Crackkkkkkk- the nailbed exposed itself from the excessive scratching. Yet, he could not stop the pen. The ink flowed between the lines of the parchment. The more he wrote, the more the haunting bell tolled. Earlier, a traveling merchant threw in a free notebook with his salt purchase. He didn't think anything of it, a new diary to dribble out his frustrations. During the day, life was simple- write a few articles for the press, get paid in good coin, and drink the rest of it away. It was late, stumbling out of the bar with that notebook in hand. Tossed out was more like it. He sat, arms crossed with such a pissed-off expression. Okay, so writing for the paper didn't exactly earn him the big bucks. A tab was owed - the freelancer's luck had run dry. Fortunately, he had swiped a bottle of Gin as dirty mitts roughly threw him onto the dirt road.

"Fuck it."

He spat, pulling out the little green book to write.

'The fire will consume it all!'

A rough explanation between the lines of how a man... Wait? The scribbling stopped as the scenario played out. He swore it was merely timing! The cigarette butt lit, that same fedora on the head of a balding patron walked through those doors. Shouts about money banged against the author's eardrum, watching with bated breath as a weapon was pulled. Eyebrows furrowed as his index scanned stumbling words. BANG! The gun went off, blasting bottles of alcohol beside a raging smoker. Within moments, the bar had been set ablaze, and, boy, were the author's eyes bigger than the moon. He stepped back into a nearby alleyway with fingers clutching his gut. Pain shot hard into his abdomen, yet only briefly. Sweat pooled by the time neighbors with buckets arrived.

Our dear writer left the scene, mumbling incoherent thoughts. How strong was that drink? Back within the comforts of his cottage, the blankets would snug him close, rekindling the duty owed to his boss. His annoying, stupid boss. This fun little diary scribbled swears, with a wish to be off work tomorrow.

'Heh... Hopefully, he breaks a leg.'

And when the sun rose, he began his day. Wooden teeth were placed homey with minimal spit. The pepper comb-over runs stringy. As he stepped back from the cracked mirror, that very rare telephone rang. A gift from his boss when he first started years ago- a delightful gem to keep tabs on. What he didn't expect? The notebook flashed before his eyes as the click signaled the end of the call.

"A... broken leg....?"

No fucking way! The dirty scribe looked at the pages. It was pretty obvious.

Goddamn, his stomach though! The pain came and went faster than a beheading.

"I need to make sure."

A test that would confirm it! Fingers rubbed his chin as the idea came forward. A flip of a page would he write:

'New teeth'

In an instant, crimson would sprout. A heaviness forced their form to the floor. Knees to the chest, the writer would curl, hollering in agony as his stomach did a little dance. Skin stretched as if he carried a babe; only this was merely stone. Cradling palms forced away from the bulging belly. Fingertips pawed at his maw, ripping out the fake as new ones took their place. If only he believed in proper hygiene. The smell was rancid from piss and sweat due to this ordeal.

Hours later, eyelids flickered open, squinting from the sunbeam. The pain didn't let up this time, for it only grew. He felt his protruding stomach, wincing and whining for skin, had bubbled in odd places. It was hard, some square or sphere? Yet, tears of happiness began to flow. The dentures sat in a puddle of red, which prompted his hand to feel around his gums. New, sparkly teeth! Just like he asked!

"Praise be!"

Only for a cry to come. Pushing off from the ground forced the rocks within the gut to shift. It felt like their skin was tearing in two!

In a frenzy, he scanned the room, noticing the book on the desk, crawling along the floor slower than a snail, leaving an oozing trail in his wake. Damn it, those enchanting pages whispered sweet promises. Anything he could want would be his!

It felt like centuries, but yes, he wormed onto the cushioned, wobbly chair. A few splinters wouldn't stop him. He began to write with one hand as the other repetitively rubbed the desktop. A stim to address the pain, to somehow ignore it. The more demands, the bigger the rocks. Cash rained upon him as furniture melted into one another, turning into exquisite gold. MORE! A maniacal laugh as the bare bodies of women appeared. A corgi by his side!

Bark! The dog forewarned as the chair he sat on began to crack. Too heavy, it said, too heavy, the animal cried! Greed lapped away salty tears. Neat handwriting turned crooked and bloody. Desires may be coming true, but he felt his life slipping away.

A cackle from the woman tormented him. Regret forced his hand to rip the sheets out, crumbling them up to toss away. Madness stole sanity. Wisdom misplaced. His chin would smack the table as his body slumped. Rocks clashed against his rib cage, juggling against the spleen and many other organs. Swish swish like soup.

"NO! STOP!"

The chair gave way. The weight was too much! Even the floor couldn't hold him. If only those screams could be heard as the dirt began to clench, as skeletal hands from the Earth grabbed his wrists and ankles. There was no need to yank hard since the stone assisted. He spat once more, only for a few pebbles to smack the ground. Choking on tiny gravel as tears of sand crystals forced him to look up into the sky. Oh... what pretty red clouds behind the fiery wall! How beautiful...

"I need... to write... this down..."