The other day @vampireapologist made a post about always being extremely noticeable no matter what she does. People will turn to look at her when she enters a room and pick out her voice from a crowd.
I have the exact opposite issue. I once wandered out of school with two classmates to explore the abandoned building across the parking lot. We got caught, and they were given detention and yelled at, with calls home to their parents. I stood directly between them but wasn’t even acknowledged, let alone punished – the other teenagers trudged back to school with their heads hung low, and I merely wandered back to my classroom and sat down. My absence did not seem to have been noticed.
Just this morning I got up, came downstairs, walked in front of my dad, and kissed my mother on my forehead. She did not react. Two minutes later I heard them talking about how someone should wake me up so that I could enjoy the morning instead of sleeping in. Neither had any memory of seeing me or being kissed by me.
Is this an actual thing that happened to you, or a short horror story about how you went exploring an abandoned building with your friends, died, and lived your life as a ghost, unaware you were dead?
Actual story, but I did make a bunch of jokes about being invisible for a while.
I think I’ve just got an unusually high natural stealth score because I did pass as a cis man for six months in a foreign country, even when sharing a twin bed with a classmate, before taking any kind of hormonal treatment. And at my current workplace, I get mistaken for a statue almost every day.
“‘No’?” echoed the space emperor. “‘No’?! No one. Ever. Tells me. ‘No’.”
He advanced, close enough that the threads on his rich robes could be counted by the naked eye. After a furtive glance over his shoulder, he dropped his voice to a desperate whisper and said, “Could you… could you do it again? Please?”
“No.”
The space emperor’s eyes shone like embers as he leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of his face. “So this… this ‘democracy’ you speak of. You’re telling me that people might… disobey me? They wouldn’t have to do everything I tell them to?”
“Not if they disagree with you.”
“They can do that?!” He licked his lips, trembling with excitement. “And voting! You say I… you say I could lose?!”
“Yeah, uh. And you probably would.”
“Incredible,” he breathed. “Why, I could kiss you!” With a surprised laugh, he stopped himself mid-step. “But—you wouldn’t like that! Right? You’d have an ‘opinion’? Gosh… do you think other people have those?!”
The space emperor let out a long, melancholy sigh and turned to the hero, his lip trembling with delicate misery. “I’m going to miss you,” he sniffed. “I don’t think I’ll watch, you know, when they… when they do it.” The tear that had been clinging valiantly to his eyelashes finally broke free and rolled down his cheek. “Oh!” he cried, and threw his arms around the hero’s neck with a great, shuddering sob. “Yours will be the only skull I drink from ever again—I promise! I will think of you every time, and I’ll pretend you’re still here with me!”
“Or you could just… not have me executed.”
The space emperor inhaled sharply and took a step back, his face red and puffy from crying. “That’s an option?!”
The serving-woman stood with her back ramrod straight and her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Every muscle in her body looked tense, and only the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed her terror.
“You’ve ruined my gown,” said the space emperor, regarding the growing purple stain on his sleeve. “These fibers were harvested on Lutoya-29, a planet that was demolished six units ago. There is no other like it in the galaxy. I could have you harvested for washing-water for this.” He looked up and met the hero’s eyes, his thoughtful expression melting into a delighted grin. “But I don’t have to, do I?”
“No, Your Incandecense,” whispered the woman. Her sweat-beaded skin had grown translucent with fear.
“I don’t even have to have you killed at all!” he exclaimed. “I could… I could…” he cast around the chamber, as though searching for inspiration in the lavish furnishings.
“Please, Your Incandecense.” The woman’s voice was low and unsteady, but her gaze remained fixed on the floor. “I’ll do anything, please, forgive—”
“Anything! You’re right!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, stamping his feet in a little dance. “I could do anything! In fact—” he reached over the table and clasped the hero’s hand in his own. “Nothing is anything! I could do nothing! Nothing at all!” He giggled merrily and then froze, gingerly releasing the hero’s hand and leaning back. He tapped one bejeweled finger against his temple and gave an exaggerated wink. “Oh, right. Consent.”
The serving-woman’s eyes flickered to the hero’s for a moment, nervous questions burning in them. The hero gave a barely-imperceptible shrug and a very tiny, reassuring smile. The emperor did not seem to notice.
“Is there more wine?” he asked. “Splendid. Please. Do it again.”
“What…?” The woman’s skin flashed an alarming yellow.
The emperor gestured enthusiastically between himself and the crystal pitcher. “The wine. My gown. I think you should reacquaint them.”
“He wants you to spill the wine on him again,” explained the hero. “No, really. He’s, uh… he’s having an interesting day.”
“I am learning so many things,” said the emperor. “Did you know that you have feelings, too? It’s not just me! My new friend has feelings, that man over there has feelings, that… whatever that thing is has feelings!” He stood up and threw his arms wide in a sudden, emphatic motion, flinging droplets of purple liquid from his soiled sleeve. “Maybe everyone has feelings! Maybe robots! Maybe my enemies! Maybe—” he stopped, and the delirious grin vanished from his face. “Maybe the Lutoyans have feelings…” His voice dropped to a whisper, and he stared at the hero with a strange expression. “But… there aren’t any more Lutoyans…”
The space emperor took his breakfast in bed, bathed in sweet oils, allowed his hair to be combed and coiffed and his face painted with rare minerals, and then sighed in delicate frustration.
“None of this seems right,” he confessed to his wardrober, after rejecting the seventh gown he was presented with. It was deep blue silk, studded all over with crystals that glinted and sparkled like a night sky. “It’s just not working for me today.”
“That is one of the finest gowns in the galaxy, Your Incandescence,” said the wardrober. “It is an accurate starmap of the constellations as seen from your boyhood home, rivaled in beauty and quality only by your other raiments. But perhaps this is more to your impeccable tastes–” It offered an eighth gown, a trailing cascade of iridescent blue-green fabric layered with shimmering, diaphanous beetle wings. “A species of rare insect went extinct for the construction of this one,” it said. “It was considered sacred to the inhabitants of that world. Wearing this gown declares your might and majesty to the galaxy.”
The space emperor pursed his lips. “Hmm,” he said. “Not that one, I think.” There was an unfamiliar twisting sensation in his gut when he looked at the gown.
“I hope the feast is to your pleasure, Your Incandescence. We did not have much time to prepare before–”
“It is not to my pleasure!” cried the space emperor, lashing out and knocking the platter to the floor. The attendant winced as the tureen shattered and bent to clean it up. “I want to go back!”
“That would be inadvisable,” said the war magnate, rolling her eyes. “It is not yet safe for you to return planetside; there may be traps or other assassins lying in wait. I’m sure your friend is fine.”
The entire palace was climate-controlled, including the military wing, so there was no reason for the space emperor to feel so cold as he walked through the halls. It was just another concern to bring up with his doctor later that evening, along with the pain in his chest and difficulty swallowing around the tightness in his throat. He so rarely fell ill–even as a child, the diseases of the common rabble had never touched him.
The doctor would have to wait. He had more important business to attend to.
He ran his thumb along the special weapon the General had given him. It was simple in design, as unlike the ornate ceremonial laser he always wore at his hip as it was possible to be. He didn’t understand exactly how it functioned, but he didn’t need to; all that mattered was that it worked. The General assured him that it would be a most fitting punishment.
“What?” said the space emperor. “What just… happened?”
The General bowed his head and held out his arm. The space emperor took it numbly and allowed himself to be led from the room, away from the acrid smoke rising from the dead robot. “You must forgive me, Your Incandescence. I will bear the blame for this… unfortunate oversight. Walk with me, if you please, and I will explain.”
The sprawling facility seemed to become oppressively small. The space emperor sucked in an unsteady breath and discovered that oxygen had suddenly stopped working while he was distracted by the screen. “Air,” he wheezed, stumbling toward the turbolift. “I need air.”
Fierce heat rippled across his cheeks and all the way down his spine. The space emperor tore his gaze away from the Lutoyan, gritting his teeth against the unwelcome feeling. He adjusted the circlet furiously until he was sure that his entire head was protected by its energy shield.
“How kind of you to join me,” he forced out, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to think about the way the muscles in the other man’s arms flexed when he tested his restraints. “I hope you are enjoying our imperial hospitality.” It was not the self-assured and dangerous voice he had planned to use, but something strained and uneven.
“Not really, no. This kind of stuff isn’t my cup of tea,” said the Lutoyan dryly. “Speaking of which… is that a coffee machine?”
As a self-respecting Twin Peaks fan seduced by the PNW, I’ve been to Twede’s Cafe, the real-life setting for the Double R Diner, a few times. It breaks my heart that their cherry pie is atrocious. It’s absolutely the worst pie I’ve ever eaten. Logically, I understand that they could sell wedges of cardboard to customers and they would stay comfortably in business (this is hardly hyperbole), but… just think! They could sell good pies. They could sell great pies.
I’ve spoken to people who have gone to Twede’s Cafe and walked away pleased with their slices of cherry pies and my heart has broken for them, over and over. These are people who have never eaten a good pie in all their years and go through life without knowing the taste of pie that’s actually worthwhile. There are pies that spark delight! There are pies you remember! Once you have eaten a real pie, all others taste like sawdust and misery and can only be choked down with a great deal of self-control and determination. I want to take everyone who has ever enjoyed a “pie” at Twede’s Cafe by the hand and lead them into my kitchen for an initiation ritual into self-respect. Do not lose hope. There are good pies out there, waiting for you—they’re real and you can find them if you are patient.
I could give you a recipe but I don’t think it would help. Baking is a science, but making a pie is a spiritual experience. You have to listen to the ingredients as you make it or else it won’t turn out right. In order to bake a good pie, you have to know it before it exists, like a sculpture, or a painting on a canvas. Before you can create a great pie, you must experience pie. I am giving you a quest: accept it, and go forth into the world seeking One Great Pie (you will know it when you meet it), or live forever in the eternal darkness of the forsaken tongue.
I like haunted houses in theory BUT I have no idea how to react when the actors speak to you. They ask me a question and I just… answer it…
The scariest part of a haunted house is the unscripted social interaction.
Scary nurse in a creepy voice: “Do you have an appointment to see the doctor?”
Me: “Uh. Do you accept walk-ins?”
Scary farmer: “I like to kill people!”
My friend, brightly: “I like to die!”
Zombie : “AARRRGH”
Me : “Do you get dental insurance?”
Zombie : “TEETH!!”
This happened to me.
Scary prison dude: HELLO
Me: Nice to meet you!
Him: (pause) No it’s noooooot
My worst horror house experience was when I couldn’t find the (rather obvious) exit and the guy chasing me with a chainsaw stopped, sighed and pointed me to the exit, saying “please scream as loud as you can when you run out there” and just left. I disappointed the horror house chainsaw dude and I will never get over that
Guy: They are all my friends.. (motioning to hanging corpses; then grabs a noose) Will you be my friend? Me: Sure totally, you made me a friendship necklace? Oh my god your so sweet? Guy: … Yes.. Please, let me.. I cant I cant just go (laughing).
– Got to walk a second time through–
Same guy: My friends -wailing- Me: I came back I just really wanted to be friends so bad Guy: (laughing more) Please, Im not allowed to laugh.
I went to a Haunted House and literally befriended every actor there.
Specifically, I remember;
There were zombies walking around in the waiting room. I said “Hi!” and he gave me a high five. Every time he passed from then on, I got a high five.
Near the end, there were these twin little girls. “Come play with us.” They said. “Okay!” I said. “Forever.” They said. “Oh, sorry, can’t do that. I’m busy.”
I could hear them giggling.
Guy playing Freddie Kruger: Remember, you are all my children!
Me: thanks dad
A small chorus of teenagers: thanks dad
I went to a haunted corn maze once. Someone ran at me with a chainsaw. I just stared at him. He hung his head and walked away. I left.
The Real Horror Is The People We Dissapointed Along The Way
IM CRYING
One time in a haunted house I shouted “oh my god” and the guy playing the Victorian-esque mad doctor replied “you can just call me doctor” or something like that and a) it was the smoothest fucking thing but b) holy shit I cracked up so hard I wish I could have told him later that that experience will sit with me for life
I have never been in a haunted house and I’m sad now.
Me: [kneels down in front of faerie queen, head bowed] Queen: [taps my right shoulder with a sword] Queen: “I dub thee a knight or whatever.” Me: [doesn’t move] Queen: “Uh. It’s over. Why… are you still kneeling?” Me: “Well ma’am I was kinda hoping you’d play with my hair.”
Queen: [sighs, ruffles}
Queen: “Like that?”
Me: “Aaaaaand with that, my fealty is guaranteed for like… eternity.”
Faerie: “Your Majesty, did you put your own human knight into an enchanted sleep?” Queen: “No! They just… passed out. Right there. Take care not to step on them during the revels, I think they’ll be fine…”
You’re walking through the woods in a fantasy novel when you are suddenly confronted by a Count, a Baron, a Marquis, and a Chancellor. They demand that you choose which of them is most likely to be the Evilest One of All.
To whom do you offer the Golden Apple of Villainy?
Do the wickedest thing possible and eat it yourself.
Actually I was being Contrarian and Unhelpful and for that I apologise, but I stand by my position:
What are all these chucklefucks doing out in the woods harassing random fruit-bearing civilians? They literally identify themselves by the jobs they’re clearly playing hooky from. If this gang of deplorables has hoofed it out of thier assorted fortresses and palaces to ask ME who’s the worst of the worst, I draw some conclusions:
1. They’re asking me to rank, and therefore, order them. They’re depending on me for some kind of structure here.
2. Given that these are Fantasy Woods (that are probably) in a Fantasy World, it’s good odds they’re looking to me to solve the hierarchy issue they face so they can stop squabbling and go back to enjoying the spoils of their various misdeeds.
3. At the very least, they’ve got money riding on it.
In their defense, they DID make sure to ask me to choose “Which of them is most likely to be the Evilest One of All.” So I’ll pick one of them as requested, based on how laborious thier facial-hair routine looks, but being that we’re in a Fantasy World that the Golden Apple of Villiany is capitalized, it sounds like the kind of artefact that comes with its own terms and conditions* and isn’t the kind of thing you go foisting off on any cape-wearing machevelian weirdo you meet on the highway. Besides, they only asked me to pick one, not award them the Apple.
*Not, unlike the real world Apple Corporation, curiously.
But we’re also at kind fo a crucuible here, and Fantasy Rules Of Checkov’s Gun dictate that I can’t just keep The Apple in my pocket. (It’s a fantasy world, I can have pockets big enough to keep apples in)
Since they’re looking for order, probably to end a poinless war that is causing all manner of suffering, and The Golden Apple of Villiany should go to whoever does the most Evil things. The Nature of Evil is Nebulous and Debatable, but we’ve got a few generally agreed upon axioms, namely “All Evil needs to triumph is for good men to do nothing.” Completely failing to end a civil war despite having the artefact to do so is a pretty spectacular example of Doing Nothing and therefore a spectacular triumph of Evil and since we’re having a contest I Can’t NOT eat this Most Maleficus Malus.*
*This is a trick.
I am CLEARLY not A Hero, esp if my first instinct is to Eat The Golden Apple Of Villiany. and since we’re in some kind of didactic narrative-driven fantasy world, Only A Great Hero can actually resolve this nonsense.
Destroying such a powerful artefact and ruining The One Shot these various villians had of something resembling peace (at least enough to prevent the peasants from revolting), will almost certainly escalate the situation to the point where A Great Hero will be forced into existence to deal with this gang of assholes.
Thus actually resolving the problem and reducing the overall amount of Evil.
Which isn’t very villianous of me at all, but as an idndividual action does not violate the Terms and Conditions, SUCK IT APPLE.
This entire ramble is actually just an excuse to point out that you can call The Golden Apple of Villiany a Most Maleficus Malus.
You’re walking through the woods in a fantasy novel when you are suddenly confronted by a Count, a Baron, a Marquis, and a Chancellor. They demand that you choose which of them is most likely to be the Evilest One of All.
To whom do you offer the Golden Apple of Villainy?
Funny, isn’t it? All you need to reliably bait the most qualified and evil people in the land is a shining, golden prize and a title of the ‘very best’. All you have to do is wait a couple of decades, enough for the tale to fade into obscurity for a while and then start up the towns rumor mill again and hope that no Aspiring Heroes try to apply.
The Baron blusters with ruddy cheeks about how he executes townsfolk for his own entertainment, the Marquis counters with the heinous taxes he imposes on his lands and laughs as the poor get poorer and his coffers grow. The Count argues that his research into the Dark Arts and his sacrifices to further his endeavours speak for themselves. The chancellor laughs at all of them, for he doesn’t have the time nor the care to list his crimes. Its far too easy to rack them up in government, after all.
The smile you grant them perhaps has too many teeth, too sharp to belong to one of the peasants they work to the bone on their lands for pittance, eyes too cunning and sly. They do not notice, fixated only on the golden apple you have taken out of your humble satchel their attention arrested on the one rumored objects of their desires.
There is stillness in the forest for only a second before each of them tumble forward, pushing each each other aside in their frenzy to claim the Apple.
The Marquis pulls out a dagger and thrusts it into the heart of the Baron. The Chancellor’s sword finds the calves of the Count, though not before he looses a bolt of necrotic energy at the Marquis.
All the whole you stand there, apple in hand, smiling.
Bloody minutes pass, and the Chancellor approaches. His robes are tattered, one eye closed from the blood that flows from a head wound and a limp from a freshly broken leg. His ability to mislead and wait things out was his winning strategy, the other three taking care of themselves with a little help from his spelled sword.
He looks at his prize still held in your cold, cold hand, and he laughs. Slowly at first, then maniacally as he continues.
“I knew it would be me!” He cackles gleefully, “I know the rest of those buggers didn’t hold a candle against me,” he reaches for the Apple, avarice gleaming in his eyes as he seems to forget there’s a whole ‘nother being holding it.
His fingertips only have to brush across the surface of the fruit when a shudder wracks the very earth beneath them, jogging trees out of place and shifting their roots.
A splitting screech rends the air around you, though you are unburdened by this sound. You’ve learned to acclimated to it, when the sounds of the souls of the damned are the music to which you work most days. The Chancellor stands stock still, his long face drawn out into an agonising scream that simply blends in with the chorus. It is mere seconds before his lifeless body slumps to the quiet forest ground and you sigh, hefting the apple, slightly heavier now with another soul, back into your bag.
“Perhaps the next generation will yield someone truly terrible,” you muse to yourself, leathery wings unfurling as you open the portal back home. “I really do need to fill the Deputy General Manager position sometime this century, but applications these days are all so lack-lustre.” After all, Hell is getting very oversubscribed these days.
My cat is touched-starved and demanding because everyone else but me is unwilling to pet her. They are unwilling to pet her because she is a bad person who loves crime and hurting people. She doesn’t understand how these things are connected and so I must bear the full load of both her affection and her bloodthirsty violence.
#she is currently poking holes in my body and vibrating
#while i am still bleeding from when i reached towards my computer and she decided that was punishable
I think it would work better as a cyborg story, honestly. Extremely near-future, nothing terribly sinister about it—at least, not more sinister than the world really is. Apple or Google release a cool device that syncs up with your neural biometrics or something and acts like a mood ring – awesome! Color-changing cybernetic contact lenses! They’re the hot new thing now, but in a few years, they’ll be as ubiquitous as smartphones, just a new facet of human expression.
And maybe they do a lot of good. It removes a lot of the guesswork in dating, when you can just tell that someone is into you from the color change in their eyes. You know when you’ve said something inappropriate or offensive from the ripple of uncomfortable chartreuse across the room. You can gauge the tastefulness of a joke or tell when people are bored of your story. Ambiguity in sexual encounters is reduced with increased ease of unspoken communication. Without generations of cultural tradition and rules dictating how and when and which feelings are expressed, this new type of social cue opens all kinds of doors. Colors are easier to consciously read than facial expressions and body language, and mood ring eyes add an extra level of meaning to any given gesture.
And then… the downside. [CONTENT WARNING: hey whoops this got dark really fast because I find this whole concept deeply horrifying?]
“Smile!” strangers used to remind you on the subway. Now they want to know why you’re not also peepin’ pink.
“Wow, didn’t your aunt die less than a week ago? Pretty fucked up that you’re able to be cyan already, it’s like you don’t even care…”
“But Your Honor, her eyes were purple, she wanted it, just check the records—”
“Your work here has been exemplary and you always remain cordial even when customers are antagonistic, but we don’t want people to come here and feel neutral. They want to feel like they’re valued and you’re excited to help them, and if you can’t keep your colors in the pink and blue ranges, well, I might have to cut your hours…”
“Why won’t you wear lenses? Everyone wears lenses now. You must have something to hide… are you cheating on me?”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Hey, look at that—that’s a guilty orange if I’ve ever seen one. Closing your eyes is the most suspicious thing you can do in this situation. Ooh, is that ‘fuck you puce’? I think that counts as contempt of cop.”
“You are grounded until you can look at me with the respect I deserve as your parent.”
“Ew, did you see that? I think that guy just looked purple at me… doesn’t he know this is God’s country?”
“If you really cared about me you’d be emerald. I know you hate me. You’re orange. You wish I’d just die and you’re only turning red now because you’re angry that I found out. You’d be gray if you were sad about it. Don’t lie, I already know you hate me.”
“Why did you flash lime during that scene in the movie? You’re not supposed to know what those kinds of jokes mean yet. I know, it’s that Bailey girl, she’s corrupting you. I don’t want you speaking to her ever again. I’ll know if disobey because I’ll ask you every day after school if you talked to her, and you’ll turn orange with guilt if you have.”
Deception is such a useful social technology that it wouldn’t take long for this to be no more informative than regular body language, don’t worry.
Sure, but presuming it’s hooked up somehow to your brainwaves and not under muscular, mechanical control, what would deception take? Would it require a form of like… neural self-delusion? Would you have to convince yourself on some conscious mental level that you actually felt the emotion you were trying to display? What would that do to your psyche over time, or is that close enough to what we really do when we’re deceiving others that it wouldn’t make a difference?
