Let me tell you something important: being a son of Apollo doesn’t mean you’re absolutely hot. Apollo is God of sun, music, prophecy, and blah-blah-blah. No.
Being a son of Apollo means you’ve signed your death contract and now – it’s waiting for the right time to go BANG. Like cool explosion that is always seen in action movies. However, its cool goes down to negative one hundred and fifty when you imagine the one who go bang is you. Yeah, you.
Yes, yes, I agree with your opinion about one of not-so-many and can-be-counted-by-fingers perks being Apollo’s proof of existence: you can indirectly cheat. Yes, flashes of future about the answers of your exams. It’s awesome, I unwillingly admit. It can save your pitiful ass from being the dead last in class.
But man, I don’t think the price should be that expensive. Really. In a week, I can barely sleep in five-six hours. Nightmare, that becomes my first word every day. It varies from this scary-looking monsters, to earthquakes, and dead. People lying dead, wars every where and believe me, you’d go insane in no more than a week.
Praise the Gods, really. It’s me who get such a unfortunate fate to be the God of Prophecy’s son. As I’m not mad.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Advantage of Foresight.”