Chris Morborough, Professor of Anthropology (37 y.o.)

Exhausted, annoyed, disappointed. All of these would be apt descriptors of how Chris is feeling after leaving the Director’s office. “Not enough funding” and “Austerity measures” were phrases, that were repeated again and again to justify the budget cuts for the humanities. His faculty had to cancel subscriptions to important journals and basically stopped acquiring new books for the library. The cost to students had to be increased recently and he had personally taken on more teaching responsibilities than he would ever be compensated for. And still the professor of anthropology could not finance the faculty in a reasonable manner with ever decreasing budget.

As he usually does when unsure of how to proceed, he heads to the library. Modern anthropology might be considered more useful and he had, in recent years, focused more on that subsection in a **** bid to secure funding, however his heart and true interest lay in ancient anthropology. Studying the rituals, beliefs and myths of these ancient civilisations brought him more joy than any boring study ever could. However, there wasn’t a lot of money in that area, and thinking of his students, not a lot of future job prospects.

The pleasant smell of old wooden shelves and only slightly younger books engulfed him as he pushed open the door to the library. “Old books and forgotten prestige,” he thinks to himself,” Is that really all that is left?”. Unwilling to let these thoughts drag him down further he grabs one of the books of the bookshelf at random, before putting it back again. The title was familiar in a comforting way, but the longer he looked at it the more he got the feeling that he was supposed to read something else. “What a stupid thought. I am alone here in my freetime. I am not supposed to read anything.”

Still the more he tried to convince himself to just grab something already, the more the feeling that he was destined to read one specific book this evening grew. He sighed and got up, walking along the shelves in the hope to find anything that was calling to him. Eventually, in the back corner of the library he found a book that felt right to read. He pulled it out. “The new stories of the gods” by “Homer”

Impossible, he would have known about anything Homer wrote and this was decidedly not a part of his work. “Maybe a prank by some students?” he thought at first. However the amount of dust settled on top of the book would suggest, that whoever put it here had long since graduated without ever seeing it come to fruition. “Let’s see what they left me” Chris mumbles before turning the first page.

Spirals, squares, triangles spin on the pages speeding up and getting faster, greek letters fly around, forming words and sentences before disappearing again. Chris’s head starts hurting, but his hands refuse to let him close the book even as he gets more and more dizzy and the edges of his vision start going black. The last thing he sees before falling **** is the letters on the page forming the word: τέρψις

When he wakes up again the familiar library is gone, replaced by a sandy floor, open, blue sky and huge stone spectator stands rising in a semicircle around him. In the centre of the circle of sand is a chair and on that chair sits an old man, leaned forward and supporting himself with a walking stick. He’s wearing only a dark blue toga. Cautiously Chris approaches.

“Excuse me, but do you know where we are?”

The old man giggles: “Oh you wouldn’t know the place anyways. We didn’t let you finish reading after all. But don’t worry, you are exactly where you need to be. On a small mediterranean island. and if you are a bit more patient I can explain more and even more after that, though some things only after the other guests have arrived”

“What do you mean `where I need to be´? Who even are you?”

“I meant what I said. As for who I am, I believe you are familiar with my work at least. Though I suppose you wouldn’t recognize me in any of my forms. I have been called φαντασία by others, however you can call me Homer”

“Like the….”

“Like the author, not the Simpson, yes. I am not important right now. In actual fact you are more interesting than me I believe. Or at the very least more relevant for what is about to happen. Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Just like with the book earlier, Chris felt strangely compelled, only this time to answer, rather than pick out a book: “I am Chris Morborough, I am 37 years old, I am a professor of anthropology with a specialisation in the study of ancient civilisations. I am fascinated by the myths they told”, he tries to stop talking, but the words keep spilling out of his mouth. “ I have never been in a relationship, though thanks to some drunken nights as a student I am not a virgin either….I’m sorry I didn’t actually want to say that last part, it just slipped out.”

The old man laughs out loud at that. “ Don’t worry the audience will appreciate it, I’m sure….”

“Excuse me, audience?”

“Yes, I was getting to that… Welcome to the newest season of Harem Hotel where you will be getting a harem competing for your affection to earn their spot in the harem hierarchy” ,Suddenly the old man is standing and presenting as if he was in his prime,“ so take a seat and wait for the first introduction of the season, please welcome, the wonderful…..”

“Wait a second, harem? This is impressively elaborate for a prank, but now it’s going a bit too far. I would very much like to leave not ok?”

Homer sighs and pinched his nose. “I watched the other seasons, it’s never easy, why did I expect it to be easy?” ,he grumbles, before speaking up: “ Yes Harem, but no, this is not a prank and you will not leave. This is art, this is storytelling. You are the focal point of my newest story Chris, and as such you cannot just leave. There is no Odyssey without Odysseus there is no Lord of the rings without Frodo. You, Chris, are the Odysseus, you are Frodo. You are the main character in your very own play, written and directed by me personally. Others would kill to get a harem, but they would die to be the central point of one of my stories. No you have to stay here and take part.”

“Yes I get that, but harem? Audience?”

“Yes harem, a group of people sexually available and typically subservient to a single Master or Mistress, in this case you. I thought you knew that. As for the audience, what would a play be without one?”

“But what about..?”

“Shush, enough questions, we are already behind schedule, so please welcome, the powerful, the intelligent; It is……