August Suggested Stories Ready for Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Hey all! If you’re a patron, you can download the three short stories I wrote this month based off suggestions and requests a couple weeks ago. Below, I have one from last month for everyone to read.


Midlife Crisis

Is this what a midlife crisis is? Les had always imagined them to be something…else. In TV shows, the men in crisis are always so…exuberant. Buying new cars, divorcing wives and dating younger women, but for him it just felt like a crippling depression and a growing confidence that everything he had done in his life had been for nothing. He didn’t want a car, or a boat, or some young thing–he didn’t know what he wanted, but after turning fifty this year it seemed like it had just now dawned on him how…miserable he is.

He should be happier, right? He’d been married to his wife for over twenty years, he had a beautiful daughter who had just gotten married the year before after what felt like an endless courtship, his career was right on track, but there was a hole in his chest all the same. It was a hole he’d always felt his entire life, and it had started aching over the last few months and it refused to stop. But this–he had to stop doing this. He couldn’t keep crying like this.

He wiped his eyes in the restaurant bathroom, hoping they didn’t seem too bloodshot. He and his wife were currently driving to go see their daughter, Kate, and his son-in-law, Gabe, and had stopped to get some food, but he’d…god, why was he crying like this so often now? Everything just felt like too much for him to handle, but there was no one he could talk to about any of it.

“Bad life, eh?”

Les gave a start, and in the mirror he saw a trucker had entered the bathroom without him noticing. “Just, uh, tabasco in my eye.”

“You can’t lie to me man, I’ve been there. I can see it,” the man pulled something out of his pocket, a golden coin, walked over and pressed it into Les’s palm. “This will help. It helped me, it’s helped lots of people before me too. Just pass it on once you have what you need.”

***

He didn’t know why he kept it. No, Les knew why he kept it–it was because he couldn’t get rid of it. He’d tried to junk the worthless coin, only for it to keep showing up in his pocket every time. He done his best to forget his strange encounter, and instead focused on enjoying time with his daughter…but when they arrived, both he and his wife could sense something was wrong. It was a few days later, on the back patio alone with Kate, that she finally told Les what was wrong.

“I think Gabe is cheating on me,” she said, choking back tears, “I…think it’s been going on for a while, before we were even married.”

Les just listened, stunned, as she recounted all of the clues and hints that had led her to this conclusion, and how things only seemed to be getting worse, how he was almost more…open about it, like he was daring her to try and do something about it. She was at a loss, and Les was too. He’d never gotten the feeling that Gabe was the sort of man who would do that, and his first instinct was to disbelieve it. Still, it was clear that something was upsetting Kate, and that tugged at his heart and only complicated the feelings he was wrestling with himself. In the end, he had nothing to offer in the way of help, but she seemed to appreciate him listening if nothing else.

It had to be wrong–he…liked Gabe. He liked Gabe more than any of the other young men Kate had dated before this, and he…well, he doubted Gabe felt the same way, but he considered him to be the son he’d never had. The feelings were complicated, though, and mixed in with the rest of the mess he was in. He covered it all up with a smile through the rest of the evening, finding himself looking over at Gabe, at his wife, at Kate, one hand slipping into his pocket and fiddling with the coin. It was hot, hotter than it should be, and he found himself getting…angry. Angry at Gabe, angry that he’d cheat on his family with…who knew who. He was going to cry again, wasn’t he? He excused himself before it hit and went to the bathroom, locking himself inside, tears falling, coin gripped in his hand.

It was even hotter now, hot enough to feel like it might burn him, but he couldn’t release his fist as hard as he tried. He just…wanted everything to work out. He wanted what he could never have, what he’d wanted for his daughter, what he’d only realized he’d wanted once it was too late. Everything shuddered, or maybe it was just him. The tears subsided again after a few minutes, and he went back out to rejoin the dinner, pretending everything was normal, like they all were.

“Would you join me for a cigar after dinner, sir?” Gabe asked him, catching Les off guard.

“I didn’t know you smoked, Gabe.”

The young man looked at him a bit oddly, “Well, I didn’t, until you showed me, sir.”

Many people had addressed him as “sir” in his years, but never had it sounded like it did when it came from Gabe. He agreed, and while Kate and her mother washed up, the two men went into the garage. It felt natural, letting Gabe light his cigar for him, watching him kneel down in front of him, hands shaking as he unzipped the fly of Les’s slacks, pulled out his hard cock, and started sucking on it, blowing his own smoke over it. Les was terrified, and yet…and yet he wanted this, didn’t he? No–this was…kind of what he wanted, but not really. The coin–had it done this?

But he didn’t want to hurt Kate…and somehow, she knew. Knew that her father and her husband were fucking behind her back, but he didn’t want to hurt her, he didn’t want to hurt anyone. But this–Gabe, he was so handsome, such a good young man, and he would be a much better man for his daughter if he was under Les’s control. So he could become a better husband, and a better father as well…a man more like him. The coin was hot again against his leg, and once more the world shuddered.

The door to the garage opened, and his wife entered, unsurprised by the sight of Gabe sucking her husband’s cock over cigars, and set down a couple glasses of whisky. “Thanks, Evelyn,” Les said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

“I know what you and your boy need, honey.”

“You always have.”

“You two going out tonight?”

“What do you think boy, think you’ve earned a night out with daddy at the leather bar? I’d like to see your…technique. Make sure you’re pleasing my little girl. No cumming though–you save your seed for her, understand? I need an heir.”

“Yes sir, of course sir,” Gabe said, cock leaking in the chastity device he wore for his master and wife’s sake, sucking a bit harder now, eager for a night out on the town with his father-in-law.

August Suggested Stories Ready for Download! | Wesley Bracken on Patreon

Manning Up (Part 7)

I…started fucking with Brock after that, changing his whole look into the kind of man I’d always wanted. I forced him to get a haircut, and gave him a nasty looking mullet, like the one’s from all the 80’s porn I’d always fucking loved, and kept it plenty grungy and greasy. He was so big, it was easier to just buy him overalls and wellingtons for his massive feet, and that’s all he wore from then on–no shirt, not that you could see much of his skin through the thick hair on his chest, arms and back. Still, I insisted on the tattoos anyway. Brock was nervous about it, but…but I turned him onto the idea pretty quick. The pain…I got a bit carried away with that, with making him like it. I liked seeing the welts, and the scars, almost as much as I liked seeing the tattoos peeking through all that hair, but when he saw the first ones, he just turned red and looked away as quick as he could.

In fact, that’s the part I enjoyed the most. I could tell that he hated it, all of it. His body, the clothes I put him in, the hair and the beard, the drinking and the smoking, the fact that every time he spoke now, he sounded like a dumb hick. I’d catch him staring at himself in the mirror, whispering to himself that it was just another couple of weeks, that when he got back to school it would all be back to normal, like nothing had happened. He’d never have to come back here ever again. I heard that, and fuck, it pissed me the fuck off, but I didn’t let on that I’d heard it–instead, I started telling him how much he liked it here. That he liked being stupid, that he liked being a brute, that he liked dressing and looking like trailer trash, that he wanted to smoke cigars like a chimney and get drunk every night, just like me. Yeah, I made him beg me to let him get even more tattoos, made him tell me how hard the sting of the needle made him. I made sure he picked out the sleaziest, most humiliating ones that the local shop was willing to do on him…and we put his new nickname there, across the back of his neck–Brick. Because he’s thick as a brick, and as solid as one too. All the guys on the site called him that. I made him practice writing it at home, a couple hundred times a day. I wanted him to believe it himself. I wanted him to believe it, because if he did, then he’d always need me, and he’d never leave.

He’d marked the day school started on the calendar, and the day before, Brick had the fucking audacity to ask me when we were going to leave–and I told him the truth. I told him he wasn’t going back to school. I told him that he was a liar, that he’d never even gotten through highschool, much the less gotten into college. That he was Brick–not Brock, not some smart guy like that. I told him that his place was here with me, and that’s the way things had to be. Honestly? I expected him to push back, but he just nodded, and then went to the bathroom to cry. I knew I should feel bad, in my mind, but I didn’t…feel shit like that anymore. I wasn’t supposed to feel shit like that, not for some dumb musclepig like Brick. I gave him a couple of minutes to sort himself out, and then ordered him to get out here and clean my dirty hole for a bit–that always helped him feel a bit better, and brightened my mood too. I should have known that wasn’t the end of it though–that a fucker like Brock wouldn’t try to get away with every stupid idea that crossed his mind.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a jolt to the heart, and discovered Brick was gone. I’d gone slack with him, I realized. He’d been paying close attention to my orders, and he’d just…fucking left while I was sleeping. The panic in my heart–I’d never felt anything like it before. Brick was mine–mine! I threw on some clothes, and thankfully the dumbass had left the truck behind and gone off on foot. I did recall forbidding him from driving at some point, so maybe he didn’t have a choice. I got in and headed for the one place he’d try and get to–Hobos, the biker bar outside of town. I’d gotten the ban on him lifted a couple weeks earlier, after I’d shown the owner what a good, obedient fucker Brock could be. I rolled up, stormed in and cracked a couple of heads, but I was too late. He’d hooked up with some grungy biker and made a deal. The man had agreed to drive him somewhere, in exchange for as many fucks as he wanted once they got there.

My fucker, my Brick, had run off with some…fucking biker. Still, I knew where they were headed–where Brick was trying to go. I got back in the truck and blazed out of town on the highway, topping a hundred the whole way, and after an hour, I ran that fucking bike off the road, and sent them both into a ditch.

I raped that biker for an hour, and I made Brick watch. He was a sizable fucker, when I started, but by the time I was through with him, he’d shrunk to around five foot five, weighed around 400 pounds, and was begging me for my piss and cum like a bitch pig. I waved down a trucker and “convinced” him to give the pig a ride in the cab with him, giving the biker his last orders–that he’d spend the rest of his live whoring himself for truckers and bikers on the highways, and make sure he came through town at least twice a year so he could service me–and sent them on their way. Then, it was just me, and Brick.

He begged me to understand. He begged me to take him back to school, to let him go. That if he didn’t get there by dawn, he’d never be normal–we’d never be normal. Instead, I fisted his ass in the ditch for a couple of hours, facing him east, so he could watch the sunrise, and then we got back in the car, and headed back home. Brock’s gone now–probably forever–it’s just me and Brick now. I…I can remember everything too, in ways that I couldn’t before, and honestly? I…I feel terrible, about what I’ve done, about who I am now, but I can’t stop. Neither of us can, now, and honestly? When I have my thick cock buried in Brick’s hole, listening to the big brute grunting around those huge cigars I make him smoke? I can almost pretend that everything that happened was for the best. I know it’s a lie, but that’s all I got. That’s all anyone’s got, I think, the lies we tell ourselves. Still, you asked, right? For the truth? Do you feel better, or do you like the lie better?

Manning Up (Part 6)

I asked the guys at the site what the hell they were all standing around for, acting good for fucking nothing, but none of them could answer me. I told Brock to face the truck and not move, that if anyone went to touch him he’s shout for me, and I started investigating, expecting a trap, but Aaron was still nowhere to be found. I asked about him, and finally I got an answer out of someone, that Aaron hadn’t shown up at all, not since leaving the day before, my cum still running down his legs. I asked them why they hadn’t gotten to work on their projects, and a few of them kicked the dirt.

“We were…waiting for you, sir.”

“Didn’t want you mad at us, sir.”

“Just, after yesterday, we…well, you’re the boss sir.”

I cussed them all out, called them a bunch of lazy fucks, and told them to get to work–they scurried off and double-timed it. I marched into the trailer and started sorting through paperwork–I’d been working with Aaron long enough that I know the basics of his job, and the holes filled themselves in easily enough. It took me close to an hour to realize I had no idea where Brock was, and my heart skipped two beats. I shoved my head out of the trailer, and saw him still standing in front of the truck, staring at the hood, sun beating down on him, sweat pouring down his back. I ordered him into the trailer with me, got him some water and told him he’d been a real good boy for staying just like I’d told him to do, and then told him to get to work with the rest of the guys–but that if a single one of them made a move on him, he’d better come tell me. He nodded, unable to look me in the eye, and squeezed his massive frame out of the trailer.

It was afternoon when Aaron’s Jeep came rolling up, but the man who climbed out…he looked like Aaron, but something was off about him. He looked shorter for one thing, and fatter. I could see that his clothes didn’t quite fit right, his gut hanging out the bottom of his shirt. I ordered his ass into the trailer, and he jumped to obey. He apologized profusely and begged me to forgive him–and then he went a step further, and begged for my cock again. That surprised me, but fuck, his ass had been nice yesterday, and listening to him beg for his job had gotten me hard as a rock–still, I gave him a good beating with my belt for being late before raping both his holes again, and then I dragged him back out and tied him down to a sawhorse out in the yard. As a team building exercise, I made every guy take a turn–all of them were straight, of course, but none of them were willing to disobey. I even let Brock take a turn, though he had a very hard time performing as a top, even with his eight inch cock. I let everyone know that, from now on, Aaron was the bottom rung around here, and that his ass was fair game, anytime and anyplace. That if he refused, come tell me, and I’d set the pig straight. Aaron was terrified, but his stubby cock was rock hard after I said it. I let everyone go home early, and back home…I noticed something, when I went to go have a shower.

Aaron wasn’t the only one who looked different after yesterday. I…I barely recognized myself in the mirror. Six foot one and probably 275 pounds of mostly beef–last time I’d weighed myself I’d been 260 with a pot belly, but my gut had mostly disappeared, with just a thick layer covering a hard core. I had more hair all over, and a good amount of it was turning a bit silver. My scruff had grown into a full beard, my hairline receding slightly–and fuck, I reeked. I took a good whiff of my musk, and my cock started leaking in the front of my jeans. I skipped the shower, and gave Brock a good long fuck instead, and then I sat down with him, and asked him if he’d noticed what was happening to me.

“A bit,” he said, “I…not too much before, but after my dad, and after Aaron…yeah. You…got really fuckin’ sexy, sir. Smell really sexy too.”

“Fuckin’ pig–you wanna sleep in my bed tonight? Your face buried in my pits?”

He nodded, a bit reluctant, but I knew what he wanted–what he needed. I knew what was best for him.

“But sir…don’t forget you promised. You said you’d take me back to school, don’t forget, please don’t forget. I trusted you with this because you’re…good. A good guy. No one else would.”

I’d completely forgotten about it, to be honest, but I nodded. Fuck, it had seemed so long ago at that point, I had a hard time even remembering what Brock had looked like before all of this. Still, I told myself that I had promised…but I had my doubts too. What was a big lug like him going to do at a college? He was too stupid for that shit. Besides wasn’t he happy here? He should be happy here–this is where he belonged, right? With me, with his daddy. With his master.

But this wasn’t me. I kept trying to tell myself that, for the next few days, but it was becoming harder and harder to believe. It just…it all felt so right, you know? It felt right, and I fucking enjoyed it too, I’ll be honest. I could make Brock do anything I wanted, whenever I wanted, and no matter what it was, he’d thank me when I was finished. I…I could have the man I’d always wanted. I hadn’t realized how exhausting it was, being alone like I had been, until I had someone with me. Someone I could trust, someone I could own. I know, it’s fucked. It’s too late now anyway. He’s not a person, not really. Besides, if I let him go now, what the fuck do you think would happen? He’d be dead in a week–if I don’t tell Brick to go to the bathroom, he shits and pisses himself like an animal. You see? I have to do this, for him. Because I am a good guy. No one else would put up with this, not now. I’m the only guy he has left.

Would it be annoying if I asked about City of Bears? I’m just gonna slide it in anyway. Any news on new chapters? That series is amazing.

No, not annoying, just….sigh….hard to talk about.

No, there’s no new chapters or anything on the immediate horizon. While I know there’s a future for that story, and those characters, somewhere, I feel like I’ve lost the thread on what that looks like, especially after the chunk I wrote for NaNoWriMo a few years back. 

I touched on some of my worries about that story, and others like it, a couple of weeks back, in an ask I answered about politics in my writing. Looking at City of Bears in particular, something I’ve always said, and always thought, was that the series itself was *never* meant be become as large as it got. It fact, that first series was just meant to be a string of silly, off hand vignettes inspired by a few drawings I’d seen online, and some of the stupid observations around my college campus. 

That said, it grew. It was somewhere around the eighth episode of Big Bears on Campus that I started to really feel like there was something bigger there that I wanted to explore, and honestly, I’ve always felt like I kind of butchered it relentlessly every step of the way. It’s a good story! Don’t get me wrong, I certainly don’t regret writing it, but the person who wrote it, and the person I am now don’t…line up well in terms of skill, or vision.

I’ve batted around the idea of rebooting the whole thing a few times, but it’s such a massive undertaking, that even thinking about it is difficult, especially given the rapid pace that I have to generate writing. Still, that’s just praxis, really–the truth is, if I knew what I wanted the story to be, I’d write it, but I don’t know what it is.

The central issue I run into, when I do sit down and think about it, is the question of whether the City of Bears story I want to tell treats the setting as something static, or dynamic. That probably seems a bit strange, so I’ll try and explain. The first three chunks of City of Bears treat the setting as something dynamic–that is, it’s an origin story, describing how the city developed through the actions of Tristan et. al. and the setting is very fluid. But when I hit the third arc, something really fundamental shifted in the story. It wasn’t about the city changing anymore–everyone was essentially changed. Now, it was a story about people actually having to learn how to exist in that new world, while grappling with the remnants of the old one at the same time. It was a lot more complex, and a lot harder to write, but it yielded a lot of writing that I’m proud of. 

I’d like to explore the setting more, that much I know. What needs to happen most, I think, is that I have to just break the scab off, and get back into it. It’s become such a monster to me, because I’ve never known how to “resolve” any of it, especially given where the story last left us. But I’ve come to wonder if these sorts of things really need a resolution, or consistency. Certainly Pigtown isn’t consistent, and all of those stories make sense together. I think City of Bears needs to become something more like that.

So, long story short, yes, there will be more. No, I’m not sure when there will be more, but I’d like it to be soon. Whatever I produce, I doubt it’s going to be a direct continuation of the story, but it will probably pick a few of the characters and delve a bit deeper into the issues arising from the setting itself. Beyond those vague notions, I honestly don’t know.

Manning Up (Part 5)

The next morning, we talked. It was slow going, because he had to try and dance around whatever was blocking his tongue, and he also didn’t quite have the mental sharpness he’d had before all of this, but I got a better sense of what was going on. It was clear that there were details he couldn’t reveal, but something was indeed happening to him, and it was something relating to college, or someone at college. He told me that I had to promise him, that no matter what happened, I’d take him back to college on the first day of school, at the end of August. We marked the day on the calendar, and I told him I would do as he asked. He seemed relieved, but he was also…still scared, for some reason. It seemed like he was scared of me, or maybe he was just scared of the entire situation. Still, it was only a couple of months–whatever this was, it was strange as hell, but I told him we would get through it together.

But he kept getting worse and worse, as the next few weeks passed by. I would give him lists of tasks to do around the place, like usual, but he wouldn’t follow them–I’d get home and find him masturbating in a puddle of his own piss, or worse, he’d have disappeared. Those were the worst feelings, when I discovered he’d run off. I knew where he’d gone, of course–always the rest area a few miles down the road to suck cock–but every time he went missing, some icy hand gripped my heart. I was afraid that I might lose him. For a few days, I agonized over the possibility that I was falling in love the the lug, but that wasn’t how it felt–it felt more like I’d misplaced something of value–an object, not a person. Was Brock just a thing to me? That should have worried me more at the time, but if anything I felt relieved that I could keep an emotional distance. Still, it was clear that I couldn’t afford to leave Brock alone anymore, for his own safety, of course, and so I told the foreman that I had a friend of mine staying with me, and asked if he could work on the project for a month or so for a bit of cash. We didn’t really need another worker, but he owed me a favor–so Brock started coming with me each day I went to work–but that…well, maybe if I hadn’t, Brock would still be Brock, but I’m past regrets now. I can’t change what I did, so why worry about it?

Like I said earlier, I worked in heavy machinery, so I spent most of the day sitting in the cab of a backhoe. Brock, on the other hand, was going to be a grunt–fetching and carrying and that sort of stuff. For a few days, it all worked out fine, or at least, it seemed to be working fine, until I noticed that I wasn’t seeing much of Brock out and about the construction site. I watched closely the next day, saw the foreman–Aaron–call Brock into the trailer early, and neither of them came out for hours. That icy hand on my heart–it went from fear straight to jealousy. I busted in there and found Brock on his knees in front of my boss, sucking him off, and I was so fucking furious that this fucker was using my fucking property without even asking my permission–I don’t know what the fuck came over me, but I fucking howled at them, tore Brock away, and tackled Aaron to the ground, beat him and rolled him over, fucking his ass raw. Brock tried to crawl away in fear, but I ordered him to just stare at the wall until I figure out what to do with him, and he did, shaking and quivering, but unable to resist the command. When Aaron finally broke down and shot a load onto the floor of the trailer, I pulled out, dragged Brock outside, bent him over a sawhorse in front of everyone on the crew, and fucked him too.

“This thing is mine, you fucking hear me?” I screamed at them, spittle flying, “You wanna use him? You fucking ask. But he’s mine–anyone tries and take him from me–go see what shape Aaron is in, and think fucking twice.”

We left that evening, and I knew I was going to be in deep shit when Aaron got his act together and called the police, but I didn’t care. Brock was trying to talk to me, trying to apologize, trying to tell me that he couldn’t help it, but I didn’t want to hear any of that. I hauled him inside my trailer, made him face the wall and whipped him with my belt for his fucking uselessness, and then fucked his ass again. He couldn’t look me in the eye for the rest of the night–he was terrified of me, but his cock was rock hard all the same. Good, I thought. Let him be scared, and let him be horny. Those two feelings should be married in his fucking idiot head–but mostly fear, He should be fucking scared of me, they all should. If they feared me, then they’d respect me, and my property.

In my head, I knew it should be the other way around–that he should scare me. Fuck, he was six foot four, and probably close to 300 pounds at that point, most of it bulk. He could have beat me easily in a straight fight, but he’d never do that. I could tell, somehow, that he would never be able to hurt me. Sure, I could tell him to hurt someone, if I wanted to, but I owned him, and he knew it. Still, I was waiting for the knock on the door, for one of the deputies to ask about how I’d assaulted and raped Aaron earlier that day–but no one came. The next day, I thought about not going to the site…but I couldn’t let myself appear that weak, right? So I got Brock ready for work and we drove over–a bit late, in fact–and discovered the entire crew just standing around, looking nervous and unsure of themselves. None of them could look me in the eye, and Aaron was nowhere to be seen.

It was an argument over definitions from the start, namely what can be found in the dictionary vs your idiosyncratic, emotionally charged meaning of the word.

Ah yes. You, objective. Me, emotional. I mean, you certainly *seem* emotionally stable and well balanced.

I mean, you’re just the person who is still sending me asks about this, the person including at least one ad hominem in every message. You seem incredibly detached from this emotionally, absolutely unaffected by this entire conversation. That’s probably why you haven’t actually bothered replying to any of the arguments I’ve laid out–because you’re just too rational to deal with any of this silly, emotional, philosophy. You could probably walk away, and never think about this ever again, if you wanted to–but it seems that you don’t want to.

Why is that?

I mean, why do you care so much about this? See, we keep coming back to this question, Anon. Why does this claim–that wage labor (i.e. “jobs”) is a fundamental part of, and was created by, the Capitalist economic system–bothers you so much, that we still need to have this conversation a week later? Still, since you mention dictionaries…

Here’s Merriam Webster: “A regular remunerative position.” – that is, regular labor for a regular wage or payment.

Here’s the Oxford English Dictionary: “anything one has to do…spec. a paid position of employment.”

Google’s built in dictionary: “a paid position of regular employment.”

etc. etc.

I am using the definition of the word you find in a dictionary–what the fuck are you using?

Those mental gymnastics are very amusing but at the end of the day the term ‘job’ has an established definition. Tt means exactly the same thing as the word ‘occupation’ which predates XVI century. Wage labour, jobs, occupations have existed way before capitalism, and if a philosophy student can’t think of some examples then my only question is why did you skip out on the first month of your classes?

I would argue that the two terms, “job” and “occupation”, have different senses myself, that an occupation is a broader scope term than job. That is, I could say that one of my current occupations is writing erotica, but I wouldn’t say that writing erotica is one of my jobs. A job, in my mind, implies a social relationship with an employer. I suppose you could say that I am self-employed in some sense, but even that term implies, to me, a more formal relationship between a person their work. In any case, though, my point stands. You aren’t taking any real issue with my argument, you just think I’m using words wrong. At this point, you just want to have an argument over definitions, which isn’t interesting to anyone.

While we both write in the same general genre we have VERY different styles. I have wondered, whats you’re thought on wish fulfillment, and why do you shy away from it in your stories? Just an issue of there’s already so much of it out there?

My main beef with wish fulfillment is that, at a fundamental level, stories which rely on it generally lack conflict, and I think that conflict is a necessary component for stories to be good. That probably sounds super harsh, since wish granting is kind of your “thing”, but you do a really good job with it, or at least, as good a job as can be done with it.

The issue, with a bit more detail given, is that stories are composed of a protagonist, and that protagonist in generally pursuing something, a desire or goal or what have you. Something puts obstacles in the protagonists way, usually some kind of antagonist, but in a wish fulfillment story, the antagonist usually doesn’t even appear. The stories, especially bad ones, tend to just read as “Character A wanted to be X, and he became X, the end.” There’s no room to develop a story there, all we have is a description of a change. For the most part, wish fulfillment is just window dressing around a description of a change, in order to avoid doing the harder work of constructing a conflict to make the change meaningful.

But beyond that, I also just don’t find it to be all that arousing at all. My stories, at their cold, dreary black hearts, aren’t about people getting what they want–they’re about people getting what they deserve. Punishment, as opposed to reward. My approach has it’s own problems, of course, and can be just as empty of conflict if done poorly. Mostly, it’s a question of motivation–I’m still granting wishes, it’s just the wishes of people who hate Character A instead.

In the end, yeah, I think wish fulfillment is a lot more popular, and there is a ton of it. I’d probably be more successful if I used it more often, but whenever I’ve written them in the past, usually for a commission, they just bore me to tears. I usually just openly reject them now, if people request them, because I have so little interest in writing them.

I feel like complimenting you; I dislike about 80% of your subject matter and over time you seem branch out less, but I stick around because your writing is so good, and every once in a while you get commissioned or sometimes even write the stuff I like, and it’s incredible.

Thanks, I appreciate that, and I totally get the backhanded frustration too.

I get the feeling that I’m stuck in a rut almost all the time, honestly. I mean, especially after doing this for as long as I have, at the constant clip I work, the stories can tend to feel like they’re all blending together into a single mass. I rely pretty heavily, on my regular commissioners to force me out of my comfort zone and into subject matter I haven’t done much with. For example, I had a really great time writing “Idolized”–I really need to do more stuff with orcs, even if I find them to be a bit frustrating as far as subject matter is concerned (along with a lot of other fantasy themed topics). I’m also really happy with “Manning Up”, and that too, is a commissioned piece. 

So trust me, I get it, and I’m sorry. I do my best to force myself to vary things up as best I can, but I have my favorites, and my tropes, and my crutches just like most writers do. Thanks, in any case, for sticking with me! I’m glad that I can please you 1/5 of the time, at least, and that you get a good amount of enjoyment out of it.