As the title says, I'm putting my SWC stuff here in one topic where I can find it.

Main Cabin Dailes: 2 July || 4 July || 5 July || 6 July || 8 July || 11th July || 13 July || 14 July || 16 July || 18 July || 19 July || 20 July || 21 July || 22 July || 23 July

In-Cabin Dailies: 3 July

Weeklies: 1st || 2nd || 3rd || 4th

Word War Proof: 7th July, losing || 8th July, winning || 20th July, winning

Cabin War Proof: 10th July || 24th July

Stuff I may want to find later:

• My Mystery x Adventure fanfic is in this post
• My Choose Your Own Adventure: Escape from the Witch Interrogation Centre story is here
• Both my “Luna and Ginny go to Lush” fanfic and HP / PJO / KOTLC crossover fanfic (with Keefe Sencen claiming he has divination powers and he can tell Harry will die) are in here
• My SWC Writing Competition entry is here (it won an honourable mention and I’m so pleased!)

Daily, 2nd July: I’ve recently been re-reading The Cruel Prince series, and one thing I love is Holly Black’s worldbuilding. The way she takes old legends of fairies and weaves them into rules for the land of Faerie is absolutely amazing! I also really like the dynamic between Jude and Cardan—they’re one of the best enemies to lovers couples I’ve ever read—and the way that although Cardan is magical, Jude begins to balance that out throughout the series (no spoilers!) I also enjoy the way Jude is stubborn and fights back & is brave while not being a not-like-other girls character xD

Here’s what I wrote, inspired by the Cruel Prince (427 words).

The world spins around my head as I spit out the apple, suddenly dizzy. My mouth tingles in disgust at the harsh taste of salt. Who salted my fruit?

I stare around the glen at the other faeries sitting there: who would think this is a funny joke? It isn’t hard to find the culprits. Aconitum is smirking slightly, watching my face as his tail twitches; Gaura beside him has the long, dark green fingers of her hand covering her mouth in mock horror. Ilex, the third member of their trio, is slightly flushed and refuses to meet my eyes.

I’m guessing it was him. Perhaps it was not his idea, but it was quite obviously his handiwork. After all, he has a mortal mother, ties leading back to the mortal world. It is quite easy for him to procure salt. Also, he has a motive. Wanting to hurt me.

According to the books and the rare glimpses I have had of mortal-land, friends are common there. Nearly every human has friends and all wish for them. I suppose their short lives are hard to bear alone, unlike those of immortal faeries.

Here, friends are rare. Many faeries go without and are content. Cliques are common, but more for protection and the ability to gang up on others. If ever any do become true friends—well, then the bond is tight indeed. And when it is broken, it snaps back viciously.

Ilex and I did everything together from the moment we arrived at the manor. I had gone to be fostered there, to be brought up properly, as had he. We were both smaller then, less graceful, less able to dance around the truth with words. Apart, we were nothing, aimless and purposeless; with each other, rainbow-tinged fun came into our lives as we strove to impress each other. Orlagh, lady of the manor, often shook her head as we played yet another prank on the others, amused by our foolishness.

Now, all that is gone. Trying to ignore each other at the dinner table is difficult: before, we had begged for our seats to be placed next to each other so we could continue our games in a whisper. Now, we each shuffle to the edges of our seats, making the biggest gap we can between each other, leaning sideways so as not to touch. Passing the dishes is an activity fraught with danger: will our fingers touch; will our eyes meet; will we have to acknowledge the other’s existence by speaking a few words to them?

In-cabin daily, 3rd July: this is bad and I got bored near the end. Exactly 800 words lol

I’m so tired of being me. I’d swap places with literally anyone else I know. I mean it. I’m currently trapped in a cave with a thunderstorm raging outside which probably makes for the worst Saturday of my entire life.

How did it happen? Well, long story short, I was bored and had decided to ride my bike through the woods near our house. Don’t judge. I’d been told to get off screens by my parents. It was definitely not my choice. All the same, it was kinda nice, all green and sunny.

I was actually enjoying it when it gradually clouded over. Then it started raining. The large, warm, slow droplets droplets that you get at the beginning of a summer thunderstorm.

The thunder came next, booming overhead. A flash of lightning, glimpsed through the trees. Not sheet lightning. Forked lightning. Hell. I didn’t and still don’t know much about thunderstorms, but I was fairly sure I was in the worst place possible to be in a thunderstorm—riding a metal bike through a wood full of tall trees, the perfect target for lightning.

The rain was coming down thicker and faster, soaking through the leaves of the trees, plastering my shirt to my back. What I could glimpse of the sky was iron gray, occasionally slashed by streaks of sharp lightning. I decided to abandon my bike and hide somewhere. Away from the trees. Maybe against the high bank that led up to the road?

Dropping my bike, I made a run for it, out into the open. The wet grass slipped against my legs, soaking through my trainers, as I made it over. If I was right, last year there was a small, muddy cave underneath. I’d be safe there.

The cave was bigger this year, the soil having eroded away more. Its entrance was nearly invisible unless you came right up to it, a bramble bush having seeded itself in front. I pushed past it and sat down on the muddy floor of the cave, wiping my hand on my jeans. Yuck.

Then a huge boom struck the ground a few feet out of the cave. The scent of singed grass, acrid and pungent, filled my nostrils. Clods of earth fell down in front of my face, getting bigger and bigger as the world shook. I yelled out and scrambled backwards as one nearly landed on my head.

I should’ve gone forwards, tried to get out of the cave, but I didn’t. Like a fool, I stayed where I was as the entrance collapsed and I was buried.

So I’m sitting here now, the muddy dark only punctured by a few strands of daylight filtering through a chink above my head, wondering what the hell I’m meant to do. Await rescue? Dig myself out? Yell for help? I shiver in my wet, earth-stained clothes.

I dig in my pockets, thankful I wore my jeans. I might have something that’d help. Pulling out the contents onto my lap, I assess them all.

My house key, attached to a miniature torch keyring. Well, that might come in useful. I pick it up, flipping the small light on. It works. Good.
My phone. Old—my mum literally had it when I was five—and always breaking down, I’m unsure it’ll work in here. Flipping it open, I discover it’s gone dead again. Seriously? I literally charged it just this morning.
A chunk of dark chocolate. The good kind. Lindt’s 85% cocoa. There’s absolutely no inner debate about saving it before I pop the whole thing in my mouth, melting it down, chewing at the edges. Surprisingly, it makes me feel lots better.

I look around again, shining the small flashlight. The cave isn’t deep at all, so getting out on the other side of the bank is a no-go. Maybe I could get out the way I came in? The clods of earth are loose—I just need something solid enough to get in between them…

An idea arrives in my head. My parents aren’t going to be happy, but here goes. If it doesn’t work, at least I’ll have tried. Standing up, I grab my phone and shove it at the wall of soil blocking my way out, making scooping motions to try and break down the wall. A small shower of earth begins falling onto my feet as I get further and further through.

It takes a long time—fifteen minutes to half an hour: I have no concept of time—and the phone is covered in mud by the time I can finally see through. I get a view of the green leaves of the bush through a space as wide as my hand. I start yelling, taking breaks in between that and digging and eventually someone comes to help me. Finally.

Main cabin daily, 4th July (do something nice for yourself then write at least 200 words about what you did how it made you feel for 500 points).

203 words, then: Today, I cuddled my cat, Cinnamon. (Pets are very good for mental health—or at least cuddling them is.) She miaowed at me when I came up the stairs in a friendly sort of way, then got up and went through into my parents' bedroom and flopped on the bed. I joined her and gave her a head rub, which she really likes. Her long, striped fur is so soft and she smells like summer: warm grass and stone from the patio. She purred slightly, flexing her claws, and rubbed her head against mine. We sat there, on the cool, soft bed, for a few minutes, just enjoying each other's company. Finally, I got up and so did she. She followed me half-way down the stairs, to where sunlight comes through long, unopenable windows, and miaowed at me again. She likes sunlight and she likes me and I think she was pleased to get both. She brushed against my legs, again purring, and it made me feel so happy. Knowing that one's pet loves you makes you feel amazing, I think. Especially with cats. They're usually quite independent and carefree, so when they come looking to be cuddled it makes you feel special.

Total 2668 words.

1st weekly, all done on 4th July:

Plotting.

I couldn't put the character photo in, sorry. It's a girl who looks calm and is smiling although her eyes look slightly scared. She's looking at something. The lighting of the photo is nice as well.

Traits:
• Calm. She's someone who doesn't show anger or sadness, trying to keep a calm, smooth exterior no matter what.
• Insecure. She tries to hide it, but she's not confident at all.
• Fearful. Again, she's trying to hide that, but it's difficult.
• Quiet. Talking isn't the thing she's best at.
• Good listener. She's good at listening to people and letting them talk.
• Observant. Probably because she's quiet and lets other people talk, she doesn't have a lot of time to talk about herself or what she's doing. As a result, she tends to be more interested in the world around her, silently observing. A lot of people wouldn't realise that she noticed what they're doing and is thinking about it. Sometimes she writes about it too—in her journal?
• Realistic. She sees the world from the sidelines, but you can see a lot from there.
• Neat. She likes to tidy things up and be able to understand them, sort people into boxes in her head so she can understand them better. I think she'd like personality tests.
• Opinionated. She definitely has her own opinions about stuff.
• Shy. She's not going to state her opinions ever though—because she knows she'll get flack for it. She just wants to keep her head down instead of speaking up about stuff.

Plot: I got astrophobia, the fear of thunder and lightning. The prompt I got was “as she searched, she grew nearly frantic”. Hmmm. This gives me looking-for-something-during a storm vibes. (Maybe in a tower, near the top where it's really dangerous? That might be a bit too torturous though.) It could be an object that's special to her—like a letter from a friend or something? As that would probably get damaged by rain, she'd have to work fast and that would increase tension. Actually, how about it's a very important letter that she found slipped into her backpack during school: it has her name on it in sweeping cursive and she's unsure why she's got it. Okay. Her school—being a magical one with huge grounds, the best kind of school—has a ruined castle with a tower where she likes doing her homework / reading, so she took it up there with her. However, then it started raining and she went back, accidentally dropping it out of her backpack. By the time she remembered it, a storm has started. So she's faced with a choice: to leave it, hope it's okay and no one else takes it; or to go back and get it despite the danger. Maybe she meets someone else on the tower who's a lightning summoner and they help her find her letter?

Setting: I chose Wild Blueberry Shortcake from the ice-cream. It's a kind of purple-grey colour that could be the colour of the stone? Idk but I think it could. It has yellow streaks in it—like lightning—which helps to go with the storm. The colour of the sky could be the colour of the ice cream where the shadow hits it, a low-saturated, dark blue-grey. The cup is deep blue, so the school uniforms could be the same blue with white stuff on them for writing and stuff, as could the all-important backpack. The letter could be in a gold-yellow envelope, like the colour of the streaks of lemon curd or whatever it’s called. The name of the school could be an anagram of some of the letters of Wild Blueberry Shortcake, the name of the ice cream, or something similar sounding. Calberry? Calberry Academy sounds like a good name. Also, I could make up a name for my character using the same method: how about Kat? Kat Siltor? Sounds okay, I think.

Description of setting:

255 words: Lightning is flickering and thunder growls in a dark grey sky, looming over a tall tower of crumbling purple-grey stone. It stands amid the ruins of what was once a castle, the only turret to still be intact. Stairs, open to the sky, twist around its edges, a cracked waist-high wall protecting anyone who would go up them from falling. The steps themselves are worn smooth, sometimes chipped away. They are long and narrow, but finally widen as they reach the top of the tower.
A square platform, surrounded by shoulder-high walls, tops the battlement. Rain, making the stone slick and slippery, runs towards one corner lower than the others, a puddle gathering. Lying in the centre of the platform is a drenched, originally golden envelope, obviously forgotten by a visitor.
The tower overlooks the country around: sodden green, rain-lashed fields, scattered with a few sparse trees, in all directions. A large manor house close by is easily overtopped, the view mainly of the dark, moss-stained roof rather than the white sides. Despite the rain, strangely coloured smoke is pouring out of the many chimneys, red and green and yellow, bright against the deep blue-grey sky. It is the only easily spotted human building in the near landscape: a town lies to the west on the horizon, blurry and indistinct, miles away.
Rain lashes down over all this, unrelentless, continuous, unceasing. The few students still outside are rushing indoors, their dark-blue uniforms soaking to nearly black. Except for one, who is running towards the tower…


Story, 1774 words: Thunder growls above my head, lightning splitting the sky into two jagged halves. I crouch, desperately trying to hold back a whimper, grasping at the rough wet stone of the wall that keeps me from falling off the slippery steps. Deep breaths. Concentrate on your surroundings. I stare at the tiny plant growing out of the crack in between this step and the next, water dripping off its leaves. Why am I even trying to do this?

It started with the letter. Golden. A golden envelope, with just my name on it. In handwriting. Beautiful, sprawling black cursive. It was in my backpack and I didn’t know why. I found it in between maths and potion class, in the hallway, when I was checking if I’d packed all the ingredients. I put my hand in and pulled it out, then stared at it like an idiot.

Nic Anlash was quick to notice it, asking me as loudly as she possibly could if I’d got a date or a boyfriend or something, just as all of the boys were walking past. It was horribly embarrassing as a bunch of them snickered, but I don’t think Nic was being like that on purpose. We’re not close but we’re fairly friendly. She’s just not always very aware of her surroundings and she obviously felt bad about it. She wouldn’t stop apologising on the way to potions.

I couldn’t open it there as the class was being taken by Ms Epoth and she would’ve killed me. I couldn’t open it in the hallway because I was sure Nic would demand—loudly again—to know what was in it. I couldn’t open it straight after classes since I’d forgotten to do all my elemental homework and I needed to finish that before seven.

So instead, I decided it’d be a good idea to do that on the ruined tower. The ruin used to be a castle several hundred years ago. There’s just one tower left standing; the purple-grey stone is a bit crumbled in some places but still quite safe. Spiralling steps lead up to a platform at the top, quiet and perfect for studying as usually no one bothers to climb all the way up.

That evening, it was warm and humid as I scribbled the answers down, occasionally glancing at the gold envelope in my backpack. A breeze began to come up, warm and breathless. By the time I’d finished my homework, the first few warm droplets of rain were falling on the sheet.

It sounds cliché, but I hadn’t realised how dark the sky had got—full of those deep blue-grey, fluffy clouds you get before a storm. I was picking my stuff up when a low rumble of thunder made me drop my bag.

I hate thunderstorms. The sound makes my heart rate pick up; the flash makes me tremble. Occasionally I cry. Whenever I hear thunder at night, whenever the light flashes across the room, turning everything white for a second, I pull the blanket over my head. The other girls in my dorm would laugh at me if they knew just how scared I was, so I have to make sure I don’t make a noise. I stuff the edge of the pillow in my mouth, feeling hot tears leak from the corners of my eyes. I lie there awake, body tense, sweaty hands over my ears, until finally the last peal of thunder rolls away.

So at that moment, standing on the top of the tower, listening to a rumble of thunder while outside, I didn’t even think. Grabbed up my bag. Ran as fast as I could. Scrambled down the steps, falling and scraping my leg. Picked myself up again and made it to the bottom. Then I tried to pull myself together, make myself look like I wasn’t worried at all. Convince myself and the people around me that I was just running because of the rain as I slammed into the hall, the shoulders of my jumper speckled wetly.

I only realised the letter was gone at supper. I hadn’t been thinking about it at all when Nic, who was sitting next to me, nudged me and whispered, “What was with the letter, anyway?”

“I haven’t opened it yet.”

Nic looked surprised. “Really?”

I nodded, reluctantly rummaging in my backpack to prove it. “See—”

The letter wasn’t there.

Even when I tipped the entire contents of the backpack on the floor by the table, ignoring the looks from the popular girls sitting at the table next to ours, I still couldn’t find it. Nic, swinging herself down, helped me sort through them again.

“You must’ve left it somewhere,” she said, lowering her voice to a penetrating, attention-drawing whisper. One of the girls twisted around to see what she was talking about.

“I’m sure it’ll turn up,” I said slowly, shaking out the covers of each of my books, just in case it was there. I couldn’t have left it on the tower… could I? There hadn’t been an opportunity to drop anything. Or had there? I remembered jumping and dropping my bag. Had it been closed?

“You could use a location spell,” advised Nic, unhelpfully loudly.

“Yeah, sure.” It was a good suggestion. I picked up my knife, pushing my plate back and spinning it. When it stopped, it was pointing at the door to the cafe. I tried to calculate the twists and turns in my head. Yes. That was pointing towards the ruin.

Great. By tomorrow, the letter was going to be destroyed in the rain. Smooth cursive ink would bleed through sodden, pulpy golden paper, staining it a dirty brown colour. Peeling the envelope away from the contents would be impossible. The entire thing would become illegible and worthless. And I’d been so curious about it too.

I did have another option, of course. A roar of thunder, swiftly followed by a flicker of lightning, made me jump as I moved towards the door. This was probably an extremely bad idea, but I still could retrieve it, couldn’t I? All I had to do was go out… in the storm. Into a tall tower. While lightning was flashing above. Of course, it was sheet lightning, not forked, which made a difference… didn’t it?

That’s why I’m crouching here in the rain, my jumper now thoroughly soaked through. I need to move. Not just stay in the same spot. That’s pointless. Either go back or go forwards. Make a decision.

I bite down on the inside of my lip and start moving forwards. Crawling, really. I’m crawling up the stairs. It must look stupid. But no one’s watching through all this rain so it doesn’t really matter. Anyway, the possibility of lightning striking you decreases if you get down, apparently.

Another growl. Another flash. This time I let myself whimper out loud, a warm tear joining the cold wet rain on my face. Keep moving.

It was an eternity of stops and starts, streaked through with lightning and thunder, terror and panic. Crouching down low with my hands over my ears, screaming without being able to hear my own voice over the sky-ripping boom, my throat raw. But finally, finally, I manage to get to the top.

I drag myself up onto the platform, wet hands on slippery stone, huddling my knees up to my chest under my heavy, wet jersey. Lightning flares again. It feels so much closer up here. Too close. I try to scream but my throat protests and the thunder drowns it out anyway. Another flicker, terrifyingly overhead, reveals my soaked letter lying in the middle of the platform.

I try to get to my feet, but somehow I can’t. I’ve never been scared of heights before this. Even now, it’s not the fall that bothers me. It’s the idea that I’ll be closer to the sky, to the raging battle storm going on overhead.

So instead, I scoot myself over, bit by bit, flinching as thunder sounds again. The smell of warm wet stone fills my nose as I close my hand on the letter. It’s soaked, the crackle driven away, the ink slightly smudged. Hopefully not unsalvageable. It’ll always be crinkled, but maybe I’ll be able to read it.

The tiny reprieve I got from the excitement of seeing that it’s still there is gone. I’ve got what I came for and right now I’m not sure it’s worth it. I feel dizzy as more light flashes, as thunder rolls above. I’m never going to be able to get down without help. And what help is there? I scream out into the night-darkening, sunless, storm-filled sky, ignoring how bad my throat feels. I’m crying again without realising I’d started.

“KAT!” A voice rises over the storm. “SILTOR! KAT SILTOR!”

I look up. Silhouetted darkly against the sky is Nic.

I should’ve known that only her voice would be loud enough to carry in a storm this big.

“Why are you crying?” she asks, squinting through the rain as lightning flickers again. “Was the letter a break-up or something?”

I have the weirdest feeling ever—desire to laugh mixed with raging terror as thunder rolls around again. “I still haven’t opened it,” I manage. “I… just don’t like storms.”

Nic looks up at the sky, her expression confused. “Really? I love them. That was brave of you, though.” She scrutinises me again and her expression changes to sympathy. She’s realised just how terrified I am. “Come on.” She reaches out a hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”

I wouldn’t have got down that tower without Nic. She pulls me all the way down, keeping me moving, yelling over the sound of the storm whenever I stop. When I finally reach the bottom, she hugs me and bellows, “WELL DONE!” at the top of her voice. Then she suggests a race back to the house before taking in how much I’m shivering and instead holding my stuff and walking me back. She insists on me drinking a potion she made. I’m slightly dubious about it at first, but apparently Nic Anlash has a hidden talent—it’s warming and makes me feel much, much better.

“Don’t bother to open it tonight,” she instructs me. “Just get some sleep.” She hesitates. “Will you tell me what it’s about?”

For the first time since I arrived at Calberry Academy, I give a real smile. “Sure.”

Maybe I’ve made a friend.

AnnaHannah wrote:

Daily, 2nd July: I’ve recently been re-reading The Cruel Prince series, and one thing I love is Holly Black’s worldbuilding. The way she takes old legends of fairies and weaves them into rules for the land of Faerie is absolutely amazing! I also really like the dynamic between Jude and Cardan—they’re one of the best enemies to lovers couples I’ve ever read—and the way that although Cardan is magical, Jude begins to balance that out throughout the series (no spoilers!) I also enjoy the way Jude is stubborn and fights back & is brave while not being a not-like-other girls character xD

Here’s what I wrote, inspired by the Cruel Prince (427 words).

snippp

Heyyyy so I'm going to critique this :)

I love this! The ambiance is clear and you can definitely tell that this is a straightforward, mystical realm with the characters separated by mortality. One thing I would add/replace is with the semi-colon being ‘and’ or some other word that connects the sentences, as the semi-colon is used for listing references and/or replacing a period, comma or the word ‘and’. Overall, it was a great short story and I had such a great time reading it! :D

Daily, 5th July (122 words):

Dear Sparrow,

I'm really, really sorry for giving you a lot of stuff to struggle through. a) a torturous backstory that included one of your best friends dying, b) not making you rich as I know you would've loved that and c) not letting you get together with your love interest very quickly at all. I expect there's lots of cake in heaven and lots of boxes of chocolates too. And yes, I'm nearly certain that you're going there. Just please don't try to deal drugs to the angels. Please.

I know you'll miss Jaz and Orion and the others. And they'll miss you. But you'll see them again one day. I promise. Please keep happy.

Love,
Your cruel but saddened author

Daily, 6th July (360 words):

It was precisely 8:15 on a Sunday evening when I was first called into use that day. I sighed, looking up at my author, as she used me three more times incorrectly. Still, I can't really complain. She thinks I look nice and compliments don't often come your way when you're a semicolon.

I do wish, though, that she would learn to use me in moderation. What she does instead is she goes through three phases:

1. Forgetting about me entirely. While understandable, it rather hurts, seeing as she's a big fan.
2. Using me correctly once. This happens intermittently and never twice in a row. All the same, it is nice it when it happens.
3. Going on a mad semicolon spree. Everything is joined up with me. No phrase is allowed to stand by itself. Everything must be joined together, as if the words on the page are playing a kind of chain tag. I should disapprove, but really, I enjoy it. Full Stop, who is both common and necessary, is quite snobbish sometimes and seeing him eliminated—by me, no less—gives me immense satisfaction. Also, Comma tends to wink at me when that happens. I'm not saying anything definite, but I think Comma is very pretty and that our author should appreciate her more.

Today, our author seems to be going on the third phase. I am scattered over the page, laughing slightly as Full Stop scowls and Comma grins at me, which just makes him scowl more. (Colon, my older brother, told me that there was a rumour going around about Full Stop having a crush on Comma. If that is true, I suppose he must be unhappy about how close we get sometimes; barely separated by one or two words as Comma strikes up a conversation about how our author is definitely in need of therapy. Comma is probably right. Our author loves, among others: angst scenes; forbidden love; enemies-to-lovers; lovers-to-enemies; characters with knives; and writing parent issues, despite never having experienced any of this herself.

I must go: my author has gone back into the first stage of forgetting me yet again.

Word war against Ariellx, lost, 7 / 7/ 21, 115 words, two minutes:

Once upon a time there was a cat named Jeff who really liked eating cheese. Jeff could not eat enough cheese. Every single day, he went out to the shops, determined to buy up all the cheese. Cheddar, Stilton, Camembert: they were all delicious to him. He would eat them and eat them and eat them, sitting in his house, surrounded by empty cheese packets.

As he grew older, he began to turn a kind of green. (He had been a ginger cat beforehand.) Maybe it was the cheese reacting with his natural fur colour. Jeff didn't care, obviously. He wanted to eat cheese and would not eat anything else. “Cheese for Jeff!” He'd cry

Word war against -bloominq, won, 8 / 7/ 21, 137 words, two minutes:

The cat sat on the mat, eating a fish. It was a ginger cat and its ginger fur glowed nearly yellow in the sun, light shining through the window in the front door. The cat yawned, stretching out in the sun. It meowed loudly as it saw someone in the street. A dog was walking along, on the lead with its owner being dragged along behind it. The cat scowled to itself in a cattish way. Humans don't always understand when cats are scowling, but any human, however stupid, could have understood that that cat was cross. Its ears lay right back against its ginger head. Its fur bristled and it made a low growling sound in its throat, flexing its claws meaningfully as the dog drew nearer to the front door. The dog looked at it.

xD why do I feel like for word wars everyone but me is writing stories about cats xDDD there was this one word war(which I lost) where I was contemplating over freezing or crystalizing for a part in the story and then afterwards the person I was warring against was like, oh, I just wrote about a smelly cat xDD

Daily, 8th July, 605 words:

“You're the only person who really understands me,” gushed Sparrow, deliberately overdoing it. “I love you.” Her tone was more sincere on that part.

Orion flushed slightly, grinning at her as he handed her the box of chocolates. “I knew you liked these best.”

Sparrow's face was practically split open with joy, her smile huge. Even after they'd been dating for three months, Orion didn't think he'd ever get used to that. It only happened for a few things: Chocolate, a few specific types of food, and seeing him after an entire day of classes when they'd been separated. He still couldn't believe he was lucky enough to be on the list.

She leant forwards and hugged him, the smell of a flowery potion drifting around her. “Seriously, you're amazing. I feel bad about not getting you something now.”

Orion shrugged. “We get to hang out. Either that or… you could help me with my potions homework?”

Sparrow pretended to consider it, but he could already tell she'd do it. “Fine. Just for you. Because you're amazing and special and you brought me chocolates.”

“Could you pack it in?” snapped Kennedy, passing by them. “I don't want to have to vomit every time I walk through the entrance hall.”

Sparrow's smile vanished. Her eyebrows drew down and she glared at him. “Maybe try not looking in the mirrors, then.”

Orion held back a small, slightly shocked laugh. He was used to Sparrow and Kennedy's constant ugly rowing, but still didn't understand exactly why they needed to score points off each other all the time. Letting Kennedy's comment go was a perfectly available option. It'd probably give him less satisfaction.

“C'mon, let's go outside.” Sparrow grabbed his hand, pulling him away from the door that led into the rest of the school as Kennedy's retort trailed off. “We could eat these chocolates on the bench near the willow, maybe?”

“Sounds great,” said Orion, following her path through the many students milling around the entrance hall. Everyone seemed to be looking for their friends now that lessons and homework were finally over. The crowded, overfilled effect was amplified by the long mirrors on every wall, reflecting the students back in every direction.

Once they were outside, the scent of cut grass wafting from the lawns, Sparrow took a deep breath. “Smells better out here,” was her comment.

Orion nodded, also breathing deeper. “We were stuck dealing with making a repellent potion today. I had no clue they smelled so bad.”

Sparrow grinned. “Those are awful!” She leant towards him, touching his shoulder. “You smell nice, though. Did you shower or something?”

“Yep.” The stench of the ingredients for the repellent had been too much to bear. Along with his classmates, Orion had raced out of the class as soon as possible and gone straight for a shower. “We've reached the bench—chocolates?”

Sitting down on the bench, Sparrow ripped open the box as fast as she could. “After that, anyone deserves one of these,” she said, holding out a pentagon–shaped chocolate. “Your favourite's still coffee flavour, right?”

“I don't know how you remember this.” Orion had possibly mentioned the fact three years ago. He was impressed but not surprised; although Sparrow's memory for homework was lacking, she had a knack for recalling random pieces of information about her friends months or years later. He popped it into his mouth as Sparrow stuffed two in hers. “Greedy!”

Sparrow smirked, grabbing another two. “They taste better in pairs.”

Orion rolled his eyes but took her hand anyway. She leant her head against his shoulder, still chewing chocolate. “Love you.”

Daily, 9th July, 1123 words:

1st story, 610 words:

Twenty-nine years ago, giant explosions in the brewing pit of Purple Potions Ltd. caused a magical tsunami. It flattened the factory and the forty-two workers inside it—twenty wizards, seventeen witches, and five non-magical people—were killed instantly. A memorial to them—a giant, magical frothing pool of purple liquid—was built over the factory. However, this memorial turned out not to be so much of a memorial as a coverup. The whole story about the explosion and what had caused it was hushed up with bribes from the local witches and wizards. Officially, the news included an earthquake and poison falling on the non-magical people concerned.

The local non-magical people—or nonnities, according to the local dialect—forgot about the pool sooner or later. It was said to have various healing spells on it, which it used to when it was first built. Little did they know, however, that after a few years, potions from the buried factory underneath began to seep into the pond. They polluted the water and turned the pool into something quite different…

“I still can’t believe that we’re doing this,” gasped Win. Her brown eyes, hardly visible through the dark, were wide.

Liz huffed, tired with Win’s ongoing shock and surprise. They’d literally planned this for days. She’d definitely had time to adjust to it, instead of being all dramatic and gasping every three seconds. If Win repeated that sentence, maybe she’d have to shove her directly into the pond instead of just dangling her by her ankles.

Instead of saying any of this, though, Liz kept quiet, letting Jim speak up instead.

“It was your idea, Win. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.” Jim’s dark eyes were suspiciously innocent; Liz was fairly sure that he knew as well as the rest of them that Win really wanted to do this. Her constant “drama queening” about it, though, was wearing on all of their nerves.

“No, I do.” Win shrugged, her lips going sulky. She swept back a strand of brown hair. “I need this healing. My leg still hasn’t scabbed over.”

Liz glanced at the neat bandage covering Win’s leg, shivering from the cold night air. She’d been hit by a spell by one of the school bullies and it still hadn’t healed. Jim had suggested going to the nurse, who was magically trained. but Win refused. She’d have had to explained exactly why Kay Atwood hated her so much.

It was a pity that none of their friend group was magically talented, or they could’ve sorted this out instantly. Win didn’t want her parents to find out, so had refused going to hospital. That had left them one option: the healing pool. Not used for a few decades, apparently, and covered up with a rusty lid.

They’d come after dark, all three of them, crouching there and shifting it off slowly. Quietly, so as not to make too much noise and attract attention from the neighbourhood around them. Garden fences towered over the scrubby grass where the pool lay. Now the purple light of the pool reflected off them, tiny reflections wheeling and spinning as the pond rippled.

“On three, then,” said Jim. He grabbed Win’s ankle and Liz did the same. “Two.” Win crawled over so she was dangling above the pool. “One.” Win bellyflopped in, the water splashing over both of them.

It was much harder to hold on than Liz had expected: Win was heavier than she looked and her ankles twitched. However, she managed to—until Win started flailing and both Jim and Liz were dragged into the pool.

It was fine for a few seconds. Then the pain started.

2nd story, 513 words:

“I still can’t believe that we’re doing this,” gasped Win, her brown eyes theatrically wide. Liz had to admire her ability to play to the crowd, even when the crowd consisted of two thoroughly indifferent friends.

“It was your idea, Win. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.” Jim kept his eyes wide and innocent. Liz was impressed with how he found the perfect, squashing comeback.

“No, I do,” Win pouted. She shrugged, fidgeting with her hair. “I need this healing. My leg still hasn’t scabbed over.”

That’s not all it is though, is it, Win? Liz asked silently. Don’t worry. We’re onto you. She glanced briefly at Jim, receiving a small nod in return. Their plan—or counter-plan—was still on.

He cleared his throat. “On three, then. Three.” They grabbed Win’s ankles, giving each other a look. “Two.” Win crawled to the edge of the pool. “One.” She splashed in.

Win’s weight was much worse than Liz had expected. She could hardly wait the twenty-nine seconds before Win started to flail and they were both dragged in.

Keep a clear head, Liz thought, treading potion-infused water. It’ll be over soon. She focused on Jim’s soaked curls, his dark skin lit up with shimmering purple reflections.

Nothing could have prepared her for the pain when it hit. Not all the extensive reading in the library, not all the discussion with Jim, not all the overthinking. It crashed through her, splintering her insides, peppering her arms and legs with tiny, red-hot needles.

But it was worth it. As Win resurfaced, still screaming slightly, grasping for the bank, her face turned to shock and outrage. “You—you—WHY AREN’T YOU HOLDING ME UP?”

“You thought you could trick us, didn’t you, Win?” said Jim, his voice deep but slightly breathless as he grabbed Liz’s hand. “You thought that the magic pool would give you magic power—magic talent—and suck all the energy out of your stupid friends, clinging onto your ankles on the bank.”

Win’s face was furious. “You—you—how—I planned so carefully!”

“I wondered why you were getting all those ancient books out of the library,” said Liz. “Not you, right? Well, I read them too.” She paused, enjoying her moment of triumph. Win had always underestimated her, thought she was the quiet, useless, shy one. “I figured out what you were doing. I told Jim. And we made a plan to stop you.”

Win stared up at them, her brown hair sparkling with purple. “I hate you.”

“The feeling is reciprocal.” Jim’s jaw was clenched. “After all these years, I would’ve thought you’d have more loyalty.” He turned on his heel. “Come on, Liz.”

“But wait!” Win’s sharp wail stopped them in their tracks. “Suppose the pool has another effect? Suppose I—I die?”

Liz looked down at her, shaking her head. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” She glanced at Jim and he nodded. “We at least had some basic human decency left. We put a potion in all our food. One that stops others affecting you. You’ll be fine. Bit wet and cold though.”

Cabin wars writing for Berricake’s war on us, exactly 1100 words:

(Also, this is trash and I know it. If anyone tries to critique something I haven’t even bothered to put effort into, I’ll be annoyed. /srs)

Once upon a time, there was an annoying “goldfish” called Bob. He looked like a shark and he lived in a tank with another bunch of fish. He turned out to actually be a shark masquerading as a goldfish and he ate all the other fish. They all died. The end.

Another time, there was an angry fisherman with a red nose who was trying to catch a lobster. (He should really have been called a lobsterman.) The lobster was the biggest lobster to be seen off the east coast of Cornwall for about twenty years—about two and a half feet tall—and the fisherman was very anxious to catch it. It was lurking in a tidal river near a small fishing town. The fisherman paddled out in a kayak and then jumped in, ignoring all the tourists who were snapping photos under the impression that it was a local custom. He swam deep down, into the forest of seaweed at the bottom, and spotted the lobster.

It turned out that the fisherman, being superstitious, though that the lobster was magical and could grant wishes. He was wrong, of course, but it was why he was ignoring all of the goggling tourists and getting his ears full of dirty seawater. It stood there on the bottom, a glowing black jewel amid the swaying green forest of kelp, and he swam towards it. However, then he needed to come up for air. All the tourists cheered so loudly that he forgot which way to swim and thus he could not find the lobster again. It was okay though, because as the tourists were under the impression that it was a local custom to dive into rivers and he had been showing them it out of the pure kindness of his heart, they all gave him five pound notes (the new plastic kind, so they didn’t get sodden and useless). He got back into his kayak (splash!) and paddled back to the town, where he had a nice warm shower and then went and bought lots of beer with the five pound notes. The end.

Yet another time, there was a girl who came indoors and saw a chocolate cake lying on the table. It was calling her name, so she cut a slice and ate it. Unfortunately, her parents hadn’t wanted her to eat cake until after supper so they were annoyed with her. This may or may not be based on a true story. The end.

It will arrive tomorrow.

The creature slithered out of the bush, a faint rattling noise coming from its many pincers. One of its tongues—or at least something that wasn’t quite a tongue, but slightly resembled one—protruded from a hollow in its head, tasting the air. A black liquid dropped from its not-mouth, and a barely audible hiss emanated from the air around the creature. Wings—or something like them—whirred on its back.

It will arrive tomorrow.

The creature had a purpose. The creature knew where it was going. The creature was going to destroy something.

Its not-tongue flickered in the night air, abruptly withdrawing into the dark hollow that could have been called a mouth. As it turned around, its long, bone-white, slimy body was nearly luminous in the dark. It was the opposite of a shadow: a nightmare—or worse—brought to life.

It will arrive tomorrow.

The creature spread its wings. Now it was utterly silent: like a slow-motion silent film, it rose into the air, bit by bit. Long white body, gleaming pale, black liquid dripping down its sides. It had a destination.

It will arrive tomorrow.

After writing that low-key creepy—or high-key creepy—short story, I’m kinda glad it isn’t dark yet here. The sun is low in the sky, but the sky is still a pure blue and heat reflects off the red bricks of the house. I can hear the sounds of pigeons cooing somewhere above the house, perhaps in a tree or on the roof. Cars swish in the road, their gentle ambience occasionally broken by the roar of a motorbike. The clock is ticking off the seconds on the wall. I wonder what it counts to. A bird twitters outside, briefly and shrilly, before repeating itself. Warmth is gathering around my feet, tucked into slippers despite the heat of the day. I kick the slippers off. Heat rushes away, leaving my feet cooler, but strangely less comfortable. I put them back in the slippers. My fingers tap on the piece of warming glass in front of me, translating into words. Strange how normalised our modern life is, when you start to think about it. I suppose it has always been like this as new developments arrive. A woman is saying something, fast, in a high, angry tone in the street: a man calls back, voice deep and slow but annoyed and bitter. They disturb the equilibrium of the street, I think, pulling myself closer into the embrace of the yellow armchair. Soon they are gone past, car keys jingling, and I relax slightly. I tap my fingers against the cover of the iPad, wincing slightly as I flex my shoulder. I did an intense fitness class earlier and am experiencing the results. It will be worse tomorrow.

Two hundred and a bit more words to write. I want to write exactly one thousand and one hundred words because it will be easier to add to my word count in my cabin. I know addition isn’t really hard, but I still can’t usually be bothered to add up much in my head. There’s always a calculator or one can google it. There, now around—counts in my head, writing more to reach it—one hundred and fifty words to write. I have written over fifty words since beginning this paragraph, which didn’t take half as long as I thought it would. I’m a little bored to be honest. Doing the description paragraph above was more interesting—and probably more useful for my writing. But I can’t be bothered to put any more effort in. The story I put the most effort into for this was the creepy one about the creature. It was sort of fun to write, and definitely better than the “horror” short story I wrote for the weekly last session. (We had a weekly in March where you had to write one hundred words in the genre of each of our fifteen cabins.) Well, it looks like I’m nearing the end of my goal. I’ve also written a simile, metaphor, onomatopoeia, personification and repetition so hopefully my cabin will get points! Done.

Daily, 11th July, 1180 words:

Dark feathers fluttered to the grass as ravens shrieked at each other. Shivering against the cold wind, I tilted my head up, quietly observing them. They attacked each other again and again, long claws raking out feathers.

The Beefeater on duty—a tall, square-faced man with greying hair—scowled up at them. “Stop that!”

Needless to say, the ravens paid no attention. Using any spells apart from healing ones on them is forbidden and so their airborne fight only came to an end when one gave up. A last screech rang out as it fled up to the roof of one of the buildings above us.

The Beefeater sighed, resuming his talk. “As I was saying. A common myth about the ravens is that if they are lost or fly away from the Tower, the Crown will fall and Britain with it. That’s why over the years, there have been a number of magical attacks on them. For example, in 1807 three witches attempted to steal two away. However, Tower ravens have an extraordinary resistance to magic. They raised the alarm by shrieking loudly and unfortunately for the coven, the Beefeaters came running. The witches were placed in the Tower but effected an escape despite the many safeguards in place…”

Shivering slightly at the memories, I tuned him out. Turning away as he embarked on another story about a would-be raven kidnapper, I looked out across the courtyard towards the chapel. I’d been dragged up those steps, hands bound alongside my friends, as the cries of ravens circling overhead filled my ears. I remembered the way my rain-soaked kirtle had rubbed against my skin, the sting in my palm from where I’d fallen.

Maybe we shouldn’t have come back here after all these years. But how many was it? Two hundred? It wasn’t like anyone would recognise me. And we needed to do this: we’d run out of the feathers we’d hidden in the folds of my cloak last time, each tiny fragment long since disappeared into the brew we’d drunk.

It was much less risky this time too. We weren’t going to try to steal the ravens themselves this time. Just a couple more of their feathers.

Back then, Soph—ever brainy—had figured out that the myth about the ravens keeping the Crown and Britain together must have a basis in fact somewhere. All legends do. It had taken her years to get to the bottom of the story, but finally she’d found the truth.

The ravens weren’t just good at resisting magic. They had strong power of their own. The power to extend anything.

She learnt early on the saying that everything has an equal and an opposite. Whether or not it’s true, it helped her understand all I needed to know. Ravens symbolise doom and the end of existence. But what if instead, they could grant luck and immortality?

I was lucky, that night. A chink in the spell that bound me, left by a top-careless guard, let Tay escape. She slashed through our spell-bonds. We crawled away, raven feathers tucked safely away in my pockets.

I became immortal—nearly—that night. Brewing the potion, even for the first time, was easy for me. I could have made so many mistakes, could have poisoned myself and my friends. But luck was on my side as I handed out the first dose. We drank deep, shivering in the dark, and knew that we would never die as long as we continued drinking this forever.

Someone tapped my shoulder. I spun around to see Tay. “Have you got them yet? The feathers?”

She’d found them easily enough last time. Good at combat skills and always ready to fight, she’s the one who got the feathers and got us out of here. I didn’t expect her to say “No.”

I raised my eyebrows as Soph shuffled up to us. “Tay? Why not?”

Tay’s foot, clad in an exquisite boot, rubbed against the gravel nervously. “I…”

Nervous? Unlike Tay. “Is something the matter?”

“I recognised one of the guards,” she whispered.

“What?” I exclaimed far too loudly. It had been over two hundred years ago when we were captured. It couldn’t be…

“One of the guards who dragged us in. The one who left the crack in our bonds.”

Soph’s face mirrored my horror for a second before her eyes went thoughtful. “Wait… he couldn’t have found out what we did, too?”

I was still reeling from the shock of what Tay had said. This just added to it. I’d assumed that we were the only ones clever enough to understand the true secret of the ravens.

From Tay’s face, she was thinking similar thoughts. “I think it’s the only thing that makes sense,” she said eventually. “I mean… what else could have happened?”

My head was spinning. “Do you think he left the flaw in the spell on purpose?”

“Why would he?” wondered Soph. “It’s not like he could benefit from it…”

I shook my head, trying to get back into the present. “For now, ignore the guard. A couple of ravens were fighting and some feathers fell on the grass inside the railing there. Let’s get those and get out of here!”

We weren’t meant to walk on the grass inside the railing, but it wasn’t a big deal. It was far easier than trying to enchant a pair of ravens to come with us. It was breaking one of the petty rules of the tower, but who cared?

As we turned to go, a few feathers safely in each of our pockets, Tay grabbed my arm. “Letty!”

Annoyed, I turned around. “What on—Soph!”

Soph’s face turned a shade of pale green. Beefeaters were marching towards us, spell-staffs in hand, the ceremonial guns slung across their backs. They were headed by the guard who had taken us to the Tower. He didn’t look a day older than he had before.

“Say you’ve got a plan, Soph. Or you’ve got a weapon, Tay.” I kept my voice low, but panic was making it rise.

“I—no. No. I haven’t.” Tay’s eyes were wide. “Soph?”

“Um, I’m not sure. There might be… actually, no. I haven’t.”

We stood there as if frozen as the guard stepped forwards and clicked his fingers. Handcuffs flew over towards us and snapped around our wrists. He was obviously a powerful wizard, then.

“In the name of the Tower, I arrest you for theft of important magical resources and the attempted kidnapping of two Tower ravens.” His voice was deep and angry. “Turn out their pockets.”

As the feathers fluttered down at my feet, black against the grey gravel, I felt hope leave me. We might have escaped the curse of the ravens once. But in the end, doom always comes. Whether or not we would be killed for our crimes, we would end up dying.

At least we’d enjoyed the extra two hundred years we’d bought. At least we hadn’t quarrelled. At least we were all still loyal to each other…

In spite of my ‘at leasts’, death would come anyway.

Daily, 13th July, 700 words (of mine):

“What are you doing with that?!”

“With what?”

“That thing… in your hand! Don’t play innocent with me. That thing you are holding may cause the destruction of this whole world!”

“Wait… what?” Stephen’s face screwed up, confused. He glanced down at what he was holding: a bisected eggshell, top slightly smashed, the rest intact. “I… er? I’m putting this in the bin?” He glanced over at me, looking both puzzled and worried. “I had an egg for breakfast,” he added, as if that wasn’t already obvious.

Alisa’s face was deadly serious. “You know what I’m talking about, Stephen.”

Stephen took a step back as Alisa stalked towards him. “Uh… I don’t actually?”

I decided it was time to intervene. “Alisa, what the—” I remembered just in time she hated swearing, even mild words. “What in the world?” I corrected myself.

“So you’re playing with me too?” Refusing to take her eyes off Stephen, Alisa flicked her hair out of them; the jagged, neon-blue cut was always dangling in her face. “Give me that, Stephen.”

“What’s the matter?” I said between gritted teeth, as reasonably as I could. “It’s just an eggshell and he’s going to put it in the bin.” It was as much as I could do to keep a handle on my temper. Three days, shut up in a small flat with Alisa Alemon (even the name gave off crazy vibes) was getting too much. “Please stop invading his personal space.”

Alisa turned round and glared at me, not moving away from Stephen. “Just an eggshell? Just an eggshell! He hasn’t even smashed it.”

“Cut the—I mean, talk English instead of weird Alemon language.” Swearing would bring me so much stress relief right now, but I wasn’t going to have a glass of water thrown over my head again. Then again, with this pounding headache, I might just appreciate it. “Either explain properly or stop menacing Stephen.”

Alisa looked like she might bite someone, but she finally moved away from Stephen. “He hasn’t smashed either of the halves, has he?”

Stephen gave me another one of the panicky looks he’d been giving me over the past few days. They’d all occurred in situations when someone else would’ve just voiced the idea that Alisa was extremely weird and very pushy about it.

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” I said impatiently. “They’ll probably get crushed in the rubbish anyway.”

“I knew you wouldn’t even try to understand.” Alisa gave a loud, annoyed sniff. “Try to listen without interrupting while I explain, okay?”

“I don’t interrupt that much,” I snapped. I wished I could punch something—preferably Alisa. “Try to make it concise. Short and snappy.”

Alisa huffed. “If you don’t smash eggshells, witches use them for sailboats.” She glared at me. “See. I made it concise.”

I was too busy fumbling over all the cracks—pun intended—in that idea to say anything. I could think of a whole lot of things that were way more seaworthy. How would that even work, anyway? Wouldn’t the shell just tip over? And wait—were witches two inches tall or did they enlarge the shell to the size of a huge boat? Why not just conjure up an actual boat while they were at it?

Stephen, however, quickly relaxed. “Oh, if that’s what you want.” He scrumpled up the shell in his fist, going to drop it in the bin. “That okay?”

“Wow, someone is capable of being polite around here,” conceded Alisa, giving him a brief nod. She gave me the nastiest look possible. “I hope you did that with yours.”

I hadn’t. I wasn’t going to admit that, but Stephen shook his head, missing my frantic eye signalling. “He just put it in the bin as it was, actually—”

Alisa made what could roughly be described as a screeching noise. It went right through my head. “Leo! Why—?”

“Shut the—shut up,” I growled. I couldn’t take this anymore. It was an eggshell. An eggshell. Alisa might have her weird superstitions, she might enforce them on everyone possible, she might lecture me on not doing that at length. Fine. But if she screeched like again, murder was going to be committed.

“No.” She somehow managed triple the nasty look she’d been giving me. “Search through the rubbish for it and smash it. Otherwise I’ll scream like that again.”

It was going to be a long week.

Daily, 14th July, 600 words:

word prompts: dragon, battle, sword, forgotten from @lexuye28

The sound of dragons' wings beating came thrumming through the air. They wheeled above a forsaken battlefield: broken weapons and bodies were scattered everywhere, bright blood spilled against the dark mud. Smoke still rose from a pyre in one corner of the field. Snaking across the west side sparkled a silver stream, the last vestige of beauty left undestroyed in the landscape.

“Do you think it's safe to land?” A girl, curly black hair blowing against her warm brown skin, leant across the golden wings of her dragon to shout to another rider.

“Safe as it'll probably ever be,” yelled back the recipient of her question. He turned to address the rest of their crew, bellowing above the wind. “I'll go first. Wait until I say it's fine. Then land. Not before!”

His dragon swooped down towards the field, her wide-spread blue wings the brightest thing in the overcast day. The other riders watched, cautious and ready to help, as she landed. The rider—a wiry boy with brown hair, wearing a dark red leather jacket and matching flying goggles—slid off her side, pulling the goggles off. He took a few careful steps forwards, looking around.

“I think it's safe. Come down!”

Again, the air hummed with the sound of dragons in flight, shortly accompanied by several loud thumps as a few landed slightly too hard. The boy who had landed first gave those a stern look before changing the subject.

“Remember, no one else can know we were here. We need to be as fast and quiet as we can.”

The riders agreed quickly, splitting up and going through the remains of the battle. They were looking for something: bodies were turned over, broken armour was kicked aside, swords were closely examined before being dropped.

At last, there was a cry from the girl with the curly hair. She was holding a bloodied sword above her head. “I found it!”

The boy ran over, forgetting the others in his haste. “You really have?” His expression was anxious, his face querying.

The girl gave one nod. The boy seemed to relax immediately, his body language changing from taut and nervous to relieved. “That’s… brilliant.” He leant forwards and hugged her. “It’d be a good time to put our plan into action, then.”

She nodded again, giving him a slight smile. “Tell them to return to their dragons and hover above the field.”

He gave the command, demonstrating the action himself as she clambered onto her dragon. Unlike the others, she did not take flight immediately, instead staring up at the multi-hued wings beating above her for a moment.

Then she shrugged and spread out her hands, all five fingers stretched out. “Forget. Forget that we ever came here for anything other than to see how the battle went for ourselves.”

Her comrades’ faces went blank as her dragon swooped up through the sky towards them. The boy gave her a quick grin as their expressions came back; it was as if they were waking up.

“What—” began one.

“Get a move on!” called the boy, his dragon already flying on. “Do you all want to stay here all day?”

The riders did not seem to remember anything. Instead, they started to talk and laugh as normal among themselves, calling back and forth between the dragons.

There were only two who were silent. The boy and the girl who had taken the sword from the battlefield sat as still as if they were in a trance, avoiding looking at anything but the warm scales of their dragon’s neck in front of them.

Daily, 16th July, 300 words (write 250 words without using the same adjective or verb twice):

“What’s happening with you?”

“What do you mean?” I tense, crumpling the piece of paper I’m clutching into my fist.

Orion shrugs, pushing back his chair. His eyes are focused on mine, a stray beam of sunlight lighting the top of his hair gold. “Okay, so are you holding anything in your hand?”

“Nothing,” I respond automatically, even though I never told a more obvious, easy-to-see-through fib.

“‘Nothing’ crackles quite loudly.” He makes air quotes when he says “nothing”.

“Fine. I have the secret plans to blow up the entire school so that I can finally be left alone in peace and quiet.”

“Interesting. Didn’t know you were a fan of peace and quiet.” He refuses to take the blatant hint to go away, even though he definitely understood it.

I hunch my shoulders, turning away from him.

“Seriously, Sparrow. You avoided us yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that—for the past week!”

“Like I attempted to state earlier, planning explosions occupies my entire waking life.”

Orion sighs. “I suppose—okay, even interested in being friends with us any more?”

The words ring in the air between us.

“I—yes. Of course.”

He watches my eyes intently, probably trying to figure out the truth.

“I mean it!”

“Really?” Sceptically, he raises his eyebrows. “Just… you talked to us a total of two times this week, and once you were forced to in class. And… the other time… you lied.”

“I—I—uh—not a good week for me. At all. Nothing to do with you.” I stutter through the words, jumping from one to another.

The setting sunlight warms Orion’s face to a deep orange. “We miss you, you know.” He leans towards me. “We all want to help. With whatever you’re up to. Please.”

I would love it. But no.

Weekly #2.

Part 1 or Project Editor Generator (1200 / 500 necessary words, written from 13th–16th July):

My images were: a background with a large building full of windows; a ghost; a ship; and a girl with a basketball. The storyline is quite easy to make up: the building with windows is an abandoned, broken-windowed block of flats / council housing, the ghost lives in the house, the ship is an old toy left on the windowsill, and the girl playing basketball accidentally threw it into the window, knocking the ship onto the floor, and meeting the ghost.

Note: although Alderton is apparently (from Google) a real village, I had no clue of that. I just tried to make up an English-sounding town name. So if the ST sees this for any reason, I’m not doxxing myself.

Hannah knew it was a bad idea from the start. Playing basketball by the haunted block was definitely not the best suggestion—or order—that Ella had come up with. But being Ella, no one could convince her of that. When they discovered that the boys had taken the only basketball ring in the park, she dragged the entire basketball team along with her to the one behind Alderton Housing Estate.

“Come on. We don’t have anywhere else to go and the one there still has a net. It’s almost better than the one in the park!”

“But what about ghosts?” Rose was the only one brave enough to voice the fear that ran through all of them. Everyone knew that Alfie Martin, Rose’s older brother, had seen something when he’d tried to break in there last year. She’d told them that Alfie had told her that a huge white monster had towered over him and howled until he ran for it. The worst part was that when Alfie tried to punch it, his hand had gone right through it. It was obvious that it was a ghost.

“Ghosts?” Ella snorted. “You still believe in ghosts?”

Rose flushed, scrubbing her foot along the ground defensively. “Alfie saw something. He told me.”

“I don’t want to be rude about Alfie,” Ella said, raising her eyebrows, “but he’s always been an awful liar. Remember when he convinced Miss Elwood that there was a mouse—”

“Yes, but he was all shaking and everything!” Rose glared at Ella. “He wasn’t lying.”

“Well then, he tried some of your dad’s beer and got a bit tipsy.” Ella smirked. “It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

Rose was bright pink. “I—I—Alf isn’t—”

“If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to. Just don’t expect to make the basketball team without practising.” Ella gave Rose a small smile, relenting slightly. “Come on. There aren’t any ghosts at all, I promise. Anyway, even if there were, it isn’t like we’d disturb them playing outside. Alf broke in. We’ll just be outside, using the basketball hoop.”

Ella was so sure that she was right. She was so absolutely confident in her own judgement that she’d nearly convinced Hannah too. But not quite.

Even after playing for half-an-hour, throwing the ball through the hoop sticking out from the back wall of the block, Hannah was still nervous. She tried to hide it, afraid of Ella’s scorn, but when a pigeon flew low over her head, she screamed, ducking.

Ella gave her a scathing look. “Seriously? You’re scared of pigeons?”

The rest of the team avoided eye contact. Hannah bit the inside of her cheek and resolved to do better, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong.

Maybe that was why, a few minutes later after a particularly difficult dribble from the other hoop halfway up to the one she was aiming for—Jo nearly got it off her twice—she threw way too hard and not even vaguely in the right direction. The ball sailed up into the air, soaring far too high, then crashed through a window.

There was a silence as everyone stopped, staring at the hole in the window where the ball had gone through. Liz muttered a swear word which was probably meant to be silent, but the rest of the team heard it anyway.

“What do we do?” asked Rose, turning to Ella.

“Sorry.” Hannah avoided Ella’s eyes.

Ella rolled her eyes. “The choice is pretty simple, guys. Either we leave our only basketball there or we go in and get it.”

When she put it like that, there was really only one thing to do. The team pulled themselves together, not daring to glance at each other as Ella stalked round the side of the flats to the window where Alf had broken in. She clambered in and a thump was heard as she landed on the floor within.

Slowly, one by one, they went through the window. Hannah winced as she scraped her leg on the edge of the sill. Why did they have to do this? Why had she been so stupid as to throw the ball that badly? Why did the boys have to have taken the basketball ring in the park?

The inside of the flats were dusty and dark. A corridor, white paint stained grimy and dirty, wooden floor gritty, led up to a set of stairs. They smelled of a faint, unpleasant decaying odour. Ella bounded up them, confidently turning to the left, towards the side of the flats where Hannah had thrown the ball through the window.

“It’s got to be one of these rooms,” she said. “We could split up and search, or—” She broke off, noticing the other girls’ expressions. “You’re still scared? Seriously?” She laughed, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. “Come on then.”

One by one, they pushed open the doors of the rooms. They were mostly empty of possessions, the windows bare. In a few, though, items were gathering dust on the floor—an old mattress, the springs gone; a broken lamp; a scrunched-up tin can.

On about the sixth or seventh try, they found it. The basketball had rolled against the door, so it thumped when they opened it. Next to Hannah, Rose jumped and Liz flinched. Hannah only just managed to stop herself from making a small frightened sound.

It had knocked off an old model of a ship that had been sitting on the windowsill. It wasn’t smashed or damaged from Hannah’s viewpoint, crowded in the doorway.

Ella went in, bending over to pick up the ball. She tucked it under one arm, reaching for the ship, placing it back on the sill. “See. Wasn’t that hard, was it? No ghost and no—”

Loud and mournful, a howl broke through the air. It came from the model ship. Wisps of white stuff started floating out from it, like cold smoke or steam.

This time, Hannah couldn’t stop herself from whimpering. Rose’s eyes were huge. “Run.”

They broke into a sprint together, dragging each other onwards. Something came into view at the end of the hallway, behind them. It was huge and white, made of a cloud of gas or liquid. Hannah wasn’t sure. It kept shifting and she couldn’t tell anything other than she ought to keep running and not look back again.

So she did.

A sob rose up in her throat, making it hard to breathe. But she sprinted, jostled by the rest of the team. Howling chased them all the way down the grubby stairs and out, fumbling through the window, scraping their legs on the sill. Hannah fell forwards onto her knees, cutting one open. Ella yanked her up and they stumbled onwards, back to the park where it was safe.

“I take it back.” Ella was shivering. “But guys? Don’t tell anyone. Please. Otherwise we’ll be laughingstocks. No one will believe us. Ever. Please?”

“Fine.” Rose was the only one to agree verbally. Everyone else was too exhausted and frightened to do anything but nod.

No one else would know the truth about the ghost—unless they went and found out themselves.

Part 2 or Cabin Characters (1200 / 800 necessary words, 16th-17th July).

I decided to write a fanfic shipping Mystery (personified as a girl with the Mystery colour palette of charcoal and platinum) and Adventure (personified as @Berricake’s art of him). I had a lot of fun with this, even though it’s not very good lol. It includes quite a few of my favourite writing things:

• forbidden romance
• near discovery of said romance
• enemies to lovers
• fluff
• angst

Adventure leant in, tracing a finger across Mystery’s platinum skin, brushing away a strand of dark, charcoal hair. “You really are something special, you know that?”

Mystery smirked, moving closer. “Well… it’s in the name, isn’t it? I wouldn’t be a such a beautiful enigma if I wasn’t a mystery, would I?”

“You make such bad jokes,” muttered Adventure. The laughter in his single green eye—the other was covered by a dark eyepatch—didn’t fit in with his words. Neither did the way his fingers were closing on Mystery’s shoulders, pulling her against him.

Mystery knew he didn’t mean it. After all, what was the point of carrying on a secret, forbidden romance if you thought the other person had a stupid sense of humour? You had to have secretly thought that they were witty, good-looking, and your equal before you made a move on them.

She laughed, letting Adventure pull her tighter against him. Tangling her fingers in his white hair, knocking his admiral’s hat off, she kissed him.

She’d meant it to be for only a second, of course. But kissing Adventure was always intoxicating. You forgot between times just how hard it was to pull back, to keep regularly checking that no one had discovered where they were hiding behind the main SWC cabin.

So she only pulled back after a couple of minutes. Her heart was pounding, her skin flushed with a slight bluish tinge. Adventure was wearing the soft grin he only ever displayed occasionally. In fact, she’d never seen it directed at anyone but her.

She leant back against him. “You were telling me I was something special?”

Adventure laughed, a happy, relaxed sound. “Yeah. You are.”

Mystery tried not to admit to herself how much that meant to her. She wasn’t even entirely sure that Adventure wasn’t playing with her, trying to find out vital information to win SWC. Falling in love—or developing a strong crush—was a bad, bad idea. Even if he wasn’t leading her on… you shouldn’t get too close to your enemies.

Of course, she’d broken that rule already. So did it really matter?

She let herself enjoy being with him. Talking about stuff. Adventure was extremely sure he’d win SWC—and, although Mystery wouldn’t tell him, she thought he might too. They gossiped about cabin rivalries and friendships. Was Fantasy, one of their only mutual allies, plotting something with their sibling Thriller? Was Fanfic, new to SWC, going to score high in the points? Were Mythology and Hi-Fi, close allies, getting suspiciously closer?

Mystery knew that Myth was Adventure’s sister and his close ally, so hopefully he’d know something about the relationship. The whole of SWC was talking about it after they’d been seen deliberately letting each other win word wars.

“I’m not sure,” mused Adventure when she asked him. “She does do this blushing thing whenever anyone just mentions him in conversation—and when Fairy Tales started teasing her about it, her snake hair started hissing and spitting.” He grinned.

Mystery laughed quietly. “I was wondering because I saw Hi-Fi walking through the main cabin earlier—to add points, probably—and he was holding a pink flower in his hand.” She paused to let that sink in.

“Off her flower crown, you mean?” Adventure’s green eye widened. “She must seriously like him. When Fairy Tales just asked to wear it for a bit yesterday, she went mad and they had a fight.”

Mystery remembered that. She’d witnessed them stalk into the main cabin, refusing to talk to each other for a total of three minutes until they noticed that she herself had overtaken both of them in points. They’d been so shocked that they’d immediately started ranting to each other about it, forgetting that they weren’t meant to be speaking to each other.

“No wonder everyone’s gossiping about a possible Mythology–Hi-Fi romance,” Adventure added. His lips twisted into a grin. “We should try to give them some pointers, except for the fact that we’d probably be banned from SWC for ‘colluding with our enemies’ or something.”

Mystery shrugged. She stood up from where she’d been sitting against the wall, looking down at Adventure’s face, his eye nearly covered by messy white hair. She had the urge to run her hands through it again. “Do you think anyone suspects… about us?”

“No. Probably not.” Distractingly, he bit his lip, obviously trying to think of something. “I mean… have you got any weird comments or anything? Why?”

“I was just wondering,” Mystery said. She grinned at him. “But we all know I’m the best at hiding secrets and—”

“Shush!” Adventure sprang to his feet, grabbing his cutlass from where it lay on the grass beside them.

They both froze as they heard…

“Footsteps,” Mystery breathed. Heading towards them. They were about to be discovered alone together. Perhaps the person who found them wouldn’t realise that they’d been kissing. But they would definitely assume something like they’d been secretly colluding to let one of them win SWC—breaking the rules in some way or another. They’d be thrown out—or worse, demoted right to the bottom, all their hard-earned points gone.

She was so frozen by panic, only the wall holding her up, that she didn’t have time to dodge the swing of Adventure’s cutlass.

“What—?” It was digging into her throat, pain bubbling up from where the tip lay. Something warm and wet ran down her neck. “Adventure?”

His green eye was furious, his lips drawn into an angry line. “How dare you. You—”

The footsteps came around the corner. Over Adventure’s shoulder, Mystery glimpsed the shocked face of Fanfic. One of their only mutual neutrals. Maybe their only. The blade at her throat was making it difficult to think.

“What’s going on?” She could see Fanfic, as per her name, coming to a million different conclusions. Some of which might not be too far from the real thing.

“I’m just trying to kill my most annoying enemy and you had to interrupt,” growled Adventure. He lowered his cutlass, tossing back his white hair.

“You—a murder attempt?” Fanfic’s expression was wide-eyed and intrigued. A judgemental one covered it up just a little too slowly. “I’ll have to take that to the hosts for judgement. You can’t try to kill your enemies. In real life.”

“It was mutual,” flared Adventure. “She started it.”

Mystery realised what he was trying to do. “I didn’t. I only wanted to take your cutlass to help write sword practice for my latest WIP—”

She hoped Fanfic hadn’t noticed the way Adventure’s lips had twitched before he snapped back, “Weird way to write sword practices, trying to cut off someone’s head!”

Fanfic wasn’t doing a good job of covering her expression, which said that this was the best moment of her entire life. “You tried to kill each other?”

Mystery pulled away from the wall, picking up Adventure’s hat and shoving it at him as angrily as she could manage. “Yes.” She glared at Fanfic, furiously. “And now I suppose you’ll be a little tattle-tale, telling the hosts.”

“Well—”

Adventure interrupted, his lip curling. “If you do, you’re no longer my neutral. I’ve left you alone for now, but if you become my enemy for this, be warned that I’ll want to kill you even more than her.”

Fanfic looked more excited than scared. “Really? I mean… fine. I won’t tell. Seeing as it was both of you.” She hesitated. “At least… I won’t tell anyone officially!”

She sped off, leaving Mystery and Adventure alone together.

“That was amazing.” Mystery didn’t try to hide the admiration in her tone. “You’re very good at lying.”

Adventure’s mouth quirked into a grin. “I am, aren’t I?” He reached forwards, brushing a finger through her hair. “You were great at catching onto it.”

It’d been such a near miss. If Fanfic hadn’t been persuaded…

Mystery shrugged. She leant forwards and kissed him slowly—one last time—before detaching herself. “This—doesn’t this make you think that it’s too dangerous?”

“Wait, what?” Adventure took a step back, the smile dropping away from his face. “What do you mean?”

“Well.” Mystery turned away, hoping he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes. She blinked them away before continuing. “I mean… if someone else discovers us, they’ll put it together. Don’t you think it’s a bit risky? To continue?” She turned back, trying to meet his eye.

Adventure stared at her. He reached a hand up, fumbling with his eyepatch, trying to adjust it. It was the clumsiest gesture she’d ever seen from him. “I—what are you suggesting exactly?”

She shrugged, trying to keep her face from betraying her emotions. “I think we should stop doing this. I—it was fun. But it’s getting too dangerous. If someone works out what was going on—if Fanfic thinks back and puts her imagination to work—”

“You want to break up.” Adventure’s face was expressionless.

“It’d be the smart thing to do.” She stopped the tears from coming up in her voice.

“I—fine then.” He swung away, but whirled back just before he reached the edge of the cabin. “This was just a game—a tactic to you? You don’t—?” His voice broke slightly and he stopped.

She refused to let herself cry or admit anything. Instead, she forced herself to say the thing she knew would stop him from doing anything else. “Wasn’t it to you?”

His fists clenched. “If that’s how you want it to be—yeah.”

He was gone in a second, leaving Mystery by herself. A tear leaked down her face.

She wished bitterly that she hadn’t done it—but she’d had to. Hadn’t she?

Part 3 or SWC: a fanfiction (1100 / 1000 necessary words, 17th July)

I didn’t put much effort here lol

Abandoned cabins, their windows dark. They are full of stale old pizza boxes, rubbish scattered across the floor. The furniture is tipped over, chairs lying with their legs in the air like sleeping dogs. Dirty, dusty, abandoned. But the scent of magic and fun still lingers faintly over it all.

I pause at a wooden door under a thatched roof, shivering in the cold wind that’s picking up. It’s always night here around the Abandoned Cabins and, as usual, the leaves of the trees above me are whispering to each other. Old jokes, reused millions of times, leaf to leaf.

Maybe I told one of those jokes once.

The plaque on the door is rusty, a nail loose at one side and hanging down. I reach out a hand to the cold metal and straighten it, reading it. Hi-Fi March 2021.

I might as well go in. The floor is covered in loose sheets of paper, half-empty chocolate boxes, and discarded lace. Lying on the dusty sheets of a bunk bed, an old CD player reflects the light off my torch. I pick up a few of the CDs: the titles of Blinding Lights, Don’t Start Now, and deja vu shine out at me.

I place them back, continuing to look around the cabin. Stacks of paper, the discussion forums header at the top, are everywhere: on the counters, on the floor, on the collapsed furniture. I spot my name on one, reach out a hand towards it. My old writing.

Not as bad as I thought it would be. A couple of silent winces at my lack of atmosphere and overuse of “the” or “I”, the lack of coherency, and the occasional typo. I find myself smiling when I finish it and tuck it into the pocket of my long coat.

Discarded, lacey cloth—the remnants of the dress I wore to the writing competition—beckons me from the floor. It’s as soft as I remember, though the pale blue colour has faded to nearly white. I rub it against my face: it smells of perfume, excitement and triumph.

Reluctantly, I place it back. It belongs to the past, not the present. I don’t need more nostalgia.

An old in-cabin daily list is still pinned up on the wall, the paper flaking. Bakie’s handwriting is barely recognisable, the blue ink bleeding into the disintegrating sheet. Attempting to squint past the dust and crumples, I try to read it, but give up after reading “one hundred words” as “two thinking towers”.

I trace my fingers over the rail of one of the tipped-over bunk beds. I’m not sure, but maybe Leopard had this one? I think back to her with warmth: her critique on my poem was both helpful and inspiring. It made me tear up slightly.

I wonder, sometimes, if any of my old cabinmates think about me sometimes. If they, too, come here ever.

They may think about me, but I don’t know if they come here. It was so hard to find this valley, through the woods, away from the vibrant, busy current main cabin and others. It was quite a long walk, but I wanted to be alone and leave everyone else behind. To look at the swaying greenery and touch the wildflowers, one by one. The sky grew darker and darker until it fell into night—but I wasn’t scared, alone in the whispering clearing, because this is Scratch Writing Camp and I’m safe.

I wouldn’t go out onto my street at night, back home, even under flickering yellow lamplight.

I walk out the door. Maybe I should go back to the others, the safety of company and firelight, if not sunlight; or I could go on, on as it gets darker. I could find the July 2020 Adventure cabin, go through the wrecked door and touch the grimy mirror opposite it. Sit cross-legged, reading my old story with a quiet, beautiful, nearly voiceless heroine. Find one of the old dailies I butchered and redo it.

Or I could stay here, shuddering at the cold wind blowing through the clearing. I could stand staring at the winners’ flag pinned over the door of the March 2021 Mystery Cabin, tattered from where someone unpinned and repinned it differently. I could let myself cry the tears that are somehow springing to my eyes. Why are they? Being alone? Memories? Nostalgia?

Instead of doing any of that, I start the long walk back to the current cabins. Leaving the old ones behind feels like a betrayal. Wind blows the end of my long trench-coat around my legs. It is sharply cold, refreshing, my favourite kind. The kind you get in autumn or spring back home. But even the wind cannot blow away the guilt I feel from leaving. It’s stupid, really, as I have nothing to be guilty about: just abandoning a cluster of old buildings that were already long left to themselves. After half an hour of revisiting them. Barely even enough time to count.

I speed up, not bothering to look at the bright stars. They soon fade, anyway, giving way to greyness and then sunset and then I’m back at the cabins.

These ones are alive, full of people. Chattering to each other in groups about the daily, laughter ringing out; sitting in corners of the cabins, silently scribbling in notebooks, chewing the top of pens; tired and yawning, soft drink or water in hand, cuddling the cats which weave around the campers’ feet. Bright flames from a campfire are springing up by the lake, the scent of toasted food drifting over.

It has a strangely dreamlike quality after seeing the deserted, dark abandoned cabins. I stand on the edges, getting my bearings back. A grey cat runs up to me, miaowing. I bend down and cuddle it before moving on, mingling with the crowd.

I head to my current cabin, making myself smile—it’s not really difficult—at the familiar people inside. It already bothers me to know that this clearing and this cabin will be dusty, lonely, abandoned one day; future heartache travels to meet me. I push it away and try to focus on the present.

I pick up the cat, who followed me in, and cuddle her as tightly as she’ll let me. She purrs and somehow the sound pulls me back into the present. It makes me feel happier, less tired. She was here in March and she’s here in July and she’ll be here in November too.

I pick up my notepad and jot down three story ideas, then start work on the daily.

total word count is 3500

Daily, 18th July, 600 words:

Original:

Maybe it's in the gutter
Where I left my lover
What an expensive fake
My V is for Vendetta
Thought that I'd feel better
But now I got a bellyache


Google Translate:
This is likely to be in the waterway
Where I gave it to my sweetheart
How expensive to cheat
For me, it just happens
I think I'll be fine
But now I'm tired

Story, 600 words and very bad:

I shouldn’t have helped him to do it. Cheating in the annual Northern Mermen race is strictly forbidden. But all the same—I did.

My boyfriend—or my sweetheart, as all my aunts and uncles persist in calling him, despite the fact that both of us hate the word—is very persuasive. Some have called him manipulative. Me included. But otherwise, he was very nice to me, so I thought it didn’t matter. My parents thought it did, and kept on politely and kindly advising me to break up with him. Today, I did.

You see, he used his persuasiveness to get me to meet someone on the Kelp Waterway and bring him back some sort of specialised enhancing plant so he could win. Anything of the sort is entirely banned from our competitions. I shouldn’t have agreed. But I found myself doing it, and swam off to meet the illegal plant dealer.

I’d been sitting in the middle of the waving kelp for fifteen minutes, soothed by how peaceful it was and keeping an eye on a small crab that kept on trying to climb on my tail. Finally, the dealer turned up—a small guy about my age with medium dark purplish skin and a bright blue tail. He handed it over and made a comment about the payment, something about how pretty the necklace was that “the guy” had handed over.

I was immediately shocked. “Wait, a necklace?”

“Yeah.” The dealer guy gave me a strange look. “Something the matter?”

“He took my necklace,” I whispered, under my breath, hardly able to believe it. My boyfriend had stolen my necklace—a family heirloom—and sold it so that he could win some stupid race! Well. My soon-to-be-ex boyfriend.

“Excuse me?” The dealer looked concerned.

“He paid for this with my necklace,” I said bitterly. “He stole it.”

The dealer looked taken aback. “Really?”

“Yes. And just so he could cheat and win the annual North Mermen race.” I didn’t care about ratting him out any more. He deserved it. Not that the dealer would care.

“Wait, what?” The guy turned a startled, deep pink-purple. “I—he—I wouldn’t have sold it if I’d known. He—he told me it was for his girlfriend because she was going on a long trip and needed energy?”

I stared at him. “That loser.”

The guy nodded, his face returning to the dark lavender colour it’d originally been. “I’m so sorry. I’ve still got the necklace and if you want, you can have it back in return for the plant?”

It only took a second’s transfer. I held my precious necklace in my hand for a second, staring at it. It was proof that he was a lying, cheating thief.

I swam all the way back, thinking smugly of how my boyfriend would lose the race. He’d be expecting me to bring him an enhancing plant and when I didn’t turn up, he’d be forced to continue, not wanting to lose face. And then he’d lose. Spectacularly.

It happened as I thought it would. He came second to last—the guy who was last was an older merman who was doing it more for reminiscing purposes then anything else and kept on stopping and talking loudly. He found me after the race was over.

“Why didn’t you bring me the enhancing plant?”

“Thief,” I hissed at him, overly dramatically to make him recoil. I bared my teeth and watched him shrink back into himself.

“I can explain—”

“No. We’re over.” I swam off. I’d thought I was okay but I was unexpectedly tired. I went to my cave and fell asleep.