With the sweltering heat of the dusty casbah, residing in the shadow of the scorching Middle Eastern sun stood an old curiosity shop. Damned by Satan, this old curiosity shop beheld a book feared by all. Bound in the flayed skin of a thousand damned souls, encrusted in the blood rubies of a late tyrant’s possession, and containing gold-leaved parchment of ill-begotten dreams, the garden in the pocket consumed every part of you to indulge it’s love, lust, greed, and envy. Book simply lead one into a realm that's entirely their own; the follies of their imagination. Contrary to normal books, this book transported you to a parallel universe with the uttering of a stanza. The corruption of a saint and darkening of light were within its power. The victim of the book followed the storyline, going from page to page, being indulged, overlooking the blight of the final chapter. Like most evil things in heavenly disguise, there was deathly consequence.
In life, we overlook the end product in order to enjoy the journey. With this book, that would indeed mean everlasting death. The victim of the book was given everything- riches, power, and societal status. Mesmerized by utter materialism, the
victim would fall into a hypnotic state. They would overlook the last page, they were mesmerized, and little did they know…
They were the slaves of the highest grandeur. Then came to last chapter, they would sell their soul to Satan in return for the wonderful life they had lead throughout the book. There was no turning back. They were the slaves of the highest grandeur. Their soul, evermore to putrefy in the fiery depths of hell, yearned for life. They traded in five minutes of glory for an eternity of agony. They were victims to their own hubris. They were their own downfall. They were hiding from some beast but the beast was never there, watching without eyes because the beast was just their fear.
Miles away came a prince from a distant city. He was arrogant, materialistic, vain, and self-entitled. Needless to say, he was rarely ever liked. Upon hearing the stories of the book, he scoffed, but remained curious. Leaving his palace in the dead of night, he road into the clear Arabian night. Arriving at the midnight casbah, as quiet as the dead, he purchased the book in unscrupulous discourse.
He was out to prove that the book was nothing but a collection of seditious tales. In actuality, he was a man of great avarice and wanted the riches that lay inside the book, but being a man of great arrogance, he convinced himself that it was in his possession to prove its lack of “magic”. After a while, the book consumed him, like so many before him. He, the slave, the book, the monster.
He, like the others, followed the story until the very end. There was no turning back. His soul now belonged to Satan. The power of the garden lured him in.

His soul had been sold, and now he remained feasting on the delectable fruits of its wrath. While he bid the world adieu, a phantom rose from the pages and marked his
name out of the world. To this day, a scorch mark remains on every document and piece of fine art in which the prince appeared. He was now a slave to grandeur.