harvzilla:
STORY PROMPT: Transformative chain mail.
Come up with a story summary or plot line involving some form of chain mail that transforms the reader.
Inspiration from The Note story line on CYOC
You really should not have bought this notebook. Perusing that used bookstore, you flipped through it and thought it was empty. It was, actually, empty at that time. Bought it on the spot, way cheaper than buying a new moleskin wrapped in that plastic. Now you’ve worked your way to the middle of its pages, filling it with your poetry and your short stories. Some really good work. You’re a diamond in the rough, with your writing pal. You’ve mastered creating nuanced portraits of a boy tormented by his childhood schoolmates. Now grown, dreaming of revenge whenever he sees them in public, but knowing how wrong that would be. They’ve grown, you’ve grown. Live and let live. You, as many of your characters, have grown into yourself and become an incredibly attractive and clever young man. Nobody would dare bully you, you with your boyish charm and good looks. Yet your portraits of the former bullies are not quite so nice. You’ve created soulless, unrealistic stereotypes where real people should exist. Still hateful, still stupid. You are not as even-handed a narrator as you think. Now, had you not purchased this notebook, you would go on to publish probably, and literary critics and colleagues would help you sort out your penchant for psychologically one-dimensional characters. Right now, you see it as your mode of revenge, I know. You would deny it, but it’s true. I know you.
Like I said, had you purchased any other notebook you would probably go on to hone your talents. Your bachelor’s in English provided you with the mechanical tools with which to ply that trade, and your practice would have made you astounding. Awards would decorate your shelves within years and you would age into a wise and respected psychological novelist, books brimming with sharp intelligence and keen wit.
Instead you purchased me. I am a knavish spirit. The book was empty until just this minute, when you cracked the spine on the middle of the book. At that instant, I made this note to appear from the ether of my existence. From now on, your story is under my control.
To start off, your name. What is it? You can’t remember it can you? Nope. It’s gone. I have erased it. You can try desperately to recall it but you are nameless, my friend. The horror of this occurrence is no doubt weighing heavy on that great intellect of yours. You barely exist anymore my friend. And since you barely exist, surely you wont mind me editing your mind a bit, will you? That bachelor’s degree? Never happened. You never attended college. Nor graduated you from a high school. You are, to put it bluntly, dumb. You’ve never been that clever novelist and you never will be. You may recall your previous IQ, which you had tested last year for validation, at 135. A venerable score, even on so arbitrary a measure of intelligence. Too bad you now would barely scrape 80 points, on a very, very good day when you’ve eaten a healthy meal and gotten plenty of exercise. A great deflation of the hot air that was your brain. I suppose I should simplify my language so that you can better grasp these complicated concepts, you simple boy.
Jonnie. That’s your name, boy. Dropped out of high school at 18, after trying your very best to pass your 11th grade twice, and started working odd jobs that could get thrown your way. Being out of school suited you. The searing headaches that revealed only your deficiencies were cured. Lots of sweeping. Lots of picking up things and moving them. You would have bulked up a lot and become an enormous bull of a man had your current boss not seen you working construction and took pity on you. Well, he didn’t really take pity on you. He saw you as a resource he could easily exploit. Recognized instantly a young, toned, dumb little bimbo that he could stick on a dance pole and make lots of money. You can stop reading now, Jonnie. You’ve done more reading in the last 10 minutes than you will ever do in your life again. Instead of the smart book-writer you might have been (yes, it’s true boy), you’re going to live out the life of a dancer, then a prostitute, then when you’re too old and ugly to fuck for money I bet you’ll find yourself a nice, simple job somewhere. Stocking warehouses, or back to construction maybe. They’ll keep you on the sidelines for the most part, of course, can’t have you messing things up. I am a tricky spirit. I turned your life upside down because that’s what I do. You are confused, I know. Get used to it.
Muscle Tf Lover 