Writer's Cramp - 9-25 978 Words

When whatever you write can become a reality, is what you write what you really want?

          After being labeled a witch, which she was, and then being declared a dullard and disorganized, Noel Chamberlotts decided to leave the village for good. Noel, with her perpetually ink-stained fingers from tending the printing press, had set out for a haven, a hamlet of kindred spirits rumored to exist somewhere in the vast west.

          By her side sat Seymour. He wasn't a typical familiar; a peculiar spell she cast had left him in a state of perpetual petrification, his large emerald eyes wide with a silent, glassy terror. He was stiff to the touch, yet warm, a constant, unnerving reminder of her own erratic power. Noel would often cradle him, murmuring her aspirations to his unblinking gaze.

          "Soon, Seymour," she'd whisper, her voice raspy from disuse. "Soon, they'll all see. They'll tremble at the name Noel Chamberlotts."

          Her journey was a testament to her disassociation with reality. The forest, teeming with the life and lore that should have sung to her witch's soul, remained mute. She stumbled through patches of poison ivy; at least she thought it was poison ivy, its fiery rash a lasting discomfort. She'd learned her lessons poorly, driven by a singular, burning ambition that overshadowed instinct.

          One particularly bleak afternoon, as the sky wept a relentless drizzle, Noel crested a rise and her breath hitched. Below, nestled in a shallow valley, lay a village, small and undeniably deserted, its silence more profound than the rustling of leaves. A shiver, unrelated to the cold, traced its way down her spine.

          With Seymour clutched tight, she descended. Doors hung ajar, revealing interiors frozen in time - a half-eaten meal on a splintered table, a child's wooden doll lying abandoned in a dusty corner. No footfalls echoed hers, no voices broke the oppressive quiet. It was as if the inhabitants had evaporated.

          Drawn by an unseen force, Noel found herself standing in front of a darkened cottage, its door slightly ajar. A faint, metallic tang hung in the air. Pushing the door open, she stepped inside. The room was sparsely furnished, but the centerpiece was extraordinary. Dominating the small space was a printing press, ancient and ornate, carved from a dark, unidentifiable wood and inlaid with swirling patterns that resembled tarnished silver. It radiated an aura of immense, dormant power.

          A single, yellowed sheet of parchment lay in the tray, a half-finished sentence scrawled upon it: "The sun shall shine brighter than any..." The ink was dry, the effort abandoned mid-thought.

          Driven by an urgent need to assess its capabilities, Noel rummaged through a dusty drawer and found a quilled pen. She dipped it into an inkwell that seemed to shimmer with an inner light and, with trembling hands, completed the sentence on the parchment.

          "The sun shall shine brighter than any star, illuminating all the hidden truths of the world."

          She placed the parchment into the press, her heart thudding against her ribs like a trapped bird. With a grunt, she pulled the lever. The gears ground, the heavy plate descended, and the ink transferred. As the paper ejected, Noel snatched it up.

          The words on the page shimmered, then seemed to lift, becoming three-dimensional affirmations that hung in the air for a fleeting moment before dissolving. Outside, the persistent drizzle ceased. The clouds parted with an unnatural swiftness, and a beam of sunlight, impossibly bright and warm, pierced through, bathing the deserted village in a golden glow. It was more colorful than any sun she had ever witnessed, casting sharp, elongated shadows.

          Noel gasped, her eyes wide. Seymour, for the first time since she'd changed him, shifted slightly, a minute tremor running through his petrified form. The press. It was magic--true, potent, reality-altering magic.

          She spent the next few days in a frenzy of creation. She printed a loaf of warm, crusty bread, and it appeared on the table, fresh and steaming. She printed a soft, woolen blanket, and it lay waiting on the cold floor. But these were trivialities. Her true ambition burned brighter than the magical sun.

          "I will be the most powerful witch in the world," she declared to Seymour, her voice ringing with newfound authority. "I, Noel Chamberlotts, shall be known as the Arch-Witch, the Queen of all Magic. My power shall dwarf that of the ancients. My will shall bend reality itself. No witch, living or dead, shall possess a fraction of my might. My word shall be law, my shadow shall cast empires into darkness, and my name shall echo through eternity."

          She fed the parchment into the press, her hands steady now, imbued with a strange confidence. She pulled the lever. The machine groaned, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the deserted village. The paper emerged, the ink practically blazing with power.

          As the words dissipated into the air, a profound shift occurred. The air crackled with unseen energy. The sunlight outside intensified, becoming almost blinding. A low hum emanated from Seymour, and for the first time, Noel saw a flicker of something other than petrified fear in his emerald eyes - a spark of awareness.

          A tremor ran through the ground, not of an earthquake, but of something far more profound, like the world itself was reconfiguring. Noel stood, a triumphant smile on her face, ready to claim her destiny. She was Noel Chamberlotts, the Arch-Witch, the most powerful sorcerer who had ever lived.

          As she reveled in her newfound power, a chilling realization began to creep in. The village, once merely deserted, now felt... hollow. The magical sunlight, while bright, cast an unnatural, sterile glow. And Seymour, though he stirred, remained rigid, his silence now a deafening accusation. The world had indeed bent to her will, but in doing so, had it lost anything? The actual cost of her ambition, Noel suspected, was only just beginning to reveal itself.

Words: 978
Prompt: Discovering a magical printing press on which anything that is printed becomes true. What happens after this discovery?