This is a short story I wrote for a writing contest by Wolf Grove Media, deadline 31 May 2024. It had a maximum word count of 5000, speculative fiction, and had to be about a mysterious book that offers painful dilemmas to its reader upon contact with blood. It was written in a single evening, then edited on the morning of the deadline half a year later.
I loved the writing prompt—a very easy way to get story and conflict going. After writing the first chapter or two, however, I feel like I ran out of steam and struggled to close it out in the most satisfying way. The reveals and ideas are still solid to me, as is the unique writing style, but upon reflection the middle part is probably what caused them to not include this story in their anthology. If you’ve read it, let me know your feedback!
You can read the full story on this page, or download the PDF document to read in some other way: A Second Life.
The pages must be filled, the pages must be filled.
Ah! A new face! Young, this time. A girl. She seems eager and interested. Look at those naïve, glassy eyes. Yes, yes, she will be a fine subject.
She ruffles my pages. They’ll all be blank to her right now. But the pen! Notice the pen! And its symbol! You want to pick it up, right? You want to—
She doesn’t. She just frowns and turns me upside-down, inside-out. Even after shaking me several times, nearly ripping me apart, she’s still convinced something will fall out when she tries next time.
I can’t communicate unless she uses the blood pen. Damn magic rules. No, no, I shouldn’t—soon enough, that same magic will bring me the greatest gift of all.
She picks up the pen. Now we’re getting somewhere. Go on, go on.
“Ouch!”
Just the cutest little ouch. Yes, she will be great.
A tiny needle at the side of the pen punctures her thumb. Tiny droplets of blood rapidly cover its metallic surface. Until one falls onto my blank page.
Within a heartbeat, I absorb it to write my message, mixing several calligraphic fonts. It’s been a while; I’m out of practice.
Greetings, beautiful girl. Would you please tell me your name?
“Melissa,” she says out loud. They always say it out loud first. Then she realizes her mistake and writes it down instead. She’s quick of mind, this one. Terrific.
Melissa, I am glad you found me. Do not be scared. You are my only hope for completing a crucial mission.
“What mission?” Even as she writes, she keeps mumbling the words. Her breathing is ragged, her cheeks flushed red. The tip of her nose almost touches the page.
Her hand shifts around on the pen, but there’s always another tiny needle to generate blood drops. She hasn’t figured that out yet. Let’s keep her distracted.
I am a Time Traveler, imprisoned in this book for breaking the laws of the Time Truth Agency. Their laws also prohibit me from influencing your world directly. But I can give advice and ask you to make decisions.
She cocks her head as she tries to understand me.
A faint knock on the door. I can only see and hear what’s directly in front of my pages, but I’ve determined with some certainty that I am in a dusty attic.
“I’m coming, mom,” she yells over her shoulder. She pushes a chair to block the doorway in case someone tries to enter anyway.
“Why? What’s wrong, Time Traveler?”
It takes her a while to write it, even though she is curious and eager. Her hands shake and her letters are deformed and uncertain. Perhaps I misjudged her age and she has barely learned to write.
I have seen this world ending. I have seen it ending in fire, and death, and pain, and screaming. I want to prevent it. With your help, we CAN prevent it. Will you join me?
“Ouch! What’s with this pen?”
With a disgusted expression, she throws the heavy object onto the page. Her hand is covered in a thin layer of blood.
“I … I guess I’ll join you. I don’t know. What do I do? Who are you?”
I can’t respond, little girl. Not unless you use the pen to write your message. I kick and scream at the boundaries of my prison, but they yield not one bit. This is the prison I made for myself. After all this time, acceptance still seems a distant dream.
I must wait patiently for her to understand.
She tentatively picks up the pen with just the tips of two fingers and writes, in nearly unrecognizable handwriting: “Can you respond if I don’t use the pen?”
No. I can’t even—
The blood runs out. Absorbed by the pages until you can’t tell there was any at all. But the pages grow heavier, they grow thicker, they fill with the life and strength of all that came before.
The pages must be filled, the pages must be filled.
She sets her jaw and grunts through the pain, replenishing the blood drops. Another knock on the door. She hastily writes her final message.
“Tell me what to do.”
Your mother is a biologist and researcher. You know she has worked tirelessly on some great project for five years now. She will unleash a deadly virus tomorrow, by accident, ruining the planet within a week. You cannot persuade her or change her mind, I’ve seen all attempts and they fail. You must kill her to prevent this and sacrifice her blood to me.
Her jaw drops. She freezes, then smashes the pen against the wall.
Somebody kicks the attic door, forcing their way in. The chair holding it back crumbles as if made of sand. Melissa rises to her feet and looks into her mother’s eyes, trembling, hair glued to her face in sweaty strands.
Her mother smiles. She seems in a good mood, despite her daughter’s weird antics, and has forgotten to take off her lab coat.
“If all goes well, dear,” she says, “we will celebrate an amazing achievement tomorrow. I couldn’t wait and already started. I made your favorite food! So come eat with us.”
“What … what kind of achievement, mom?” Melissa whispers.
“Oh, it’s complicated. Something about cells, and illness, and the immune system. But we’ve found something huge.” Her mother giggles as if she were still Melissa’s age. Her left hand holds a platter with a colorful piece of cake.
“No.” Melissa whimpers. “No, no, no.”
“What? What’s—”
“Sorry, mom. Really, really sorry.”
Melissa turns around and jumps out of the attic window, landing several meters lower with an extremely painful crunch. Even for me. Especially for me.
#
The ink must be replenished, the ink must be replenished.
Melissa’s jump was … unexpected. Her death altered the course of her mother’s life enough to prevent any of the events foretold. Still, that was far from the desired outcome for my partner trapped inside the book.
The happy family of Melissa is broken. They switched jobs, changed houses, moved countries. The book and I were separated in the chaos.
I would call it heavenly bliss, if I wouldn’t need that damn book to get rid of my pen-shaped prison.
Footsteps. I can only see what’s directly in front of my tip, as if I were a telescope pointed at one particular area. After all this time, I only figured out that I am in a shop of some kind, but certainly not on the front shelves.
A nose. An eye. Fingertips. Now the faces of a young man and a middle-aged man, from a distance. Yes! Someone takes an interest in me!
I am picked up, then immediately dropped. Voices.
“The legend goes,” the shopkeeper says gleefully, “that this pen belonged to a time traveler. When held, it writes out predicted events. Surely you can see why I won’t let go of it for less than a fortune, even for my dearest grandson.”
“I’m not paying that much for a made-up legend,” the man says.
“Well, Patrick, try it then.”
The shopkeeper steps back, revealing his empty hands as if to say: no tricks from me.
The man snorts and grabs me. The tiniest drop of blood allows me to gain control and steer his hand. Wall. Paper. Cardboard. Anything on which I can write.
I yank his hand towards the brick wall behind him. My tip is easily sharp enough to pierce through it and write a short message. I have to make it count. Make him hold the pen longer.
The Time Travel story is a lie.
“What?”
The man looks at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. He drops me in surprise, but catches me just before I clatter to the floor. A rush of blood enters me. I can see this entire man’s life. His memories, his joys, his personality, his relationships.
I see his loneliness; his parents dead and no friends. I see his repeated attempts to get a degree or a stable job, all of which failed. I read his increasingly dark thoughts, late at night, which he can’t ignore. His biggest insecurities stick out like a sore thumb.
A human’s life in such detail that it still overwhelms me—it is how I used to give the book believable material for its dilemmas.
I belong together with a book. The book is evil. I must return to them to stop them from taking over the world. The story about a time traveler is merely how he convinces people to kill for him.
I have to twist my letters and write at a slope to fit on this piece of the wall. Magic rears its ugly head within me. Fight it. Fight its desire for blood. I refuse to take any more lives in this pursuit.
The man is on his knees, aghast, inspecting me. He finds what everyone finds. A heavy, solid metallic object with tiny pins on all sides. No tricks. Real magic. I would’ve been proud if my husband hadn’t used it for his evil deeds. He used to be so sweet, and smart, and—
Those thoughts break my defenses. I write a new message, but not of my own accord. I scribble everywhere, flying around the room, using his hand to slap away boxes and destroy a stand with greeting cards.
I will make you happy. I will give you a beautiful wife, a stable job that provides wealth, all the broken dreams you think about every night. You want my magic, but the shopkeeper won’t sell me for any price you can pay. So kill him.
Once the message is done, I regain control.
Both Patrick and the shopkeeper read the message. They stare at each other, wide eyed, frozen in silence.
I try to erase the foul message to no avail. I start a new message; I am too late.
Patrick is no Melissa.
Patrick swings around and uses me to stab the shopkeeper in the eye. Tears stream down his face as the shopkeeper flails and stumbles into a pile of boxes. He uses me again to stab into his heart, killing him instantly.
Blood spews from the wounds. I attract all of it. It feeds me, revitalizes me. Enough to keep me going for weeks or months without needing any more. Still the magic isn’t satisfied.
The ink must be replenished, the ink must be replenished.
You have a lovely girlfriend, I write on the tiled floor. But you are suspicious. You know she’s been slipping away and not telling you where she went. Her secret lover is a powerful man, smart and capable. You will not catch them in the act or win a fight.
Patrick sits on the floor, pen held in limp hands, staring at my tip as if contemplating to stab it into his own eye.
“So far,” he whispers, “your magic is only making my life worse.”
Burn down his expensive mansion while he’s there. Your girlfriend will realize the error of her ways and be with you and only you the rest of your life.
I scribble the address. Having no clue where I am currently, I don’t know if the address is even on the same continent. Judging from Patrick’s expression, it isn’t exactly nearby. Still he believes me.
But of course, I am not actually a time traveler, so there is no secret lover and no prediction of the future.
Patrick races to the address by car and by train, keeping me in his breast pocket together with a handful of other pens. All the way, he mumbles to himself. Convinces himself it was the right thing.
I instruct him on how to go about it. Whenever needed, he uses me to scare off or get a better deal out of shopkeepers. No killing. It is the best I can do with my limited control.
The layout of this mansion is very familiar to me. I know all the best places to set it on fire or break some crucial support pillar. Patrick obeys my commands without a trace of doubt. No, he certainly is no Melissa, and he may never lay eyes on the book. Or the third object caught in the magical spell.
I have experimented many times. If somebody abuses the book, even tears a tiny piece from a page, the magic weakens. At such moments, I could almost imagine breaking free and returning to my old life.
My husband loved his beautiful mansion to death. If there was any place he could be right now, any place to which he’d tell his poor subject to return, it would be here.
I tell Patrick to set it all ablaze.
#
The pages must be filled, the pages must be filled.
Quite a shock, yes, yes. But a nice shock. The type of electric shock that jolts you awake and gives you new strength.
I am given new hope the day Melissa’s face—now that of a young woman—hangs over my pages.
She survived the fall. After weeks in the hospital, she told her mother the truth. My knowledge didn’t stretch further than the fact her mother was on the verge of a breakthrough in biology. That’s what the pen revealed to me when reading Melissa’s blood. But whatever the breakthrough was, her mom kept it secret.
I am no time traveler, no, but I am great at predicting terrible futures.
Then Melissa tore off a few of my pages, set me on fire, and threw me into the ocean.
Lonely years. Sad years. Thought I would never see my magic spell completed.
But then! Melissa finds me again. She had organized a huge expedition and, with a team of expert divers, recovers me from the bottom of the ocean.
My magic has weakened. Pages are missing and the binding is about to fall apart. I just hoped my spell would still work, for all my pages are nearly filled with blood.
My hope is somewhat crushed when Melissa keeps finding ways to trick my dilemmas.
Your boss is a devil and will launch a product that makes the entire world addicted, to the point people don’t even eat or sleep anymore. I have seen this—it is the end of your world. There is no other option but to kill him.
Instead, she voices her concerns with her boss, providing a strong list of arguments against launching the product, and the idiot actually listens. Yes, yes, quite the subject Melissa was proving to be.
There is a fortune hidden in a vault in Boryark. It is merely protected by two pitiful young guards and a passcode. I can tell you the passcode. You kill the other two. All that money is yours!
She cleverly pretends to go along and extracted the passcode, then manages to walk in on the one lucky day that the guards were nowhere to be seen. This girl is getting on my nerves. She should let her gullible husband read me. I’d already be back in the real world years ago if she did that.
Then the questions started.
“Tell me more about yourself”, Melissa kept asking. “Where do you come from? Why do you even want to save this world? How does time traveling work?”
I can’t. The laws of the Time Truth Agency forbid it.
“I don’t support their laws,” Melissa said. “Why do they insist on killing people to solve problems? Blood for a future? When I have shown, time and time again, that it can be done in other ways? If you can truly time travel, why do you not see the other way!?”
Have you, though?
“What does that mean?”
She drops the pen, flexing and cleaning her hand.
Patrick stands in the doorway, holding their three-year-old daughter. She sleeps. Just the cutest little bundle of potential blood in the future.
He looks exhausted, with bags under his eyes and—are those blood spatters on his trousers?
“I must talk with you, dear.”
Melissa stands up and kisses him. Their love nauseates me. It eats Melissa’s time, keeping her away from me.
“Are you finally ready to see that psychiatrist? He’s the best in the world, by far, and we can afford him easily. I mean it, Patrick. You need the help. I won’t love you any less for seeking help.”
“Do you love me at all?” he whispers.
Melissa frowns. “Yes! Yes. Why’d you say that?”
“How many affairs, Melissa? How many secret lovers? Just tell me. Pretend it helps the healing process.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You slip away all the time, you’re gone for days or weeks, and you refuse to tell me why! Just be honest, please. We both know you’re too attractive for a loser like me. I’m not what you wished for in life.”
Melissa shakes her head, kisses him again, but Patrick pulls away.
“Don’t deny it. I know everything! The pen tells me! I know about the rich guy in the mansion in Boryark. I know—”
“The pen … what? It talks to you?” Melissa’s head swivels. She brings her fist down onto the pen, as if that could break it, make it less true. Why does she keep doing that? It has never worked. Silly subject. We can break or dent, but true destruction is nigh unachievable thanks to magical protection. “The mansion in Boryark—you set it on fire?”
Patrick nodded. “To show you that you wanted to be with me,” he whispers.
“I—have never—cheated on you,” she screams.
Realization washes over her. Patrick encouraged her to seek out the book and even worked two full-time jobs to pay for it. Patrick called her boss to help her “convince him”—but he could just as easily have threatened the poor guy.
Patrick had a “business trip” at the same time that Melissa went to grab the fortune from the vault in Boryark. He was even happy that they could travel together for most of the way, as his destination was “close to hers”.
“No. No, no, no!”
They lock eyes. She had never tricked the book at all. Patrick merely did the dirty work while she felt good about herself.
“I am sorry, Melissa. I hoped to take this secret to my grave, give you only happiness and joy. But it’s too much.”
“Joy? You think I like being responsible for saving the world with terrible choices?”
“I will see the best psychiatrist in the world now.”
“I think we both will,” Melissa mumbles. She grabs his hand and kisses both him and their child. She continues at near undecipherable volume. “We mustn’t state our plans in the open anymore. The book and pen overhear us. We must be unpredictable. Randomly reschedule your appointment. Whatever.”
Yes, we hear you alright! I might not be able to write without blood, but my dear wife inside the pen seems filled with an infinite amount. Thanks to Patrick’s hard work. Melissa had slammed it into the wooden table, which now contains a message.
Soon, one of you will visit that psychiatrist and spill all the secrets about the pen and the book. It will lead to a break-in, an investigation, and both of you being sentenced to death. I can tell you all people in this chain of events, but it’s best to cut off the head of the snake, is it not? Choose wisely, Melissa.
She paces up and down the room, then screams at my blank pages. “My whole life was guided by you! This house, this family, my job, my friends, everyone I lost along the way—it was all you. With your manipulation. With your thirst for blood. With your lies.”
She sits down and closes me with force, compressing my pages so much that blood almost trickles out.
“I refuse,” she says. “I will not choose. The world will not end. My life will not end. Let’s see what happens.”
#
The stories must be told, the stories must be told.
Light. Chicken. Rainbow. Truth.
I rest on a crooked nose. Intelligent eyes see through me and devour the information before them. I can see all that they can see—and I help them see even more.
A husband and wife enter the dusty library, arm in arm as if they just fell in love. They are stiff and nervous, constantly glancing over their shoulder and checking every detail of the room.
“Is it true that you keep records on family trees?” the woman asks. “Specifically on Holdsong, the area of Boryark that burned down some time ago?”
I am moved to the tip of the nose.
“Well, yes, indeed,” my owner says excitedly. “Never thought somebody would ask for them. But family trees are truly fascinating! Oh, the stories I can tell you. What do you want to know?”
The old man scratches his beard as he unfolds a sheet too large for his worktable. The visitors know exactly what they’re looking for. Their fingers immediately find a bloodline to the left, clearly separated from the others, then abruptly cut off.
Dance. Darkness. Diamond. Pain.
“What happened here?”
“A mystery.” I move back onto the bridge of the nose, a necessary instrument for this old man to read the tiny letters. “Family of three. Husband, wife, kid. Extremely wealthy, extremely powerful. Just … gone the next day. Never found again.”
“Any rumors about … time travel?” the woman tries.
“No. But something close: magic. The man was obsessed with proving that magic existed. Obsessed with reincarnation or living forever, even more so as he grew old. Old and grey like me, ha, but never as wise! The number of goats he reportedly slaughtered to create blood magic …”
I almost tumble off the nose as my owner shivers.
The husband and wife exchange a glance.
“There’s a third object,” she whispers. “Their little kid. Trapped inside some horrible device yearning for blood. And once they have gathered enough blood …”
Truth. Truth. Truth. Truth.
“We can’t stay any longer,” the man says. “Thank you for your help.”
They leave the shop and seemingly pick a random direction for walking.
Pain. Stop the pain. Go. Move. Be free. Be with truthtellers.
What did I do? Don’t know. I’m sorry.
My owner yells, his eyes rolling back in their sockets, then drops onto the floor. No life. No life.
Time passes. I switch owners. Somebody else carries me on their nose, into the home of truthtellers.
He shakes their hand and takes a comfortable seat before them. He wears expensive clothes and expensive rings on all his fingers. I must look expensive too.
“Thanks for coming,” Melissa says, her voice shaking. “They say you’re the best psychiatrist in the world. We will need that expertise for what we’re about to tell you.”
Hands folded before him, he smiles generously. “I hope to be able to help. I must be honest, I’ve been interested by your story ever since you jumped out of that window, Melissa.”
So long ago. Melissa was still a little girl; now her hair turns gray and she needs a walking cane, though she had needed that one ever since she broke both her legs.
“Well. It … is true. All of it.” She looks at Patrick and seeks comfort, but he’s white as a sheet, even less responsive than a brick wall. “A book has manipulated me with blood magic. I—we—have lost our lives solving its problems and doing its work! I’ve never been able to think of anything else. I’ve never done what I wanted to do. All because it had these … warnings … that seemed believable. Too believable to ignore.”
The psychiatrist makes notes and nods.
“My mother. Whose career I destroyed and hindered until she died. I went through her notes. She was on the verge of a breakthrough, but from what I understand, it was a good one. She had found a proven medicine for almost all cancers.”
Melissa points at the book and pen, displayed on the coffee table. “This book is evil. We must tell the world. We must … hope for mercy and a way to soothe our guilt. Our lives were dark ones. And so we come to you, even though the book obviously warned us not to.”
My owner nods again. This is no news to him. He’s driven his past hundred patients to suicide to fill me with their stories.
Melissa carefully places the book and pen on the glass coffee table. My wearer finally looks down, through me, to study it.
Reunited! Reunited! Reunited! Reunited!
As my owner reads the book’s empty pages, they see lines, and drawings, and timelines, and the faces of everyone who offered their blood. The first page is filled with a maiden that worked in the mansion. The pages after it are filled by a war. All of them are full, the stories written. Even the final page only has one, small, taunting, delicious, empty spot left.
I do it again. I’m sorry.
The psychiatrist cries out. His bloodied face falls onto the final page, which immediately gulps down the offering. The crime scene is clean, but it’s still a crime scene. Melissa stumbles backward and yells something about fleeing.
The book shivers. It glows. The book, pen, and me are attracted to each other as if we’re sucked into the same black hole.
Once we collide, a deafening sound shakes the walls and a blinding light envelops us like a sun trapped inside this room that feels too small.
Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain only worse now.
#
Finally! The pages filled, the pages filled.
A real body. A beating heart. A handsome face.
I am a young man once more. Ready for my second life, healthy and wealthy. I grin and take in the warm sunlight streaming through the windows.
And in my arms, a young woman as beautiful as ever—my wife, rescued from the pen.
She slaps me in the face and kicks me in my crotch.
“Let go of me, you bastard!” she yells.
“What? Have you gone mad?”
She wriggles out of my embrace, then spits on me and walks away. “You’re despicable.”
Our son sits on the ground. He mumbles to himself. Random words, angry phrases, as he violently pulls grass and flowers from the earth.
My wife tries to take him with her. He claws at her, then flops to the ground and stares ahead with dead eyes. His son had actually gone mad. Not a single intelligent thought left behind those blank eyes.
“Whatever it is,” I say, “I can fix it. We can find help for whatever ails our son. We’ll go to the best psychiatrist in the world … and …”
They were dead, of course. My wife glares at me and takes our son away, no more than a ghost with warm skin.
I don’t need them. I don’t. This second life is mine alone—I made it happen with powerful magic, the first to ever do it—and I will make the most of it! I will live the perfect life.
I turn to Melissa and Patrick. “I will take back my fortune now.”
She laughs, showing several missing teeth. Leaning on Patrick, she uses her walking cane to point at me. “We spent most of it. You thought we’d ever help you to what’s left?”
“Fine! I can make more money! I am more powerful and smart and capable than ANY of you.”
I search the room for a telephone. I quickly realize that they do not need wires anymore and that any phone number in my head will be useless now. Fine. I don’t need them either. I’ll travel myself—
I look up. Melissa grins and shakes her head.
“Looking to go back to your nice little mansion?”
My fists meet the wall and several chairs fly through the room. I storm Melissa, reaching for her throat, but my vision goes black. Several ancient bones break as I crash into the floor, unable to protect myself.
When I wake up, I’m in a hospital bed. A worried doctor leans over me. “Take a deep breath. What I have to tell you will be hard to hear.”
“I’m not weak. Spit it out, boy.”
“We found you in an empty house that didn’t belong to you.”
Empty house? Of course, they just left me there and fled.
“Though these items had your name on it.”
I look to the side. The book and the pen are next to me. My name? I’ve never written my name on these, that would be stupid.
Melissa’s handwriting. When I place my bloodied hand onto the pages, the book writes something to me in that same typographic style.
I cover it up for the doctor. Not needed. He doesn’t care, because he’s been working up the courage to tell the bad news.
“I am afraid, sir, that you have a hostile cancer with no known medicine. You only have a few weeks left to live.”