Write a story

Matt's brain went every direction at once. The world was potentially his to control. I mean, what couldn't he do? Could he give himself the power to become God? Like Capital G God? Could he have every woman he's ever fantasized about? Could he become the richest man alive? The possibilities were endless. He spiraled in possibilities for a good ten minutes.

The one thing that caught his attention, though, was the fact that his new ability was specifically centered around superpowers. Now, he didn't live in a world with superpowers. Or, at least, he didn't think so. He didn't think he lived in a world with any magic an hour ago, but this seemed to be pretty undeniably magic. Calming down, Matt decided to do what he did best (now) and write. He wrote a story about someone in his very position, who went about testing his powers. Knowing how to write, he didn't go all in for ultimate world domination right away. If a character went bad, like he inevitably would until the end of the second act, it would be boring for it to happen all at once. He wrote a character with a good head on his shoulders, who thinks about all the fiction that he consumed with people discovering a new magic ability, taking it too far, and getting picked up by the Men in Black, or some major evil corporation, or a team of villains. He wrote a character that took things slow, and cautious, and started local. When he was done, and no story he ever wrote came easier, Matt smiled because he knew what to do.

Matt saved the document somewhere deep in his hard drive, right next to his porn collection. It was legitimately the best story he'd ever written, but he couldn't let it get out and get caught. So he saved it deep in the "Schoolwork&Taxes" folder that he was sure no one would ever want to look in.

He went out to the kitchen, looking his disheveled self. His mom was chopping veggies to put into a slow cooker for dinner. She looked at him and turned up her nose in an expression that, though familiar, still stung. It was a look of disappointment and of disgust. Self-conscious, Matt sniffed himself and realized he didn't shower yesterday, and it was nearly noon already into another day without one. He shuffled, embarrassed toward the fridge, surreptitiously looking at his mother. Betty Bradley was in her 60s, and looked it. She had stringy, thin brown hair, wrinkles clear across her face, and some pudge to her belly. He chose not to think about her very sagging breasts. The years had really taken their toll. Matt attributed this to the diner she'd worked at for nearly 40 years, going from one bad manager to the next as they all got promotions or quit. It hadn't been easy on her. Matt knew that he had to help her with that, somehow.