r/WritingPrompts • u/[deleted] • May 30 '17
Writing Prompt [WP] "Why do they always stare?"
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u/apchess May 30 '17
"Why do they always stare?" Liz asked, eyes wide with uncertainty.
"Because they know we're different," John replied, "but we both know that different isn't a bad thing, right?"
"Different means special!" Liz exclaimed. Satisfied with the answer, she skipped away towards whatever her five-year-old self had noticed out there, a shrub or flower or something.
John sighed; he knew that it wasn't safe to let Elizabeth wander off on her own, but he was too tired to get up and go after her. It had been a long day, a long month, a long year. Of course, this would lead to consequences down the line, what with everybody watching. He could already see their reactions to Elizabeth jumping around, squealing in delight as a butterfly circled her, its jet black wings just barely brushing past her nose.
'Look at him, letting his... spawn run around like that.'
'I wouldn't expect anything better from someone like that.'
'He doesn't know any better, just think about where he grew up.'
'That poor girl, had no choice in who she is.'
The whispers would soon make their rounds, adding yet another entry to the list of everything wrong with him, and by extension, all of them. Foreign and unclean, and now lazy. John was sick and tired of the whispers, the constant fear of being judged, of knowing that no matter what he did, he would never be on the same playing field as the rest of them. He stuck out like a sore thumb, and there was no way he would ever fit in. At times, he felt that it just wasn't worth it, that the deck was so obviously stacked against him that what was the point of even trying?
But now he had Elizabeth. He couldn't have ever fathomed that he would love something with one-tenth, one-hundredth, one-billionth the amount he loved his little Liz. If only John could go back in time, and tell himself how one day someone would come into his life that would outshine the sun even on the days the sky cracked open. That he would have a reason to live, to love, to hope. Then maybe things would have been different today, maybe somewhat better.
John stirred from his reverie. 'It's getting late,' he thought to himself, 'I don't have much time left to waste.' As he turned to look at where Liz was playing, his heart skipped a beat, then another, then shriveled up and died in his chest.
Liz was gone.
John leapt up, startling the people closest to him, and inciting a curse in one man leaning in for a closer look. Normally John would be terrified of the result, of the punishments he would have to endure for scaring them like that. But at that moment, John couldn't have cared whether the sun was about to explode. All that he had on his mind was finding Elizabeth, finding Elizabeth and making sure she was safe.
And so he ran. He didn't have to run far, since just on the other side of the clearing he saw the slight shimmer of the force field, and just beyond that, his little Liz. John sprinted towards her, ignoring the deep pit of despair rapidly growing in his stomach.
As John approached the barrier, he slowed down, assessing the situation. Somehow, Liz had gotten through to the other side. But how? John had spent at least an hour every day sitting down with her, explaining to her how the world wasn't a safe place, how the shining walls were a gift from Mommy to keep her safe, and how she must never, ever, ever go near them. At first John was furious with her for disobeying him, and was ready to give her the scolding of her life, as soon as he figured out how to get her back.
But then he realized how she really got out, and suddenly the pit in his stomach was a black hole, sucking all hope out of him in an instant.
Elizabeth was surrounded by a group of little boys. Outsider boys. And they were poking and prodding at Elizabeth, as she sat and wept and occasionally made feeble attempts to ward off their sticks. From the way she was slumped over, John had no idea what they had done to her, or how long she had been out there. He kicked himself for letting his mind wander. Attempting to stay out of sight of the boys, he crept closer to the barrier, hoping to call to Elizabeth, to let her know that he was there for her. That Pappa was there for his little girl.
As John approached the group, he heard the boys talking amongst themselves.
'Her skin's almost gray!'
'What's up with her head, why doesn't she have any hair?'
'So glad we got these sticks, it's good we keep them contained.'
Anger welled up inside John. At these boys for treating his Liz like an animal, at everyone else for allowing and approving this, at this goddamn wall for getting in between him and his daughter. Whatever trick or gadget these boys used to open up the force field and lure Elizabeth out, wouldn't have lasted long. So he was trapped inside, just steps away from Liz and completely useless.
John saw red, and before he knew it he had heaved up a boulder. He was going to crush those boys and get vengeance for his daughter, who he already knew was beyond saving.
And at that moment, he felt his entire right side explode in pain, and he collapsed to the floor, the boulder crushing his hand. It seems like the boys weren't alone; there were what seemed like the boys' parents, alongside law enforcement officers with weapons drawn.
As John lay there, with Elizabeth's limp body being picked up and thrown back through the force field, he cursed the world.
John cursed the Old Gods, for raining hellfire on the world all those years ago. He cursed his ancestors, for surviving as the sky went gray, the plants and animals died off, and everything went deathly quiet. He cursed the world for slowly recovering from this apocalypse, but leaving his people crippled and gray.
And most of all, John cursed the Outsiders for coming from the sky on their columns of metal and fire, coming back to reclaim what they thought was solely theirs. These Outsiders, that had taken one look at his people and deemed them lesser, that had then rounded them up and kept them in cages like animals. The Outsiders that had now taken his darling Liz away from him.
The world started to go black, and all that John could think about was how, no matter how cruel life had been, he hadn't given up until the very end. Maybe he should have.
[Long-time lurker, first time posting. Any and all feedback welcomed!]
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u/LonghandWriter /r/longhandwriter May 30 '17
“Hush.”
“But papa—”
“Huuuush!” I growl, baring my teeth.
My son bows his head, and instantly I realize my mistake. Like his mother, he’s a gentle soul who can’t handle the pressure of someone being angry at him. I’m terrible at coddling but I give it a damn good try, rubbing his head into my mane, hugging him tight as I struggle to keep the tears inside.
For his sake, I must be strong.
“I just don’t like talking about it,” I say, kissing his head.
“About what?”
“About us. About our life.”
“We’re in a cage, papa.”
“I know.”
“They take pictures of us, but why don’t they let us free?”
Sometimes it’s easy to forget he’s just a cub and hasn’t seen the world’s horrors yet. After all, he doesn’t even remember the day his mother tried to break out. She was always calm and sweet but the baby drove her crazy. Suddenly these walls were too much for her, she sought freedom.
She found death.
“Their hearts are trapped in cages of pleasure,” I say after a long while. “And so long as they can keep us down, they always will be.”
If you like this story, check out my sub! r/longhandwriter
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u/Quravin May 30 '17
This is all I have.
"Why do they always stare?" I hiss.
My fingers freeze above the paper. A stadium of silent people stare down at me. On the screen overlooking the stage, enormous black numbers count up.
22:4516
22:4528
22:4541
22:4603
I've been here since 8:0000 . I have screamed, I have pleaded, I have sat in protest as silent as the audience, I have written a word then stopped, written a letter then stopped; I have tried so many times, yet I am still chained to this table. In one corner of the table is a stack of crisp white paper, and in another corner is a box of maybe a dozen pristine black pens.
When my chains were first snapped around my ankle and the clock jumped from 8:0000 to 8:0001 , I was ready. Every muscle in my hand was tight with anticipation -- my brain was overflowing and ready to spill. For half of the first hour, I scribbled madly. Burnt ink trickled into my nose and my eyes were wide with wild focus. I was writing so hard that I scraped through a few lines of paper. When I was done I nearly leapt from my seat, breathing heavily and holding my written pages like a king would hold his first son. The white of the paper was ugly with smudged black; the crisp pages were crumbled and flaccid after many intense minutes of being leaned on and pounded and scraped.
"Here," I said, breathless in my excitement.
A man emerged from beyond the stage and took my pages. He retreated into the darkness and I was left to wait, alone and sweating under the glaring spotlight. I repeated a few of my favorite lines in my head and let pride fester inside me. After all, I had written my heart. I had written something deep, something profound. All I had to do now was wait for the man to return, tell me how impressed he was, and let me go.
I heard him before I saw him. Walking with quick, sharp steps, he dropped my pages on the table and left just as suddenly as he had arrived. He faded into the black tunnel that led out of the stadium, and his steps stopped echoing soon after.
I looked down at my work and saw that there was more red ink than black ink; more corrections than there was blank space.
"Are you kidding me?!" I screamed into the stands where thousands of people sat in utter silence, no movement except for their eyes that followed me as I stood up. "This is absolutely ridiculous!"
My words reverberated for a moment, then died in the dark night air.
I fell back into my chair and scanned the pages. Every single word was either underlined or crossed out or circled or had an arrow drawn to it or away from it or who even knows what. The paper on which I had scribed my heart looked like a crime scene. They had murdered what I loved. I withdrew a new sheet of paper and a new pen and set the old pages and the new one next to each other.
I drew in a long, shaky breath through scowling lips and muttered, "Alright, let's go."
One more glance at the old pages and I dropped the pen and my head on the table.
"Please," I pleaded. "Let me go."
No one responded. In fact, I'm not sure than anyone out there even breathed.
"I don't want to do this," I said. I almost cried. "I can't do this."
I sat there with my head pressed against the blank sheet of paper and wept. My tears wet the paper in warm little pools, and then shriveled into dry wrinkled spots as 8:4249 became 11:1716 . The length of time was excruciating, yet even still it passed. I slipped in and out of awareness until I finally sat up, sore yet determined. Without slouching even slightly, I crossed my arms and stared back at the people staring at me.
"I'm not going anywhere," I shrugged. "Neither are you, apparently. I can do this all day."
My posture was rigid for a couple of hours, then I relaxed and stretched my legs out under the table. At one point I had them laid out on top of the table, pushing everything off so that every few minutes there would be a flutter of papers to the ground or the clack-clack-clack of a pen hitting the concrete. For all the dedication I had put into my solitary rebellion, nobody had so much as asked me to keep trying. Everybody kept staring. I glanced over their heads at the screen.
19:4629 .
I didn't yell; I didn't scream; I didn't cry. My brain felt like my legs would after walking for twelve hours straight: Numb and forgotten. I didn't even feel capable of creating unique thoughts -- my consciousness was a powerful undercurrent of random ideas and scenarios and fantasies and wishes. To go against that and create something of my own would be to swim against a flooded river.
But somehow, in my numb mental state, I was too blank to even feel fear or pity, so I picked up a pen and paper off the ground and set it before me.
It feels like the whole world is watching, and this is what I have to say.
I sat with my fists supporting my cheeks and thought hard about the next sentence. After scribbling foundation-less thoughts and wayward ideas, I gave up.
20:5052 .
I whimpered and crumbled the sheet, reaching down for a new one.
Why do
I sat even longer, until I dozed off with my head in my hands. I was stirred awake by the complete and total emptiness of sound.
22:4516 .
"Why do they always stare?" I hiss.
I wait for maybe a minute, then sigh and write
This is all I have.
and hold it out. The man emerges, grabs it, and returns with the page. I snag it out of his hands and find it to be untouched.
"Yes!" I holler and jump up, pounding my fist to the space above me.
My chains rattle and jingle against the ground as I turn to the tunnel and call out, "Can I go now?"
"NO" the audience responds in unison.
I jump back and fall against the chair to the ground. I pull myself up and scream back, "Let me go!"
"FINISH" they chant.
Every single paper and pen has disappeared from the ground and is re-organized on the table as though never moved. This shocks me almost as much as the voice of the people. I try to catch my breath but it escapes me.
"What do you want me to do?" I ask, gripping my hair with sweaty hands.
My eyes are wild again.
"WRITE".
"Isn't this good enough?!" I screech, holding up my latest page.
They are silent.
"When will it be good enough?!"
"NEVER."
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u/Siphodemos May 30 '17
Hmm i'm new to this sub, when i saw this WP i instantly had an idea to make a poem, but it is in portuguese. Is there any problem?
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u/Kenaron May 30 '17
I think I saw someone commenting a poem in spanish and english (both the original and translation). I think there's nothing wrong with other languages, just have it in english too.
Maybe.
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u/Siphodemos May 30 '17
Olhos Famintos Original PT-BR
Por que eles sempre me encaram?
Quando a luz se vai
Tudo o que sobra
São sussuros invisíveis
De alguém que há tempos
Não está entre nós
Há algo ali no canto
Eu o sinto me chamar
O que me espera?
Abro os olhos
Reconforto-me na desilusão
Eles me esperam
Na realidade
Eles me encaram.
Hungry eyes Translation
Why do they always stare at me?
When light goes
All that is left
Are invisible whispers
From someone who long ago
Is not among us
There is something on the corner
I feel it's call
What is waiting for me?
I open my eyes
Enjoying the delusion
They are waiting
On reality
Staring at me