Dear Writer, Turn Back Now

        *

Dear writer, turn back now.

Your journey to this cave was undoubtedly arduous, but I'm afraid you have engaged in a fool's errand. The arcane tome lying beneath this note has claimed the lives of many who believed they were capable of harnessing its power. I pray you're intelligent enough to heed this warning.

As the legends state, this nameless book has been imbued with the mystical means to breathe life to the immaterial. Perhaps you came here with the simple desire to transform your written words into reality—to create a boundless world brimming with the jewels of your imagination, each uncut facet gleaming with possibilities.

There's no need to obfuscate the truth—your motives are the same as everyone who dares venture to this cave. Beyond a desire to experience the pinnacle of creative expression, you crave the divine authority of a god. Do you really think yourself worthy of such a gift?

To harness this book's potency, it must be read from cover to cover. Every sentence contained in its lambskin pages has been crafted by a separate author in service of a cohesive—if chaotic—tale. Its words provide form to whimsy. Give teeth to horrors. Twist the ribbon of reality into impossible knots. Every line contains dozens of preternatural utterances so dense with magic, one stray syllable could shatter a weak mind.

The depth of knowledge required to tame this volume proves daunting to most. Have you studied the fading parchment remnants of ancient languages not spoken for centuries? Have you listened to stories older than the written word, so finely told they tickle the intricate curvature of the inner ear? Have you struggled to understand how the fables of disparate cultures across the world could share such similar aspects? If not, you are ill prepared for this endeavor.

Your courage is impressive, if misguided. Reading this book requires sacrifice. No one walks away unscathed. Whether it amounts to a pound of your flesh or a slice of your intellect, part of you will falter by the time you reach the final page.

Should you manage to make it through the story, your final task awaits—contributing a phrase of your own. This act will prove taxing. Your prose must exist on an untainted plane of supreme pulchritude—each word a flawless diamond defying the ugliness of reality.

Please forgive such flowery pap. I'm sure my talents pale against yours, brave author.

Once your impeccable phrase has been written, the true magic of this book will be revealed. Life will spring miraculously from an unknowable void in a dimension beyond human reach—a new world based on your writings and dreams. Your words will transcend literature to become part of creation.

Still, this momentous occasion will not be enough to sate you.

The prophecies of old speak of a writer who will pen the final line of this book—an immaculate ending to centuries of storytelling. This author will be granted the supreme power of the collected prose—a god-like ability to bend creation as they see fit.

Sadly, while many have contributed to this unheralded work of literature, none have survived to claim its divine rite. The power of a God may be a tempting reward, but the challenge has thus far proved insurmountable.

Still not dissuaded? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.

.
x
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Greetings again, writer,

I slipped this note into the middle of the book, hoping it may provide a brief respite to your ongoing tribulation. You're likely feeling a tremendous strain on your body—as if your nerves are being pulled through the pores of your flesh. Perhaps your mind is beginning to flay as you attempt to comprehend the phrases of your predecessors.

I've always wondered what exceptional story dwells in these pages. A heroic journey? A great tragedy? A grand romance? I was never brave or talented enough to read a single line. But you are different. You are strong.

It's too late to turn back. By now, you have become transfixed by the book's words. You will feel compelled to read on until your eyes burn and your insides cramp into tight points of pain. I've been told the headaches begin by the third page and become relentless by the halfway point. Many have described the sensation of knives stabbing through their eyes.

Take solace in your incredible progress. Soon your pain will end, and you will be allowed to make your great contribution to the story.

.
X
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Dearest writer,

I'm pleased you're still alive. The lull between finishing the book and authoring a new phrase seems to be the moment when most people succumb to fatigue. I inserted this final note in the back of the book for you to read while you steel yourself for the ultimate task.

During my tenure as the guardian of this unnamed volume, my principal duty was to rid the Poros Cave of those who die at the apex of their efforts. Once a writer's will falters, the magic of the tome becomes unrestrained. Some adventurers become emaciated in a matter of seconds—the skin around their ribs left stretched and split. Some crumble to dust in front of the altar, apropos of nothing. A few poor souls have been contorted into sickening knots of flesh and bone. One bold woman spontaneously burst into flames.

In truth, I am likely watching you die at this very moment. Please believe I would intervene if allowed. Many times I've longed to simply squeeze some water from a rag into the mouth of those suffering from thirst, but I am forbidden to interfere.

Do not feel discouraged. Nobody who finishes the book experiences even a fleeting glimpse of glory. No one cheers. No one celebrates. Those I have observed wear a supreme look of terror, their eyes bloodshot and wide as they gasp for breath. It takes all their remaining vitality to reach for the pen and place their shaking nib on the page.

Do not delay further, writer. Once you've made your contribution, return to read the rest of this note...if you have survived.

...

I hope you enjoyed feeling the rush of creation before you died.

Did you ever suspect the book was a trap? The story will never have an ending. The prize of omnipotence was a lie. Anyone brave enough to endure this rigorous task could not possibly carry enough humility to accept the responsibility of godhood. This dichotomy will forever be the great paradox preventing humanity from ever achieving perfection, but I digress.

As I stated before, this book's true purpose is to create matter and energy from the immaterial realm of the human imagination. To further expand the universe by turning fiction into reality. Rest assured, this power is far from fanciful.

No, you did not achieve the lasting providence of an immortal god, but for one shining moment your imagination birthed life in the outer reaches of space. A vast new world, waiting to be devoured.

I will weep for you just as I have wept for your precursors. To distract the Dark Ones from our plane of reality, your mind and body had to be sacrificed. I am so sorry, but the continuing existence of our planet required the exploitation of your talents. Great beasts on the edge of the cosmos will feast upon your efforts and our own world will be spared.

Farewell, brave author. I wish I could have read your glorious contribution to the book.