Aimless Wish
by Varian Milagro
This story was created with the assistance of AI. All the characters, dialog, plot and settings are mine. ChatGPT took my series of long, very detailed, rambling, stream of conscousness prompts and formatted them into something coherent and added bits of sensory detail. I also used AI to create the illustrations.
Part 1
By two o'clock on Friday, Chase had already been to two breakfast meetings and a mid-morning walk-through of a private garden gala venue before arriving at the nondescript address scribbled onto the back of an RSVP card. He pulled up in his pearl white 2021 Lexus RX 350, the rose gold accents catching in the sunlight like jewelry. The hybrid hummed to a quiet stop, purring beneath him. He touched the power button with a manicured finger and took a long breath.
He stepped out in blush pink stilettos that made a clear click on the sidewalk. With his teakwood leather handbag hooked in the crook of one arm. Chase looked every inch the poised, powerful woman his business cards now suggested he was.
The sheen of his silk ivory pussy-bow blouse shimmered in the dappled sunlight breaking through the trees. It was sheer—but with intention—revealing nothing except exquisite tailoring. His blazer, cream with satin lapels, swung open confidently over the blouse, the cuffs crisp and studded with delicate gold cufflinks. His blush pencil skirt hugged his hips like a sculpted glove, dipping into a modest back slit that moved like a whisper when he walked.
Then, the sound of pure chaos.
A sudden roar of an engine—throaty, proud, slightly illegal. Riley’s rose gold 2023 Mercedes CLA Coupe screamed around the corner and pulled up next to his Lexus in a blur of chrome and flirtation.
“You win on best car again,” Chase said dryly.
Riley emerged like a fashion-forward Bond girl. Her ivory square-neck knit bodysuit hugged every inch of her upper body with precision, just conservative enough to disarm, just tight enough to entice. High-waisted wide-leg trousers in warm taupe billowed around her long legs as she moved, the golden buckle of her designer belt flashing with every sway of her hips. On her feet, gold pointed mules made a more delicate click than Chase’s stilettos, but the energy was the same—domination with poise.
She pulled off her oversized sunglasses and gave him a sly grin. “Damn right. Yours says ‘power brunch.’ Mine says ‘I can lose the cops in three turns.’”
They looked at each other for a moment—just looked. And in that quiet assessment, each tried to reconcile who the other had become with who they'd been just a week ago. There was still a faint echo of the old Riley in the sorority goddess standing there. But Chase was someone else entirely. Not a trace of the man he'd been still remained. Every line of his body, every step he took, every breath he drew radiated elegant, feminine authority.
"I need to tell you about my date," Riley said as they walked to the front door. "And I want to hear all about yours."
“If we haven’t changed back after this appointment, let’s go to Elixiria. It’s a wellness bar one of my new clients just opened.” Chase knocked twice on the front door. “I’ll have to cancel on Mrs. Kilgrave, but I’ve been switching jobs every day, so it probably won’t make a difference.”
The door was answered by a man who didn’t bother with greetings. His weathered face was carved with age and experience, deep lines cutting across his forehead and bracketing his eyes. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short, leaning heavy on the salt. His shirt, a button-down the color of tired paper, was rolled at the sleeves. No tie. No smile.
"Come on in.”
As they stepped inside. Riley handed over a slim envelope—two thousand in crisp bills.
He took it without glancing inside, nodding once. “Follow me.”
The living room was surprisingly nice—earth-toned furniture, framed landscapes, and bookshelves filled with classic novels. He gestured for them to sit.
“I’ve got your story. You tell me if anything’s off.”
He went through it mechanically: The wish, the scroll, the flames, the daily transformations. He clearly knew what he was talking about. Then came the bad news.
“Whoever created that scroll of yours was a real asshole. There’s no reason it needed to consume itself. With access to the original, I could've…" He shook his head slowly. "It's still possible—but I’d need to know the exact wording of your wish. Every word, every pause. They all matter."
The looks on their faces told them all he needed.
"I'm sorry, but without either of those, the spell will need to run its course."
Chase sighed dramatically, crossing his legs and resting his manicured fingers over his knee. “So what, that’s it? Riley pays you two grand for a 'Can't help you, so sorry' and we walk out as living cautionary tales?”
The Fixer didn’t flinch. “That’s the bad news. Here’s the better news: the spell’s still in effect. I can do a ritual. It won’t undo it—not yet—but I can see who you used to be. Once the magic burns out, I can use that insight to rebuild what was lost. That includes Logan and Deborah, too.”
Riley leaned forward, the gold chains around her neck catching the light. “Do they need to be here?”
“No. Only the casters matter.”
Without another word, he stood and beckoned them downstairs.
The basement was the opposite of the living room. Bare concrete floors were marked with overlapping chalk circles, many half-erased or stained with something old. Copper wires hung overhead, strung with flickering bulbs that gave the space a surreal glow. One corner buzzed faintly—the enchanted refrigeration unit, its surface beaded with cold, like it held secrets too dangerous to be warm. A phonograph played warbly blues in a loop.
“It’s not cozy,” the Fixer said. “But it’s safe while I'm here with you."
