, the Magnum Opus was used as an implement to help people create the worlds of their wildest dreams. Over time, that purpose has been rewritten as a means to escape death or at least to implement a way to go out the way you want it to. But times change. Someone found a way to capitalize on its unique properties."

“I thought it was a writing tool," Cliff said. “You hold it and it'd write the stories that you always imagined."

Raising a finger, Realism said, “Indeed but if that was it's only ability from the very beginning, then where did this ability to drag people into the book come from?" The stranger shook his head. “No. The Magnum Opus has always had this ability. The true intention behind it was to craft a story beyond the limits of reality on its blank pages and then, when you were comfortable with how the story would end, step within its pages and live the story you had crafted. From beginning to end. You would not be able to enter the book unless your story had all the components of a fictional narrative." The stranger smiled at Cliff. “You know what those components are, right?"

Cliff scratched his cheek, recalling the various forms of structure that he had learned about back in college. “There's many structures but I guess they could be boiled down to three parts. The Setup, the Confrontation and the Resolution."

Realism chuckled. “Always threes… Though I agree, there are many different structures you could use, the Magnum Opus was made centuries ago when the most basic forms of storytelling could be reduced to those three components. If you have all those three, then you could enter the book. Find your story with the guidance of Poetry and Prose and then live your 'second life' in a world of your own making."

The man's eyes drifted downwards towards the shimmering waters of the lake. “The Opus would continue to record your adventures within the reality it has crafted for all to read. But eventually, the Story would have to end. Then the next person would take a hold of the Opus and the cycle would begin again. At least… that was the intention."

Cliff straightened a little as a realization dawned on him “I guess people realized that they didn't need to be the ones to enter the book, huh?"

Realism gave him a dark smile. “Correct." Lifting his head, the stranger looked out towards the distant mountains. “Tyrants would craft the most bare bone of narratives just to extract information out of enemies. They would trap political prisoners in seemingly endless loops and take joy from their struggles. And, of course, recently writers would force people into their worlds to act out Stories they have crafted to inject them with a degree of 'realism' and copy down the results."

The young man's eyes widened in terror. “That's what happened to me! Oaks trapped me in the Magnum Opus and he… he…" His eyes drifted back down towards his chest. “… he killed me."

Realism let out a little chuckle. “Oaks can't be entirely blamed for his actions. Again, he was taught this demonic way of using the Opus by his mentor. He was promised the greatest form of inspiration, an unprecedented source of writing mastery so long as he could continue the tradition of trapping people into Stories and having his victims play out their roles." The stranger tilted his head a little to the side, a bitter smile on his lips. “Perhaps he grew impatient. Fame and fortune can make someone's drive for excellence and achievement become a demon of gluttony and lust, after all. The way he killed you was rather unfair. Barely gave you all the facts or gave you a chance. He threw the Unwritten at you almost immediately."

“Not that I could do anything about it…" sighed Cliff, lowering his arms and letting them slump into the wooden frame of the bench. “… either I die by the Unwritten or I die in the Story that he crafted for me. Either way, I had no choice in the matter."

“Everyone always has a choice." Beneath the stranger's silvery glasses, Cliff thought he caught a glimmer of blue. “It's just a matter of realizing you have it and wielding it as your weapon."

Slowly, Cliff lifted his head. “What are you saying?"

Realism stretched out his hand. From it, a burst of light and wispy particles erupted from his fingertips. Ribbons made out of constantly changing letters from languages he didn't recognize spiraled horizontally from his palm. The shimmering brilliance solidified into a long, black grip that ended in a large, golden pommel that was shaped like a fountain pen. A cross-guard jutted from the grip in the shape of a 'V' made of the same gold as the pommel. From the guard jutted a long, wide blade that was divided right down the middle about halfway down the edge, the cut ending in a large circle.

“This is the Archetype," Realism said, holding out the weapon to Cliff. “It is the power of choice made manifest. The ability to write your own story." He jostled the weapon lightly. “If you want to get out of here, take it."

Cliff reached out and grabbed the blade. “Hell yeah, I want to get out of here!"

A surge of power ran up from the blade and coursed down his arm, filling his chest and spreading throughout the rest of his body. The winds around him kicked up, rushing up from his feet and blasting a few stray blades of grass into the air.

Realism smiled. “About time you picked someone."

“Huh?" Cliff asked.

“Nothing," said the stranger, waving away the comment. “The Archetype is part of you now. Use it to carve through the Unwritten. They are raw Ink, unformed and rough ideas that Oaks uses to shape the lands and worlds within the Magnum Opus to his own desires. Use the Archetype to draw the Ink they are made of into yourself and then rewrite the story the way you want it to."

“Wait…" Cliff blurted. “You want me to go into the Story that Oaks made for me!? Isn't that defeating the entire purpose of trying to escape?"

Realism gave him a little smile. “Despite everything he's done, Oaks is still a writer. Some part of him is written into the Story he's created. A desire. A fantasy. A stray thought. Something. Find that part of him. Exorcise it. Claim the Story for yourself and then you can end the Story yourself, giving yourself an exit back to the Appendix. Oaks will no doubt throw more Stories at you but if you claim enough of the book for yourself, you will become its master. Then you can write yourself an exit."

Claim the Magnum Opus for himself from within the book. The rules of this world were still very foreign to him but he had no reason to distrust Realism. Unless, of course, this was just all part of the Story that Oaks had set for him. Still, he had no other options in front of him. Realism was the only one that seemed to even be remotely helpful to him so he didn't see what else he could do.

Standing, Cliff said, “Alright. I'll do it. I'll take the Opus from Oaks from within his own Stories!"

The stranger leaned back on the bench, draping one arm across the back of the seat. “Just be careful not to lose yourself in the Story," warned Realism. “He's going to realize pretty soon what you're trying to do. He'll try all sorts of tactics to try and dissuade you. Tempt you with better worlds. Greater possibilities. Power. Fortune. Threaten you. Force you to make connections and then threaten those connections. He might even try and make a realistic world and trick you into thinking you'd broken yourself free. But just remember one thing…"

Realism pointed at Cliff's chest.

“The power to write a story always rests within your own hands. Your writing, your story, your way."

Cliff nodded grimly at the helpful stranger. “Before I go… How do I know this isn't just one of his machinations? I mean, you really haven't told me who you are."

Realism smiled at him, lowering his glasses a little to reveal his deep, blue eyes beneath… and the black pupils that formed an eight-pointed star.

“There are somethings that even the Magnum Opus cannot capture, Cliff Bolt," said the stranger ominously. “Things that transcend time, space and reality itself. Part of you was already here, in this crossroads, when Oaks dragged you into that cheap ripoff that is called the Magnum Opus. But when you died within the book, you crossed all the way here. And now? I'm sending you back."

“Sending me back…?" Cliff breathed, gasping softly. “Are… are you God?"

Realism threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. “No, kiddo. Far from it. I'm…"

His grin broadened.

“I'm no one."

Oaks' Mansion

Desmond Eli Oaks stepped out of the Synopsis and back to his study in his isolated mansion. With a disappointed sigh, he regarded the ancient magical item that his mentor had bequeathed onto him. He remembered that old man's last words to him before passing the book to him for ownership.

'Let me live my tale my way. Give that to me in exchange for the key to your success and godhood.'

It broke his heart to open the book and suck the frail man who had been on his death bed into the tome. But from what he had read, he had lived an entirely new life that was rich, fulfilling and heroic.

That story had also been the first series that had catapulted D. E. Oaks into the world stage. It didn't contain the erotic themes that his more modern works possessed and had earned him the moniker of the 'Poet of Pornography'. But it had been the stepping stone. Even if the prudes out there had decried his overly sexual themes, his stories had only spread far and wide thanks to the controversy. After twenty years of writing, of dragging people from all different walks of life into the Magnum Opus, he had achieved a level of fame and fortune that few could ever hope to achieve.

Oaks leaned back in his study chair, regarding the average-looking tablet in front of him. The Magnum Opus changed shape across the centuries. All so that it never stood out. It would be strange if some ancient civilization began utilizing it when paper hadn't even been invented or if he was lugging around an ancient tome wherever he went.

In the present day, the Magnum Opus took the same of a thin electronic tablet with a reddish-black frame but without any clear on-button and no means of recharging it. No plugs, no ports, no cameras.

Such was the mystery around it.

He sighed and straightened.

“And here I had hoped a fresh, young college student who was my 'biggest fan' would add a fresh, new twist to my Story," he sighed, scratching at his thick beard. “Perhaps I should have vetted my candidate more. Make a more appealing world and showed him what was possible."

It was a new approach he had seen bear fruit in recent times. It wasn't the first time he had spontaneously found someone that showed that 'spark' of creativity and he pulled into the Magnum Opus. That level of innocence, lack of foreknowledge and spontaneity injected a level of urgency and realism into his characters and their stories. In this bitter world, so many young people were itching to be 'chosen' or to just wake up suddenly to realize that they were special. But that was quickly wearing thin.

His resources couldn't make people 'disappear' forever.

“I should go back to terminally ill or old people wishing for a new lease on life," he rumbled, scratching his beard. “I'm feeling another 'daddy' itch."

Just as he was thinking this, the screen on the tablet suddenly sprang to life. His brown eyes switched over to it and widened beneath his bushy eyebrows.

“What…?" he breathed.

Without warning, a brilliant, golden light sprang from the Magnum Opus and words began scribbling across the surface.

“What is this…!?" he blurted.

He plunged his hand towards the device, diving into the device itself just like his mentor had taught him. Within seconds, he was once again within the Synopsis and he rushed towards the lectern where his Story sat. There, right before his eyes, he watched as Cliff Bolt erupted from the Ink back in the Appendix wielding a silvery blade…

“The… Archetype…?"

The Appendix

A blistering light erupted from the depths of the Ink. Poetry and Prose recoiled, drifting backwards towards the gate into the Story. The Ink roiled, twisting into an angry, bubbling mess as the light pushed it back and dispelled it. The light cut a swathe upwards, a nimbus of light that illuminated the Appendix. The twin spirits gasped in unison as the dark Ink was pushed back, the Unwritten scrambling away into their holes in fear.

Holding the light was the latest victim of D. E. Oaks.

Cliff, panting but healthy and seemingly unharmed lowered the Archetype in his hands. The young man rose to his feet, staring defiantly at the two spirits.

“What!?" blurted Prose. “What is this? How did you escape the Ink!? That should be impossible!"

“The Holder will not like this, no no," lamented Poetry.

“In direct defiance to the laws of the Opus!

But this could be a change, oh! Oh!"

Perhaps a change of destiny for us!"

“You've got that fucking right!" roared Cliff, pointing the pointed blade in the direction of the swirling pools of gooey ink. “You hear that Oaks!? You made a mistake by dragging me into this! All I wanted to do was to see you work, to learn from you and then you decide to use me to fuel your next great work?"

He pointed the blade in the direction of the gate. “Well fuck that! I'm going to make this Story my own! You're not going to use me! It'll be my Story!"

Spying the oozing black Ink around his feet, Cliff jabbed the Archetype into the goo. The dark, writhing mass shifted and recoiled, turning oily and becoming a constant mix of different colors like each hue refused to cooperate with one another. The Ink seeped into the tip of the Archetype, filling the fountain-pen-like sword until not a drop remained near him.

Poetry lunged forward in utter surprise.

“He has control of the Ink!

This has never been possible before!

What would the Holder think?

I wonder if it is capable of more?"

Prose shifted, drifting towards the gate. “Quickly now!" demanded the spirit. “I can feel the Holder's anger, frustration and fear! Controlling the Ink from within the Appendix should not be possible but somehow, you are able to! But I'd rather you not test your abilities here."

The blue-white spirit that was Poetry hovered behind Cliff, gently ushering him towards the gate.

“You claim to make the Story your own,

So through the gate you must go.

Great potential and power you have shown,

But it will be a waste if you run slow."

Cliff peered past the spirit. Bigger and angrier pools of Ink were growing beyond the spirit and they were bleeding more and more of the dark goo onto the Appendix. He turned and bolted for the gate.

He stopped at the threshold however.

“Why are you two even helping me?" he demanded. “Aren't you supposed to be enacting the Holder's will or something?"

“We play to the rules of the Magnum Opus," Prose responded. “We guide. We do not act. We do as we are told by the rules currently set by the Holder. The rules state we lead you to the gate."

“We neither act for your ill or benefit," intoned Poetry with a gentle hum to its tone.

“But it does not mean we must enjoy what we do.

Now hurry, through the gate or your life is forfeit.

Worry not of us for so long as a Story exists, we do too."

Cliff nodded in understanding. The twin spirits were products of Oaks' rules. Entities created to convince his victims to go through the gates and into the Stories. It did not mean they were not without their own conscience on the matter.

“You two better not turn out to be the remnants of the other victim's consciousnesses or something," he announced. “Or I swear, I am coming back and using this thing on your ass!"

Then he turned, glaring at the blistering light of the gate before him. Part of him wondered why Oaks just didn't delete the portal into his Story now that he knew that he was a threat. Maybe the mad author had some sort of sick sense of curiosity to see how this played through. Or perhaps Oaks didn't have that power now that it was within the Opus. No matter how thin or flimsy the premise, even the shell of a story constituted a measure of time and effort. It was not easy to discard a concept even one designed to trap a soul.

Cliff gripped the Archetype tightly.

“Get ready, Oaks!" he roared. “Here I come!"

One step at a time, he charged into the light of the gate… and his first Story.