Okay so I think that we were supposed to add the writing prompt too so, here I go!

Write about a character who can't see_____?

Imagine being the opposite of invisible.

The village streets were bare as an emptiness ate me away. My fears pounded in my chest. 

I took a step. 

Relief flooded me, the pounding growing louder.

Slowly I inched forward, hands braced in front of me. No one there yet. I shuffled, picking up the pace, anxiety mixed with freedom burning in my veins. I felt a spark of sureness. That today was going to be different. Until I tripped and face planned straight into the ground. A high-pitched wail filled the air, something unseen squirmed underneath me and murmurs filled the empty space around me.

I fell on a child. 

Rolling off of him or her (probably a little girl from the way she screamed), I pressed my body up against the wall of an apothecary. Wedging myself in the invisible crowd, they pressed in on me. I barged around invisible barriers, fighting my way past so I could get out of this town.

There must have been a hundred people in the square when I squeezed past. So many people I wouldn't meet, who didn’t care. To them I brought trouble. No one wanted me.

I thought this time someone cared about me. Several somebodies. They took me in. Told me to stay while they bought food from the market. They left me there in silence for hours. The house was still, everything in its place. No one returned.

So I left.

This whole time I kept my hopes high. Excited with the idea of a family again. 

It was almost hysterical how easily I trusted them.

I stepped out of the streets, I had been clenching my jaw. I rubbed it and stepped into the yawning spans before me. The Forest. 

One, two, three steps into a new world. One where I was all alone again. I broke out into a sprint, pumping my arms and legs, shutting my eyes as much as I could to avoid hitting trees. Maybe if I run hard enough, I can disappear from the world. 

My parents had left me long ago. It was easy to see why. I couldn’t find them if I wanted to. To me they were sounds and feelings. Like my mother’s fingers running through my hair, and my father’s rough wheezing. 

Everyone had been invisible all my life. Did everyone have the same red-ish blond hair? Or did they come in different colors? How does it feel to look into another person’s eyes and know them? What is it like seeing all those souls around you, and just… existing? Why couldn’t the things in books be real? Instead I was left with an emptiness. Hope that slipped out of my hands. Everytime it slipped away leaving me empty.

I tripped eating the ground like a sandwich. It was as good as any one I’ve made.

Dusting myself off, I sighed. Even the things I could see were after me. Pulling myself up with the help of an extended hand of a branch, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

“Who’s there?”

I peeked around the trunk of the tree. The voice came from beside the shimmering pond. Lily pads floated on top of the water beside the shore. A willow tree hung over it, shading the bank. A picnic blanket was spread out underneath the branches.

There was a thump of something closing. Maybe a book. The blanket wrinkled, followed by a light sigh. 

Shoot. It’s a person. I quietly retreated the direction I came.

“Oh it’s a boy.” The voice sounded disappointed. I was too because unfortunately the voice belonged to a girl.

Even more unfortunately I had jumped from fea–uh, suprise– and fell back into a blackberry bush. Thorns pricked into my skin, holding me captive and running my last good button up. 

“Let me help you. I don’t bite.” The girl giggled. “Much.”

Her fingers brushed against me as she untangled me from the bush. 

It took a few minutes to set me free, once out I moved towards the pond. “Gotta go.”

“Why?”

I slowed my walking. Something inside melted. I’ve lived 16 years, and not once questioned the reason behind it all. The girl shuffled up beside me. 

“You’re still here?”

“Of course.” Her words erupted around me as I turned around in a circle. Where did she go?

“What are you looking for?” She tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m right here.” 

I gave a weak smile. “Right.”

Silence passed between us. This is why I hated girls. They were so—

“You’re supposed to shake it.”

Confusing.

“What?” 

Her hand grabbed mine and shook it up and down. “I’m Cosette. I live in a cottage down the river.”

I pulled my hand out of hers. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I…can’t see you.” I braced myself. People don’t take well to the truth. 

“I’m not invisible, silly. I can see you perfectly fine.”

“No, I can’t see people. I haven’t been able to my enitre life. I was born like this.”

Several seconds of silence passed as I shifted uncomfortably. 

“What’s it like?” She nudged me. “Not being able to see people?”

I started slowly walking towards a bridge connecting to a little island in the middle of the pond. “It’s lonely. You’re alone until you bump into them. You have no idea what they look like, or how they feel about you unless they outrightly say it.” 

I stopped on the bridge, leaning against the railing. “And they always leave you at some point. Annoyed at me like I chose to be this way. So I’ve given up.” I didn’t care if she had followed me. I probably scared her off, but I needed to admit out loud. “I’ve decided I don’t need people. It's not worth staying in places where no one cares.”

A cool breeze blew the hair out of my eyes. 

“I care.”

She stayed

“What if you leave?”

She fell silent. I asked too much.

“You didn’t tell me your name.” Her voice smiled. 

“Frankie.”

“Well Frankie,” Cosette’s hand slipped over mine and squeezed it. “I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

-A.H. Bradbury

LOL

This is probably so weird and cringy. 

Have fun!

Can a Town Change in a Day?

The fiftyish stranger arrived in our town a few months ago, and I let him rent my old shack on the edge of town. No one wanted to rent a place to a drunkard, but I didn’t think he could do much damage to that place. Besides, he looked quite respectable – not filthy or unshaven. He was on his own, paid his weekly rent in advance and kept to himself. No visitors; and he never left town.

He had a routine. He would stay in the house most of the day, and would usually sit on the front porch in the evenings to watch the sun set. He walked slowly into town on Saturday mornings to buy his week’s supplies, and have some coffee at the café. He always sat in the corner clutching his coffee mug with both hands, eyes fixed on nothing.

One Saturday, a fancy car pulled up in front of the café and a tall handsome man filled the doorway.

All eyes were on him, as he headed to the counter. For all to hear, he asked, ‘Have any of you seen a man called Jack Tanner?’

The man in the corner leapt to his feet, and stumbled towards the door. I knew his name. I knew it was him. My immediate thought was that the rascal was a criminal and the new stranger was a detective. The tall young man saw him out of the corner of his eye, swung around and grabbed him. I stepped forward to help apprehend him, but was undone when I heard the words, ‘Oh Dad!! I have found you at last!’

Both men were crying and Jack Tanner was clutching his son as though he was clinging to flotsam in a raging sea.

‘I’m so sorry, son. So, so sorry. I couldn’t see him! I should have seen him! If only I had seen him!!’

‘Dad, we have all told you many times that it was an accident. No one blames you. You could not have seen Danny behind the car. He was too short for you to have seen him there. You know that. Megan and I were at fault, not you. We should have checked where he was when you were about to back out of our driveway. Like us, I’m sure you have been torturing yourself with the ‘if onlys’.

 It’s time to stop, Dad.’

 He held his father firmly, and almost whispered, ‘Dad, please. Come home.’

It was as though the son was suddenly aware that they were not alone. He turned and saw our tear-filled eyes and gaping mouths.

A razor-sharp voice pierced the silence. ‘We didn’t know.’

 A voice from the back of the little group said kindly, ‘Oh, hush-up, Maudie. We could have known. We should have known. If we had only taken the time to care, and talk to this man. If we had looked and listened, we would have seen his pain, his broken heart. We judged him just because he drinks too much. Who wouldn’t after what he has been though!’

The son explained, ‘My father doesn’t drink. As a result of an accident in his younger years, he often hears strangers assume he is drunk. He was hit in the head by a cricket ball which damaged his sense of balance. Consequently, he is unsteady on his feet. My father is one of Sydney’s most acclaimed architects. He disappeared after the death of my son, and we have been searching frantically for him for the past couple of months.’

‘We didn’t know’, someone else muttered, as though we still had an excuse.

I was furious and ashamed. As the town’s mayor, I felt responsible for what this town had become. I stepped forward. ‘Your father is not the first stranger to visit our town and to be treated so badly, but I swear, he will be the last. This town must change.’ Many were shifting from one foot to the other, nodding, eyes on the floor.

And so it happened. A small, unknown town changed in a day. People stepped forward and asked the father and son for forgiveness, vowing to refrain from judgement in the future. Many promised to make a point of showing kindness, not just to strangers but also to each other.

Someone rightly said, ‘Most people’s pain is not visible. We don’t see what others are carrying.’

He looked around. ‘Even you folks, who I have known for many, many years could be carrying some buried pain and I would not know. I have not gone deeper with many of you than, “Good morning. How are you?”. Never listening for the unspoken answer to that simple question.’

An article appeared in a major newspaper a few weeks later. It was titled, Newtown is Now a New Town - the Friendliest Town Out West.

It said how no one could even drive through Newtown now, without receiving a few smiles and waves. Strangers who entered the café or hotel were always made to feel welcome, like long-lost friends. The article resulted in more visitors to our town, some carrying burdens too heavy to bear alone. As a result, we decided to build a special house, which we called “Halfway House”, where people could come for a season of healing or rest, whatever they needed, with no charge. There would always be a kind listening ear, and very often a powerful prayer.

The little house was designed by a well-known Sydney architect, who volunteered his services. A man by the name of Jack Tanner.

“Mooom.”

“Mom!”

“Motherrrr.”

The word drifts in from far away, stretched thin and sing-song, traveling through water to reach me. I hear it all the time. Tiny voices. Laughing ones. Whining ones. Voices like mine might sound like, if I ever had to use it.

They call for Mother as if she is real.

My world is warm and close, soft on every side. A soft pink quiet. I float in it, rocked by thumps and sways and the steady, secret drum that never stops.

I can see everything here.

Everything except her.

The voices say Mother makes breakfast. Mother finds lost things. Mother fixes spills and signs papers and watches tricks and remembers everything.

“Mom, where’s my shoe?”

“Mom, I’m hungry!”

“Mom, look!”

The calls tumble over one another, desperate and sure, as if one person could possibly do all that. As if one person could always come.

I don’t believe in Mother.

I think the voices do what voices do best, make things up.

There is no place where she stops. No place where I begin.

The voice moves through all of it, but it does not control it.

The world tips gently. The drum above me quickens, then slows.

Outside, a voice says, “You’re already such a good mom. This one is going to love you so much.”

I go still.

That word again.

Mother.

I wait for something to happen. For proof. For magic. For this great invisible being to reveal herself at last.

Nothing does.

See?

Made up.

Then, later, another voice, low and close, hums through the walls of my world.

“There you go, baby. Strawberries. Your favorite.”

A sweetness spreads through me almost at once, bright and soft as sunlight through closed eyes. I don’t understand how the voice knew. I don’t understand how the sweetness came. I only know I curl around it, full and drowsy and warm.

Coincidence, I tell myself.

It has to be.

The days pass strangely here. I can’t count them, but I feel them. The walls that once held me, gently begin to press. My knees stay tucked now, and my feet have nowhere to go. Even stretching takes so much effort now.

Outside, the little voices still call for Mother.

Sometimes I almost pity them.

Sometimes I almost envy them.

Once, when everything is quiet except for the drum and the hush of river sound, I press my foot hard against the edge of my world and hold it there.

Just to prove it.

If Mother were real, she would answer.

And for one long moment, nothing happens.

Then, a pressure meets mine from the other side.

Not hard. Not pushing back. Just there.

A slow, smoothing touch. A glide of comfort over the place where I press, as if someone is tracing the shape of me. As if someone knows exactly where I am.

I jerk away.

The drum races.

Beyond it, that same low voice, blurred and tender:

“Almost time, baby.”

My whole world listens.

Something is changing.

The walls tighten.

I fold in on myself.

Then they loosen.

I wait.

They tighten again; but harder this time, squeezing the breath I’ve never had, the thought right out of me. The hush breaks. Sound crashes in. The drum pounds wild and fast. My world, my whole safe pink world, begins to shove.

No.

I kick. Twist. And fight the pressure.

It does not stop.

Tighten.

Push.

Release.

Again.

Again.

The walls that kept me now force me forward. The darkness thins. Noise tears through everything. I am pressed and turned and squeezed until I am no longer floating, no longer held, no longer hidden.

Then a new world swallows me.

Cold, lights, and hands.

Air burns through me like I’ve swallowed stars.

I open my mouth and the sound that has always lived inside me finally tears free.

Someone laughs. Someone cries.

A brand-new voice says, “She’s here.”

And then,

her.

A face above me, blurred by brightness, wet with tears, more real than anything I have ever known.

Not made up.

And not pretend.

My eyes open wider.

And for the first time, I see Mother.  

The Intergalactic Space Jedi Detective by SlyPigglet4

(*please keep in mind this is written by my 9yr old son. I helped edit some spelling, formatting, and the barest of suggestions, but otherwise this is completely his*)

Elteem pulled his robes tighter as he worked his way back to his detective agency. His agency was a little cottage on Dogboah. As soon as he walked through the door his apprentice, a padawan named Helfor, said “You missed a call.”

“Yes, yes, know, I do.” Elteem said.

“They typed their phone number to you,” Helfor said as he extended a little piece of paper. 

Elteem only glanced at the paper before it was yanked away.

“Sorry, wrong one,” Helfor said. He finally found the right piece of paper. It read “112-345-8697.”

Elteem quickly called. Then from the other end Princess Leia Organa said “Thank you so much. Let me fill you in on what’s been happening. We found out someone is trying to blow up Tatooine. We don’t know who it is, so it’s up to you to find out. Bye.” *click.*

His apprentice went deathly pale when he found out Elteem’s assignment. “Master,” he protested, “that is too hard for you.”

“No, too hard for me, it is not.” Elteem said. He went from planet to planet until his clues were as follows:

1. Helfor was acting strange
2. Helfor said when he got back “How can you stop him in three days time?”
3. A green piece of paper missing a half. Same for a red piece of paper.
4. Elteem was colorblind
5. It was a sith or a clawawan

Elteem thought Helfor was untrustworthy, so he kept his clues secret. Late at night Elteem remembered “I’m colorblind.” His mind ran through his clues again. He though “wait…no…” He rummaged through Helfor’s things and found the two things he was looking for. A green (aka red) and a red (aka green) piece of paper! He put the two halves together and they read as follows: “Dear Darth Vader, I have successfully planted the bomb in Leia’s ring. I gave it to Han Solo to give to her. Your apprentice HelDoom.”

Elteem couldn’t believe it! 

Helfor secretly snuck in and when he was close enough ignited his light saber and swung at Elteem. Elteem was expecting this. He quickly flipped over his attacker and swung. 

“Turned to the dark side, you have, HelDoom.”

“No, I have not, the Jedi are evil!”

“Confused, you are.”

“No, I’m not!” Heldoom screamed.

Somehow Vader suddenly blessed him and Darth Doom was born. Darth Doom wasn’t too hard for Elteem, knowing all of Darth Doom’s weaknesses. Elteem killed Doom, saved Tatooine, and restored peace to the galaxy. The End!

Race for Survival (I guess I have to admit this one is mine)

A rustling to her left sounded, but she dared not look to see what it was, her one good eye was focused on where to place her next step as she careened through the forest, ducking under limbs and dodging branches probably too far away to even reach her, but she couldn’t tell with her poor depth perception. She felt the old frustration of losing her left eyesight bubbling up, but shoved it away as she turned quickly to her right and jumped over the boulder in her way, muscle memory taking over for a moment as she executed a perfect landing. She had run this path countless times over the many years. The pounding of boots behind her was growing louder. She pushed harder, knowing if her pursuers got too close she would miss her chance to hide and then it would just be a matter of time before she was caught. A brief bark was cut off with a strangled yelp and she felt a sudden coldness sweep over her. They were using the Silent Stalkers. These specially trained dogs were trained to hunt in perfect silence and were especially feared and hated throughout the forests. Many a runner had been caught unaware, thinking they merely had to outsmart the hunter only to be found by a Silent Stalker. These must still be in training, since the excitement of the hunt had gotten the best of one dog and she had actually heard him. But now she knew she had one chance, and even that was slim. She weighed her choices, which really came down to two: take the risk of the Silent Stalkers revealing their best hideout or allow herself to be caught. A shudder ran down her back at the thought of the second and she silently apologized, but she couldn’t just give up. Filled with renewed determination, she increased her speed as she heard the sound of a waterfall ahead. The path whipped left around a giant boulder, then angled right again and suddenly opened up and ended with a sharp drop of about two feet down to a swiftly flowing river.

Randira didn’t break stride, but throwing up a quick prayer of thanks for the hours of practice she had put in after “the incident,” she leapt off the river’s edge, grabbed the vine hanging down, swung far out over the waterfall and just as her swing peaked she let go!  She experienced that moment of exhilaration when free falling before plunging into the churning water past the base of the waterfall.  She knew her aim had been true and stretched out her hand as she dove down to catch the chain that lay concealed at the bottom of the roiling pool and pulled herself quickly along the bottom, feeling the beating of water pressing her down, but sliding forward nonetheless until the chain finally angled upward, the pounding lightened, suddenly was gone, and she at last broke the surface with a gasping breath. Pulling herself up, she clambered onto the rock, trying to quiet her panting as she strained to listen for the telltale rattle of someone else using the chain. 

The roar of the waterfall was muffled behind the rock wall and as the moments ticked by in darkness and her breathing slowed, Randira started to relax her tense muscles and feel her way to the supplies kept there. She inched left and groped along a ledge about shoulder height to find the lantern and matches for light.  She struck a match, failed to light the lantern, and tried again. After the third match, she gave up in frustration. She couldn’t seem to line up the match and the wick to get the lamp lit before the match burned down too close to her fingers. At least, seemed to be too close to her fingers. She wasn’t willing to risk her fingertips to find out how close the flame really was. She briefly contemplated that perhaps she should have also practiced lighting candles and lamps, but knew that her decision to practice jumping at and catching hold of a rope hanging in midair was well chosen and no doubt just saved her life. The words of one of her mentors echoed in her mind: “You can do everything anyone else can, it just will take you 2-3x more work to get there.” She was pretty sure it took even more than that sometimes, but he was right, she could still do it, it just took more work, more practice, more failing before reaching success. 

Lighting one last match, she found her personal hidden little “cheat,” a thin cord, grubby and tucked against the edge of the floor and side of the cavern leading back into the tunnel beyond. Taking it between her fingers, she blew out her match and started to inch her way along the floor, following the edge of the tunnel, moving slowly so she didn’t lose the cord and could tuck it back away so it would be there for next time. There were many interconnecting tunnels and with a lantern one would be able to see the proper path and the small signs that marked it, but without light, it would be easy to lose count of how many left or right branches she had passed and possibly take a wrong turn. Some tunnels led to dead ends while others led to other destinations that may be beneficial at other times. Her cord would lead her to her assigned outlet.  The muffled roar of water began to fade as she moved deeper into the tunnel, slowly and steadily working her way along the path that she knew would eventually take her back out to the forest and open world above where she could make her way home. She used the long, slow journey in the dark to plot a safe route home and begin to formulate her report back to headquarters.