muchtooarrogant

Welcome to those returning to the fray! I did forget to mention that if you are new this round, you are coming in with 1 bye that is good between now and the Top 10. So, just keep that in mind!

This week is going to be different than any week in Idol. Because it's a Survivor style vote!

Which goes against every core value of actual Idol and dives right into the whole reality show aspect.

What this means is that (1) It's a contestant only vote. You have to be signed up as a current contestant to cast a vote.
(2) All votes are by email.. You send your vote to clauderainsrm@gmail.com
(3) Yes, I said VOTE. This time around you are voting for 1 person. The person you want to eliminate from the competition!

The deadline to vote is Thursday Sept 25th at 7pm ET. Everyone's entries are at: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1201147.html

Good luck to everyone!

clauderainsrm posting in

therealljidol

We've gathered in this sacred space, deep in the bowels of the castle, to carry out a solemn duty.

For those of you joining this game, already in progress, what you need to know is that there is/are Killer(s) among you! They are hunting you down, one by one, using vile poison to eliminate all that stand in the way of their total victory!

Unless you stop them first! Part of how you accomplish that is by whoever has the most votes each week can give the antidote to any contestant. So, in theory, as long as you stay one step ahead of the Killer(s) no one needs to die. But if you don't....

There is also the Accusation. The group votes on who they think is a Killer and once exposed, they are restored to their former self, without that blood lust...

After missing their mark for several weeks, the group was finally able to nail down two Killers!! But how many more are out there, and where are they planning on striking next?

Only one way to find out!!

***
I've compiled the votes - and the group accuses

hafnia of being a Killer!!!

There is a long pause, followed by an evil cackle that shakes the room... Oh sorry, that was just me. Hafnia isn't a Killer. ;)

***

OK, it's time to get on to this week's poll, where... *thud*

Oh no. Not again. Who was it this tim... *swears* *swears again, only this time a little louder*

rayaso is gone. :(

alycewilson

This is my (nearly forgotten) entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. The topic this week was "Intrigant," defined as "a person who makes secret plans to do something illicit or detrimental to someone else.?

What if everything really was someone else's fault? A house fairy, perhaps, whom you had offended by not making proper offerings? Or a neighborhood witch who never forgave you for sledding over her pansies? Whoever it was, it was likely a long time ago, and purely accidental on your part.

But by now, just think of all the damage that has been done. Socks, surreptitiously pulled from the dryer just as they were reaching sentience. Trips and falls too numerous to count, and not to mention fender-benders. Or, going further back, that awkward year when you received both glasses and persistent acne. Clearly, magic was to blame.

So many things lost: wallets, phones, keys, gloves, remotes. A brand-new fuzzy ski hat, while you were wearing it! Almost as if an invisible hand plucked it from your head, in order to make a paired set with the beloved angora sweater, which disappeared on a ski trip.

You may have dreamt once that someone really did live under your bed: a wizened creature that grabbed your foot and woke you up. If you did, you dismissed the experience as a foot cramp, but was it, instead, a glimpse behind the curtain? How often have you felt like something was lurking in a dark corner, only to investigate and find the spot vacated?

And lately, the interloper has grown more insidious. How else would deadlines skip your memory, despite your efforts to track them? How else would you call somebody "Charla" when her name is clearly "Cindy"? What's next? Your understanding of the world? Your grasp of language itself?

It's time you asked yourself the important questions: How long has this imp followed me? How has it traveled with me for so long, from address to address, life change to life change? Why do more than half of accidents take place close to home?

And the most important question of all: How can I stop it?

The fact that you've even read this far indicates that you can feel it in your bones. You know that something is off: that an interloper has intruded into your daily life, making mischief of your well-laid plans; curdling your milk.

You may consider the answer to be simple: leaving out a saucer of honey for the fae folk. That might have worked once, a long time ago. But what's the compound interest on a childhood slight? How can you reconcile after so long, when you have no idea what you did or whom you offended?

Do not despair. A simple thought exercise will help. Ponder on the question, and the answer will present itself, like a barely whispered offering. Clear your mind and let the thoughts come in.

That moment from childhood that you can't forget, no matter how dearly you'd like to? Perhaps the time you peed yourself while playing hide-and-seek, then hid the underwear in the hamper, not realizing your mother would find them? Or the time you drank a glass of milk too fast and horked it out your nose? That moment is not what it seems. It is hiding something.

But how, you might ask, do I dismiss this persistent memory? Simple. Forgive yourself, like the adult version of you would easily dismiss such a misstep from a beloved child. Forgive yourself, and the memory that has acted as a cloak for the real trouble will dissipate.

There! What do you see? Shimmering in the gloaming of your memory? A shape, a form, a moment revealing itself to you. You will know immediately what that moment means: you should have been kinder; you should have been respectful; you should have apologized; you should have forgiven another. Someone or something wronged, in a time nearly forgotten. That shimmering shape will probably not be anyone you can name or even completely remember. But let the memory grow brighter until you can see it as clearly as possible.

And now what? Simple. Ask the memory for peace. Tell it you are sorry; that you didn't understand. That you will strive to be more conscious of your impacts as you move about the world. The more sincere your words, the more effective they will be. Then, you will feel a warmth growing inside your chest as you purify the bond that has clung to you until this very moment.

Inhale. Exhale. Move on. The very next step will be your own.

This message brought to you by the International House Fairy Council.

Buildings and trees silhouetted at dusk with a few golden windows of light.

marjorica

The party could not be said to have been dull, for to do so would have been a most grave insult to the host’s generosity. It would have been a matter of a troubling lack of national pride, for the event had been staged in recognition of the abdication of Napoleon Buonaparte. Even now he was heading to exile on some island in the Tyrrhenian Sea and long may he rot.

Cassie felt a little bruised if she were to be honest. War was all that she had known from the time that she had been a child. No matter how genteel and bucolically wholesome her careful upbringing had been, it was so. The militia trooping by or the regiment riding off and away to glory was background. As was the uncle whose left sleeve was now pinned to the front of his shirt.

Thus she had taken a little time to herself, between dancing and ices, and stepped off to the side of the ballroom. With as much enthusiasm as she could muster, she surveyed the portrait of a woman from a bygone time, searching for some glimmer of fellowship. The currant bun face loomed from a coif of stiff lace, betraying nothing.

She became aware of a presence off to her right. Let the person address her, should they wish to encroach upon her time! Yet they did not. She relented and turned slowly in case it was some servant, tasked with humble reticence and instead looked up into the face of a young man.

His face was a touch too soft and asymmetrical and his figure a little too gangling for her to have described him as handsome. This, she sensed, was not what he was about at all. His hair framed his face in a tangle of artfully unruly curls. His attire was of the highest quality, yet the impression was given that it had been merely applied to his body like a rumpled disguise over the form of something far wilder. His full lips seemed unlikely to be coaxed into a smile, so plainly did he feel the dolour of the world. Stormy blue eyes burned in his face like hot coals. She felt that he must have practiced this look in the glass, possibly by the hour.

“Madame,” he essayed, “you are enchanting and surely a goddess walking among us. I present to you the humblest of offerings that I may crave supplication at your feet.”

One hand cradled a goblet of claret and the other came from behind his back to present her with a narcissus taken from one of the floral arrangements. How appropriate. His fingers brushed her gloved hand as he passed it to her.

There was quite the trend for many of the young men to present themselves as Lord Byron. She supposed that it was something for them to do in the long stretch of time between school and what might be considered adulthood. There was no rush for a man in their sphere to marry nor need they earn their way and, seeking occupation, a number fell on this as something to do.

Byron had received a great deal of acclaim as a poet and Cassie would allow that he was talented. It would remain to be seen, and that by greater minds than hers, whether or not he was a visionary. He was certainly precisely the sort of man that she had always been warned against. Tales of his exploits and outrages came via gossip pages and sniffed, vinegar-mouthed conversations in drawing rooms. They provided a far better illustration of what must be avoided than any governess who valued her employment might care to explain to her charges.

Byron, for all of the social disgrace that he had accrued, got the girls. He was the roaring boy who lived as he pleased, cocking a snook at the hidebound conventions of society. Many girls swooned over him when out of the hearing of Mamas. Cassie had often heard it said that a reformed rake made the best husband. She, as yet green in the ways of the world, felt that it was better if they could grow out of insouciance and thoughtlessness before others might be damaged by it. Perhaps no-one wanted a thorough sobersides for a husband, but there were miles of green land between that and heedless debauchery.

Yet here she was, confronted by someone who wished to present themselves as dark and dangerous. A little spice or the stalest of pepper? Enough behind the mask to pique her curiosity or just shopworn tiresomeness?

She regarded him coolly, the flower held still in her hands.

He continued.

“The world seems to cease around you, waiting to become itself anew by your whim or decree. I attend you, armed but with this simple offering, all the while left sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything…”

Oh. The misquoting of Shakespeare. She felt the ghost of a ruler stinging her knuckles as her governess had chastised her for falling short in her own recitations. She broke her silence.

“I would no doubt be delighted to meet you should there be anyone to introduce us. Until then, I suppose that I may endure the possibility of your writing a woeful ballad to my eyebrow…”

“I could, you know. Write a ballad to your eyebrow…” he responded, heat rising from his words like a fire invigorated by bellows.

“A woeful one?” Cassie asked brightly, cruelly.

“I have more within me to give than that. With naught but the jawbone of an ass shall I slay a thousand Philistines for thee. A thousand thousand. And when I call out in my thirst, thou shalt open a wellspring for me!”

The bible now. Did this denote hope for the churl?

“That is no more in my power than it is yours. And if it were, for you, the well would come up dry.”

“Never in your presence!” he breathed.

“A poet would go away now and write about this exchange. I would be obliged to deny it of course, for women’s reputations are as fragile as spun glass in this naughty world. Merely to speak to a gallant such as you, with no third party to protect me…”

“Society be damned!” he cried, but none too loud. His face was sullen now, pettish.

“If you were Samson with the jawbone of an ass, you may rest assured that I would shear your locks and thereby your strength as many times as I cared to. And I do not care. Please leave my presence.”

He dashed his wine glass to the floor and she flinched at the noise, the spattering of glass sherds and claret dregs. She flinched most of all at the violent intensity of the fury that had suffused his face. Danger at last.

She turned back to the portrait and addressed the currant bun lady, her only witness.

“He did not take long to break at all, did he my dear? I scarcely said a word before the rake became a lout. Pity…”

cosmolinguist

Sadly V wasn't well enough to go out with us today, but D and I went to see the Calanais standing stones and the broch Dùn Carloway.

Things so old, no one knows why they're like they were. Why use so much timber in a place with so few trees? Why build it so high?

The broch is 2000 years old and the stones were put there 5000 years ago, longer ago than the time since. And no one knows quite why. These things that will seem precious and exotic to the people on the big cruise ships that dock at Stornoway are so ordinary to the locals that V told me about a house they nearly bought when they lived on the island that had some standing stones on the property so one of the things to be aware of is that people might inadvertently wander through your yard.

Once when my parents were visiting, my mom gushed on the train back from Chester (I think, unless it was York) how neat it is that Ing-ga-land has all this hiss-tree until she said something like "We don't have anything like this at home" and I couldn't help but say something about how that was because of the genocide and colonialization. She changed the subject then.

I had to learn about things like Cahokia all by myself, we didn't get that in school!

drippedonpaper

Title; "He Called Me 'Honey'"

Layers upon layers
Why do you smother me in explanations?
I haven't asked,
I didn't ask,
Yet you explain
Describe,

Coating the windows to my mind
With honey,
Sticky
Seductive
Thick as molasses.
You direct my attention to these drips
Distracting me with the mess
Whirling me into an urgency
You, yourself, create.

Your energy so focused
At times
I am the moth to your flame
Attracted to my own destruction
Because it's bright, so bright
I'm mesmerized!
I must inhale this warmth
Even at my peril.
You cheer on my pain.
I burn within your praise.
Finally
Someone sees me.

I've trained at the knee of a master,
Willingly directed,
Swayed,
Easily molded by praise
So rare and unpredictable
I'm so relieved to moisten
My dry tongue
That I don't search for patterns,
Just grab an puddle for sustenance
Roll in the mud
Refuse to waste a drop
In case the next drought is forever.

Trained that I must give
Every drop of my blood
To merely survive.
Again and again,
I sought the familiar
Empty halls.
I chase the echoes
Someone might be there?
Any withholding means love.

Inconsistency is the only rhythm I can dance to
A driving tempo
Fast, slow, fast.
I listen outside windows
Even if they never play my song.
I don't deserve a radio of my own.

You unleashed termites into my heart
I'm crumbling,
Melting to dust.
You feed me fear potions.
Telling me I'm not trying to heal.
"The worthy rise,"
You proclaim with confidence
As I cower into corners
So little is left.
I cannot leave without toes
Or feet.
Will I exist tomorrow?

I shy and hide from fountains
Believing you
and only you
Can parch my thirst,
That others offer poison.

And water, yes, one day
If you are good, really good
If you complete this list,
If you try harder to make me happy.
Oh, oops, well maybe tomorrow.

You only own tilting hourglasses,
The clocks on your wall spin back and forth
For somehow, the hour rarely comes
Or I was asleep,
I was late.
If only I had a dollar
For every time you said "tomorrow."

A crumbling heart,
A parched tongue
I was falling to pieces.
Then and only then
Did you use mirrors,
The smoky mirrors of shame
In which all the world was dark
And I,
A wispy ghost
Too weak,
Too dry,
Too old.

The hardest part wasn't leaving you
Or him
Or even him,
The hardest part was knowing
It wasn't an accident.

Some people seek to destroy,
And void of power,
They choose the soft.
They need someone to stomp on.

My daughter was voted
"Most Outspoken" last week
And inside I cheered
Perhaps she won't be an easy prey.
She doesn't even like honey.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please note: This is the past, not reflective of current life. But yes, I... chose badly more than once.

Thank you for reading. In a way, I hope you cannot understand this. But, if you do, please know, you ARE worthy of love.

Current Mood: sad

hafnia

( beneath the jump. )

halfshellvenus

A New Man
Idol Wheel of Chaos | Week 10 | 2440 words
Intrigant (one who intrigues or is involved in intrigue)

x-x-x-x-x

Winslow Johnson was a middle-aged man in a Midwestern city who suffered from being constantly overlooked. Even his name, which should have been interesting, somehow wasn't. People noticed it for half a second, and then slid right off into "Eh…" It was unusual, but somehow also blah, like Winslow himself.

Sometimes, Winslow wondered if he was invisible.

He worked as a shoe salesman at J. C. Penney, a job that was even less exciting than it sounded. Penney's specialized in 'sensible' and 'matronly,' with a large overlap between the two. Winslow had also never cared for feet, which only made the job more unpleasant. He had tried feigning enthusiasm for them before, but found that it only made him seem weirder.

What he needed, Winslow thought, was a personality transplant.

At office parties and in the breakroom at work, he never seemed to have anything to talk about. He had hobbies, and they weren't anything desperate like collecting string. But when he mentioned his tiny herb garden or he invited someone to spend the day watching trains with him, he got nothing but blank stares in return. Why couldn't he be like Dave from Home and Garden, who was a sports nut and knew how to make people laugh? Or like Janet from Housewares, who was always up-to-date on new movies and the popular TV shows?

Winslow had no idea how to solve his problem. There were no classes for that sort of thing, no magic potions that could make a difference. The only thing he could think of was to go to the bookstore and consult the self-help section. The quantity of selections was overwhelming:

"The You You Are," by Dr. Ricken Lazlo Hale.

What? Winslow thought.

"You Are Special, Yes You Are!" by Bitsy McLintock.

Winslow cringed, and kept surveying the shelves.

"Why You Suck, And How To Stop," by Chad Barton.

Huh. The title was kind of harsh, but didn't it basically describe his problem? And if anyone would know how to be cool, it would be someone named Chad. Winslow picked the book up and started leafing through it.

Chapter 1
Why You Suck and Nobody Likes You

You're creepy. You're boring. You smell bad. Do any of these sound familiar? The suckee is always the last to know.

Oh, no! Winslow thought. Could one of those be his problem? Or worse, all of them?

( Read more... )

There's no poll this week, as it's a contestant-only vote.

bleodswean

For three days he had scoured the forest, seeking the cottage. He had been told that’s where she resided and his need of her satisfied once he found her. Directions had been both vague and specific and the scrap of paper with the scribbled map which at first had seemed so straightforward a way was now crumpled and wearing thin and read more akin to a map drawn by a madman than the woman he had paid to sketch it out for him.

He had met that woman in a darkened corner of a pub in a nearby village, a place he had never frequented before and couldn’t find again when he tried to return to ask more questions. His palm still itched where she had fished the silver out of it. His first sight of her had his pulse racing, comely and he had thoughts of seduction. But she paid him no mind in matters of lust and when she excused herself and never returned, she had appeared quite ugly to him.

All of this had taken place over the past nine days, starting the night of the moon high in the night sky and waxing gibbous. Soon the moon would hang low and full as though it could be plucked out of its heavens like an unearthly fruit.

His grudge was a piece of fruit grown mealy, kept too long.

The grudge he’d kept with him for over half a year, through the winter, spring and summer. He had harvested it the autumn before when she’d married another.

He loathed both of them, but it was for her he most especially wished injury.

And he would have it done, not by his hand because he couldn’t risk harm to his reputation and during his more honest moments he could admit that he was frightened of her husband.

He last saw her on market day the month before and she was gone heavy with child. And that decided it for him. He would do her harm.

It was no easy task to find the witch. The search occupied his every waking hour and most of those asleep, dark dreams filled with blood and the sound of breaking bones. He could feel something turning inside of him, bowing his shoulders and creaking his spine and yet he pressed on. In corners of foul-smelling public houses, in alleys so narrow one had to enter sideways, behind trees ancient and hollowed and scratched with symbols that made his eyes narrow. But he would have what he would have and gathering information led him to the woman who drew the map.

Finally, he stumbled upon the place. Down twisted pathways, over a poisoned creek, beneath a split hanging tree, past the shadows of night animals stilled by his passing by, he smelled the woodsmoke and spied the candle guttering on the sill. He knocked and the door swung open. A hunched figure in a chair rocking beside a massive hearth with soup cauldron bubbling.

Come closer, the ragged voice instructed him, and he drew closer. Leaving the door open to the sounds of creatures hunting and the hunted crying out.

Terrible things took place. She pricked him and he bled. She bid him drink and he vomited. His head swam but his heart stayed the course, and he made his case as though she were the magistrate.

When they were done, it’s done, she told him. In the corner, rose a shadow, up and out of the dirt floor, curling out of a pile of fetid matter, spine straightening, shoulders settling, head rising. A thing that seemed to shudder and tremble but not from fear but because it was fear.

What’s that, he asked, his voice a strangled whisper.

That’s your desire.

Not my desire!

No? she asked him, cocking her head the way a bird of prey will do.

I have no desire that is embodied so. This horrid creature. He was flailing. You’ve called it forth.

Payment of your own blood and bile would suggest otherwise, my boy. You asked of me to spell a weapon, to cast it out into the world, its target a girl, we let it loose together. You and me. She lowered herself into the rocking chair pulling a briar wood pipe out of the pocket of her skirt, leaning forward to light it with a punk from the fire. She blew out two streams of gray smoke from her nostrils and looked up at him. Your desire manifested, became corporeal.

No! He said putting both hands out in front of him. Why does it approach me? The timber of his voice rising, shrill.

It’s ready to accompany you, my son.

I’m not your son, you wicked hag.

You weren’t born of my body, but you are now my child, child. Go from here and never return, ungrateful man. She bent her body away from him, toward the flickering light of the fire and in that illumination she looked different.

He blanched. Then turned and made quickly for the door, slamming it closed behind him, panting on the stone stoop. Above him, the moon was rising full. He began to run down the cobbled path, through the opened gate, into the menacing woods, behind him he could hear the beating of leathered wings.

xeena

Intrigant: a person who intrigues. a person who pursues by secret means.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

It happens every few days, without fail.

I lose control.

I go on a binge.

I abstain as long as I possibly can, and sometimes I manage to do so longer than others, but deep down I know it will be just a matter of time before I relapse all over again.

In the earlier days, I was naively of the belief that this was something I would be able to stop eventually. That I could do it once a week and get by.

I would convince myself of it during that in-between period. There would be no more repeat performances, I would be able to fulfill my desires with smaller doses until I didn’t need to do it anymore.

I could stop any time I wanted to, I knew I could.

Whenever I was able to exert that willpower for a higher number of days than before, I would grow more sure of myself.

I had finally gained control, I was sure, I had rid myself of the habit.

I was wrong, obviously.

The longest I ever managed to last without doing this, once I started, was two weeks.

Two weeks of pure hell.

The blowout that followed was colossal when I finally broke down and let myself do what my every fibre of my being was begging me to do.

I’ve never let myself abstain for more than a few days since then.

There's just no point.

I know I’m living on borrowed time if I’m honest. Eventually someone is going to notice something.

I’m quite surprised that no one actually ever has yet; but then again I suppose it’s not really that easy to pick up on unless you know what signs to search for; and most people aren’t actively looking.

It’s not as if I don’t hide it well either. It’s been ten years since this started, so I’ve had plenty of practice, after all.

Sure I look tired sometimes, drawn, a little thinner. But doesn’t everyone at some point?

This has been a part of my life for a decade, and will be for more to come, I am well aware of that.

The constant hunger gnawing away at my insides, burning deep inside of me always wins out and always will.

I always sate it.

Such is the life of an addict.

It’s unlikely to end at all, or well, if it does.

Still, a part of me that wants to believe this could work out; that I could get a happy ending at some point, even though I am painfully aware that happy endings were never meant for people like me.

Such is the life of a monster.

That's what some people would call those of us driven by a compulsion to keep tending a voracious hunger that is never and can never truly be satisfied.

I can stave it off for a while, as I often do - temporary starvation always makes the next time that much better too - but sooner or later I have to indulge again.

I have to gorge myself.

To glut.

To feed.

Such is the life - or rather, afterlife - of a vampire.

__________________________________________________________________________

fiction.
..... or is it?

Week 10 and I hadn't written a vampire story yet. Obviously had to fix that!

rayaso

Wheel of Chaos 2025
Week 10
9/21/25
Prompt: Intrigant

LET’S MAKE A DEAL!

The personal creativity pods at Kingsley Creative were buzzing. Leo the Legend had been fired! “At last,” said some. “Not what he used to be,” said others, “but he still had a lot to offer.” But they all agreed, “That’s advertising. No job is safe.” The general response was not to work harder, which Kate Kingsley had wanted, but to get busy fabricating their resumes.

They kept their eyes down while Leo cleaned out his pod, but he could feel them looking at him anyway.

“They’re pitying me,” Leo thought. “They can shove it up their lazy asses!”

Leo’s first message that morning was from Kate: “See me when you get in.”

“It must be about the Depends campaign,” he thought.

Six months ago, Kate gave him all the seniors clients. “You’re old, their old. It’s a natural,” she said. “#$@! you,” Leo thought. Still, a client was a client.

Depends loved his “Safety First” campaign, but focus groups were lukewarm.

He took his morning cup of coffee into Kate’s office, thinking they were going to discuss his new Depends ideas. Kate had grown up in the advertising business. Her mother, Andie Kingsley, had started the firm when she was only 25. Now it was Kate’s turn after her mother’s unexpected retirement last year. The gossips favored cancer, but Andie was a private person and she had never said why she was leaving while still at the top of her game.

“I need to get rid of the dead wood,” Kate had been thinking for some time. This morning, it was time.

“I’ll start with Leo,” Kate thought. “He hasn’t been legendary since Mom left.”

The meeting was short and brutal.

“Your ideas are stale,” she said. “There’s nothing intriguing about them. Our clients want pop, and you haven’t popped in years.”

“Not intriguing?” Leo thought while walking back to his pod. “What the %$@& does that even mean?”

Leo was the only Clio award winner in the office, a global award honoring excellence in advertising. “I’ve got three,” he fumed as he packed away the statuettes. “Best in the whole &%$$ing world! But I’m not “intriguing” – I’m just&%$$ing good!”

He had won the first for his campaign for women’s Nikes: “No games. Just sports.” And then there had been “Frost Yourself” for that diamond company that went out of business. The last had been for Farmer’s Bounty margarine using a real duke to pitch it.

“Women loved that duke,” he thought wistfully, as he got in his car for the drive home, with maybe a stop at The Alibi for some consolation. Now he was not only not intriguing, he was out of work and 59 years old.

“Maybe” became “must” and he pulled in to the bar. No one from work would see him here – it lacked “pop” and there was nothing intriguing about it, just decent booze at decent prices and no one bothered you. It was his regular dive.

Leo sat at the bar and saw himself in the mirror behind the bottles. It wasn’t pretty – brown hair turning gray, a soft face with bags under his eyes, and a softer body.

“I sure as hell don’t pop. I don’t even zip,” he thought.

The first scotch was for betrayal, the second for anger, and by the third he was deep into thoughts of revenge.

Suddenly, a stranger appeared one stool over. He was dressed in a worn gray trench coat, a black suit that had seen too many miles, a knock-off Rolex, and a battered briefcase. He looked like a salesman without any sales. There was also a faint whiff of sulfur.

The stranger started to open his mouth to talk, but Leo interrupted him.

“Not interested.”

“But you don’t know what I was going to say,” the stranger said, startled by Leo’s rudeness.

“Sure I do,” replied Leo. “You were going to offer me my heart’s desire – fame, fortune, women, revenge, whatever. All I have to do is sign a contract and then, after I die, my soul will be condemned to Hell. Not a chance.”

He signaled the bartender to bring the stranger a drink.

“It’s on me. Does anybody really fall for that schtick?”

“Not often enough,” sighed the stranger.

“Sales problems?” asked Leo. He was not unsympathetic.

“Yeah. If I don’t get them up, I lose my job and go back to Hell,” the stranger said. “Used to be a Tormenter. Life in Hell is hell, even for Tormenters. You looked like an easy mark.”

“You’ve got to know your market better,” said Leo. “I may look like easy, but I’m not stupid.”

“There’s no budget for market research,” complained the stranger. “No training, no advertising, no focus groups – nothing. They just throw us in the field, and we’re supposed to make sales? C’mon. Still can’t interest you in anything?”

“Not a chance in . . . .”

“I get it. Here’s my card in case you change your mind.”

Leo took the card. He always took business cards – you can’t have too many contacts, and the stranger might prove useful.

“Let me buy you a drink,” offered the stranger.

“No thanks. I’ve gotta get home,” said Leo. He was having the merest twinkle of an idea, and he wanted to think it through with a clear head.

“You shouldn’t drive,” said the stranger. “Let me send you home.”

The next thing he knew, Leo was at his doorstep.

“Neat trick,” he thought, although now he’d have to take his suit to the cleaners – it smelled of sulfur.

Leo thought for a few days, and then decided.

“I’m an ad man. I’ll always be an ad man. But right now, I need a client, so why not?”

Leo got out the stranger’s card. It read simply “Beliel” with instructions to chant three times while turning counter-clockwise.

He went into his backyard (“no sense stinking up the house”) and performed the ritual.

Beliel immediately appeared in a pungent cloud of sulfur.

“I’m surprised,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you. Want to make a deal?”

“Not that kind of deal – this’ll be my kind of deal.”

“I’m confused,” said Beliel.

“Hear me out,” said Leo. “Saleswise, you’re a mess. I can create an advertising strategy for you that will boost your sales. The only catch is, you have to sign a contract with me. I do great work – I’ve got . . . .”

“I know,” sighed Beliel. “Three Clios, yada yada yada. I read your file.”

“Ok – so, I want three wishes. For the first thousand souls you sign, Satan has to grant me one wish. That’s the low hanging fruit. For the next 500, I get another wish, and for the next 250, I get my last wish. I don’t lose my soul and no monkey business. There’ll be limits on what I can ask – it’ll all be in the contract.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Beliel, who hadn’t come close to a thousand souls. “But I’ll have to clear it with Legal.”

“You do that,” said Leo. “As soon as I have a signed contract, we’ll get to work.”

It took some time before Beliel reappeared. Satan had outsourced the administration of Hell to the Department of Motor Vehicles, while the Department of Justice was now Satan’s legal firm. Of course, he had to share it and the attorneys were busy right now with their other client. The attorneys had long ago sold their souls and the quality of their work was embarrassing, but Satan had gotten a great deal and it included the Supreme Court.

Meanwhile, Leo used the time to renew some contacts in the field and to see how Kate was doing, which was great. He was pleased – he couldn't hold a grudge against her, especially now that he was about to sign the second biggest account ever. He also called Andie, and he was saddened by her news.

When Beliel showed up, he had the contract with Satan’s signature in some poor soul’s blood.

“It wasn’t hard to convince His Misery,” said Beliel. “He even said I was thinking outside the cage.”

“Let’s get to work,” said Leo. “I’ve sketched out a campaign I think you’ll love. First, your appearance . . . .”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You look like some poor schmuk, and you stink,” replied Leo. “You need a personal designer and a tailor, and you’ve got to get rid of that smell. It’s hard to sign away your soul while you’re holding your nose. And your posture – you look like someone’s about to hit you.”

“Someone usually is,” replied Beliel, who stood straighter, with his shoulders back.

“You need a slogan,” said Leo. “You’ve got to sell Hell. We’ll start with something small and work from there. You can’t change people’s minds in a day.”

“How about ‘Hell – It’s Not So Bad’” suggested Beliol. “There could also be a cute baby devil holding a pitchfork.”

“Good enough.” Leo liked to have clients involved in the creative process so that if a campaign tanked, the blame would also be theirs.

“We’ll go with saturation,” he continued. “Bench ads, radio, television, internet, the works – everywhere and all the time. Lots of cheap merch, too. And you’re not a demon. You’re a Life Coach. You promise to make their lives better.”

Finally, Leo gave Beliel books and videos on salesmanship.

They worked hard, Beliel on improving his game and Leo on getting the campaign going. His biggest coup was getting Beliel on Oprah as the Life Coach from Hell. Sales skyrocketed after that.

“Own who you are,” counselled Leo. “People need to trust you and no one trusts a liar.”

Beliel was soon busy reaping soul after soul. His Loathsomeness took him off the Watch List and made him Demon of the Month.

Within a year, Beliel had not only blown past 1,000 souls, but also another 500 and then 250.

“You’ve got three wishes,” Beliel said during a meeting. “What are you going to do with them?”

“The first is to be the 11th richest person in the world.”

“Of course,” said Beliel. “I was expecting that. Greed is one of my favorite sins. It’s going to take Finance a while to arrange this. You can’t just show up with all that money and not arouse suspicion and IRS audits, but we’ll get it done.”

“Next, I want Andie cured and to live a long, healthy, and happy life.”

“Why?” asked Beliel.

“Read my file,” was all Leo said.

“Ok, wish number two is granted. That’s an easy one. She’ll feel better tomorrow. And expect her to call you soon.”

Later, Beliel re-read Leo’s file. He found that Leo and Andie had met at an advertising conference when they were young. First there had been drinks, then a spark which quickly grew into a fire. The fire burned hot for several years, but then they ran out of fuel and they drifted apart, Andie to start her own agency and Leo to win his Clios working for her. Leo was creative and he hated administrative work, so the arrangement suited them both. They both hoped for another fire, but there were only a few sparks from time to time.

“My last wish,” said Leo, “is the cancellation of Kate’s contract and the return of her soul.”

“Not a problem,” said Beliel. He had condemned so many souls lately that the return of one wasn’t going to bother Pure Evil.

“But why Kate?” asked Beliel. “She fired you. And she sold her soul to be the best ad exec, better than her mother.”

“She’s my daughter,” said Leo.

This wasn’t in his file.

“We thought it would be better not to tell her,” Leo said. “It wasn’t the best decision. I just wasn’t dad material when she was born. We’ve regretted it ever since.”

“Her contract will be cancelled and her soul returned,” said Beliel. “She doesn’t know how lucky she is.”

“And I want it that way.”

“But what about us?” asked Beliel. “Our contract is up.”

“We can draw up another,” replied Leo.

Even though he was fabulously rich, Leo kept working. He started a small boutique ad agency specializing in demons, monsters, and the like. Then one day, he had a chance at the biggest client of all. Archangel Michael appeared in a cloud of glory. It seemed that He wanted to spruce up His image and get people back into churches.

Leo turned it down because it was a conflict of interest. He referred Michael to Kate.

Then one day, Andie called. They reignited their fire, this time for good, and they told Kate that Leo was her father. Her response was legendary.

________________

Voting information to follow once the poll is posted.

Leo's Clio award-winning ad campaigns are from three romantic comedies involving advertising agencies. “No games. Just sports.” is from "What Women Want" (2000). "Frost Yourself" is from "How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days" (2003). "Farmer's Bounty" is from "Kate and Leopold" (2001).

muchtooarrogant

LJI Week 10: Intrigant
The only advantage to the rocky terrain surrounding him on every side was the possibility of locating a small nook or inconspicuous crevice for concealment. When his flyer had gone down, he had been fortunate enough to land in a flat area without too many massive boulders that would've risked smashing the flyer to pieces, but now, limping along on several injured limbs, he was seeking any large collection of rocks that would cast shadows, provide overhangs, or best of all, include a nice deep cave to scramble inside. Soon they would be hunting him by ground and by air, and before they got too close he would need to be hidden.( Read more... )

Voting information to follow.
This week it's a survivor vote, only open to community members. Thank you for reading!

Dan

roina_arwen

“You’ve made it bleed,” he said.
I shrugged. “That happens, sometimes.”
“Sure, but that much? Seems a bit excessive.”
“Well, what did you want me to do?” I asked. “It’s part of the job.”
He just crossed his arms and glared at me.
After withstanding his withering glare for several long minutes, I sighed. “Fine. Hand it over.”
He passed it back.

I double checked my work, from start to finish. It took the better part of an hour, but it was always best to take one’s time in situations like this.

“Well?”
I shook my head. “I stand by my work.”
“Seriously?”
“Look, if you don’t like it, feel free to do what you want. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“It’s butchery, plain and simple,” he griped.
I shrugged, nonplussed. “It’s a work of art. Did you even read it?”

He stood, grabbed everything up, and walked to the table in the far corner of the room. Turning his back toward me, he sat and perused everything in silence. I ignored him, and worked on my next project.

Forty-five minutes later, I heard a soft sigh. “You were right,” he admitted, tossing the manuscript on the table. “Your version is better. I’m sorry.”
I smiled, pleased with myself.
“I bow to your editorial prowess,” he added with a grin, kissing me soundly.
Being a good wife, I kissed him back.

The blood rites could wait.

clauderainsrm posting in

therealljidol

Hope your week has been going well.

Just a reminder the deadline is tomorrow for:

The Prompt therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1201147.html

Anyone who wants to get into the game! therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1200777.html

and of course, submitting your accusations on the identity of a Killer!

Last week that deadline was very dramatic. Will it be as much of a shock, or just another random week? The only way to find out is getting to tomorrow!

***

Got a free trial of HBO Max this week and was finally able to watch Superman again, this time with Cynthia and Foxy. They both loved it, but I think it may be Foxy's new favorite movie. She was watching the screen the entire time and went crazy whenever she saw Krypto! <3

***

What have you been up to?

cosmolinguist

Now I feel like I'm on vacation.

cosmolinguist

We got to our lovely Airbnb flat not long after 9 this evening.

The day started with a fire alarm in our hotel at 7:20am, which didn't feel like a great start -- though at least it stopped while we were still sleepily pulling on enough clothes to go outside. And, more importantly, it gave D the chance to check right away if he could book an earlier sailing than Saturday. And he could! This afternoon! So it was nice to have some good news first thing...even if this booking was of course immediately followed by the same automated text he got yesterday about how the sailing could be canceled at short notice because of the weather.

D and I got up for breakfast, I had tasty mushrooms and eggs and was introduced to the tattie scone which immediately enters the small pantheon of potato products I'm actually excited to see (I'm usually pretty indifferent to them) because it was amazing.

We took some breakfast back for V, D told his boss why he wouldn't be working today as planned, and we all got ready to go just in time for checkout at 11. We hung around for a lovely walk in the grounds of the hotel with V pointing out bugs on the flowers and even picking up some lichen that they knew had fallen off the trees (very tall, with lots of what even I could recognize as Douglas firs along many other massive old trees) to let me see and touch it. It's so lovely how they carefully describe what I can't see so I can enjoy all the flora and fauna that they do.

After sharing a restorative pot of tea in the hotel bar, we went literally down the road to what had been the Strathpeffer Spa train station and is now a café, gift shop, and the Highland Museum of Childhood, all of which were great.

I am fascinated by Strathpeffer as a name, and not just because I find it impossible to say (it always goes wrong when I get to -thp-!). It finally got me to look up the word strath which I figured out from context clues would be something Gaelic to do with a river and sure enough. "Peffer" feels so German to my Minnesotan brain, and I noted Strathpeffer being described as "the most un-Scottish of Scottish towns...variously compared to Harrogate in Yorkshire and to a Bavarian mountain resort." But that's just a coincidence; Bavarian perhaps in architecture but not in name. According to what I can find about how the place got its name, it and the other "Peffer streams" ("Peffer occurs as a burn name in Inverpeffray (Crieff), and there are two Peffer burns in Athelstaneford (Haddington), also a Peffer Mill at Duddingston...") are "likely to be connected with the root seen in Welsh ‘pefr’, beautiful, fair; ‘pefrin’, radiant; ‘pefru’, to radiate."

Anyway. We enjoyed the museum, bought treats in the shop (mostly for me: fingerless gloves in a Fair Isle knitted pattern, socks with space designs on them, and a fancy bar of chocolate, but V got a teeny cute thing of some kind which they'd picked up and said "I'm turning into an old person, I'm collecting tchotchkes!" as they held it up). We had lunch at the café, with the help of an adorable spaniel who flopped right down like he'd been our dog forever, who turned out to be called Fudge and worked hard for the teeny crusts of cheesy bread I gave him and a bit of tuna mayonnaise from V's sandwich. He's well known to the café staff, who told us his name.

From there we went to Ullapool, still hopeful for the ferry, and with an hour to kill looked in the bookstore and some touristy stores where I was told how nice a £150 wool sweater would look on me, and bought some boring stuff at Boots (my eczema has been hellish lately because I've been so stressed, and also I bought my own razor now that I need one!) before sitting by the harbor watching the boats and the gulls and just having a nice time until it was time to head back to the car which we'd left in line for the ferry. Even as we were driving on to the boat I was trying not to let myself get too relieved, remembering the RVs I saw having to drive back off again yesterday with the last-minute cancellation. But it was fine.

We went up on to the deck to watch the ferry leave the harbor, had dinner (I was tempted by Calmac and cheese but I'd just had mac and cheese for lunch and thought I could use slightly more variety in my diet so went for a veggie burger and salad) and then sat in the "observation lounge" where there was increasingly less to observe as we got away from the islands near shore and also it got dark but we had relatively comfy seats and everyone was tired by then. I didn't sleep but listened to an audiobook and rested my eyes.

And like I said we got to Stornoway slightly delayed but otherwise fine, it was a very smooth crossing -- V was surprised how much so --and since we're staying in the same flat those two had last year they know the location and the layout and everything, it was the easy welcome we needed.

We hauled our stuff inside and have done various things to make ourselves feel at home: D has set up his PS5 to do his daily tasks in the couple of games he's playing, V put away the food we brought, I had a shower. D and I have also had a bit of a bottle of cherry wine I was won over by yesterday thanks to the copy on the label:

Luxury cherries from Blairgowrie make this thrilling wine a cherrylicious event.
Rich and moist, dark and silky, Little Red Riding Hood lost in the Black Forest.
Van Morrison was always going on about Sweet Cherry Wine, in an unrelated incident.

We bought it yesterday, saying we'd have it when we got to our flat that evening, and then of course we didn't. It tasted great tonight.

cosmolinguist

Welp. Remember when you told me I shouldn't need to chair a work meeting while I'm on vacation?

The good news is, I'm not going to.

The bad news is, it's because I can't. The plan was that we'd be at our Airbnb by tonight and D and I would both work from there tomorrow while V started to recover from the journey.

And we're not at the Airbnb because our ferry to the island we're actually planning to visit, where V's son lives, was canceled. So last-minute that when we got to the port we saw vehicles driving off of it that had already boarded.

We couldn't stay anywhere in the small town where the ferry port is. It has hotels and B&Bs but not enough for an extra ferryload of people at short notice. Poor D had to drive forty minutes back the way we came just for us to get a room at all.

And our ferry crossing has been re-booked, for Saturday. No ferries until then. Allegedly; apparently this can change at short notice. But even if it does, it's hard to plan accommodation or anything else.

And in the meantime we're grateful just to have a roof over our heads (we're staying in the attic, so the slanted roof is only just over my head on this side of the room!). And we'll figure out what happens tomorrow.

But in the meantime, checkout is at 11, and so is this precious meeting. I already told my boss, when we didn't know where if anywhere we'd be tonight to explain, and he wrote back that he was sorry to hear this and to message him in the morning if he's needed to sit in. If! I'm not impressed that even I don't know where I'll sleep tonight and I won't have WiFi tomorrow lunchtime isn't enough to get him to understand that he has to chair this meeting.

Except for this massive snag and the possibility of V not being able to see their kid at all this year, which is a real "other than that Mrs. Lincoln how was the play," we've actually had a lovely day. We all were up and at 'em in good time to leave the nice place in Stirling where we broke the journey last night. We had time to visit the Highland Folk Museum on the way, which D picked up a brochure about when he was in a long queue to buy sandwiches for lunch at the café with the highland coo (Scottish for "cow") statue everyone gets their photo taken next to, including me now, and we were delighted at the serendipity. It was lovely to see an example of the blackhouses that I'd heard V talk about, and a loom shed for weaving the famous Harris tweed.

I am with my two humans and we are going to wait for more decision-making information and capacity after a night's sleep and maybe some updates from the much-cursed ferry operator.

muchtooarrogant

To anyone who has seen me post writing responses to prompts from

therealljidol community and thought, "Hey, that looks like fun," this is your chance! When Gary, our fearless leader, spun the Wheel of Chaos this week to find out what twists would be introduced this time, one of the spots it landed on was, "CASTING CALL." That means that anyone previously eliminated from the competition can rejoin, and anyone else who wants in on the fun can sign up as well.
Click here for the sign up post.
Here's the FAQ for this season so you can discover what LJ Idol is all about.

Come on, you know you want to, come write with us!

Dan

clauderainsrm posting in

therealljidol

This isn't the original prompt. But when I googled the one selected it turns out there is an offensive regional definition to the one I was going to use, so I scrapped it and had the wheel spin again.

Which is why you ended up with

Intrigant

The deadline to link your entry back to this thread is Sunday Sept 21st at 8pm ET.

Have fun!

clauderainsrm posting in

therealljidol

The Wheel is all knowing and all powerful.

All hail the mighty wheel as it spins and determines our fates!

*spins*

Oh. TRIPLE TWIST!!!!

So not just one thing from the wheel, 3 of them!!!

This is going to be interesting.

Oh great wheel, tell us what is to come this week!!

- Survivor Vote. This week contestants will be casting a vote to remove someone from the competition!

- Immunity for the person with the fewest votes last week who was not eliminated. Which is *looks at list*

legalpad819 - congratulations. You now have an immunity idol!

and CASTING CALL!!! Not only is everyone previously eliminated eligible to be back in the competition, ANYONE who wants in is invited to sign up and join in on the fun!!! Oh this is going to be an interesting week. I will provide a thread below for people to sign back up in the competition! (this is an opt in as opposed to other "back in the game" where people are just automatically back in)

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LJ Idol, Wheel of Chaos, Week 10: “Intrigant”

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