@wayhavenots and @narrativefoiltrope and @agentnatesewell
Unbelieved basically was meant to be a love letter to the 30+ who haven't found themselves or who looking to make changes in their lives. The MC, and the ROs, were all various stages of self-/re-discovery. I was a little tired of how - at the time, I'd come up with this during the early 2020s - IFs seemed to have MC in their 20s and settled career-wise. There wasn't much love for anyone past 25, since I guess tumblr believes that's geriatric, or those still working on themselves.
But 'unbelieved' part wasn't just a play on how they didn't have people believe in them/had to come in believe in themselves and each other, but they were all supernatural creatures ... except MC [if I remember right]. They were all gathered together at a bed and breakfast, that was bequeathed to MC. Though it had romance, friendship was a very important aspect -- particularly between the ROs. What can I say? I'm a sucker for found family and platonic soulmates.
Catch the snippet below.
It usually starts like this. Bad news, that is. For you, bad news almost always starts like this -- it starts with a letter.
You come home from a late day at the offices. The majority of staff had called out sick today: from Janice, the office secretary, to your boss to even two of the janitors. You’ve been working at the office for almost three months and Tom, the head janitor, is always there from six am to six pm, five days a week. (*Thought; could be a fun personality choice -- how does MC know Tom’s name? Bc they’re observant? Bc they’re friendly? Bc they were forced to know d/t an office party celebrating Tom’s bday and they’re surprised they remember. Choice could be ‘you’ve never seen him take a day off’ ‘he told you he never took a day off’ ‘apparently’)
It was strange. However, you hadn’t thought anything much about it. (At least, not at first.) The weather is changing. If it wasn’t the flu, it was probably allergies, or a cold. Or maybe they were playing hooky. You had a lot on your plate today. The hours before and after lunch had really given a new meaning to all hands on deck. You had never realized just many clients trafficked through your small [dentist/law/medical/engineering/etc] office on a Thursday.
That fact didn’t leave much time for gossiping around the watercooler, speculating on your coworkers health status. (Choice: ‘As much you might have wanted to’, ‘Not that you would’ve wanted to anyway’)
You didn’t start thinking about the strangeness until you began flipping through the mail.
Garbage. Garbage. Garbage. Coupon. Garbage. Huh …. Ms. Hutchinson’s daughter was having a garage sale? Interesting. Garbage. Promotional. Coupon. Garbage. Letter from your great-uncle’s lawyer. Garbage. Gar --
Wait.
It feels as if your entire body prickles; like shocks of static are aligning against your skin or like that time your roommate in college attempted acupuncture on you (but thankfully you didn’t come off scarred forever). It feels wrong, your body. It feels -- <i>tight</i>. It might have something to do with the way your heart seems to have sunk into your stomach and your breath seems to have caught in your throat.
You’ve met your great-uncle’s lawyer three times in your life: once during your great-aunt’s funeral and once at your cousin’s funeral. The third time had been when you used to spend the summers at your uncle’s place, during dinner. The man had been coming to talk over some business and your uncle had invited him to stay. Because that is the kind of person your great-uncle is.
The entire affair had <i>felt</i> like a funeral - despite your uncle’s best efforts - because that was the kind of person his lawyer was. Marcus Pinkerton was as dry and bland as plain chicken dipped in sawdust. He was just <i>so</i> boring and <i>so</i> creepy. Little you had been shocked to learn that he was a lawyer instead of a mortician. Or Lurch’s dull cousin.
(Had you mentioned this man was boring?)
A letter from this man could spell nothing good for you.
Then again, letters rarely did.
You are not(/try not to be) superstitious. You don’t follow your horoscope. You barely blink when salt spills over - outside of a mess. Cracks and under ladders mean nothing(/very little) to you.
Your parents are straightforward, realistic people. And they tried to raise you to be the same. Sometimes you think they take it a little bit to the extreme -- but you suppose that’s what one can expect from a finance specialist and an actuary.
Anyway, enough about your parents. They raised you to be that way, sure. However, you saw merit in not wasting time believing in silly, fantastical ideas. You are <i>not</i> a superstitious person.
It is simply a <i>fact</i> that you’ve never received a nice letter in your entire life.
Beware the mailperson and their manila wrapped gifts. Or something.
You eye the envelope with trepidation and decide to get it over with (/bury it under --- note: this would be a branching bit → either MC pushes back opening it or they open immediately, in the end it leads to learning their great uncle passed away and left them stuff.) it. You ignore the slow way discomfort settles on your chest and begins to fill each crack, each crevice of your body like trepidation was a glass of water knocked over on a tiled counter creeping tightness through you. Slowly, slow your biceps stiffen. Slowly, slowly the muscles in your neck tense. Slow, slowly your mouth tries as you pull out a white sheet of paper and force your gaze to focus on the black print.
<i>Good evening [name],
I hope this letter finds you well - </i>
You bite back a snort as your eyes haggardly pursue the rest of the letter.
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To ja, Kasandra.
A to jest moje miasto pod popiołem.
A to jest moja laska i wstążki prorockie.
A to jest moja głowa pełna wątpliwości.
To prawda, tryumfuję.
Moja racja aż łuną uderzyła w niebo.
Tylko prorocy, którym się nie wierzy,
mają takie widoki.
Tylko ci, którzy źle zabrali się do rzeczy,
i wszystko mogło spełnić się tak szybko,
jakby nie było ich wcale.
Wyraźnie teraz przypominam sobie,
jak ludzie, widząc mnie, milkli wpół słowa.
Rwał się śmiech.
Rozpalały się ręce.
Dzieci biegły do matki.
Nawet nie znałam ich nietrwałych imion.
A ta piosenka o zielonym listku -
nikt jej nie kończył przy mnie.
Kochałam ich.
Ale kochałam z wysoka.
Sponad życia.
Z przyszłości. Gdzie zawsze jest pusto
i skąd cóż łatwiejszego jak zobaczyć śmierć.
Żałuję, że mój głos był twardy.
Spójrzcie na siebie z gwiazd - wołałam -
spójrzcie na siebie z gwiazd.
Słyszeli i spuszczali oczy.
Żyli w życiu.
Podszyci wielkim wiatrem.
Przesądzeni.
Od urodzenia w pożegnalnych ciałach.
Ale była w nich jakaś wilgotna nadzieja,
własną migotliwością sycący się płomyk.
Oni wiedzieli, co to takiego jest chwila,
och bodaj jedna jakakolwiek
zanim -
Wyszło na moje.
tylko że z tego nie wynika nic.
A to jest moja szmatka ogniem osmalona.
A to są moje prorockie rupiecie.
A to jest moja wykrzywiona twarz.
Twarz, która nie wiedziała, że mogła być piękna.
-
It’s me, Cassandra.
And this is my city covered with ashes.
And this is my rod, and the ribbons of a prophet.
And this is my head full of doubts.
It’s true, I won.
What I said would happen
hit the sky with a fiery glow.
Only prophets whom no one believes
witness such things,
only those who do their job badly.
And everything happens so quickly,
as if they had not spoken.
Now I remember clearly
how people, seeing me, broke off in mid-sentence.
Their laughter stopped.
They moved away from each other.
Children ran towards their mothers.
I didn’t even know their vague names.
And that song about a green leaf–
nobody ever finished singing it in front of me.
I loved them.
But I loved them from a height.
From above life.
From the future. Where it’s always empty
and where it’s easy to see death.
I am sorry my voice was harsh.
Look at yourselves from a distance, I cried,
look at yourselves from a distance of stars.
They heard and lowered their eyes.
They just lived.
Not very brave.
Doomed.
In their departing bodies, from the moment of birth.
But they had this watery hope,
a flame feeding on its own glittering.
They knew what a moment was.
How I wish for one moment, any,
before–
I was proved right.
So what. Nothing comes of it.
And this is my robe scorched by flames.
And these are the odds and ends of a prophet.
And this is my distorted face.
The face that did not know its own beauty.
A whumpee who has been accused of and punished for lying (even when they were telling the truth) finally gets a family that trusts them. The only problem is when the whumpee is joking, someone else responds telling them they don't believe them, and now the whumpee will do anything to make them believe the joke was real – even if it means hurting themselves.
he falls into a step right beside them, hands are in his back pockets as he’s looking around the area, sun kissing his skin. “ by the way, i’m picking the restaurant this time, ” he blurts out of sudden and catches the way they look at him. “ last time you made me eat somewhere that described sparkling water as an experience … you lost your privileges, ”
Amara tilted her head as she looked over at Irina, "You hungry?" There wasn't even enough time for an actual answer before she nodded to herself, "Yeah, me too. I know a place." It wasn't the first time she'd said those four words, and it definitely wouldn't be the last.
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Since my other two were game MCs, this one will be a straight OC (who is NOT straight, hehehe). I think I've mentioned her before but I don't think I've ever formally introduced her!
Kaylee Moyano:
Kaylee Moyano, age 28 (fc: MJ Rodriguez), is a Puerto Rican duende (basically a brownie; but I don't think she knows it yet) who is meant to be an RO in a possible IF of mine. (But more likely will be an MC of a romance trilogy).
Kaylee is a small-time celebrity. Basically she is a very popular chef in her town, and the near by area, doing segment on the news and she gets an opportunity (debatable) to run the kitchen in a restored b&b.
Basically my baby gorl has lived her entire life for her siblings and her dad; for the former she would gladly do it again, for the latter .... Her dad basically wanted her to do business to make him more money, pushed/"encouraged" her to be the second parents for her sibs. Though he was around, he wasn't PRESENT. It was her sibs who encouraged her baking. They love each other very much. She is the oldest of four (three younger sibs).
Her style is so quirky and bright. In my notes I described it as a flirtier Ms. Frizzle. Strangely enough (though it makes sense, I suppose) her hair is often sleeked back in a high ponytail.
Everybody loves her (except probably her dad. And Isaako, who in truth doesn't really love anyone at the start of the story except for Ariel. So). But she wins over most of the characters. She's peppy and supportive and sweet. She has a way of courting people to her -- at first mistake she may seem a bit uptight, bc when it's srs bsness time she can get SRS but she still has (I hope when I get to the writing werwa) a charm that draws you in and makes you feel warm. Def the mom friend: but in a 'let's have some tea' sense.
She LOVES to dance.
Her arc would definitely be figuring out herself outside of taking care of people
Fun fact: The baker prefers spicy food!
With every “!!” i get, I’ll introduce you to an OC!
A Telecinco reporter, unbelieved in the 1-O demonstration in Barcelona
A Telecinco reporter, unbelieved in the 1-O demonstration in Barcelona
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The reporter from News telecinco Laila Jiménez has been rebuked by a group of attendees at the manifestation by el1-O in Barcelona, according to the journalist Alfonso Congostrina on Twitter. In the video posted on his profile of the social network you can see how several protesters prevent the work of the informant at the shout of “liars”, a harassment that forces the team to leave…
