Table of Contents

Dailies:

• Whom I Never Knew (7/2/2021)
  
• Just Peachy (7/4/2021)
  
• A Farewell to Sunlit Waters (7/5/2021)
  
• An Apostrophe's Lament (7/6/2021)
  
• Finding Light (7/8/2021)
  
• The Chase (7/9/2021)
  
• Wall of Courage (7/11/2021)
  
• A Hibiscus-Colored World (7/13/2021)
  
• Punctuation and Betrayal (7/14/2021)
  
• A Faded Spark (7/18/2021)
  
• What Dies With Time (7/20/2021)
  
• A Bad Day for Mangoes (7/22/2021)
  
• Escapade (7/25/2021)
  
• Ashen Lullabies (7/26/2021)
  
• As Autumn Falls (7/27/2021)
  
• Long, Long Ago (7/29/2021)
  
• Eternity (7/30/2021)
  

Weeklies:

• Winter's End (7/4/2021 - 7/10/2021)
  - Preparation/planning
  - Story
  
• Scratch/SWC Fanfiction (7/10/2021 - 7/17/2021)
  - Cats, Fruit, and Music
  - A Forest Meeting
  - Mangomania
  

Cabin Wars:

• The River (7/9/2021)
  
• Collab Part 3 (7/24/2021)
  

Random thing (read if you like buffalos and wonky sentences): Buffalo

Writing Comp Entry: Lost and Found

Whom I Never Knew

I recently read the short story “Angel's Laundromat” by Lucia Berlin and I liked its contemporary atmosphere and economy of language, so I decided to use them here. Enjoy!

“Hello?”
He sits drenched in a pool of too-bright sunlight, all winded breathing and turned-away backs. His willowy limbs quiver badly; his light brown hair is thrown astray. My voice, snapped and cracking, jolts him upright in the tiny garden chair. He springs weightlessly up from the chair, pops through a gap between fence posts, and streaks away.
I shuffle the vertical blinds to cover the sliding glass door, plaster a thick black tarp across the tallest window. Familiar darkness submerges the house; throbbing headache fades to a distant twinge.
Tick, tack. I toss a dry glance at the ebony antique clock. Perhaps, years ago, this hour of the day would be one of festivity and enjoyment— of strolling among vivid market stalls, or just having coffee with a friend down the road.
Yeah, right.
Anyway, now's not the time to ponder fragments of the past. I slip on my nightgown, pad down the heavily shadowed hallway to the safety of my bed. Pull murky velvet covers over dusty, uncombed hair.
Somewhere in my dreams, the boy emerges.

~

Once the sun has gone and come again, I tiptoe to the window and fold back a small corner of the ink-colored tarp. A shaft of light makes me squint and my eyes water.
He returns, just as I knew he would. Soft, silent, stealthy. He dons the same baggy green T-shirt as yesterday, ripped at the corners. Plops himself into the white garden chair, winces as sharp edges of wires dig in. Clutches his stomach, gasps for breath. The soles of his feet a maze of deep scars and jagged scratches.
His eyes meet mine, peeking out from the corner of the window.
His eyes are gentle and jade-green as a springtime leaf, speckled with glimmers of morning dew. His tousled brown hair shifts in the breeze. He stares at me for a very long time, unspeaking, unmoving.
I swish the tarp back into position, letting darkness prevail. Huddle to my knees, squeeze my eyes shut so tightly that tears roll down my cheeks. Too much light.
I know by the quiet tat-tat of his footsteps, like a musician who is too weary to drum at full force, that the boy has left once more.

~

As the days progress, the boy's visits become almost customary. Once, he found a gleaming crimson apple on a plate before the door; minutes later a well-chewed core remained. I wasn't about to retrieve it, though; goodness knows what terror and agony I endured, just to place the fruit outside in a moment of blinding light. Ever since the accident….
He is here now, each step bringing him closer to the smudged window glass, his lips moving to form blurred words.
I frown. He frowns back, points to me behind my darkened window, points to the trailing green claws of the garden, points to the blazing inferno of the sun.
Oh. I shake my head. He shakes his, points again, the corners of his mouth twitching toward a hopeful smile. “Come outside,” his voice that of a child, warped and jumbled by the width of the glass. “We can talk.”
Just the word outside sends stars spiraling through my vision. Heat crackles through my veins and paints blooms of pink on my cheeks. Outside is a place I haven't been for half a year, a place I've feared since the accident.
That day. The deafening screeches. The ear-ringing bangs. Shards of glass raining endlessly, then howling sirens, then silence. One moment, countless nightmares. One moment, a shattered life.
By the time my eyes pop open, my face streams with slick sweat and salty tears. I gasp, gulp down horror, try to forget. Try to let go. Can't, can't, can't. So much. Too much.
The boy is gone again, and all that remains are the grubby smears of fingerprints on the window glass.

~

Screams tell me when he returns. He tumbles through the hole in the fence, bruises his knees on unwatered soil. Eyes wild, cheeks flushed, breathing ragged. Like the first day, and the second, and the third. But he'd never screamed like this. His eyes were never so full of fright.
I race to the door, clutch the maple wood handle, haul it open. Instinctively sprint toward him, then skid to a halt.
Outside, I'm outside, I'm outside. I knew I had agoraphobia before, but this is the first time I've faced its brunt. Everything pieces together now— the scorching heat, the prickling moisture, the light, the light, the light— to create a nightmare I won't forget. For the first time in my life, I stand utterly frozen, entirely speechless. Desolate, desperate, lost.
He scrambles upward, dashes breathlessly toward me, falls again, like a drifting feather. His hands rise, sticky palms pressed together.
“Help me,” he whispers. “Please.”
I don't speak, only slightly gesture toward the tall green trash cans in the shadowed side alley, but he seems to get my message. He tosses me a sideways smile, darts into the alley, vanishes. For the last time.
Rough voices float from beyond the fence. Haggard faces peek into the garden, grow meek when they see me. The buttery light engulfs me, so warm, yet I shiver terribly.
It isn't until I finally scrape up the courage to go back inside that I realize I never knew his name.

RIDICULOUSLY AMAZINF! SO GOOD THAT I CANR EVEN SPEL CORRECTLY!!!

SilverMelon wrote:

RIDICULOUSLY AMAZINF! SO GOOD THAT I CANR EVEN SPEL CORRECTLY!!!

HAHAHAHAHA THANNK YUO

LOL I SEE WHAT YIU DID OVER THER!

YUHHOO AND TOTTALEE DIDENT COPPY YUOR SIGNITURE

YAYAHAYAYA SIGNATURE TWINSSSSSSS

XD SIGNATURE TWINS YES

Just Peachy

I step lightly around the broad table, dragging my fingers along the sticky plastic covering. Two of eight small windows have their pale khaki blinds cocked open, spilling fragments of a sunlit world into the dim room below. Infinitesimal dust particles drift idly through the light, amassing and undulating, and float away when I approach.
Settling into the plaid green seat, I set the plate onto the table with a dainty clink. The soft, plump peach sits in the center of the plate, painted with all the colors of leaves when they descend from their branches. The fruit glistens with droplets like morning dew; they dissolve onto my waiting fingers. I gently clasp the peach between my palms and raise it to my mouth.
Rosy lips meet tender fruit; glinting teeth sink into fresh, sweet pulp. Pale pink falls away to reveal juicy, sunny yellow. Warmth floods my body, like a soft blushing painted in the hands and cheeks by a child's little fingers. My muscles relax; tight, squeezing tension like thick bands is replaced by light, stirring air. Sweetness blooms in my mouth, my face, the marrow of my bones. The sensation of floating engulfs me, and I can almost envision the vivid sun against my skin as I bob lightly through cool waters.
I smile softly, the corners of my lips rising serenely. As I suck the remaining golden wisps of fruit from the bitter pit, translucent curtains of sunset fall around me: golden, scarlet, violet. A pleasant closure to a beautiful day.

pineapple pizza, signature twins, peaches, writers, we have a lot in common :O

hahaha yes PEACHES ARE YUMMYYYY

A Farewell to Sunlit Waters

So, Tsunami, is this truly how it ends?
Here, at the edge of the vast, rippling ocean, my small talons against your slick azure scales? Here, where the golden sands spread infinitely beneath our talons. Your chest heaves up and down in rhythm to the ocean waves; your eyelids droop with loss of life. I still remember the days we used to play together, splashing joyfully in the sea with the glow of the sun above us. Now, it is all gone. I see you slip away at my final farewell….

An Apostrophe's Lament

Here I am: merely a slightly curved, ink-colored teardrop, wedged in the cramped space between two sharp-edged letters. They say I was the final mark to emerge from the murky mists of time; older sister Comma rose before me and Grandpa Period even earlier than her. They would always tease me about that during family reunions, at which I was the smallest mark of my generation. Ever since I was a baby— not yet of legal age to be used by writers and schoolchildren— I had hated those reunions with a fervent passion. The sticky rubber balloons, the foam children's table, and worst of all, the rumpled plastic banner reading "Punctuation Mark's Unite!" in green block letters. I mean, come on! In a family of linguists and grammarians, where almost every mark is regarded with utmost respect and used with the most pristine accuracy one can muster, why do I have to be the one who gets misused in almost every situation‽ Worse yet, it seems to me that I'm utterly useless! On sultry nights when I couldn't fall asleep, Comma would sit beside my wrinkled bedsheets and tell me stories, in her delicate floaty voice, about her many experiences saving helpless grandmothers from children's fetid jaws. I've never had the chance to do something so heroic. Most people don't even know how to spell my name!
Here comes a sentence. Several baby cousins hop up and down in ecstasy, eagerly awaiting their moment of first appearance. I still remember mine, buried far back in the avalanche of memories. Bitter, yet sweet.
Here come the others, some of whom have existed since the beginning of language itself. Aunt Quotation opens her tearlike arms to embrace the first few words of the phrase; Uncle Parenthesis fits snugly in the words beside his wife. Comma slides smoothly into the space between two words; cousin Semicolon and his older brother Colon flock to join her. Grandpa Period lumbers toward the end of the sentence, but is quickly halted by Great-Grandpa Interrobang, who, despite his old age, executes a brilliant flying leap into the ending space. They parade off to be inked permanently into the autumn-scented pages of a book, leaving me with little Em Dash and the other disappointed babies.
I scowl, my teardrop shape disfiguring into a twisted frown. “Just you wait,” I growl. I reach one slim arm toward the dreaded banner, squeeze my hand around the lime-green apostrophe. In one swift motion, it snaps off the smooth surface with a tearing noise.
Punctuation Marks Unite. I step back to admire my work, and a satisfied smile spreads across my face.

Weekly 1: 7/4/2021 - 7/10/2021 (Preparation)

Just to be clear, this post is only for the preparation/planning aspects of the weekly. For the actual story, click on the link below.

Story link

Characters (314 words total):

Character 1 - Jasmine Troy:

1. Quiet, introverted
2. Mature for her age
3. Needs companionship in intervals, with “alone time” in between
4. Dislikes change
5. Flourishes only in the right conditions
6. Happiest around people who know her well
7. Needs but dislikes attention
8. Easily upset
9. Learns quickly
10. Kind but fragile

(the paragraph doesn't match the new list but I'm too lazy to change it )

A few years ago, Jasmine was a confident, headstrong girl who fought fiercely to protect what she loved. Now, she bears the deep, venomous scars of trauma, shown in her downcast eyes and pressed-together lips. It worsens indoors, when all she can do is sit with her arms squeezed around her quivering figure, but outside she seems to relax. She springs from the rugged bark of the broad tree stump, swinging her limbs as she skips through the blanket of snow. Sometimes she sings, a lilting melody that rouses the squirrels from their burrows and the songbirds from their nests, and her smile glows momentarily in the light of the setting sun. Here, surrounded by nature and the things she loves, Jasmine is free.

Character 2 - Brett Moore:

Character description:

1. Independent
2. Hardworking
3. Adaptable
4. Tolerates a wide variety of conditions
5. Often bullied for his abnormal quirks/hobbies
6. Forgiving
7. Requires little supervision
8. Almost never upset
9. Experiences a wide range of emotions
10. Willing to give parts of himself for the welfare of others

Brett is a robust and independent boy who always strives to provide for and defend his family, no matter what it takes. He is hardy and adaptable, having supported himself and his loved ones over the course of the Endless Winter. Although bruised by hours of exhausting labor, he still illuminates the drear of his home with a shining smile. Those he cares about most know they can rely on him, and his love and protection for them is unconditional. However, outsiders see him as a strangely wild boy. They fear the acuteness of his skills; they envy his family's health and welfare when their own households have faded into stifling snow. Many village boys have long abandoned their families in an effort to better sustain themselves; Brett is the exception. But he doesn't mind; he goes about his day with a cheery demeanor, his laughter more than a futile attempt to blow the frigid air away from his rosy cheeks.

Plot (159 words total):

“It was time. They'd fought against it for so long.”
For years, the Endless Winter has wreaked havoc across the land. Thick sheets of blinding snow carpet sleeping hills, obscuring all but the tallest evergreens. Pattering paws slow to a halt and become soundless; every breath of silence yields a fallen soul. Families are shattered, leaving nothing but a mother's crestfallen wails, a baby whimpering for milk, the soft snuffling of a dog in the snow…
“But we can stop it,” Brett whispers to her one night.
It begins with an ember. If found, the Ember of Salvation could prevent an apocalyptic fate— but not without a price. They say those taken victim by the Endless Winter go on to become Guardians of Winter: phantom beings determined to find and kill anyone who dares to go searching for the ember. And Jasmine has necrophobia: an intense, debilitating fear of death.
One girl. One silenced voice. One ember, hidden deep in the heart of winter.
This is how it begins.

Setting (266 words total):

The snow stretches outward like a pure, endless quilt, as soft and white as ice cream. The vast expanse is undisturbed but for the occasional oval-shaped footprints and the ripple of a hill. Here and there, broad roots puncture the smoothness of the surface, digging deep into the earth in search of buried nutrients. From the roots spread tapering ebony trunks, fading into the dark green cloud of pointed needles; boughs kowtow beneath the weight of icy shards. The trees are like small specks of chocolate chips peeking through the innumerable waves of snow; the cold blue sky, like a weary traveler, rests upon the land.
The house atop the hill is small, red as a flame, with a mahogany door and roofing. Inside, silence stretches like a misty cloud from every shadowed, cobwebbed corner. Yet the family dares to defy the monotonous layers of grey, their hope like the sweetness of chocolate bursting from among tasteless cream. They try to smile, though the heavy air pushes down the corners of their mouths; they try to embrace one another, though the shadows pull them apart; they try and try and try a thousand times only to fail and fail and fail a thousand times. And yet, there is beauty, there is grace in perseverance. In times when every glance at a long-ago photo is a shadow of what could have been, the ability to continue is astounding, admirable, and at times, ever so difficult.
The world in winter is a mango milk cap tea: a pure white facade, beneath which lie infinite secrets and glorious hope.

Story link

what do you think of the new studio updates?

edit: i already told you but AAHH THE NEW MATCHING ADVENTURE PFPS ARE SO CUTE sry it just is ;-;

another edit: nonfiction pfps seem cool too! they’re gifs :O

yup very noice!

Finding Light

He kneels on the dull, stiff grass, wrapped in a goose-down parka the shade of ash. Hood pulled up, enclosing whitish tufts of hair; head bowed in silent prayer. Glassy droplets squeeze from pressed-shut eyes, drip down tree-bark skin. A breath, then tears, then an almost soundless moan.
“Nate?”
I step over whispering grasses toward him, careful to maneuver around scattered hoary gravestones. The black picket-wire fence rises up around us, its corners fading into weeping willow trees. Overcast clouds sigh shadows upon us, suspending the cemetery in somber dimness.
I lower myself beside him, wince as creaking knees meet drought-ridden earth. My hand upon his shoulder, wrinkled, pale.
He notices, takes a quick, sharp inhale. “Gloria,” a scratchy word. “You came for me.”
I nod, smile sadly. “I knew you'd be here, Nate. Is everything all right?”
“No,” he mutters. “Not really.” He shakes his head; water falls like crystals. His eyes open, slick with fog.
“How did you find your way here?” I whisper, rubbing his shoulder tenderly.
“Asked some people.” He looks away.
“And to the grave? There are so many here; you could've tripped, you could've…”
“Naw. I knew which one was hers. Just knew.”
“I know you do, Nate.” I bite my lower lip. “But still, without sight… you need to be more careful.”
“I was careful.” He snaps the words, sharp as shards of glass. “Just ‘cause I can’t see doesn't mean I can't do things my way.”
I fall silent. A quivering finger rises to trace the words inscribed on the gravestone. Lisa Myers. Beloved daughter, dearest wife. 1988 - 2017.
“It was so long ago, Nate, wasn't it?” I ask softly.
“Feels like yesterday.” A quiet sniffle.
She was so young, I remember, as small and lithe and childish as she was when I gave birth to her. Those first moments, so different from the last: the sweet smell of her pale cheeks against my chest, the way her eyelids fluttered in subtle dreams, the bubbly giggles from between her rosy lips….
She lived— trying everything, fearing nothing— right up until she didn't.
Nate's arm rests heavily across my shoulders; I clutch his hand. “Oh,” I whisper, sorrow slipping from my eyes. “Oh.”
Her eyes were like kiwis; her hair held the sugary scent of mangoes. She was hibiscus flowers personified.
“Lisa,” Nate's whisper is choked, fragmented, “our girl.”
“Lisa,” I echo, voice hushed.
I squeeze his shoulder; his weight shifts momentarily against my back, and he grunts as he hauls himself upright. His broad, suntanned hands enfold me, raise me to my feet.
We begin to walk, his arms around me and me guiding him, the shadowed past fading into the spare light of the present.

The Chase

Sorry it is really bad and rushed, I did this in like 10 minutes and it was right before the due time ;w;

Reader > Character:

There was a man behind her, his feet crashing heavily in the underbrush. Tangled vines and spiky leaves flipped out of the shadows and raked across her face, leaving long pink scars behind. She gasped, chest heaving, arms groping outward to push the foliage away from her body.
The man called out. “Wait!” he yelled, but his cries were lost in the rustling of the branches and the distant squawking of swooping birds and the deafness of the woman. “I don't mean any harm— I'm here to help!”
His eyes widened, pleading, genuine. But she didn't hear, couldn't hear. She continued to run.
On and on she sprinted, through the jungle and down the stony path, into the bursting city. Petite adobe houses rose up around her, framed with bright roofing and fluttering floral curtains. Two parents and their child sat at a circular granite table; their drinks clattered and spilled, knocked over by the speed of her running. They glanced upward, momentarily stunned, as a large man dashed after her.
“What are you doing?” the father yelled at the man.
“I am trying to help!” But all of this was lost to her ears. She had been deaf since she was four, profoundly deaf, forever deaf.
Suddenly there were people crowding in the square, their timid faces pressed together and surging forward in an attempt to get a better view of the ruckus. The man galloped into her path, his arms out to grab her hands. Heart pounding, she swerved out of reach. What does he want? The words escaped her mouth, soundless to her. He shouted at her. Enraged. Or so she thought.
“I am a man chosen by the Guardians of the Galaxy to warn you of your impending fate!”
All she saw were the meaningless openings and closings of a vast black pit of a mouth, and to those she paid no heed. Onward she ran.

Character > Reader:

There was a man behind her, his feet falling heavily in the underbrush. Tangled vines and spiky leaves flipped out of the shadows and raked across her face, leaving long pink scars behind. She gasped, chest heaving, arms groping outward to push the foliage away from her body.
The man called out. She glanced over her shoulder, read his lips— I'm here to help. Her teeth clashed against each other, sharp edges grinding. I know you're trying to help, she thought. But I can't let you help me, because… Her mind filled with spiraling memories, but she pushed them away.
His eyes widened, pleading, genuine. But she ignored him. I can't let him know. She continued to run.
On and on she sprinted, through the jungle and down the stony path, into the bursting city. Petite adobe houses rose up around her, framed with bright roofing and fluttering floral curtains. Two parents and their child sat at a circular granite table; their drinks clattered and spilled, knocked over by the speed of her running. They glanced upward, momentarily stunned, as a large man dashed after her.
“What are you doing?” the father yelled at the man, enraged.
“I am trying to help!” But all of this was lost to her ears. She had been deaf since she was four, profoundly deaf, forever deaf.
Suddenly there were people crowding in the square, their timid faces pressed together and surging forward in an attempt to watch the ruckus. The man galloped into her path, his arms out to grab her hands. Heart pounding, she swerved out of reach. No, no, no. The words escaped her mouth, soundless to her. He shouted at her. Once more she read his lips, fervently rushing to decode the warbling shapes he threw at her.
I am a man chosen by the Guardians of the Galaxy to warn you of your impending fate!
She snorted. The Guardians of the Galaxy… she still remembered what they did to her family so long ago. Oh, no, she would not let this man help her. No matter how pure his intentions, he belonged to the clan who had… who had… it was too terrible to think about. Onward she ran.

Winter's End

AGH SORRY IT IS REALLY BAD AND STILL UNFINISHED

Prologue: Six Years Ago


“Jasmine?”

The name emerged, a soft and scratchy whisper that floated momentarily in the frigid air. The girl glanced up as a small smile bloomed on her pale plum-colored lips. Dropping her purple stub of a crayon, she skipped across the room to the narrow bed in the corner.

Her smile wilted at the sight of the woman in the bed. “Mommy?” she whispered, reaching a timid finger to touch her mother's cheek.

Jasmine's mother's translucent eyelids fluttered, then opened fully to reveal two bleary, bloodshot eyes. She blinked once, twice, and the lines across her forehead furrowed into a uniform ridge. The thin blue of her veins was clearly visible beneath her abnormally pallid skin. And that was all Jasmine could glimpse: the rest of her was firmly enfolded in heavy leaden blankets.

Jasmine squeezed her mother's hand beneath the covers. It was deathly cold and trembled uncontrollably.

Jasmine watched as her mother's body shot up in bed, her spine rigid. She saw her mother's bony hand cup over her mouth. She coughed and coughed— deafening, shuddering coughs— a wild, shrieking music that would plant dread in Jasmine's heart forever.

There was one last cough: the loudest. Then a thump as her mother sank back into bed. Then silence.

Jasmine dared to look. Her mother lay tangled in crumpled white bedsheets, eyes wide open, mouth agape. Her fingers were tightly interlaced across a chest that no longer heaved in rhythm.

Oh. Oh, no. No, no, no.

She gulped down a piercing breath. She clawed the covers away, pressed her hands against her mother's chest, felt for the tat of a drum. None came.

The silence roared; it was utterly complete, it was inside and outside and in every inch of the house. Three words broke through, sharp and shrill. She is gone, she is gone, she is gone, endlessly repeating. Now came the closing notes of a marvelous symphony: the diminuendo of volume to a final resting point. Now came the closing of ever-open eyes, the unshed tears, the unsaid goodbyes….

Now came a girl, named after a plant that only blooms in groups of three or more, sobbing at the bed of the woman who raised her. Her mouth opened, over and over, into a single word:

“Mommy!—”

Chapter One:

The land was silent, vast carpets of pure white snow spreading in all directions. The sun frowned coldly down at the two weary travelers below, huddled over and clutching each other's arms for warmth. One was a slender teenage girl, her windswept burnt-toast hair drawn into a braid behind her, bundled in a pale blue goose-down parka that fended off the trailing claws of the winter evening.

“Father?” the girl asked quietly. “When will we be able to stop for the night?”

Father bit down on his blue-tinged lower lip, his forehead creasing behind bushy grey-tan eyebrows. “I don't know, Jaz,” he said slowly, in a slightly puzzled tone. “I'm sure we'll find a place… before dark… perhaps.”

Perhaps. There was always a perhaps.

Jasmine exhaled in a cloud of frost. As she and Father trekked up the white-swept crest of the hill, a blurred line of green fringed the horizon. Mere minutes later, it bloomed into a pine tree, then an entire forest of them, an endless sea of swaying emerald needles. The pines danced, their branches waving and fluttering in so many shades of umber, interlocked with the subtle, practiced pirouettes of gliding wind. The faint cries of vultures from above swooped among the boughs, a vivid, natural music.

Jasmine smiled, finding Father's callused hand and squeezing his fingers. It wasn't much, but there was safety in the shaded nooks among the boughs. For now, at least, that was enough.

~

Jasmine awoke to cool air caressing her pale, freckled cheeks. A breeze graced the ruby-colored rims of her glasses, brushing wisps of hair from the frame of her face. A quick glance to her left revealed that Father was no longer by her side, but this hardly alarmed her. She had grown accustomed to Father's absence in the morning hours; she knew he was merely out hunting in the woods, to give her the slightest possibility of having a bite to eat all day. In those early days of youth, Uncle Samuel would've gone alongside him while Mother stayed behind to keep Jasmine company, but her uncle soon went south and Mother fell into an ailing state. Jasmine remembered: one day, she had strayed too far outside while Father was hunting, and Mother came running in a frantic search. Little did she know, having not left the house for several months, how the cold would burn her eyes and sear her throbbing lungs, how the snow would plunge in an opaque wall around her, how the infinitesimal specks of ice in her throat would make her cough and cough and cough….

The adults always took care to bundle Jasmine into a thick jacket and a tight-knit mask to fend off the inevitable winter, but there was no such man or woman to do the same for Mother. She rushed outside in a blouse and a long, flowing skirt, and when she returned she took to bed immediately. Father hiked over snow and ice to the home of the nearest medic, and the medic returned with no cure, no treatment, only a tear that froze mid-cheek and a quiet “I'm sorry.” And that was the end, the neat little bow to wrap up the tale of Caroline Troy.

She squeezed her eyes closed, their edges fringed with minuscule glimmers. Now was not the time— now is never the time, she thought— and so she pushed herself up on her elbows and rose from the snow. A forest stroll would do her good, she decided, and so she began to walk.

~

(not done)

The River

“Cabin Wars! Four people have to write 1000 words each. This has to occur in the next 8 hours, or lose 450 points. Extra challenge: each person must use at least one simile, metaphor, onomatopoeia, personification and repetition – for this, you shall win 25 points each (totalling 100).” from your enemies, horror )

The river rushed across the land like a great curving snake, soft-bellied and twinkly-eyed, its scales glinting in the swaying green grass. It was the night sky and the endless stars, pitch black and flecked with pale white facets. It was buttery sunlight shimmering on roiling water; it was violet hope and golden joy; it was the shadow of fear.
He walked along the river one day, his feet padding in the dewy grass, making squelching noises. The soil was moist and cool from yesterday's rain; the crystal droplets lay embedded in the sea of murk. He raised his head to the looming mountains in the distance, admiring the icy white of their jagged caps. He smiled contentedly, glad to be away from home.
Home. The word jarred him, squeezing his chest and constricting his lungs. The word was shard of glass piercing tender skin. It was a whitewashed stucco house in the city where billows of smoke enveloped the rooftops daily; it was a shouting mother with craggy nails and it was a groggy father; it was wailing, sobbing children all day long. In the city there were no stars at night nor was there a river; it was overshadowed by the hustle of city life and the sky was clouded by the haze of the city lights. He remembered one night he crept up the creaking staircase to the roof of the flat, and there he stood in wonder, trying to decode the puzzle of the sky and find the stars, only he couldn't. And then his mother stormed up to the roof and snatched him by his ragged collar and dragged him back to his bedroom, and she gave him a good hearty scolding and sat him down in bed. He stared at the quickly darkening ceiling. He wished there was a window in the ceiling; if there was he would stare at it all day long forever. He asked his mother the next day but she said no, there was no window in the ceiling because they could not afford one, and the matters of money and the present sent his dreams awash in somber grey.
He shook his head; his matted cinnamon hair was tousled. Don't think about that now, he told himself, you are a college student on a school-paid trip to the wild and you should appreciate that. The school had called him into the office that afternoon, children's drawings and framed awards dangling from its pale tan walls, and he had accepted— who wouldn't? His parents didn't know until that evening, and to be entirely honest they were as eager to be rid of him as he was of them. They didn't love each other and they didn't love each other and they didn't love each other, and such phrases were repeated in their minds so often that they became bland, everyday. He soured of his parents and his parents soured of their son: their head in the clouds, nature loving son, the baby they brought into the world. It didn't matter to them though, they had sister Cari (a designer) and brothers Earl and Edmund (both of them running a joint clinic in northwestern Amsterdam). Their other children brought in enough for them to get by with food and the barest necessities, so they didn't mind him. To be quite frank they would've disposed of him long before then had he been enough of a burden, but apparently he was not even sufficient for that. In fact the only reason they kept him was because he earned his own scholarship to a run-of-the-mill college, and the school fed him and lent him board and so his parents didn't mind.
Pulling himself back to the present, he began to walk slowly and steadily along the river's banks. The grass was lush green and twirled in the breeze, an endless, cohesive symphony. Smooth edges twined with broken edges, intact blades soothing cracked blades. The balance of nature showed itself, peeking out from between leaden clouds, promising that the strong would always support the weak, that the circle of life would be upheld… forever?
The last word, softly spoken and inquisitive, as if even nature itself was unsure. The sun frowned, relinquishing its rays for but a second in the sorrow of what would happen otherwise. Would the world turn upside down, it whispered, and if not how could the world be so cruel? But it held its bitter smile for those who needed it, who depended on it, and then it let the clouds away and shined on the land once more. The clouds were soft and billowy with grey outlines framing translucent vapory hearts, their wispy edges windblown. And then the breeze curled around the umber branches of the trees, caressing and smoothing choppy bark, its fingers fondly tousling ruffled leaves. The chill of springtime flooded the air with a crisp fresh scent, and the birds whistled. They peered their small heads from the tips of the trees, beady eyes expectant, sparkling. The music floated softly from their opened beaks, glinting golden. Then, bam, slam.
A small circle, framed with blurred curls of heat, shot through the landscape, fired from the tip of a glinting silver rod. It snapped through the branches, searing leaves, sending a delicate nest of brambles and twigs dropping down. Inside the nest lay two small white eggs, the shade of stars and clouds and things beyond, and those cracked instantly and fluid poured out. The cries of animals on the breeze, the metallic tinge of blood, a boy on his knees, in the prickling grass that still danced, tears flowing, water refreshing dried up earth…
The promise of life, ever circular. It does not end. The trees dance and the grasses dance and the flowers sway and the songbirds sing. Everything goes on. Nothing stops. All and everything continues whether you want it to or not. He doesn't. It goes on anyway. Without him. Paying no heed to him.