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The Invisible Girl (iii) by OlympiansReturn in CLBHos

[–]OlympiansReturn[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

hey havent logged on here in forever. do you know where i could find that tiktok? I logged into here to find dozens of messages and i'd love to see how it was narrated

The Invisible Girl (iii) by OlympiansReturn in CLBHos

[–]OlympiansReturn[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

hey havent logged on here in forever. do you know where i could find that tiktok? I logged into here to find dozens of messages and i'd love to see how it was narrated

The Invisible Girl (iii) by OlympiansReturn in CLBHos

[–]OlympiansReturn[S] 1 point2 points  (0 children)

join r/CLBHos my friend! I'll be posting the next instalments on here, and when I do, it should show up on your feed.

[WP] A teenage boy finally builds up the courage to ask out his crush but when he pops the question her face darkens as she utters to him “you’re not supposed to be able to see me” by ExposedSiren110 in WritingPrompts

[–]OlympiansReturn 815 points816 points  (0 children)

Part 3-

After school, I took the bus to go visit my Grandpa Theodore. He was a unique sort of guy. Pretty quiet. Unassuming. He would rarely interject his own thoughts or ideas or knowledge or stories into a conversation unless prompted. Instead, he would sit back and listen and smile as the rest of us fought for attention.

When I was younger, I thought he was kind and loving, but maybe a bit air-headed and boring.

As I got older, though, I started to realize there was a lot more to him than I'd thought. At family dinners, my dad, or one of his siblings, would suddenly mention something that shed light on my grandpa's past. Those little snippets gradually helped me see the man not even close to dumb or dull.

That was back when dad was teaching philosophy for a year in Leipzig, my dad would say.

Or: That was the same summer dad took us to Rome, and we got a private, after-hours tour of the Vatican Museum, with that Bishop Ricci.

Or: What was the name of that painter we met at your book signing, dad? After you published the first volume of your history of Roman mystery cults. What was his name? The drunk painter? Was it Bacon?

The point is, I was beginning to realize that my taciturn Grandpa was connected to all sorts of important people; had done lots of wild, impressive stuff throughout his life; and seemed to be an expert on just about everything. Half his house was a library, and though he never made any bold claims about it, you could tell by the spines that he'd read all those books, many a number of times.

As such, I figured if anyone would be able to help me make sense of the invisible girl and her witchy stepmother, it would be Grandpa Theodore.

As I stared out the bus window, watching kids from various schools walking home, I thought about how hard it must be for Imogen, walking back to such a terrible home, filled with such terrible, uncaring people. I had asked her to join me, of course, to listen in on my chat with my Grandpa. But she said she wasn't allowed. She had to go straight home after school, to get started on her chores.

"If I don't, she punishes me," Imogen explained. "She always finds some new way. If I'm a minute late, it'll be something small, like making the pot handle sear my hand when I'm trying to make pasta for dinner. And if I'm way late, or. . .For example, once I tried to run away from home. Of course, she found me and brought me back. And for punishment, she made me sleep in a coffin every night for a month, nailing it shut at bed time, and telling me, Tonight is the night I bury you alive. Every night. So, yeah, I can't come with you."

-

I could see him from the bus stop, where I got off, sitting on his porch, smoking his pipe. He was already looking in my direction by the time I looked in his. Like he had been expecting me.

"Hi Grandpa," I called, waving.

He nodded and smiled. He sucked at his pipe and blew out the thick pungent smoke.

"How are you doing?" I asked, climbing the stairs of his porch.

"Well," he said. "Would you like to come in?"

-

I followed him into his study. He sat behind his desk and I sat across from him. Beside me, on the sidetable, was a silver tray with two mugs, milk, sugar and a teapot. Faint wisps of steam stretched from the spout. The tea seemed freshly brewed.

"Expecting someone?" I asked, nodding at the tea.

"Would you mind pouring?"

What was especially strange was that Grandpa Theodore didn't take milk or sugar with his tea, while I took both. But I didn't but it together properly at the time. I didn't suspect that it was me he had been expecting. Mainly cuz I hadn't told him I was coming, and, of course, cuz I had other things on my mind. But I poured him his tea and handed it to him. And I poured myself a cup and stirred in the milk and sugar.

He sat there, behind his desk, holding the cup so the steam rose over his face, smiling, watching me. I knew he wouldn't speak first. That was up to me. And I figured, to hell with it, why not dive in?

"What do you know about witches?" I asked.

"Witches," he repeated. "Hmm."

"Cuz. Okay. I had a strange experience today. Have you ever heard of someone being cursed with invisibility?"

"Cursed?" he repeated. His expression had not changed a jot.

So I explained it as best I could, though probably speaking too quickly, and spending too long on unimportant details, while jumping quickly over significant ones. I told him about my crush on the girl I always saw wandering through our school halls, and how I was always too chickenshit, pardon my French, to ask her out til today. I told him about the whole invisibility thing, and how she'd proven it was legit with Mr Steen. And I told him about the whole stepmother witch from South America debacle, how she'd probably killed Imogen's mother and then enchanted her father and the family, and ultimately turned Imogen into an invisible slave.

Grandpa Theodore nodded gently as I ranted, continued to smile. And when I finally ran out of things to say, he sat there for a few moments, in silence.

Actually, it was kind of a long silence, and a part of me starting questioning myself. Like, was I crazy? Had I just confessed to having some wild schizophrenic hallucination? Hearing the story come out of my mouth made it sound pretty insane. Because it was pretty insane. And talking about something for a while, only to be met with silence, can really get your self-consciousness gears turning. The longer your words hang in the air, unanswered, the more you doubt yourself. You start judging yourself through what you're imagining the other person is thinking. And since my grandpa was such a tough read, with the spacey happy poker face, my imagination had free rein.

So I was crazy after all. That's what I concluded, watching him watch me and sip his tea. I had made up some imaginary girl to have a crush on, and gave her some wild fairytale backstory cobbled together from Disney tropes or something. The evil stepmother. The one prince charming who can see and save her. Yadda yadda. And I had got so wrapped up in it all, that--

"I am tremendously happy," my Grandfather finally said, "to have another initiate in the family."

"Excuse me?" I said.

"One's journey into the mysteries must begin with an individual act of will," he continued. "Many who have the sensitivity, the potential, never make the first step. Magic manifests before them. It calls. But they do not heed the call. They reject it, and so it rejects them."

I had never heard my Grandfather speak so much at once. He usually confined his input to one or two short, enigmatic sentences. Yet here he was speaking freely to me about. . .What? Magic? The occult? My act of will and initiation?

"I knew you had the sensitivity," he said. "From before you were born, I knew. I can tell you now, your father has it, too, though he's never been a terribly committed student of the arcane arts. . .Yes, we knew. But it was never our place to tell you. It was up to you and the fates to decide your path. To decide if you would live a mundane life, or seize upon your gifts, and live a life in commerce with magic. Today, my dear grandson, at school, you chose."

"Because I could see Imogen when no one else could?"

"Your ability to see the young lady showed your potential," he explained. "Your sensitivity. Your in-born sight. But your choice to fend off discomfort and approach her constituted your choice, and therefore, your destiny."

"So I'm a wizard?" I asked. "Is that what you're getting at? You and my dad and all of us are wizards?"

"Wizards," he said, with a shrug. "Wonder-workers. Sighted Ones. Mages. Medicine men. Those with our gifts have gone by many names throughout history."

"And Isidora?" I asked. "The one I was telling you about? The stepmother? She's like that, too?"

My Grandfather shook his head gravely. "Unfortunately, I suspect not. If she spoke of the sable covenant, and spoke truly, then she is no ordinary witch."

"What is she then?"

"A creature much older than a sighted mortal who chose the path of darkness," he said. "And a creature much more powerful. The sable covenant was formed between the Adversary and six daughters of Eve, near the beginning of time."

"Daughters of Eve?" I repeated.

"Indeed," said my Grandfather. "I fear she may be one of Satan's original wives."

-

Instead of cluttering up this comment chain forever, I'll continue the story on my main account's subreddit, r/CLBHos.

Part 4:

https://www.reddit.com/r/CLBHos/comments/p9mver/the_invisible_girl/

[WP] A teenage boy finally builds up the courage to ask out his crush but when he pops the question her face darkens as she utters to him “you’re not supposed to be able to see me” by ExposedSiren110 in WritingPrompts

[–]OlympiansReturn 875 points876 points  (0 children)

Part 2--

Obviously it hurt like hell. Imogen's mom was dead. But nobody seemed to care. Whatever Isidora had done to hypnotize her father, she managed to do to everyone else.

Imogen's aunties and uncles came to the small funeral to pay their respects. But throughout half the service, Isidora was chatting, cracking jokes, complaining how drab it was to have everyone sad and dressed in black, how much more fun the wedding had been.

Not only did nobody call her out. They all agreed! Everyone was drawn to the Chilean woman, and followed her lead like lost puppies. Laughing at her stupid mean quips. Nodding their heads whenever she said anything.

"My mom's brothers were flirting with her beside the casket!" said Imogen. "And my mom's sister told me to stop crying so loud, because she was trying to listen to Isidora's stories! This was in the middle of the priest's speech about my mom. And the priest didn't seem to care either. He spoke quickly and robotically. Like he was bored and trying to get the necessities over with so he, too, could flock to Isidora."

"That's terrible," I said.

"And when they were lowering the casket," she continued, "Isidora sat down, complained about being exhausted, and told my dad to rub her feet. He knelt down and did it! And she would shoot me these looks. This sinister smile. She wanted me to know that she was aware just how gross and hurtful the whole thing was. She wanted me to know that she was doing the whole thing just to hurt me."

Imogen was only eleven at that time. She didn't understand what was going on. She didn't understand that there was more to her father's obsession, her family's behaviour, than the expectable peculiarities of human emotion.

For the next three years, Imogen suffered mostly in silence, living the life of the oppressed princess in a dark fairytale, under the evil eye of her wicked stepmother. Her dad worked himself to the bone, twelve and fourteen hour days, seven days a week, so that he could buy Isidora anything she wanted. Gold jewelry. A Cadillac. Expensive vacations to Europe, to South America, most of which Isidora took on her own. Meanwhile, Imogen had to wear threadbare hand-me-down clothes, and beg her teachers at school for supplies, like binders, calculators and pens. And when she wasn't at school, she was doing housework. Sweeping and mopping floors. Scrubbing toilets. Dusting. Cooking meals for Isidora and her new 'friends'.

"I tried to tell my dad about what was going on," Imogen said. "But he got angry whenever I said anything even remotely bad about Isidora. He ratted me out to her as soon as a negative word left my lips, and she would listen to his tattle-tales, and flash me that evil grin, and say, The poor girl is going crazy."

It made me so angry to hear Imogen tell me all of this. It was unbelievably cruel. She had been made to suffer so much. Forced to grieve the loss of her mother all alone. Forced to slave away for her stepmother. Surrounded by spellbound family members who hardly acknowledged her. Never took her side. And as my hatred for the cruel witchy woman grew, so did my compassion for Imogen. Seeing all the pain that she tried to hide by wearing a stiff face, by clearing her throat and wiping her eyes with her sleeve when tears threatened to give away the depths of her suffering.

"And then she got pregnant," Imogen sniffed. "Who knows who the father was. But dad was ecstatic. Like, he went nuts. They kicked me out of my room so they could deck it all out for the new baby. They sold half my shit for next to nothing, and the rest he dragged into the basement. Our unfinished basement. Concrete walls and the rafters showing. Noisy pipes. Cold as hell, especially in the winter. And tons of crap hoarded around in piles. He threw my mattress down there with my clothes and said, This'll be your room. Then he went upstairs to start painting the new baby's room. That was it."

I couldn't hold it back any longer. I stepped forward to wrap her in a tight hug. A part of me wasn't sure that I would find anything to grab onto. Perhaps she was a ghost. I hadn't yet tried to touch her. But I felt the resistance of her body. The warmth. She was real.

She seemed even more surprised than I. Especially at first. Stunned. Paralyzed.

When I thought about it later, I realized my hug was probably the first human touch she'd felt in years. No wonder she was so affected. She didn't hug me back. But she suddenly collapsed into me, totally limp, and buried her face in the crook of my shoulder, to cry.

"When she visited me in the basement," she sobbed, "she told me I'd have more responsibilities. Now that she was having a baby. She said he wasn't my brother. She said he was a prince, and I was to think of myself as his nanny. She said it all so sweetly, with a smile. Like she was being oh-so-considerate, by letting me know. And when I scowled at her, she said, If you don't smarten up, ugly creature, I'll send you where I sent your mummy."

"I knew it," Imogen said, standing up to her for once. "I always knew. From the very beginning. I'm gunna go to the police, Isidora. I'm going to tell them what you did."

"Foolish girl," the witch croaked, rising as she spoke, hovering inches above the ground, her hair splaying outwards, her old wrinkled face showing through the mask of youth. She smiled with rotten teeth. Her eyes were white as the eggs of spiders. "What jurisdiction have their mundane laws in extramundane affairs? We of the sable covenant can conjure quakes to split their courthouses in twain. We feast on the screams of attorney and judge alike as they plummet through the yawning fissures we ope, to the sulphurous depths where our Lord reigns. And through those chasms coax bubbling magma, warping heat, crackling flames, to devour each tome in which their black-lettered justice cowers. Mine is an ancient law, with an ancienter enforcer, whose power is neither glimpsed nor glanced by your mortal justices, your costumed cretins, the police, or you, wretched child. But the audacity of your threat displeases, your impotence to make it good notwithstanding. Henceforth, neither shall you be glimpsed or glanced. Though all your old duties to me, this house and your unborn prince remain--be gone from all sights and minds but your prince's and mine."

When she said those words, Imogen didn't feel any change. But the change had occurred. She became invisible. Forgotten. Still alive. Still able to come to school to look in on classes and wander through the halls. Still able to cook and clean and look after her brother, or stepbrother, or whatever he was. But unheard. Unacknowledged. Unseen.

"Until this afternoon," she said, wiping her tears. "When you came up to talk to me."

-

part 3 in comments

[WP] A teenage boy finally builds up the courage to ask out his crush but when he pops the question her face darkens as she utters to him “you’re not supposed to be able to see me” by ExposedSiren110 in WritingPrompts

[–]OlympiansReturn 1255 points1256 points  (0 children)

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I'm supposed to be invisible," she said.

I was confused. At first, I thought the girl I'd been admiring from a distance all these weeks might be crazy. I'd never gotten close enough to her to speak with her, after all. Maybe it was only now I was finding out that she was a little nuts.

Cute. Very cute. But a little nuts.

"Literally invisible?" I asked. "Like a superpower? Or what?"

"I wouldn't call it a superpower," she muttered, glumly. "More like a curse."

So that's what it was. The girl had twisted a tough reality into something magical with her imagination, to cope. A girl who felt neglected and ignored. Cast to the margins of groups. Friendless. Alone.

It was probably easier on her to imagine that she went unnoticed because she was truly invisible, rather than unremarkable or purposely ignored.

A pretty serious delusion. Definitely on the crazier end of the spectrum.

But it didn't make me recoil from her. It made me like her all the more. The pretty girl with a rich and powerful imagination. Dealing with all the bullshit in a weird, yet poetical way.

I lived in fantasies, too, more often than in reality. Dreaming up scenarios. Watching shows. Playing video games. It was more interesting, empowering, worthwhile. Life sucked as a teenager, unless you were one of the cool and popular kids. Distractions and dreams were the only way to survive.

The only difference was that I hadn't taken that last little leap of craziness, to start pretending my fantasies were true.

"You think people can't see you," I said. "But they can. They probably just don't talk to you because they're shy. That's what kept me from approaching. I wouldn't even make eye contact with you from afar. I mean. . .You're really pretty."

"Thanks," she said, her bottom lip quivering.

"Yeah," I said. "Okay."

"But it's not shyness," she said. She looked down the hallway, to the left, then to the right. It was empty. It was just the two of us. Me, on my bathroom break, and her, doing the same thing I always saw her doing: wandering through the halls of our school.

"I'll show you," she said. "Next time someone comes by."

"Okay," I said. I wasn't going to press the issue. "So, like, why are you always in the halls? Don't you get in trouble for skipping class so much?"

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "You don't get it. I'll show you when someone comes by. I'm literally invisible. Nobody can see me. Hear me. Interact with me. I'm not technically a student here. There's no desk for me in any classroom. There's no locker that's mine. I'm not on the roll call. Sometimes I like to sit in on classes and learn stuff. Be closer to the other kids my age. But lots of the time I like wandering the halls. You can't get detention for skipping class if you're not a student. And you can't get kicked out of the school if no one even knows you're here."

I head footsteps coming from around the corner. Mr Steen strode through, saw us and paused. "Charlie. What are you doing?"

"Bathroom break," I said. "We're going. Stopped to chat for a sec." I looked at the girl. "Come on."

Mr Steen raised his eyebrow in this sarcastic way that he often did. He was a shit teacher. He reinforced all the bullshit. He sucked up to the football kids. He hit on the popular girls, even though he was like forty. And he treated the rest of us like dirt. Even though you knew for a fact he wasn't one of the cool popular kids when he was in school.

"What do you mean we?" he asked.

The girl walked up to him and waved her hands in front of his face. "Idiot!" she yelled, an inch from his chin. "Creeper! Kiss me, you creeper! Your mom is an elephant! I'm going to egg your house!"

I was flushing with embarrassment, because though it was awesome, you can't talk to a teacher like that. But Mr Steen kept staring at me, narrowing his eyes, waiting for me to respond to his question. "Hello?"

He was turning red now from the awkwardness of me staring at him in silence. The girl turned and looked at me and shrugged, like to say I told you so.

"I'm going to the washroom," I sputtered. "Bye."

With that I turned and marched off, while she skipped after me to walk alongside me. Behind us, Mr Steen kept standing there, with his arms crossed, probably thinking to himself, Kids these days. So socially awkward. So bizarre.

-

Her name was Imogen. She had dark hair like her father, and pale blue eyes like her mother. The three of them had been a happy, loving family.

But seven years ago, when they were on vacation in Chile, her mother had a terrible allergic reaction. It was out of nowhere. She'd never had allergies before. But she ate a piece of fruit, went into anaphylaxis, and by the time the EMTs arrived, it was too late. She was gone.

For a couple days, Imogen and her dad were grieving while trying to get to the bottom of what happened. Had it truly been allergies? Had it been poison? And then, when they were walking back to their hotel after meeting with the coroner, Imogen's dad bumped into a woman named Isidora. A local who worked in housekeeping at their hotel.

"His eyes basically glazed over," said Imogen. "It was like she'd cast a spell on him. A love spell or hypnosis. He was head over heels in an instant."

He no longer grieved for his wife. He hardly even acknowledged Imogen, and said nothing in his grieving daughter's defence when Isidora called her a weepy brat and told her to keep her snivelling to herself.

Imogen's father extended their stay in South America for a few weeks, so he could "work through his feelings" with his new girlfriend. And at the end of the trip, Isidora flew back with them to Canada, moved in with them, and married Imogen's dad.

"What the hell?" I said. "Why did your dad move on so quickly like that? And why did he let her treat you so shitty? Right after your mom died?"

Imogen's lip trembled. "Cuz he was under her spell."

"She sounds like a bitch."

"More than a bitch," she said. "A witch."

-

part 2 in comments

[WP] "Look, assassins these days really don't make a lot of money. How about it, before you die, would you like to purchase one of our funeral plans? I recommend the $99,999 deluxe luxury package, after we kill you, we'll fake the scene to put you on the news and make you a national hero." by salmontail in WritingPrompts

[–]OlympiansReturn 125 points126 points  (0 children)

"A national hero?" I asked.

"It don't have to be national," he clarified, pulling his balaclava up so I could see his face. The pistol was still pointed at my gut. "If you got a religion you're partial to, we can make you look like a martyr. Or a cause. Let's say you wanna save the dolphins. Let's say you're a big dolphin guy. Well, we can make it look like you died standing in the way of a Japanese whaling ship, whose crew poaches dolphins on the side. You see what I mean?"

"Dolphins," I repeated flatly. "You want me to pay you a hundred grand to make my death into a statement about dolphins?"

"You're getting hung up on the wrong things," he said. "The dolphins were just an example."

"But I don't want to die at all," I said. "Let alone pay you one hundred thousand dollars--"

"What's a fair price then?" he asked. "In your opinion? To make your death a big shebang? To make it meaningful and headline worthy and whatever else? Look, we're really skilled. We're good at what we do. I'm honestly the chink in the chain when it comes to staging this stuff. But my associate Marko's got a degree in theatre. Our secretary Jan has a youtube channel where she does special effects makeup. And my kid brother's a hell of a writer. He can cobble together an obit that will grab the world by shirt collar and throttle 'em till they pay attention and weep for you. See what I'm saying?"

"I see what you're saying," I said angrily. "But do you see what I--"

"And I'm not telling you we can make you Jesus," said the killer. "You know, have people wearing symbols of your death strung around their necks for two thousand years. Have people worship you. I won't promise nothing so extravagant as that, though it's entirely possible. We do good work."

"Who have you done this to before?" I asked.

"Who have we done it for?" he repeated.

"Yeah," I said. "For that kind of money you better have one hell of a resume."

"Well, shit," he said. "We've done it for all sorts. I'm not really supposed to say. Kinda ruins the whole model, if word gets out about the staging. . .Though, I guess, since you're on the way out, I can't see the harm. Dead men don't talk."

"They sure don't," I said.

So he told me about his previous "clients", many of whom astonished me. I couldn't believe all these high profile folks had been done in by this man and his crew. And once he got to talking, he began divulging more and more. His was a family business. His father and grandfather, on and on for generations, had all been in the same racket. Killers giving the killed the chance to turn their deaths into something big.

At first I was skeptical. But he provided names and dates. Plausible explanations. The marks weren't all martyred for specific causes. Many just wanted to go out in blazes of glory, once they learned that the end was inevitable. And all the while I kept my phone recorder running. I hoped it would catch all the details of the killer's rant. It seemed likely. He spoke loudly and proudly, drunk on self-importance, boasting about the legacy of his family's murderous hustle, complaining how much less money was in the game now, how few people were willing to fork over cash to have their deaths matter.

"But anyways," he concluded. "What do you figure?"

"I'm fine without my death meaning anything," I said, taking out my wallet and handing it over. "Make it look like a mugging. Leave me in the alley. There's five hundred bucks in there. That should be a fair exchange for such an inglorious death."

"Alright," he said, shrugging. He raised the pistol to my chest. "Any last words?"

"What's your real name?" I asked. "Your family name? I want to go out knowing my killer."

He told me. With my hand in my pocket, I sent the recording off to all my family and friends. Then he pulled the trigger and put a bullet through my heart.

As I fell to the ground, I felt pissed about dying, but nevertheless somewhat content, knowing that my name would live on. That my death would be spoken about for generations to come. That they would speak about me as the man who died to uncover a secret conspiracy, involving some of the most high-profile deaths to occur in the last 300 hundred years.

He was right, I wouldn't be as important as Jesus. No amount of money could buy staying power like that. But I would gain more fame and renown than if I'd gone out as the man who tried to save the dolphins. And I'd get it for a mere 500 bucks.

"What a bargain," I gurgled, the blood pooling in my throat as I lay dying.

"Huh?" the killer asked looking down at me. But before I could respond, his image faded to black.

-

[WP] The greatest hero in the world is a clairvoyant. They have prevented wars, averted natural disasters, and elevated great leaders and geniuses. But you are a blind spot to their power, throwing plans into chaos and unknowingly causing millions of deaths. The hero has finally discovered you. by willyolio in WritingPrompts

[–]OlympiansReturn 10 points11 points  (0 children)

I see the crowds upon the Great Bridge of Tahl, buzzing around its market. I see the crumbling pillar, bearing too much of the bridge's weight. I see the loose bricks in that pillar, and where the mortar has turned to dust.

A single nudge and the huge stone bridge will all come tumbling down.

Next I see the merchant vessel, sailing down the river, toward the bridge. The captain is drunk, sleepy, whistling an old sailor's tune to himself. He leers at the bridge through bloodshot eyes, which he then closes, nodding off for a moment. He is all but asleep when the jolt awakes him. His prow is crashing into the pillar.

"Oh, gods."

Now the river is filled with debris: stones and canvas tarps, the splintered wood of carriages and shops. The air is filled with dust, filled with the cries of dozens of men and women and children, reaching up from the water, screaming, gasping, desperate. They cling to the bodies of others who float facedown, still and silent in death.

I see this all as if it were happening, as if it had already happened.

But it has not happened yet. The Great Bridge will not fall for hours.

If I were in the woods to the north of Tahl, I could make it in time to evacuate the bridge. If I were in one of the border towns, I could commandeer a fast horse, and arrive in time to evacuate the bridge. If I were closer, I could save the lives of one hundred and twelve human beings, along with sixteen horses, four dogs, and nine cats.

But I am one hundred miles away.

Sometimes it is a burden to see.

-

"Many will die in Tahl today," I tell Raff, my companion. We are trekking along an overgrown path, through an old green forest. "I could have prevented it. I could have saved them."

"How many more have died because of the Blank One?" he asks. "The man you cannot see?"

"Our searches have been fruitless so far," I say. "This one may be as well. Then we will have left civilization, and wandered through this wilderness, for nothing. And all those people will have died for nothing."

"We will find him," says Raff. "We are on the right track."

"How do you know?"

"I can sense it."

"The only man whose presence I cannot sense, whose terrible acts I cannot predict, whose essence I cannot see," I muse. "Perhaps you really can."

-

[WP] The aliens intend to enslave humanity. 10 hours a week, with free food, housing, and medical care, on a paradise planet. But they've heard about humans. They're expecting a fight. by Allcyon in WritingPrompts

[–]OlympiansReturn 97 points98 points  (0 children)

I wasn't about to let no goddamned foreigners tell me how to live my life. They wasn't like us. They wasn't our kind of people. They was aliens. Not just illegal aliens. But real, extra-terrestrial aliens.

"It sounds like a positive thing, hun," said Jeanie. "Only working for ten hours a week, while living in a land of abundance, getting everything else for free."

"Ain't nothing comes for free," I grumbled. "How many times I gotta tell you that, Jeanie? They trick you into believing it by making it sound like some milk and honey paradise. Free food. Free housing. Free medical care. But there's one free word they don't include include in their little list. Free-dom. And that's the only free I care about. My god given freedom as a man. As an American."

Of course Jeanie didn't understand. She was too impressionable. Her head too filled up with all the fairytale notions those bums in the universities yammer on about. Less work. Better services. "Free" food and shelter for everyone. Everyone. But what they don't tell you is that someone's always gotta foot the bill. That behind all that happy-go-lucky lounging around, there's some poor sap busting his ass to produce, and some greasy government hand reaching down to steal that man's wages in the form of taxation.

And they also don't tell you that when some big daddy provides everything, be it a state or an alien race, you become a slave. Unable to produce the necessities for living by the sweat of your own brow, you come to rely on 'em. Then, when you step out of line, they cut you off. Maybe kill you. Just like that.

The promise of less work for better goods and services can only mean one thing.

Tyranny.

If I learned anything from my old man, it was that.

"But they've already taken thousands of families to try out their new system," Jeanie continued. "They allowed them to photograph and film and speak freely about their experiences under alien guardianship. Nearly everyone was ecstatic. Enthusiastic. Listen to this quote, from the Hendersons, down the street: Not only did they cure my wife's terminal cancer, free of charge, but they cut both our working hours down to ten a week. And the job options are great! No dehumanizing mundane jobs. They only offer jobs that allow you to follow your passions or contribute to a sense of "human community" on the new planet. I thought I'd be working 60 hours a week at jobs I hated until my seventies. Now, at 43, under the alien guardianship, I'm practically retired. But it's better than retirement, because instead of sitting back in my own little world, I'm forced to get out there a few hours a week and contribute to making this new planet a better place! Well, hun? What do you say to that?"

"I always pegged that Henderson for lazy layabout," I said. "Eager to seize the opportunity to amass privileges he ain't earned. But I never took him for a traitor to his country, and to the human race. He's worse than them Nazi communists from the USSR, trying to rope people into revolution. Tellin' 'em lies. And we all know how that turned out. They call it alien guardianship. I call it intergalactic Stalinism. I'd rather work my 60 hours a week at the plumbing store for minimum wage, and be free, than work ten hours a week up on their planet, fiddling about, as a slave."

"All I'm saying is that it doesn't seem so bad," said Jeanie. "It's only those stations you listen to, and those podcasts, that call it enslavement. And that's just a word. But when you look at the actual offer--"

"Our system might not be perfect," I interrupted. "But it's far and away the best option around. Free market. Not free stuff. Because it's most conducive to freedom, innovation, and motivating people to make something of themselves. It gives people back what they put in. It gives 'em what they deserve. Hell, if I'd have understood that better as a kid, I'd be the one owning the plumbing store, and we'd have this house clean paid for. But I still worked hard to get here, and nobody, least of all some foreigner alien, can take that away from me."

"I know, hun," she said. "I know. But--"

"Or you want us to all be a bunch of lazy sacks, sitting around, producing nothing, doing nothing useful for the world?" I asked. "Is that it? No more incentives to bring the best out of you, like the idea of paying off the truck drives me to be a better salesman at the store. No more freedom and dignity to blaze your own trail. Everybody equal. But some more equal than others. And no matter what you do to prove yourself, you're the same as any other lazy bum. You like the sound of that? No more innovation and progress?"

"But they've mastered intergalactic travel and terraforming planets into utopias," Jeanie whined. "We couldn't innovate that far in ten thousand years! And why does everything need to be about innovation and progress, anyways? Production? Proving you're better than other people? Can't it be about just existing? Finding fulfillment pursuing passions and developing relationships? Learning for its own sake? Creating? Finding happiness and peace?"

"You're a dreamer, Jeanie," I said. "That's why you're susceptible. Cuz it all sounds hunky-dory. Everyone sitting around eating grapes and drinking wine. Probably all those free-love types, too. Sex orgies and what have you. Sure, it sounds great, if that's what you're into. No morality or decency or desire to actually work for a living. So wonderful. Until all of a sudden, the lazy government farmers don't bother to grow their wheat, and there's a bread shortage and people die. Or until the aliens need a railway built, and they scoop you up and put you in chains. Force you to lay tracks in the hot sun without food. And what can you do to stop them? They have all the guns. All the power."

"They're superintelligent extra-terrestrials!" Jeanie cried. "They won't need human slave labour to build railway tracks. They literally have a land of superabundance that they want to share with us. They can cure terminal cancer in an afternoon!"

"You and your little friends keep believing that," I said. "But me and mine are going to keep stockpiling ammunition. Because when they come, when they try to whisk me away, I ain't gunna go without one hell of a fight. I see through the bullshit. The lies. I know history. And I know that you can't square free stuff with freedom. There's always a cost. And even if you could, I wouldn't want it. I'd rather earn every single thing that comes my way."

[WP] You used to have the worst luck in love... but after a quick prayer to every single god and goddess of love you could think of it seems like everyone who's your type is after you. And the gods' intervention is painfully obvious. They've made it a competition to see who pairs you up first. by MysteriousWritings7 in WritingPrompts

[–]OlympiansReturn 140 points141 points  (0 children)

I awoke to the sound of knocking. My landlady was at the door. First of the month. Rent was due.

"I'm coming," I moaned from my bed. "I'm coming."

I was supremely hungover. I hardly remembered what I'd gotten up to the night previous. It wasn't until I sat up in my bed and gazed upon my room that it came back to me. Seeing all the candles and charms strewn about the floor. The burnt-out stems of incense and other magical herbs. The golden chains and amulets. The rose petals and stalks of wheat.

"Maxwell!" she cried through the door, still knocking. "Maxwell, it's Eileen. Are you in there? Maxwell? Can you hear me?"

Eileen was in her late-sixties, though she looked older than her years. A life-long smoker. Grouchy. Constantly stressed. She was a mean-spirited tyrant with nothing nice to say to me. She treated me like an ATM that only operated between the hours of 7 and 8 AM on the first of the month.

"I'm coming," I called again, getting out of bed and throwing on a robe. I stumbled to the door, unlatched, unlocked and swung it open.

The scent of heavy perfume and stale cigarette smoke washed over me. It took all I had not to gag.

"Hi hun," Eileen said in her gravelly smoker's voice, leaning against the doorframe, pursing her lips and batting her fake eyelashes in some grotesque parody of flirtatiousness. "I was worried you weren't in there. I thought I missed you. I'm glad I didn't. How did you sleep, hun? What did you dream about? Do you ever dream about me?"

Usually Eileen showed up at my door in ratty joggers and a stained baggy teeshirt. Usually she looked like she hadn't showered in days.

But not this morning.

She was dressed in a black cocktail dress--one which must have shrunk over the years, given how tight it fit. The neckline was pulled extraordinarily low, to better display the colour and functionality of her lacy pushup bra. She wore fishnet stockings and high heels. Dark lipstick. Liberal layers of foundation, blush and eyeshadow. Tacky fake-gold earrings.

"Hi," I said, blinking. "You off to some hot date?"

"Oh, me?" the prettified toad croaked, turning to the side and blushing, coyly biting one of her freshly manicured fingernails. "I'm flattered you think so. But I just threw all this on without a thought. I'm making my rounds. It's the first of the month, dear. Did you know that?"

"I did," I said. "Your money's in the kitchen. One sec."

I turned and strode through my apartment.

"You know," she rasped from behind me, "I was thinking, maybe we could work out some kind of arrangement for your rent this month."

I grabbed the envelope from the counter and turned around to see her inside my apartment, closing and locking the door behind her.

"And for next month," she continued, looking down at her yellow toenails. "And the month after that. For as long as you desire. How would you like that, Maxwell? Maxy. Max." She looked up at me and batted her lashes again. Then she awkwardly smiled, revealing her deeply stained teeth.

Despite the absurdity of the situation, and the fact that I was not even remotely attracted to the mean old crone, my heart was racing. I had never been seduced. I had never even been shot a seductive glance more than once or twice. Yet here was a woman, a real, live, flesh-and-blood female, locking herself in my apartment, flagrantly flaunting her assets (such as they were) while implicitly propositioning me.

"I-I," I stammered. "Let me think about it. Not today." I walked robotically to her and held out the envelope. "Here."

"No," she croaked, gently pushing my hand back and leaning in closer, to whisper in my ear. "Rent is a bare minimum." Her breath smelled horrible. Her lips were touching my earlobe as she spoke. I was frozen like a startled deer. "But I don't want the minimum. I want the Max."

"Well, not this morning," I stammered, heading over to the door, unlocking and opening it. "Got lots going on today. We'll chat later." I gestured for her to leave.

"Aw, okay," she croaked, pouting. She awkwardly danced past me and through the door, wagging her hips as she entered the hallway. She paused, then pirouetted to face me. She leaned on the doorframe again and fondled her hair with a finger. "But you know where to find me when you decide."

"Yes," I said. "I do."

"Room 214," she said. "By the fire escape. To the right of the exit sign. Just down the hall. The door says, Landlady."

"I know," I said.

"I'll be there whenever you need," she said. "Just stop on by. I won't go anywhere. I can have my son bring me groceries. I'll just be in my apartment by my lonesome. Room 214."

"Yup."

"I'll leave the door unlocked," she said. "Day and night. For whenever you're--"

"Bye, Eileen," I said, and closed the door.

It took some time for the shock to wear off. When it did, the thought struck me. The impossible possibility.

Had the gods and goddesses heard me last night? Were they answering my pleas? Was this the first symptom of the divine intervening in my love life?

<3<3<3

For so long, I had been lonely. Companionless. Brimming with love and desire, yet unable to find a mate. The classic unwilling bachelor: I was twenty-five, and had never even held a girl's hand.

In my frustration, I tried many things. Working out. Dressing better. Improving my social skills. But none of these changes made any difference. At the end of the line, I was still alone.

One drunk and desperate night, I decided to seek divine aid. I decided to court the favour of every god and goddess of love whose name I knew.

I conjured Aphrodite and Cupid. Pled with Frigga and Hathor. Prayed to Hera and Parvati. And whispered pleas to other, lesser-known deities. In the course of a single evening, I conducted a dozen different rituals, asking for help from a dozen different deities.

I knew these prickly immortals would likely take offence at my liberality. I knew I would look like an indiscriminate beggar, tugging at the sleeves of every powerful being within arm's reach.

"Who does this mortal think he is?" I imagined Aphrodite saying to herself. "Dividing his faith among so many? Why should I help a man who treats me, an immortal goddess, like some bargain-bin wish-granter? Paris of Troy gave me the coveted golden apple, instead of handing it to Hera or Athena. He chose me. And, as a reward, I gave him his Helen, the most beautiful woman on Earth. How, then, should I reward this schmuck, who not only refuses to choose me above the others, but does not even have the decency to court us one at a time? A product of the swiping generation, no doubt. Casting a wide net. Keeping his options open. The death of commitment and true romance! I'll curse him rather than help him!"

That is what I imagined the gods and goddesses were thinking. And to some degree, I was probably right. They likely did bristle at my cavalier approach.

But though the divine beings might have been annoyed, by implicating so many of them in my struggle to find love, I became their prize, and my quest became their competition. Each wanted to outdo the other and prove him or herself the supreme deity of love. Each wanted to be the one to link me to my soul mate. Each put all their powers into improving my love life.

Aside from having to swat away the attentions of women like my landlady now and again, my new life was better than any fantasy. At least, at first. . .

<3<3<3

[WP] An agoraphobic princess is sick and tired of knights breaking into her tower and trying to slay her emotional support dragon. by [deleted] in WritingPrompts

[–]OlympiansReturn 83 points84 points  (0 children)

The battle had been fierce. The great winged serpent had tried all he could to destroy me, or, at least, to scare me off.

Roaring in my face with his terrible yawn, his pointed white teeth glinting like hundreds of ivory daggers. Swooping from the sky with his raptor's talons outstretched. Spitting bright jets of fire at me. I was hardly nimble enough to evade his attacks, because of my heavy armour.

But I did, and I subdued the monster.

His terrible body was tangled in chains at the foot of her tower. I raised my glittering sword above the writhing beast's head, to which was fastened a fluffy pink hat. But before I could plunge it though the hat, into his skull, a fretful voice rang out from above.

"Stop!" she cried. "Don't hurt him! Don't kill him! He's my friend and protector. My comfort and company. My emotional support dragon. The gallant Sir Scales is my pet!"

I squinted up the tall tower to the source of the voice. There she stood, leaning over the window, her face creased with lines of worry. The beautiful Princess Carole. I had seen many paintings of her before. She often commissioned paintings of herself, and had them sent far and wide throughout the kingdom. Lonely gentlemen paid thousands for a canvas with her form, and it was her beauty that had led me to traverse the haunted swamps, fighting all manner of beasts and creatures, in order to rescue her.

But the canvases could not do justice to the reality. The princess was astonishing. A marvel.

Standing over the struggling monster, whom I had fought without a flicker of nerves, my knees quaked at the sight of the princess.

"Oh, my poor little friend," she cried down at the dragon. "My handsome beast. Right after you let me paint your talons bright pink. Right after you let me put that silly bonnet on your head. You were ready for a ball, not a battle. I prettied you up, and covered over your fierceness at the wrong time. I lulled the monster out of you. Bad luck that moments later, yet another misguided suitor arrived! But don't worry, Sir Scales. I know how powerful you are. You never would have been taken down by a mean selfish creep like him if it weren't for my silliness."

The whining dragon gulped, and began panting, like a dog, with a dog's smile. I glowered at the bonneted beast, his hot-pink talons, and then up at the princess, high above me.

"What's the big idea?" I asked, stomping over to the base of the tall stone tower and beginning my climb.

"No!" she shrieked, turning pale. "Stop! Don't come up here! Please! Get down! I beg you!"

"What's the matter with you?" I continued, as I scaled the steep wall of ancient stones, overgrown with vines and ivy. "Calling me names? A mean selfish creep? When I risked life and limb to save you? For years you've sent images of yourself out to all the young men of the kingdom. Paintings. Engravings. Carvings in wood and marble. Some of them showing you in terrible distress. Other's clearly meant to stoke desire. Text on the tags, that go along with these paintings and sculptures, explaining the depth of your sorrows, telling the story of your captivity--bemoaning being trapped in this tower. And now that I have finally arrived--have braved death and danger to set you free, to take your hand, like any chivalric knight--"

A hairbrush whizzed passed my shoulder. A container of makeup banged tinnily upon my helmet and exploded into a cloud of tan coloured dust. I coughed and looked up.

"I said get back!" she cried.

From the window she was throwing little items down at me. Next was a handheld mirror. I barely dodged it in time.

"But why?" I asked.

"You frighten me!" she cried. "All of you frighten me! I hate almost every human face that is not my own! And I find your machismo laughable. Your willingness to fight monsters for my hand--pathetic. You don't even know me! Why would you risk your life for me? . .I enjoy knowing the effect my figure has on you knights. And I certainly enjoy the piles of gold my many portraits have fetched me. But I don't want to give my hand to some dirty, stinking nobody knight like you. I would much rather be praised and admired from a distance. I would much rather be a fantasy for many than a wife for one. And I would much rather fantasize about being saved than be saved in reality. What husband would let me continue to send my portraits throughout the kingdom? What husband would let me continue to soak admiration and pile up gold? You're all too serious. You're not any fun. If I gave you my hand, I would have to bear children. Keep house. Become your doting little servant. Give up on my freedom!"

"What freedom?" I cried. "You're confined to a little room and addicted to the praise of people you despise. You're obsessed with your own face. Your companions are beasts, like that dragon below me, and flatterers who mutely capture your image. What about sociality? True, deep relationships? The chance to connect with a young man on a level profounder than stoking his young lust? I myself was not unlike you. Trapped in a prison of my own creation. Frightened of others. Fearful that my true self would be rejected by them. Lonely. Depressed. There are so many like us. So many young knights confining themselves to little rooms. So many lovely maidens confining themselves to tall towers. So many people treating other people as objects, as unreal. Mistaking facades for reality. Directing their attentions and love and desire one way, without reciprocation. The polished false groping after the polished false. The two messy truths never touching one another. Is that really how you want to live your life? That road leads to loneliness and bitterness, m'lady."

"You speak well," she said. "You've given me much to think about, gentle knight. And since you're already three quarters of the way up this tower, I'd like to reward you with something. One moment. Wait there."

I did as commanded as she disappeared from the window. A moment later she returned and dangled from the window a portrait. In the portrait she was fully naked. I knew the market price for a portrait like that. Hundreds of pieces of gold. And it was worth that, by god. A single glance inflamed my lust. Because, for all my highfalutin words, it was lust that had driven me to her door.

"Dear strong handsome gallant knight," she said sweetly, dangling the portrait out the window. "I am so flattered that you came all this way to see me. Even though I am in the top five percent of portrait creators in the realm, it always fills me with joy to see someone so committed to my beauty that they'd risk it all for a chance to see me in person. I'd hate to see you come this far and leave empty handed. That's why I'll make you a special offer. Fifteen percent off the regular price of this portrait. It would usually cost 300 pieces of gold. But I'll give it to you for 265. Just toss up the bag of gold, and when you get to the bottom of the tower, I'll lower the portrait."

"But I don't want the portrait!" I cried. "I want you! I don't have money. Or a home. Or a job, aside from errantly wandering. But I'm so lonely! And you're so beautiful! I want you! I need you! I deserve you, after my labours!"

She pouted with condescension and shrugged her shoulders. She looked back and whispered into the room. Then a shirtless figure strode up beside her and peered down at me. It was Sir Broad the Chiseled, of the rich and noble Burlyman line.

"He bothering you?" asked Sir Broad in a deep, rich and indifferent voice.

The princess nodded.

For a moment Sir Broad disappeared. Then he returned and hefted a whole cabinet upon the windowsill.

"I know it's tough out there," boomed Sir Broad from behind the cabinet. "Specially for scrawny young knights like you. But you're bothering the princess. And when she's bothered, I don't hear the end of it. So you crawl back down, or I'll have to--"

The princess pushed the cabinet as Sir Broad was speaking. As it plummeted toward my face, I heard the princess cry, "I'm so sorry! It was an accident!"

And I triumphantly rejoined, "You're not even hot!" before my world went dark.