how do you do that thing with the box

edit: oh nvm

Wall of Courage

Here I am. Again. Li Ming— short and olive-skinned, with chocolate-brown eyes and silky black hair clipped just beneath my ears— standing before a crowded class of children.

The fluorescent overhead lights soak me in a too-much feeling, like having eaten one too many dou sha bao, bean paste buns, for breakfast. The strained smiles of the students linger like sugar in my mouth, stickily saccharine.

I force a smile back. I train my stare on a pale, freckled girl in the first row, and she quickly shies away, ducking beneath her light-brown braids. I let out a breath, graced with subtle satisfaction.

“Hello, students. I am Li Ming.” I cringe, my English broken and choppy even to my own ears. A girl with thick maroon curls and a green baggy T-shirt snickers, discreetly elbowing a boy I assume is her brother. Several others exchange glances of amusement, but are quickly diluted by Ms. Miller's razor glare.

“Go on, Li,” Ms. Miller says gently, patting my shoulder encouragingly. My name is Ming— Li is my last name, I think sourly, but I don't have the heart nor the words to correct her. I take a deep breath and continue.

“I from China. It is quite big country.” The words swirl and twirl and pirouette inside me, Chinese characters intertwining with cracked English words to create an indecipherable mess of language. My cheeks flood with color and warmth, yet my hands are pale and clammy, my lips trembling. It's as if a wall has crashed down around me, crumbling stone and clouds of dust filling my vision. The students' faces blur and smear. Or is it me, my sight obscured by a sea of desperation? The droplets spill over the rims of my eyes, enormous boulders rolling down the hills and plains of my face, crushing the laboring men beneath. Hundreds of thousands of people died in the raising of the glorious wall that defines my country and my culture; one girl drowns in this wall of tears.

The laughter rises in a collective, surging wave, a tsunami, a riptide, come over a tiny island. Grubby fingers point in my direction, the clashing arms a cacophonous, mistimed symphony. Chairs clatter over onto cold linoleum; desks sway in the tempest of moving children. The ceiling swoons; the floorboards seem to slide from beneath my feet. So much laughter. So much motion. And so many tears.

~

At morning recess, I immediately make for a secluded bench tucked beneath a nook of tall trees. The high boughs of the trees shelter me, virescent light pouring through the densely gathered leaves. All the others flock to clamber over plastic slides and rubber swings and such; I don't join them. All I need is a nice spot to sit and read a book, and my bench is perfect.

I swing my bulky red backpack from my shoulders and slip out a thick, brightly colored book. Xi You Ji, Journey to the West, lies inscribed in immortal golden letters on its cover. I flip open the slightly frayed, slightly yellowed pages of the tome, losing myself in the sea of familiar characters. Monkeys, constricting headbands, mountains brimming with peaches and cascading waterfalls— it all lives here.

Then— “Li Ming?”

I yelp, my book nearly tumbling off my lap. I grab its spine, smoothening out the pages across my knees as I gaze warily at the girl standing before me. I recognize her, albeit faintly— the pale-freckle girl, the braid girl, the girl I stared at this morning. I grit my teeth, fingers clenching into fists, in a second attempt to intimidate her. She winces slightly but doesn't wilt.

“Um,” she says, visibly uncomfortable, “can I sit with you?”

“Why— have not laughed enough?” I snap, stumbling over my English.

She blinks, hurt. “Of course not,” she says quietly. “I just— wanted to be friends?”

Peng you, best friends, two soft syllables of platonic love, of staying together through thick and thin. Two syllables that, when spoken, mean so much; two syllables that mean I will hold your hand and we will climb the Great Wall together, no matter what it takes. Two syllables; an endless devotion. Two syllables; a blooming rose.

“Yes,” I whisper. The girl's eyes light up, her lips curving into a hopeful smile. “I will climb the wall with you.”

seahorse104 wrote:

snip cool writing goes here

THAT WAS!? SO GOOD!?? GREAT JOB THAT WAS AMAZINGNGN

AHHH so many boxes!

seahorse104 wrote:

Wall of Courage"

SO GOOOOOD

apart-- wrote:

seahorse104 wrote:

snip cool writing goes here

THAT WAS!? SO GOOD!?? GREAT JOB THAT WAS AMAZINGNGN

i got rickrolled-

apart-- wrote:

seahorse104 wrote:

snip cool writing goes here

THAT WAS!? SO GOOD!?? GREAT JOB THAT WAS AMAZINGNGN

THANKS!

SilverMelon wrote:

seahorse104 wrote:

Wall of Courage"

SO GOOOOOD

SilverMelon wrote:

apart-- wrote:

seahorse104 wrote:

snip cool writing goes here

THAT WAS!? SO GOOD!?? GREAT JOB THAT WAS AMAZINGNGN

i got rickrolled-

DOUBLE THANKSITYTHANKS AND HAHA SO DID I THE FIRST TIME I SAW THAT XD

lol XD

Cats, Fruit, and Music

Weekly:

• Part 1 (you are here)
  
• Part 2
  
• Part 3
  

Word count: 686 words

Our first mini activity: Project Editor Generator

The objects I got were a panther, a bowl of fruit, and a saxophone. My backdrop is a photo of the moon.

Note: I am not super proud of this. It is sorta rushed with a super random and weird premise.

The chilly air settled across my glossy midnight fur. My paws glided nimbly over the many jagged rocks and deep crevices of the moon's slate-grey surface. My amber eyes gleaming, I raised my head and scanned the multitude of hidden stories tucked into the shadows. Among them was the fresh, saccharine promise of just-picked fruit. My mouth filled with a dream of sugar; my stomach growled, subtle yet insistent.

Like a dark wind, a drifting feather, a floating fallen leaf— and oh, such were merely unreachable fragments of a past beyond, for on the moon there was never wind but only stagnant air— I sprang from the ashen rocks and took flight on weightless paws. My claws skipped over the rutted surface, traction and agility pairing with breathless lack of gravity. Rows of compact steel houses rose up before me, each connected to the churning oxygen tank by a single pipe. Townspeople roamed the streets, bundled in bulky masked suits that jumbled and cluttered their chatter. I wove among their hovering feet, unnoticed.

They never noticed. They never knew there were animals, wild beasts even, in the world beyond Earth, and we knew how to hide ourselves. The Creators ensured it. They took us from our former lives and changed us, engineering us with enhanced bodily systems capable of sustaining life in space. We didn't need the oxygen tanks the humans depended on; we created it ourselves. In fact, we were entirely invisible to human senses; we were bare figments of existence, known only by one another…

…So that we would not make their same mistakes; so that we would remain when they did not, could not, would not; so that humanity could backtrack to its roots and evolve again to be brighter and smarter than ever before…

I closed my eyes, exhaling. Not now, Lance. Not now.

For now, a bowl of fruit beside a man sitting cross-legged on the pavement, a hope of sweetness, a thought of life.

I approached, silent, stealthy, salivating. The man wore no helmet, nor did he don a suit. Instead, an arrangement of tubes and packages was tied tightly to his back, thin wires relaying oxygen to his lungs. His skin was tan with scruffy spots and wrinkles, framed by tufts of greying hair.

There was something in his hands. Gleaming and golden, over half his size, it was shaped like an elegant curving pipe dotted with knobs and keys. Its one end tapered into a flat black piece that fit snugly in his mouth; the other ballooned into a gaping cavern. And from the cavern came twirling, swirling notes in all hues of the rainbow, intertwining together in a magnificent bloom of sound. The music was like an endless rain of roses and cherry blossoms and all the things the children of the Moon had never seen, would never see, cascading down around me. And then the saxophonist ceased, his fingers pattering and then stilling upon the keys of his instrument, the notes spiraling down to a grand finale, the petals of the flowers wilting and crushing to the ground.

“A cat,” he murmured, his glassy eyes affixing to my figure. “How interesting.”

I froze, my every muscle stiffening over tense bones. I felt the urge to flee but defied it, locking my claws into the ground. He did the same with a buckle around his waist, cradling his saxophone to his chest.

Had he seen me?— How had he seen me?

“You hungry, cat?” he asked wryly. His broad hands engulfed the bowl and set it down before me; the bowl automatically fastened itself to the ground.

The fruit was so fresh, so glistening, the juice erupting in my mouth as I bit in. My jaws crushed the moist, crisp grapes, the soft circles of banana, the pulpy orange slices.

And yet, this man, his unworldly gaze, his music…

His eyes met mine. His hand was coarse and callused, stroking my dense black fur. The corners of his mouth tugged upward in a minuscule smile.

Perhaps, a lovely perhaps, this is what it means to be seen.

A Hibiscus-Colored World

Wahoo, I am actually not as (insert the opposite of proud) of this story as usual! I hope it is slightly less bad than the others ;w;

This was inspired by Harrison Bergeron by Kurt Vonnegut, which is a good but kind of chaotic sci-fi story.

Word count: 816 wordzzz :>

“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!”

I swallowed. Mieres placed her hoary-skinned hand jauntily on her hip, her ashen eyebrows scrunching into angles of disgust. I squeezed my hoary-skinned fingers tightly around my palm, my ashen eyebrows pulling into an unwavering line.

Finally, after so many years of cruelty and protests and suffering, the International Laboratory had devised a clever formula with which to eliminate all differences in the world. Everyone was as tall and slim and good-looking as everyone else; everyone had the same level of talent and capacity as everyone else. Every face on the globe displayed the same shade of greyish skin; every eye and strand of hair was the same dull black. All forms of prejudice had ultimately died out, as had the distinctions that had led to its existence.

The latter, to me, was terrible.

And so I had spoken. I had taken to the streets among the rare few who supported our cause, and together we marched into the International Laboratory. We bared our signs and our people, our arguments and our evidence, our ethos and logos and pathos. We thought they would listen— truly we did. But what did we know?— What had we tasted of a bitter world?

They brought us to the heart of the laboratory, where they cleared our memories of one another and our families and our homes, leaving us with only the knowledge that we had protested and failed to make change. And then they sent us to the School for the Abnormal, as much a prison as it was a school, if not more. Mieres had been there when I arrived, which I took to mean that even she, even someone so pristine and rule-abiding, had once dissented.

But now, she was as harsh-voiced and emotionless as any other, her stare shooting daggers at my hand.

I glanced down, gazing helplessly at the crisp hot-pink flower in my palm. A hibiscus— likely, the final one. Its soft petals curved outward from an indigo, life-giving centre (idk y i spelled it like that but i think it looks cool :>); streaks of deep magenta lay painted along each one. It bloomed from a thin jade stem, the whole of it tender and fragile.

It did not, by any means, appear capable of destroying the world.

But then again, lots of things are like that. Things begin as a small group of amateur aspiring scientists; years later, they transform the world and become the International Laboratory. The same applies for a hibiscus flower: a splash of color in a dull universe, a taste of hope…

"You have to get rid of that right now.“ Mieres' voice was tense with muted fury.

”Oh? Who died and made you head of the International Laboratory?“ I shot back wryly.

”This isn't a joke!“ she shouted, flinging her hands into the air. ”That thing, that flower— it has color! Color, Juene, color. Do you not remember what color did to our ancestors? How many people it plunged into poverty, into segregation? How many people it killed?“

She paused, breathing heavily, looking me dead in the eye.

”Mieres—“ I began.

”Juene!“

She made a swift move for my hand, chipped nails dragging across tender skin. I yelped in pain as she grasped my wrist and pried my fingers apart. ”No!" I choked out. The flower swooned, wilted almost, its petals seeming to drop so softly, one by one, each a blur of pink, drifting to the ground…

They fell, as if in slow motion, and crushed against the grass.

And then the world rejuvenated.

The moment the flower brushed the ground, color sprang from its heart and leapt into the air. Shades of deep umber washed across the walls; the grass was bathed in jade and emerald. Golden light swept through a robin-egg sky. I gaped in wonder— the vibrant hues around me, in front of me, on me— and so did Mieres, her own skin a beautiful olive, her eyes twinkling chocolate, her hair dirty blonde with dyed mauve tips.

“Oh,” she gasped, turning her eyes to me. “Oh, Juene!”

At that instant, it all came rushing back to me: a swift current of memories and things past, of friends turned enemy and families faded. I recalled parading through the streets among my old friends, those who dared to defy the norm: Bruno, Archi, Aja, Sephone. And there was one more: a girl, sweet yet stealthy, kindhearted yet cunning, who fought by my side. Mieres.

I opened my arms, reaching to pull her toward me, savoring the embrace that ensued. Mieres— ever gentle, ever sisterly, ever autocratic, ever infuriating, infinitely loved— and me, Juene, her dearest friend.

We hugged, together, in a hibiscus-colored world.

Punctuation and Betrayal

Words: salsa, mud, hyphen, trigonometry (from @Ariellx)

Archimedes cackled softly, stroking his greying beard with the tips of his fingers. The computer screen glowed vividly in the musty shadows of the room.

“My friend,” he said sweetly to the screen. “We meet again.”

A voice emanated from the mechanical depths of the cobwebbed, chipped desktop, blurred and crackly. “You know the plan- right?”

Archimedes grinned wryly. “Not only are you impatient, but you're egotistical as well. You should've used Em Dash there, you know, but instead you used yourself.”

The old man dipped the corner of a stale chip into a bowl of spicy salsa. He let the sauce burn his tongue.

“Regardless,” said Hypen from behind the screen. “I am trapped, here, merely a pixelated smudge on the screen. Can you get me out? You must remember- there is a reward-”

“Oh yes, indeed. I remember.” Archimedes let himself drift briefly away in daydream, imagining the heaps of shining gold the punctuation mark would grant him. Oh, if only. The wealth, merely the thought of it, made him giddy.

“So will you help me?” Hyphen's words held a degree of eagerness, perhaps even desperation. Desperation, huh. A finicky feeling, but useful nonetheless.

“For how much again? One hundred coins, it was?”

“I said fifty… oh. Yes. One hundred coins, sure.”

“Is that a promise?”

An audible gulp. “Yes, Archimedes.”

Archimedes rubbed his hands in glee. Another chip, another searing flame. Mud coated his leather jacket and the labyrinth of his face and hair, almost entirely shielding him from Hyphen's view. Hyphen couldn't know who he truly was.

Could he?

Letting such thoughts aside, Archimedes laid his hands on the computer. His calculations were precise, carefully made. He measured two sides of a crisp triangle. One side opposite the angle theta, he removed. Next he sliced away the hypotenuse, bringing a shard of computer away. Now came the processing: the tricky part. One knob, located at the angle adjacent to theta, would toggle a setting on the graphics processor and free Hyphen from his predicament. The other, however, located sine of theta inches from the computer's fan, would disable the processor and trap Hyphen forever on a dead screen. He flicked his finger toward the first knob. Smiled slightly, knowing Hyphen was watching. But at the speed of lightning, his decision changed. He slid his hand to the second knob, the one that would disable the graphics, ending Hyphen's regime. When that button was pressed, all the kingdoms would have entirely lost their memories of Hyphen: not who he was nor how to use him.

Archimedes pressed hard on the button.

Everything on the computer slid away, fading into a black void. The last sound that remained was Hyphen's screaming cry.

Archimedes howled in laughter.

Archimedes himself was dissipating: his head, his beard, his torso, his limbs. They all fell away, vanishing, leaving only mud behind. The slick brown goop slid to the floorboards, revealing a perfectly black, perfectly straight line.

“My name,” the line whispered, “was never Archimedes.”

Em Dash threw back her head and roared with laughter, glowing with pride. At last, her ignorant brother Hyphen had been defeated. How stupid of him to have accepted the offer of a strange man claiming he could help. No, in the realm of punctuation, there was no such thing as a kind soul: only those who used you correctly and those who didn't. Hyphen, she thought smugly, had been utterly and pathetically deceived.

And now the world belonged to Em Dash.

A Forest Meeting

Weekly:

• Part 1
  
• Part 2 (you are here)
  
• Part 3
  

Word Count: 1437 words (went a little overboard )

Next, we have: Cabin Characters

P.S. No offense intended to any cabins mentioned in the story

Non-Fi emerged from the bushy foliage, moonlight illuminating her smooth peach skin. She had prepared throroughly for today's midnight meeting: her light brown hair was combed back in a neat ponytail, and she wore her best denim jacket and khaki pants. Her green-rimmed glasses, perched atop her nose, provided a crisp view of the forest clearing. Miles from camp, the landscape was utterly barren of people. Except…

Non-Fi gave a sideways smile as she glimpsed the familiar red and black of the person she was known to hate. Only she found it hard to match the image others assigned to her relationship with Horror. In fact, her heart gave a little jump as her alleged enemy stamped into the clearing, his jet-black hair frazzled as usual. His eyes were bloodshot and wild against his frightfully pale skin, his cheekbones clearly visible in his state of gauntness. His red-splattered T-shirt hung loose from his bony form, its edges ragged. He stumbled to a halt in front of Non-Fi, crumpling to the grass in gasping, desperate breaths.

Non-Fi chuckled softly as she gazed at Horror. “What is it today, Horror?”

Horror stared at her with intense solemnity. “Monsters,” he hissed. “Their trailing claws oozed like slime behind me. Their howling cries echoed in the leaves. They were hungry, murderous beasts.”

She sighed. “Oh, Horror. You know monsters don't exist.” Horror was known to be a bit overly literary about mundane things, often weaving them into intricate tales of his favorite genre. Non-Fi was simply the opposite: matter-of-fact, logical, and calm in a crisis.

Horror shrugged, becoming sheepish. "Well, okay. Maybe I didn't actually see any monsters, but it's fun to pretend, isn't it?“ He exhaled, running a hand through his slick hair. ”Oh, sorry. I forgot. You don't do pretend.“

”That's true: I don't.“ Non-Fi reached for Horror's clammy hand and pulled him to his feet. The moon shone above, streaks of silver light peeking through the branches. One hit the point where their fingers intertwined. Their togetherness glowed.

Non-Fi pulled her hand away, startled, and faltered as she saw the hurt in Horror's eyes. Neither spoke for a moment.

”Uh, so, anyway,“ Horror said, obviously uncomfortable. ”What's new? We didn't come here to waste our time, after all.“

”That's right.“ They came, every night, to the clearing, so that they could be together without others knowing. Others could never know: Non-Fi made sure to hide her true self from everyone— even her brother Real-Fi and her close friend Poetry— and Horror did the same. It was for their own good, for there had never been a friendship between two genres so diverse, so disparate, in all the history of SWC. It was a camp they visited every year for three non-consecutive months, during which Non-Fi left her beloved newsroom and Horror closed his carnival to reunite with each other and all the other genres. ”Not much has been happening lately. You know: boring dailies, tiring weeklies, brief word wars, the usual. Even cabin wars were uneventful— oh.“

Both seemed to wilt slightly, avoiding each other's gaze. Cabin wars had been a touchy subject between the two ever since they occurred, and the scars of betrayal remained fresh in Non-Fi's heart. Horror— yes, Horror, her most intimate friend— had attacked her within the first hour of the battles. Charging into Non-Fi's organized cabin, he had jabbed a chipped-nailed finger at her chest and demanded that she write four stories, each consisting of 1,000 words.

She'd been awake all night, the LED light shining on her graphite-smudged notebook as she struggled to choke out the four thousand words without letting her tears wet the paper. It was the first— and hopefully only— time all session that she'd let her emotions get to her so deeply.

”That… wasn't my fault,“ Horror said, voice tense. ”It was something Thriller said… it made me really mad…“

”Thriller's my friend,“ Non-Fi said boldly. ”I trust him.“ It was true: the perpetually excited boy with red-and-blue streaks in his hair and clothing had never let her down. But neither had Horror, before the cabin wars incident. And her relationship with Horror was far closer than the one she had with Thriller…

…right?

The answer remained unsaid, hovering in the mist above them. Horror shook his head firmly. ”Thriller hates me,“ he declared. ”You should be more careful around him, Non-Fi.“

Non-Fi frowned. ”Just because he's mean to you doesn't mean he's not a friend to me. You might like him if you get to know him better.“

Horror didn't bother to hide his snort. ”Whatever, Non-Fi,“ he sighed. ”Anyway. How have things been with your standings and such?“ He smirked slightly, as if envisioning the Point Board on which Non-Fi was eighth and he was fifth. ”Those snobbish Mangonator siblings and that nasty Mystery will have to pay when I, Horror, win SWC,“ he mumbled aloud to himself.

Non-Fi made a sound like an exasperated sigh combined with an amused chuckle. ”Oh, Horror— be nice,“ she admonished. ”The Mangonator siblings aren't that bad— Fairy Tales is so kind and sweet, and Myth and Adventure are pretty welcoming too. Mystery, though…" She scowled, her gaze darkening as she recalled the previous session of camp, when all her hard work had placed her second— second, not first like she deserved— to Mystery. Mystery, with her ashen braids and her damp daffodil raincoat, appeared a shy, quiet girl to everyone who saw her. But she was so much more to Non-Fi: a sneaky, backstabbing coward.

She shook herself. Stop it, Non-Fi. You're doing what you just told Horror not to do. Keep your emotions in check. Deep breaths. In, out. By the time her anger had boiled down to a dull grudge, she opened her eyes.

Horror was giving her a quizzical look. “You okay, Fact?”

Non-Fi bristled slightly. Her childhood name, the one that was taught in schools before the children learned longer, more complicated terminology, sounded foreign to her ears. It held so many memories: fragments of moments long ago. She cherished them, yet it hurt to think of them.

All the things I had. All the things I can only dream of now.

Non-Fi gritted her teeth. “Yes. I'm fine,” she monotoned. She wasn't one to lie, but her emotions were too complex for her to reveal them, even to Horror.

The moon was dimming, falling slowly away. The space between the leaves was growing softer, fainter; the sky was the color of month-old newspaper. Soon the sun would soar above, the birds would warble, and a new daily would be tacked to the main cabin pin board…

“We should go now,” Non-Fi said quietly, touching Horror's shoulder. “If we don't leave soon, we won't make it back before the daily changes. The others will find out what we've been doing all along.” She felt so tired suddenly, all he adrenaline flowing from her. She hadn't slept all night, what with preparing for the meeting and the meeting itself. She likely wouldn't rest at all unless she violated traffic rules on her way back in order to save some time, but that would get her in trouble with the ST. Nobody wanted that.

“Wait.” Horror grasped her arm just as she turned to leave. “I have to ask you something.”

There was something soft and silvery in his usually wary eyes. “Non-Fi,” he said. “I can't stand being your enemy for much longer.”

Non-Fi swallowed. “I know,” she admitted. “Neither can I. But SWC… what will others think?”

“SWC, SWC, SWC!” Horror groaned, flinging his hands in the air in frustration. “It's all about SWC! Our allies, our neutrals, our enemies— all chosen for a little number on the main cabin pin board! It doesn't have to be this way, Non-Fi. We can drop out! Think about how amazing our lives would be if we left SWC for good— we could party all day! We could explore together! We could write together, Non-Fi; you could come to my carnival and I could help with your newsroom!”

Non-Fi was speechless. It wasn't that this thought hadn't occurred to her before, but she'd never expected Horror to voice it aloud.

“Horror, slow down,” she said weakly. “You need to think this through. We can't just leave SWC! We're nothing without SWC: absolutely nothing! Besides,” she added, looking down, “I love SWC.”

“More than you love me?” Horror asked softly.

Non-Fi jerked her head up in shock, but before she could respond, Horror had faded into the shadows of the forest.

Farmer

Word count: 398 words B)

Soft (@softmoon) has created a workshop on strong word choice! For her daily, write 250 words without using the same verb or adjective twice.

Pls let me know if any verbs or adjectives are repeated.

The sun peeks up from above the horizon, casting gentle light onto a lemon yellow field. Tender green shoots rise through the grass, ever striving. They dance in the breeze, swaying softly, flicking side to side.

The farmwife clears the windows of rosy velvet, swaddles the baby in lavender folds. The farmwife sings as she cooks, a sweet lilting tune, demure hands caressing dough. She tousles her children's hair with wholehearted smiles, then calls for her husband upstairs.

The farmer trudges down the well-trodden stairs, his face a clouded thunderstorm. He snaps at the farmwife, a scowl in his eyes, and pinches his son for misbehaving. The farmer marches to the table, wolfs down his food. Slams his spoon to the plate with a hearty clang, then storms out the door.

The farmer runs his hand through his bedraggled hair as he walks down the path. Fields spread before him, striped with viridescence. He sinks to his knees before a row of pale sprouts, canvas gloved hands outstretched to rich soil. He showers the plants with crystal droplets, rivulets rubbed into umber earth. He slathers his suntanned face in the cool clear liquid. The sun pours sweat down his broad scarred back.

The farmer leans to sprinkle seeds. His back aches, throbs, until he gasps with the pain. Several yards of seeds are planted. Many, not enough. He stretches, twists, easing razor pains.

He heads off north toward the chipped scarlet barn. Paint flakes off its edges, revealing barren white. His brown hair burns with the heat overhead, his jean overalls torn, their edges frayed. Inside, moos and grunts await him, demanding to be fed. He obliges.

Now the satin violet curtains descend on the land, sleepy waves of dusk washing over blooming fields. The farmer finishes, moon shining overhead. Shades of indigo, cerulean, crimson are on the sky, oil painted. Satisfaction returns at the sight of the farmwife, her platter full of dinner. He eats, not watching the hopeful eyed children, avoiding the farmwife's melancholy gaze.

And so it continues, another day, another sleepless night. And so the sun ascends and disappears once more. And so a family, or broken shards of a family, attempt to glue themselves together again. And so a farmer comes and goes, and so a farmwife and her children mourn. And day after day, the indigo drapes close on an endless theater.

Mangomania

Weekly:

• Part 1
  
• Part 2
  
• Part 3 (you are here)
  

Word Count: 1834 words

And our final section: Swc: a Fanfiction

Please let me know if anything I wrote is offensive or incorrect to anyone who volunteered to be in the story, and i'll change it

I tiptoed cautiously from the door of the orderly spruce-wood cabin. My fellow Non-Fi cabinmates slept contentedly, their blanketed forms blurred and fuzzy in the shadows of the bunk beds. Replay and Misty were already up and in the back room of the cabin, their fingers flying across the keyboards as they typed away. Soon, the campers would join them, writing intently as soft classical music emanated in the background.

We had to get the plan ready by then.

As I strolled down the gravel trail, I spotted a flash of bright pink behind a broad oak tree. Jint, one of the newsroom editors, popped out of the shadows, her black-and-pink hair bouncing against her shoulders. “Seahorse!” she called, waving.

“Jint? How's the plan going?” I asked, turning towards her.

“Not good,” Jint replied, frowning. “We should've prepared everything earlier, so we'd only have to carry it out today. I sent Yishu and Night to the Contemporary cabin at dawn to help Zura harvest the garden, but they found out that half of the mangoes were already rotten!”

"Half?“ I asked, horrified. ”But Zura worked so hard to plant those mangoes! If we can only use half the mangoes from Contemporary's garden, that's nowhere near enough! What will we do?“

Jint scrunched up her eyebrows, squinting in concentration. ”Hmm…“ Suddenly, she snapped her fingers and started bouncing up and down, her eyes bright. ”I know!“ she said triumphantly. ”We should send some campers to Real-Fi— I heard Bright got some mangoes from outside of camp to feed the campers. After all, they can't just eat cookies, however delicious they are.“ Her eyes wandered into space as she daydreamed about stealing Real-Fi's precious cookies.

”Good idea! I'll go send someone. Thanks!" I called over my shoulder. I picked up my pace, jogging quickly across the smooth green lawn surrounding the main cabin. I paused briefly at the broad electronic bulletin board to check on my cabin's standings: Non-Fi was still in eighth. I sighed, biting back the urge to hurry back to my cabin (via the teleporting hyperlink provided by Sci-Fi's campers) and write up a storm. Today wasn't a day for writing— we, the Mango Crew, would make sure of that.

I pulled a sheet of crumpled notebook paper from my pocket and smoothed it out, trying to decipher the messily written names of the other Mango
Crew members. I traced each name to the camper's cabin, furrowing my brow as I struggled to remember the complex system of allies, neutrals, and enemies between the cabins. If we were going to ask Real-Fi for mangoes, it would be best to ask a camper whose cabin was allied with Real-Fi, or else the Real-Fi campers might not trust them. Although my cabin, Non-Fi, was Real-Fi's ally, I didn't have time to do it myself.

Scanning the list, I circled two names: Sweety - Adventure and See - Hi-Fi. Both were close allies with Real-Fi.

Perfect.

The campgrounds covered a vast amount of land, and even with all the glowing blue hyperlinks placed throughout the area, it would take far too much time to travel from one cabin to another. That was why we had established the Mango Base, a well-concealed secret meeting place that only we had hyperlinks to. The Mango Base was hidden in the most unfrequented corner of the abandoned ink factory behind the Mystery cabin, clothed in deep leaden shadows that obscured it from campers' view.

I slipped a hyperlink from my pocket. It was merely a small, glowing globe, the size of my palm, filled with swirling blue liquid. I held it in my hands, closed my eyes, and concentrated as hard as I could on the Mango Base in the shadows of the factory. Moments later, I was there.

I surveyed the alcove that housed the Mango Base. It was sparsely furnished, with a couple creaking chairs, a cobwebbed table, and a rough charcoal diagram of our plan taped to the wall. I picked up our walkie-talkie from the middle of the table and called Sweety and See.

“Can you come to Mango Base right now?” I asked hastily, keeping my voice low so not to attract the attention of any wandering detectives. “There's been a problem, and we need your help.”

“Hmm?” Sweety's voice crackled through the speakers. “Oh, okay! I'll be there.”

“All right!” See agreed. Almost immediately, the bright blue flash of hyperlinks lit up the room, and the two campers materialized.

“What do you need our help with?” See asked eagerly.

I told about the incident with Zura's garden, and how we'd lost half our mango supply. Their faces fell at the news. “But don't worry!” I added. “Jint says Real-Fi has mangoes. Since your cabins are allied with Real-Fi, can you hyperlink to their cabin and ask for some?”

Sweety nodded thoughtfully. “I see,” she said slowly, her dark brown eyes inquisitive. “But won't Real-Fi be suspicious if we show up and ask for that many mangoes?”

“Oh!” I slapped my forehead. How could I not have thought of that? “Then… say we're having a party, maybe? As a last resort, tell Bright or another co-leader about our plan. At this point, getting the mangoes is more important than keeping this a secret.” Sweety and See nodded, took out their hyperlinks to Real-Fi, and vanished.

I was about to go check on the helicopter team when I spotted a moving shadow in the distance. Streams of pale light spilled into the corridor of the factory, illuminating the dust particles drifting through the air. I jumped in startlement as the detective's face came into view, her ocean-blue eyes wandering over the puddles of ink. I can't let her find Mango Base! I thought, ducking behind a bulky machine.

My heart sank as the girl approached the base. As she came closer, however, I gasped in relief. The camper's blue eyes, fair skin, and flowing brown curls adjoined to form the image of someone I recognized. It was Jean, a fellow member of Mango Crew!

“Jean!” I called, stepped out from behind the machine.

Jean glanced up, surprised. “Oh, hi, Seahorse,” she said, smiling.

“How's the helicopter?” I asked. “As soon as Sweety, See, Yishu, and Night come back with all the mangoes from both Zura and Real-Fi, we'll need to start the helicopter.”

“Unfortunately, there's been a slight issue with the helicopter,” Jean replied. “Can you come check?”

I sighed. “Again? There's been five hundred problems with every part of the helicopter! We really should've planned this out more thoroughly.”

We each held a hyperlink and transported ourselves to the helicopter enclosure on its vast field far from the cabins.

When we re-emerged, a gentle breeze blew against our cheeks. We stepped across the wildflower-laden grass to the bulky helicopter, borrowed through means of negotiation with the Sci-Fi cabin. It wasn't very large nor well-built, which was likely why it constantly broke down and refused to fly. Two girls stood by the helicopter's metal doors, busily tinkering with the many screws and wires that bound the thing together.

Vi and Aj turned towards us as we neared. “Hi, Jean and Seahorse,” Aj said, grinning. She brushed wisps of strawberry-blond hair away from her forehead, breathing hard from the tiring repair work.

Vi sighed in frustration. “The helicopter is malfunctioning again,” she muttered. “It seems like there's a problem in the engine.”

Jean and I joined in with screwdrivers and hammers at the ready. At first, we worked carefully and methodically, but minutes were ticking by and the campers would be up and writing any moment now. We began to work with increasing vigor, our tools clanging against the cold metal surface. Finally, the hood of the engine popped off, revealing the reddish-golden glint of…

…a mango?

“Hey, look!” Night, who was helping fix the helicopter, lifted the hood higher and leaned in to inspect the grimy fruit. “There's a mango stuck in the engine!” they announced, their auburn curls bobbing as they jerked their head up.

“A mango in the engine?” Yishu asked, coming over to see. She chuckled as she glimpsed the mango. “Of all the ways for a helicopter to break down,” she said, “we got the funniest one.”

I laughed. “Okay,” I said, counting off my fingers. “Zura grew mangoes. Yishu and Night helped her harvest those mangoes. Sweety and See got mangoes from Real-Fi. Jean, Vi, and Aj worked on fixing the helicopter. Now, all that's left is revealing our plan.”

Everyone was beaming. We'd all worked so hard for this moment, this day. No camper would write a single word today. It would be Mangomania.

~

The reveal was gradual but grand. Zura came bouncing over excitedly, her bubblegum-pink eyes sparkling as she wheeled an enormous wooden wheelbarrow filled to the brim with mangoes. “Hey, everyone!” she shouted. “All the mangoes are ready, courtesy Real-Fi as well as ContempoRAREy the legendary.” She smirked.

"We'll see about that,“ I replied lightheartedly. ”Anyways, thanks for the mangoes. Vi and Aj, can you start up the helicopter?“

As we dumped all the mangoes into the trunk of the aircraft (taking care not to let any near the engine), the metallic whir of the blades began to snap overhead. They sliced the air, faster and faster, until the weightless capsule floated into the air and zoomed away. Shouting and laughing in ecstasy, the rest of the crew sprinted down the hillside back toward camp, where campers were just starting to yawn and stretch and step out of bed. A small group of writers had gathered at the doors of the main cabin; they looked up, stunned, as the helicopter whizzed above them. A small hatch slid open on the copter's belly, and endless torrents upon torrents of mangoes poured out! The fruits rained through the air, round globes of all sizes and hues and degrees of ripeness, each one fresh and ready to eat. Shocked campers halted in their tracks and gaped and pointed at the falling fruits. The world was full of them: a universe dotted with oil-painted blobs of orange and scarlet and gold, every shade of boiling flame.

The Mango Crew assembled on the main cabin lawn, yelling and laughing as mangoes cascaded around us. Our speakers, Sine and Elle, stepped forth.

”Scratch Writing Campers,“ Sine hollered over the ruckus. ”Scratch Writing Campers, please listen.“ The campers quieted, turning to face the former host.

Sine adjusted her blue-ribboned sunhat, pausing for dramatic effect. ”We the Mango Crew have officially established that today, July 17th, will not be a day for writing: rather, a day for mangoes, parties, and fun.“

”So we can all stop writing!“ Elle declared cheerfully. ”That's right, everyone: put down your pens and paper and computers, hold off on your dailies and weeklies, and let's have fun! Eat some mangoes, people! They're all fresh, thanks to Zura and the Real-Fi campers!"

A cheer went up, and the celebration commenced.

gosh this is so flippin' good :0

Tonksity tonks! I didn't mean for it to turn that romance-y T^T but the characters got in KMtrol of the story like the writing teach told us not to do T_T_T_T_T_T_T

seahorse104 wrote:

Tonksity tonks! I didn't mean for it to turn that romance-y T^T but the characters got in KMtrol of the story like the writing teach told us not to do T_T_T_T_T_T_T

NOOOOO IT WAS BRILLIANT I LOVED IT HAHAHAH

apart-- wrote:

seahorse104 wrote:

Tonksity tonks! I didn't mean for it to turn that romance-y T^T but the characters got in KMtrol of the story like the writing teach told us not to do T_T_T_T_T_T_T

NOOOOO IT WAS BRILLIANT I LOVED IT HAHAHAH

Thanks XD

This is really Awesome!!!