Daily 7/4

Today I took a nap. Wow, big groundbreaking amazing self-care breakthrough, I know (/s). This is actually following the fact that I accidentally stayed up until 4am finishing a 2,000+ word piece, whoops. Yeah yeah I know, that kinda contradicts the whole “self-care” point of all this, since I was literally disregarding my own health for the sake of writing, but that's not the point. And yes, technically I already take a nap every Sunday, but that's just because if I get a “day of rest,” you can be dang sure I'm gonna use it (lol). Sundays are my break days, so to speak; you know, just a day I can use to take a breather. I go to church, I take a nap, I roleplay with my friend, and I don't worry about other stuff. So what if this is something I do every Sunday, it's still something I do to improve my mental health just by taking a moment to step back from the things I need to do (and sleep!!!! Gosh sleep is always in such short supply; usually I end up napping half the day to make up for the rest of the week lol).

So yes, I took a nap. And actually I managed to get an hour longer than I thought I would, which was nice. And I've been roleplaying with my dear frendo Kev today after two days of inactivity, and so I could do some wholesome/funny/completely random interactions as Bucky (yes he's who I rp as most of the time shushushush he's a comfort character okay) which was relaxing. I dunno, it's just… nice, to de-stress?? It's hard to really put it to words and such, but this week has been pretty… nice (ugh I really need to come up with other adjectives) especially as I've been recovering from a rough point just a week ago. This writing is absolutely all over the place (just like my brain HA) but I'm just going to mention how going to church really helped out and I enjoyed it way more than I thought I would considering it's on a national holiday and such, but I'm actually really happy that we had it today. I know religion isn't everyone's cup of tea so I won't really go into it or anything (plus it's pretty personal and I'd rather not share the specifics anyway) but I just want to share how this, for me, really helped me settle. I had some peace, and was able to reflect on it now that I was actually thinking about it, and that was something I really really needed right now. So I guess that's kind of it for now, the general theme here is peace and love and kumbayah (or however that's spelled, I have smol brain) and de-stressing, so yeah.

Daily 7/5

Veronica, this… wow, this is really sudden. Sorry I haven't done a whole lot with you pal, but I do want you to know that you do hold a special place in my heart. I got you from a friend who designed you based off my favorite comfort character, I redesigned you and made you my own, and you became my very own comfort character. I've always loved making goody-two-shoes characters, but I was so happy to be able to make a gal with a moral gray area such as yourself. You and your little band of thieves gives me life in all honesty, and I want to thank you sincerely for that. I'll work on fleshing out you and your backstory and general storyline out, but I want you to know that I really do love you and haven't forgotten about you. I mean, I have used you more than Bright and her attached characters recently, heheh. Sorry I couldn't do more for you, you amazing amputee, but you keep being awesome and rocking the vigilante life– and that epic bandana.

Daily 7/6

There was a heavy sigh as an old, worn leather-back journal was opened, a rattling sound as a pen was retrieved from the pen cup in its usual place at the top corner of the desk.

Dear diary,

Semicolon here again. I've just– I've got the grammar blues again, I guess. I feel so overworked, except I'm not even doing the right work. Not by my own will, of course; I'm at the mercy of the author and limited by their own knowledge– or ignorance, as it may be (and often is). I've got a bone to pick with my author. (Not Nicole, of course. She always uses me perfectly– though I suppose she might neglect me in favor of Em-Dash pretty unfairly frequently. What's he got that I don't??) No, no, I've got a different author who's been working me to death. And golly, is she working me to death. She spends her entire day writing– and really, her work is just beautiful and imaginative and so unique and descriptive; you'd think that she'd possess a bit more knowledge as to how punctuation works– and yet, she has me doing three times the amount of work I'm supposed to! Maybe even more; I've stopped keeping track at this point, I'm just so bone-tired and too fed up with these errors to even think about paying any more attention to them than I have to. She has me filling in for commas, for periods… heck, even just for no one! She has me doing jobs that literally no one has to do! And I know my coworkers are feeling it, too; Dash is also often forced to take others' shifts. I guess the only person benefiting from this is Period– the lucky punk, he can sit back and watch as we're made to fill in his jobs with run-on sentence after run-on sentence after run-on sentence. I hope he has to pick up a second job under an author in kindergarten, who only knows how to write simple sentences. Kindergartners don't usually even know how to use commas, much less any of the rest of us. That'll show him. We could all just kick back and watch as he has to end a sentence every five words; I'm smiling even just thinking about it. But anyway, I'm not here to talk about Period– sorry for my digression. I do like my author, and I like how she writes. (Also, this is unrelated, but I'm pretty sure she's British, and that is totally epic.) Her writing style is so unique and clever, and she's so dedicated to her writing, but boy does she make my blood boil! I wish we existed in the same plane of existence, that way I could throw a book on grammar at her head. Maybe I'll just find a way to link her to Pie's workshop on grammar… I'll update you on this as it develops.

With love as always,
Semicolon

The pen was dropped back into the cup and the journal lazily thrown in the general direction of the shelf from whence it came, Semicolon flopping down on her bed to get some well-deserved shut-eye before another long day tomorrow working three times her fill. She dreamed of taking a vacation to a kindergarten class, watching and drinking from a coconut as Period was made to conclude simple sentence after simple sentence, and not once did she have to worry about working.

Daily 7/8

Zero twirled his drumstick between his fingers, thumping the digits of his other hand on his leg as he idly waited. He looked over at the clock, tapping his toes impatiently. His short claws clicked on the hardwood floor with each tap. “C'mon, Regs! You tryna keep me waiting until I'm old and gray or something?”

Reggae stepped out from the bathroom, a light steam billowing out behind him leftover from his always ridiculously hot showers. The serval rolled his eyes, a towel half draped around his neck as he patted dry his still-damp fluff on the top of his head.

Zero wore his crooked grin as his brother-not-brother finally, finally stepped out so they could leave, standing up off his stool. “With how long you took in there, I think you could compete with all the gals getting ready for their prom night or whatever.” Zero wasn't exactly the most cultured in the typical teenage experience, since his own teenage experience consisted of hiding scared from his mama. But, he knew enough of it from those cheesy movies Reggae made him watch (that he secretly loved but would never be caught dead admitting it) to get the general gist and be able to make references sometimes.

Reggae snorted, catching the keys Zero practically threw at his face in the nick of time. “Is your old and gray self gonna be able to handle this walk?” he teased, watching as the pitbull carefully stretched out his legs and and back, his spine giving a little pop.

“Oh, don't you worry about me, Regs. I'll still be kickin' while you're hobbled in a wheelchair or something.”

Reggae didn't come up with some snappy retort to this one, letting his eye roll stand as a reply in itself. “Let's just get going, or it'll be dark before we can even step outside. Don't wanna be caught out past curfew.”

Curfew had been mandated all throughout the region with the threat from the north hovering over their country. The Chaiths up there had been getting more and more into the dark practices as of late, and growing more and more aggressive toward their southern neighbors. However, with Etechai as her advisor, Bright had been doing remarkably at keeping things under control and keeping life going as close to normally as possible. It was amazing that the curfew was the only major change to how their society functioned now.

Reggae led the way out, locking their door behind them, and took the lead on their routine walk down to the park and back. They'd done it so many times that Zero had it memorized by heart by now. That's the point of it, Reggae would say. A routine is a good thing; it helps make the rest of living and coping easier. And, Zero would admit, he did need it. The fear and the nightmares were enough, and he'd do what he could to help manage them.

The pair passed by couples and several other locals as they made their way down the winding walkway; many of these passersby were regulars and knew them well, with how often they came down here. Reggae had come up with the idea of taking a walk (probably from one of the many self-help books he always read) just a few weeks after he'd picked up the scared and scarred 15-year-old Zero from the care center as part of the “big brother” program, and the two had been following the routine ever since– even now, years later.

Reggae plucked a few flowers as they passed by; another regular occurrence. He slowed as a snow leopard with long dyed orange hair passed by– Jasley. Zero held back a snicker as his friend stood dumbfounded, watching the lady pass by.

“You should ask her out,” he whispered into his ear, only slightly teasingly. "I'll bet you she's totally into you.“

Reggae snapped out of his lovestruck daze instantly, jerking his head over to look at his younger brother-not-brother. ”Oh, you shut up," he hissed as he playfully shoved Zero's shoulder, his face flushed.

Zero guffawed, grinning back at him. Things were good today. And that was all he needed.

Daily 7/14
Ingredients: (suggested by @zparkly)
Shatter, night, memory, hospital

CONTENT WARNING: brief reference to gun violence, depressive thoughts.

~~~

Bright's paws pounded on the ground as she sprinted all over town. She and Etechai had decided to split up to cover more ground; the rest of the Castle Guard was out and about searching as well.

She remembered the paralyzing panic she felt when she pushed open Tallus's door to find his bed and room empty, the window cracked open as rain pattered on the glass and the wind whistled through the crevice. She had screamed for Etechai to come– nearly in a broken down mess by the time (actually only a few seconds later) he'd arrived at her side.

Bright had never had such a vicious spat with her adopted son before; for the entire time she'd taken care of Tallus, he had been sweet, innocent, understanding. She couldn't believe that something as trivial as a party could get between them and their shared eleven years. She may have blown up about it at him a little bit, but with good reason– Kyos was rounding up a battalion of youth, if her intel was to be believed, and the program of dark practice was rumored to even be lurking about the city. Probably at the very party her son had wanted to attend.

She couldn't believe he'd sneak out– knowing the risks– just to go.

Rain still dribbled from the dark sky as she ran, her heart doing its best to pummel its way out of her chest. Her head throbbed with sheer panic and disbelief. Her darling boy. She didn't dare let herself think of the possibilities.

Bright slowed as she reached the site of the party. Not much of a party going on here now, that's for sure. Lights from the police cars blinked on the large building and surrounding area, officers themselves bustling about and chattering into their comms. Some tried to approach her and explain, ask questions, but her mind was too distant, too focused on her one task at hand.

She stepped around the area, finding a window with the glass shattered in. Bullet shells lay in the grass right outside. The world seemed to stop,

Bright's own comm buzzed. Etechai's voice spoke into her ear.

“I found him. He's at the hospital.”

All sound seemed to cease for a moment after that, the rain seeming to halt in the sky. Bright felt blue magic pulse through her veins, pumping with her heart.

She didn't think after that. She just turned tail and ran.

She bolted down the sidewalks as fast as her paws could carry her. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe–

Her darling boy, her darling– She knew this would happen! She'd told him, warned him– Why couldn't he have just believed her?

…Why did she have to yell? Why did she blow up in his face? Tallus had only ever been understanding; …why couldn't she have tried harder to make him understand?

Tears streaked down her face, and she clumsily brought up a hand to wipe her eyes as she ran. Her fault. Her fault. It was her fault.

It's always her fault.

She felt the old demons in her mind rise up, taking full advantage of the tragedy. Hopelessness tried to force its way in to settle in her bones. But not yet, she insisted stubbornly. She had a task to complete.

Find her son. Make sure he was alright.

That objective overwhelmed everything. She'd failed Tallus many times before; she knew that. She wouldn't fail him this time. Not like this. Never like this.

Her boy was only seventeen. She couldn't fail him like this.

Memories flooded into her mind of when he was small. How, when she had first gotten him, she'd been a mere secretary at the time. Not the queen of an entire country. She'd lived in her cabin up north; it was a cold winter, the snow was up to her waist. She'd noticed movement outside– a little lion cub, terribly skinny and terribly cold and terribly young, trying to bumble his way through the ice.

She'd brought him inside, because how could she not; took care of him for a long while, waiting out that wretched storm that had overwhelmed all the phone lines and roads. At the end of that second week, over a cup of hot cocoa, that little cub who had been too scared to say more than ten words this whole time, asked her,

“Are you gonna be taking care of me now?”

She stooped down to his level (because she'd always been short, but this malnourished little child was a whole different kind of short), looked him in the eye with as much sweetness and sincerity as possible, and answered,

“If you want, I'll take care of you forever.”

Bright rubbed her eyes again, all her fur and clothing now sufficiently drenched even as the rain slowed to a stop in the cloudy night sky, not daring to slow her pace even as she reached the hospital. She barely paused at the front desk to demand which room her son was in– apparently joined by her husband as well by now. She picked up the final sprint to the hall.

I'll take care of you forever.

She threw open the door.

~~~

Author's note (added after the 20 minutes):
I found these four words and immediately said yes, these ones. I don't know, call me an angst-aholic. I scrapped my original idea of doing yet another Bucky fanfic (ahaha) and instead decided upon my furry trash.
Fun fact, I've actually had this plot planned in my head for years, exactly like this, and these four words actually just fit in perfectly with the story. Huh, how about that.
Well, whoops, I guess spoiler alert for my cringey furry-verse that literally no one even knows anything about because I created it years upon years ago then stopped sharing anything about it then completely redid the storyline and still have not done anything with it since. Whoops.
Maybe I'll get back into it, but in all honesty, I'm too much of a coward to publicly deal with my furry stuff at this point ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Daily 7/16

Veronica checked her stopwatch, ducked behind the wispy desert bushes alongside her cohorts. She looked over her leather pocket book meticulously marked with the exact train schedule once more, making mental note of the time and bringing her eyes up to scan the horizon. Dust swirled through the dry plains with a cool breeze that tickled her ears, but that's not the sound she was paying attention to. Her sharp hearing picked up on the faint chooga-chooga coming their way, growing louder with each second. Bingo.

Smirking with cool adrenaline coursing through her veins, she pulled up her black bandana from around her neck and tucked it over her snout, the sneering white fangs painted into the fabric mirroring her own expression. The jackal let out a whoop, the individuals in her rowdy gang doing the same– as had basically become tradition– their collective excitement increasing with each cheer. Veronica pushed out of the shrubbery, her company trailing after her as she stepped up the pace, dust billowing out behind them with each of their quick footfalls as the company expeditiously covered the barren plain. She bounded, once, twice, then propelled herself into their air, thudding into the rusty side of the train. Her metal arm whirred as she scrambled for a handhold, the titanium claws sinking into the steel sheets of the railroad car. Similar thumps sounded on either side of her as her associates each landed on the coppery exterior, clinging on as the locomotive powered them through the arid wasteland. Wind roared in her ears as it surged all around her, but she continued undeterred, slowly and deliberately scaling up the train wall up to the roof. Some members of her crew followed suit, while other remained clutching to the side.

Veronica remained hunched low against the roof so as not to get knocked off, and spotted Argo making his way up as well to her right.

“Never gets old, does it!” she yelled against the gale, probably too happy– as she always was– to be carrying out their delinquent plan.

“No, I suppose it doesn't!” Argo hollered back, a crooked breathless smile on his face as he hauled himself the rest of the way up to join her. “You reckon Simus's gonna be pleased with the payload here?”

“Oh, no doubt,” Veronica returned, turning her eyes back up forward and squinting against the assaulting gust. All in a day's work for Mokki's finest band of thieves.

Failed Weekly

Welp this is a failed weekly. This is why you don’t try to write it all in one day, kids. I’m still posting and counting it for words, tho.
In case you were curious, my editor-generated “characters” were a girl named Abby, a disgusting looking purple convertible (I was gonna poke fun at how bad it looks lol) and a giraffe, and my background was “Castle 2”, which just adds to the difficulty of how impossibly hard it would be to combine all four of these elements in a way that sort of made sense. But, I had an idea. Didn’t complete it though– story of my life, to be honest.

Abby tapped her fingers on her desk, waiting rather impatiently by the phone for the call she had been promised would come. She let out a bored sigh, her eyes glued to the clock as she sat with her cheek propped up in her hand, leg bouncing at a regular pace. Emma hadn’t even explained what the alleged call would be about, just assured her “It’s big. Really big.”

“Helpful,” Abby thought out loud sarcastically with a roll of her brown eyes as she recalled that particular moment. She let out another, even more exaggerated sigh, keeping up her impatient fidgeting.

The landline sitting beside her elbow finally let out a very sudden loud ring, scaring the absolute life out of our dear bored-out-of-her-mind Abby who had, up until now, been sitting in relative near silence. After taking a brief moment to jumpstart her heart after having it practically scared out of her chest, she reached for the phone and tipped it to her ear and answered.

Her jaw slowly slid open as she listened to the request on the other side.

Abby didn’t even know that her little town had royalty. Sure, everyone knew about the random castle over on the hill that completely stood out against everything else and didn’t fit in in the least, but it had always been something that you’re not supposed to mention– an elephant in the room, if you will. A castle on the edge of a modern city. Far from normal, but hey, things are weird these days.

And about to get weirder for Abby.

There’s a castle in town. Apparently, that castle had housed royalty all this time. And now this royalty wanted to meet an average 23-year-old accountant for a paper dealership.

Abby quickly agreed, naturally, and so the man on the other side of the phone arranged for someone to pick her up and take her to the castle within the hour. She consented eagerly, then hung up the phone.

Abby couldn’t believe her mind.

Daily 7/18

For my song, I chose Poison by Cavetown.
Here are the translated lyrics:

Breathe, release my hand!
When I put him to sleep
Right now
Do not be afraid of them, not good
And the trap
But the car arrives
And I think he'll keep me going
Food Poisoning
Water treatment team
Is there a ghost in my house?
It smells like blood
I'm crazy, I'm not scared
He looks like a vagabond, but no?

Warning, because this story does go a bit into the horror genre. This is the first time I've written as such, and actually it was kind of a complete accident. But, I like it, so enjoy.

The old woman took in a slow, wheezing breath. The term “old” could be used loosely; in actuality, she was only in her late forties. However, despite this middling age, multiple health defects led to her slow deterioration. Her skin bunched up on her arms as she held the swaddled fussing bundle, her voice hissing out softly through her teeth as she tried to shush it. Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she lay the little baby boy in his cradle. He was young, and small; too small, but she took care of him regardless. The infant settled as he was tucked in the thin blankets, and the woman let out a small breath of relief, only for a skitter-skitter-clack sound to echo behind her. She looked over her shoulder in the dimly lit house– money was too tight to pay for an actual electrician to come in and fix the many, many problems– though she was already telling herself that it was only in her head. That's what her younger neighbor, that Carla girl, always told her whenever she voiced her concerns about the things she heard or saw. So, she made an effort to pay them no mind as much as possible.

She pushed away from the cradle, taking stiff wobbling steps as she supported herself on the dusty shelf. The musty atmosphere of the ramshackle old wood house made her lungs feel like rattles sometimes, but her energy was far too spent on taking care of the child and, when she could afford to do so, herself to spend days upon days trying to fix up this lost cause of a mess. It's not like there were things scattered around everywhere that would hinder her ability to get around or anything– no, her few possessions, predominantly books, were always neatly stacked in whatever place they called their home, and seldom did she ever move them for any reason. As the woman worked on ambling her way carefully through the house, the wall sconces behind her– two of the few properly working light fixtures in the place– flickered and blinked out for a moment with a buzzing sound, before cutting back in. She paid it no mind, instead flicking off the switch to conserve energy, and slowly made her way to the stairs. She heaved herself up each creaky step, relying heavily on the splintery rail on the side to advance each tread– some rotting, some not. She eventually scaled the last stair and leaned woodenly on the old-fashioned worn chair adorning her bedroom to take a moment to catch her breath. Today was worse than most days, she subconsciously decided, but forced the inkling away with her self-appointed mantra that it's only her head convincing her of such. Carla, and Arnold, and Lauren and all the other neighbors who would whisper about her behind her turned back always insisted in the power of mind over body, and that you can convince yourself of anything if you think about it enough– good or bad; in her case, her mind only ever seemed to convince her of the bad.

She hefted herself away from the chair and shambled over to her window, pulling aside the curtains to peek outside. The late afternoon sun crept in, causing her to blink for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust, before she leaned forward and peered out at the neighborhood. A van pulled up into a neighbor's driveway, a team of water treatment specialists in gray uniforms stepping out to greet the homeowners. Good, she thought to herself, perhaps they can deal with the water supply. The woman had grown increasingly wary of the water pumping through her pipes as of late; it always seemed discolored– but a different dirty hue every time she checked– and often reeked something fierce. She feared what might be in it. Perhaps this is what's been causing my head to… She lost her thought. The sooner the water was fixed, the better.

She stayed at the window for a long time; she lost track of how long. After about the first hour (or, at least, so she figured) she lost her sense of time, and by her next conscious blink, the sun was nearly tucked completely behind the horizon. She blinked once more in surprise, before forcing herself to let it go. No point in lingering on something like this. The water treatment team was (likely) long gone by this time, and the neighbor's porch lamp cast clean light on their tidy yard. The woman sometimes envied her neighbors all around for their crisp houses and crisp lives, though she tried not to think too much on it as she knew it jealousy was unbecoming and no one would like her if she were unbecoming. (Nobody liked her anyway.) She knew her house was the oldest one in the neighborhood– built in the early 1900s (or was it the late 1800s?) and the only one not torn down and replaced– it was hardly functional and far from beautiful and modern; many called it daunting or creepy; but she could not leave.

She pulled away and very deliberately closed the curtains, making sure not even one speck could be seen past them from the outside to the inside, before turning and retracing her steps to very laboriously take herself back down the steps. Weak thumping sounded from the long-empty attic overhead. Mind over body. She paid it no mind.

The woman hobbled into her kitchen, removing a dingy glass from the cupboard and taking it to the sink to wash it. The knob groaned as it always did when she turned it, foul-smelling water spilling out from the leaky faucet. This time it was tinted red, and smelled slightly acidic. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she maneuvered the cup under the flow anyway, scrubbing it with her hands. Shuffling footsteps echoed behind her back, an abrupt clunk making her jolt. A sharp smell suddenly hit her nose from behind her, leaving a metallic taste to settle under her tongue. Her heart hammering against her rib cage, she turned almost reluctantly to face it.

A tall figure comprised entirely of dreary shadows stood before her, its wide white eyes glowing in the gloom as it hovered menacingly mere steps ahead of her. The wooden boards of the house all seemed to warp in on the phantom, the lights inside blurring into nothingness.

Mind over body.

She couldn't.

A grating shrieking filled her ears from all directions, the floor shifting and growling beneath her. She lost all sense of everything. She didn't notice as she suddenly came into a sitting position, curled up against the cabinets at her back with her knees tucked loosely up. She wept, hands over her soggy face as she cried out in shrieking gasps. The shadow loomed in front of her. The baby bawled in hiccuping cries. The woman wept, and wept, and wept.

So interestingly enough, my favorite fruit is mango anyway, so happy national mango day. As instructed, I made a character based off the mango, and I have now stuck her in my avian human universe. Her wings are that of a yellow-headed amazon parrot– the kind that are green and yellow with a bit of red– get it?? Like mangoes??? Yeah that’s about as far as my creativity went. Welp, without further ado.

Mabel tapped her pencil to the page of her sketchbook boredly. Life here in the colony did get dull sometimes… It’s not exactly like there was a whole lot to do. This place was refuge for so many, coming from terrible backgrounds; most of them settled on recovering and rehabilitating themselves and doing nothing else, and so every day tended to be more of the same. More of the same people, more of the same schedule, more of the same scenery… She flopped back with an over dramatic sigh, flipping through the pages of her sketchbook. She must have drawn every object and piece of terrain twice over. Mabel groaned, letting her green and yellow parrot wings loll over the sides of the bench she lay on. The sun fell on her through the foliage overhead, dappling her olive skin with warm marbled light. She could probably find someone to talk to, if she really wanted that desperately for something to do. All she had to do was put on her pleasant personality. Her Papa had always called her his sweet little mango, maybe she could live up to it right now. If only anyone would care to notice her.

She often felt like she was some side character, someone nobody cared about or ever even really saw unless she was needed to progress the plot. She was sick of it. She sat up with a sound of frustration, something resolute starting to settle inside of her. She was going to change that, she decided. She would make herself the protagonist of her own story. …That meant people had to know her.

She spotted a looming tall man with tawny skin– at least, from what she could see, as nearly every inch was covered in clothing or bandages (the latter being on his forearms)– and huge dark wings like that of a black kite, layered in scars. Mabel had seen this man before– he was that veteran, right? She hadn’t seen much of him; usually he followed the exact same schedule each day, much of which was spent in his own home or far away from others. She knew that everyone else seemed to be afraid of him, and she could certainly see why. Now that she thought about it, she didn’t think she’d ever heard the man say a single word– that is, when she even saw him. He would always just sit or stand in a stony silence, hard eyes taking in every last detail of whatever was happening before him. It was intimidating, to say the least.

He was fiddling with the blue scarf hanging loosely around and obscuring most of his neck, kneading the fabric between his fingers with a distant look in his eye. Mabel ducked down to observe for a moment– this was certainly abnormal behavior. Everything the man did seemed very meticulously and deliberately controlled, from the way he measured out his breaths to the rhythmic stroke of his thumb on the scarf to the way his posture was all stiff and almost even unnatural. Then, all of a sudden, he jolted out of it, his head jerking around to look over his shoulder, his brown eyes wide and sharp as his hand suddenly scrunched the fabric in a fist, his wings drawing abruptly into him. It was like something had spooked him, bad, but… there was no danger around. Yet, he proceeded to act like there was. Mabel frowned to herself, shuffling her wings and slowly creeping back up to her feet and standing upright, not taking her eyes off the man. She cautiously slipped her way closer, watching silently as he drew into himself. His eyes squeezed closed and his arms crossed to cover himself and he ducked his head. Her heart hummed with sympathy for him, even if her head spun with confusion over the situation.

Mabel made the rest of the way over, hovering just ahead of the man who now sat half crouched on the ground, his hand fisted in his scarf and his breathing sharp and rough. “Hey,” she said sweetly, in an effort to bring him out of this.

His head snapped up to look at her, eyes wide.

“It’s okay,” she said kindly with a gentle smile.

i'm going to be very nitpicky with this one because i think it's really good and has a decent shot at placing well!!!

The old woman took in a slow, wheezing breath. The term “old” could be used loosely; in actuality, she was only in her late forties. However, despite this middling age, multiple health defects led to her slow deterioration.

in actuality is a tad bit colloquial, but it fits and works so there's no big deal - i just think there might be a better way to say it. also, i believe deterioration might not be the best word to use here? it sounds rather destructive and not so much… she's getting weaker but more something is eating her from the inside out? i don't think “deterioration” and “slow” necessarily work together.

Her skin bunched up on her arms as she held the swaddled fussing bundle, her voice hissing out softly through her teeth as she tried to shush it.

hissed (ee idk if this sounds too harsh or not but in general you fluctuated a lot between present and past tense so put it through Grammarly or some other grammar checking site) as a side note i really like this sentence, but again (maybe it's a personal preference at this point) “hissing” feels a little too destructive? i generally think of snakes and evil people when i think hissing

She looked over her shoulder in the dimly lit house– money was too tight to pay for an actual electrician to come in and fix the many, many problems– though she was already telling herself that it was only in her head.

this sentence is worded a little weirdly, and you're not very sure what i means before you get to the next sentence. i'm not sure how i'd do it but i'd suggest changing the structure (?)

It's not like there were things scattered around everywhere that would hinder her ability to get around or anything– no, her few possessions, predominantly books, were always neatly stacked in whatever place they called their home, and seldom did she ever move them for any reason.

As the woman worked on ambling her way carefully through the house, the wall sconces behind her– two of the few properly working light fixtures in the place– flickered and blinked out for a moment with a buzzing sound, before cutting back in. She paid it no mind, instead flicking off the switch to conserve energy, and slowly made her way to the stairs. She heaved herself up each creaky step, relying heavily on the splintery rail on the side to advance each tread– some rotting, some not. She eventually scaled the last stair and leaned woodenly on the old-fashioned worn chair adorning her bedroom to take a moment to catch her breath.

Today was worse than most days, she subconsciously decided, but forced the inkling away with her self-appointed mantra that it's only her head convincing her of such. Carla, and Arnold, and Lauren and all the other neighbors who would whisper about her behind her turned back always insisted in the power of mind over body, and that you can convince yourself of anything if you think about it enough– good or bad; in her case, her mind only ever seemed to convince her of the bad.

split it up into multiple paragraphs? (i have a problem where i enter a new paragraph too often, but personally i find long paragraphs exhausting to read)

i also underlined 3 instances of she, because there are 3 sentences in a row that begin with the same word so i'd suggest varying it? (also in the last paragraph i think you could opt for a simpler “she thought” rather than “subconsciously decided”)

She hefted herself away from the chair and shambled over to her window, pulling aside the curtains to peek outside.

you could take this as another opportunity to describe more in-depth how tired she is. (i.e. With another enormous amount of effort, she lifted herself up out of her chair, stumbling over to the windows where she pulled aside drab lilac curtains.)

Perhaps this is what's been causing my head to… She lost her thought. The sooner the water was fixed, the better.

oooo i like this a ton, a suggestion is to use maybe a horn honking or the water technicians yelling at each other, because just like this it feels a little off. (not in the horror sense, but as a piece of writing) ehrehrher idk though i'm a weird reader

She stayed at the window for a long time; she lost track of how long.

After about the first hour (or, at least, so she figured) she lost her sense of time, and by her next conscious blink, the sun was nearly tucked completely behind the horizon.

repetition of lost (i underlined all three instances)

A tall figure comprised entirely of dreary shadows stood before her, its wide white eyes glowing in the gloom as it hovered menacingly mere steps ahead of her. The wooden boards of the house all seemed to warp in on the phantom, the lights inside blurring into nothingness.

oh god everything right up to this was written wonderfully, with all the little details/foreshadowing crashing down onto the reader all at once at the perfect moment. it was really really really good eek. the only thing i have to say is it felt less like a horror and more like a mystery? as in it wasn't scary enough, but it's really hard to make such a short story super suspenseful in so few words so i APPLAUD YOU for what you have already

The baby bawled in hiccuping cries.

again - i love the last few paragraphs but it just reminded me of the baby. maybe you could sneak more instances to the baby? as in it could whine for a bit before suddenly going quiet as if sensing danger - creating like a sort of threatening/ominous mood

final thoughts: AAAAA THIS WAS SO GOOD I LOVED IT A TON LSDFKJSLKDFJ EHEHEH IT WAS REALLY WELL DONE NICE JOB

Writing Comp Entry

Here’s my writing comp entry, based off the song “Poison” by Cavetown. It actually was originally a daily, but I liked it so much that I decided to edit it and enter it here. Thanks so much to Jinty for her critiques!
This is 1351 words, including this little introduction here.

Poison

The old woman took in a slow, wheezing breath. The term “old” could be used loosely; in actuality, she was only in her late forties. However, despite this middling age, multiple health defects led to the decline of both mind and body (at least, that’s what the doctors would say, puzzling over her with a sort of morbid fascination as if she were some macabre riddle to detangle before the clock ticked down to nothingness). Her wrinkling skin bunched up on her arms as she held the swaddled fussing bundle, her voice whistling out softly through her teeth as she tried to shush it. Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she lay the little baby boy in his cradle. He was young, and small; too small, but she took care of him regardless. The infant settled as he was tucked in the thin blankets, and the woman let out a small breath of relief, only for a skitter-skitter-clack sound to echo behind her. She looked over her shoulder in the dimly lit house– money was too tight to pay for an actual electrician to come in and fix the many, many problems– to find the source of the supposed sound, though she was already telling herself that it was only in her head. That's what her younger neighbor, that Carla girl, always told her whenever she voiced her concerns about the things she heard or saw. So, she made an effort to pay them no mind as much as possible.

She pushed away from the cradle, taking stiff wobbling steps as she supported herself on the dusty shelf. The musty atmosphere of the ramshackle old wood house made her lungs feel like rattles sometimes, but her energy was far too spent on taking care of the child and, when she could afford to do so, herself to spend days upon days trying to fix up this lost cause of a mess. It's not like there were things scattered around everywhere that would hinder her ability to get around or anything– no, her few possessions, predominantly books, were always neatly stacked in whatever place they called their home, and seldom did she ever move them for any reason.

As the woman worked on ambling her way carefully through the house, the wall sconces behind her– two of the few properly working light fixtures in the place– flickered and blinked out for a moment with a buzzing sound, before cutting back in. She paid it no mind, instead flicking off the switch to conserve energy, and slowly made her way to the stairs. Wearied but persistent, she heaved herself up each creaky step, relying heavily on the splintery rail on the side to advance each tread– some rotting, some not. She eventually scaled the last stair and leaned woodenly against the back of the old-fashioned worn chair adorning her bedroom to take a moment to catch her breath. Today was worse than most days, she thought, but forced the inkling away with her self-appointed mantra that it's only her head convincing her of such. Carla, and Arnold, and Lauren and all the other neighbors who would whisper about her behind her turned back always insisted in the power of mind over body, and that you can convince yourself of anything if you think about it enough– good or bad; in her case, her mind only ever seemed to convince her of the bad.

Eventually she garnered the effort and will to heft herself away from the chair and clumsily shambled over to her window, pulling aside the fraying maroon curtains to peek outside. The late afternoon sun crept in, causing her to blink for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust, before she leaned forward and peered out at the neighborhood. A van pulled up into a neighbor's driveway, a team of water treatment specialists in gray uniforms stepping out to greet the homeowners. Good, she thought to herself, perhaps they can deal with the water supply. The woman had grown increasingly wary of the water pumping through her pipes as of late; it always seemed discolored– but a different dirty hue every time she checked– and often reeked something fierce. She feared what might be in it. Perhaps this is what's been causing my head to… A call from one of the water treatment workers drifted up to her second story window, and whatever she was thinking of dissipated into thin air in the distraction, until she couldn’t remember what had been on her mind in the first place at all. The sooner the water was fixed, the better.

She stayed at the window for a long time; she lost track of how long. After about the first hour (or, at least, so she figured) her sense of time had wavered and distorted to the point her thoughts had become completely detached to all sense of reality, and by her next conscious blink, the sun was nearly tucked completely behind the horizon. She blinked once more in surprise, before forcing herself to let it go. No point in lingering on something like this. The water treatment team was (likely) long gone by this time, and the neighbor's porch lamp cast clean light on their tidy yard. The woman sometimes envied her neighbors all around for their crisp houses and crisp lives, though she tried not to think too much on it as she knew jealousy was unbecoming and no one would like her if she were unbecoming. (Nobody liked her anyway.) She knew her house was the oldest one in the neighborhood– built in the early 1900s (or was it the late 1800s?) and the only one not torn down and replaced– it was hardly functional and far from beautiful and modern; many called it daunting or creepy; but she could not leave.

She pulled away and very deliberately closed the curtains, making sure not even one speck could be seen past them from the outside to the inside, before turning and retracing her steps to very laboriously take herself back down the steps. Weak thumping sounded from the long-empty attic overhead. The boy fussed as she descended, before falling silent once more. Mind over body. She paid it no mind.

The woman hobbled into her kitchen, removing a dingy glass from the cupboard and taking it to the sink to wash it. The knob groaned as it always did when she turned it, foul-smelling water spilling out from the leaky faucet. This time it was tinted red, and smelled slightly acidic. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she maneuvered the cup under the flow anyway, scrubbing it with her hands. Shuffling footsteps echoed behind her back, an abrupt clunk making her jolt. A sharp smell suddenly hit her nose from behind her, leaving a metallic taste to settle under her tongue. Her heart hammering against her rib cage, she turned almost reluctantly to face it.

A tall figure comprised entirely of dreary twisting shadows stood before her in the darkness, its wide white eyes glowing in the gloom as it hovered menacingly mere steps ahead of her. The wooden boards of the house all seemed to warp in on the phantom, the lights inside blurring into nothingness as the world shuddered and howled.

Mind over body.

She couldn't.

A grating shrieking filled her ears from all directions, the floor shifting and growling beneath her. She lost all sense of everything. She didn't notice as she suddenly came into a sitting position, curled up against the cabinets at her back with her knees tucked loosely up. She wept, hands over her soggy face as she cried out in wailing gasps. The shadow loomed in front of her. The baby bawled in hiccuping cries. The woman wept, and wept, and wept.

Here's a Marvel fanfic I made on, well, July fourth, as part two of a two part angsty birthday collection for our favorite patriotic centenarians. Word count is 1735, including this little introduction.
WARNING: This one contains some slightly darker themes. Still reasonably Scratch-appropriate, but please read at your own risk.

July Fourth

4 July, 1954

Mission: Eliminate Target

The Soldier was pulled from his cryo chamber early in the morning. Very early, apparently, as once he was dragged from the frigid metal coffin, subjected to his memory treatment in the Chair, and taken– with his head still buzzing with static and with ice still running through his veins and with nausea still swirling in his stomach– to a Prep Room (somewhere not twenty feet underground) with actual slivers of windows way up near the ceiling letting in the barest hints of natural light, the very faint glow revealed that the sun was now only barely beginning to peek over the horizon. He suppressed a shiver as he stood stiffly at attention in the Room, agents bustling around him.

Handler Genrich stepped forward, bearing a file on the details of the mission at hand. A simple elimination of a target– a William Armstrong, who'd apparently caught the attention of HYDRA Superiors with a threat large and important enough to have had the Soldier moved from Siberia to America temporarily in order to remove the threat. The Mission would be executed at night, taking advantage of the darkness and apparent noise of the occasion– whatever that meant. Handler Genrich didn't explain what he meant by that, though the Soldier was a little too distracted to have fully listened anyway.

His eyes lingered for a moment at the date written at the top of the file, in Russian like everything else.

4 июля. July 4th.

Something about that date tickled at his brain. The world seemed to warp out of focus for the briefest moment– a moment that seemed to last an unnecessarily long time. He felt like he had someone by his side, some small presence at his right side. Something… friendly.

Agent Morozov was at his right side, his kevlar vest and uniform jacket in his hands.

The Soldier snapped back into his usual sharp focus as agents shuffled around him, shaking off his malfunction as his cryo wear was exchanged for field gear and hands clasped on his vest and strapped on his jacket. Other agents went about their usual preparations for the Mission, and he was provided his ration in the meantime. Afterwards, he was led to a clandestine van and ferried off to his Mission site, sitting submissively still as the agents working with him on this assignment buckled on the weapons necessary to execute it to expected perfect efficiency. Dusk had fallen by the time they made the necessary preparations and arrived at their destination of Akron, Ohio, the atmosphere warm and murky with the summer season.

The Soldier felt like he was missing something.

Amid the preparations, during the travel here, throughout the finalizing of instructions, something was missing. He kept glancing to his right, expecting to find– …He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find.

The date (July fourth July fourth July fourth July fourth) kept cycling and recycling in his brain, just like the regular repeat of his Orders. The date was drowning out his Orders. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He knew that wasn’t supposed to happen, and yet–

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

He looked up as the agent standing in front of him repeated the instructions, looking for confirmation. The Soldier’s brain stalled for a moment, protocol slipping out of his grasp for just a second as it was overwhelmed by– …by everything else. Then his mind and programming kicked back into gear, and he was able to respond as according to standard procedure. Lucky for him, the agent taking the lead on this assignment was patient. That, for him, was a rarity.

He was escorted to a perch at the top of a building across from that which the Target lived in, cloaked by nightfall and silent as a shadow. Peering through the scope of his rifle, he spotted the man of the hour roaming around his home and pouring himself a drink. The Soldier settled back, still soundlessly observing as he waited for instructions to proceed, supposedly masked by the sounds of– of some event.

(July fourth July fourth July fourth July fourth July fourth July–)

He leaned forward in interest as he noticed the Target head towards a window and open it, leaning out and turning his eyes toward the sky. Not towards the Soldier– nowhere in his general direction in fact; he hadn’t been noticed– just towards the night sky. The Soldier had hardly a moment to ponder this, as shortly thereafter the vicinity was filled with a shrill screeching sound, followed by a rattling boom as the area was blasted with colored light coming from the heavens. Then again, and again and again.

Fireworks.

—- “Look, pal! The whole city– the whole country is doin’ all this just to celebrate you!” —-

The Soldier jerked back at the blatant, loud malfunction, fireworks blaring both in his ears and in his head. He stumbled back half a step, squeezing his eyes shut as he willed himself to function properly. His Mission, his Mission–

(—- “Very funny, Buck.” —-)

He didn’t know how much time had passed. Presently, his brain was roaring in time with the pyro in the sky. Something was missing. His sensitive ears picked up on the agents watching from the ground wondering why he hadn’t taken the shot yet.

His Mission.

Right.

He shook his head sharply as he clawed desperately at whatever shreds of his concentration he could reclaim, leaning forward to take the shot. He leveled his aim, his hands steady as he–

JULY FOURTH JULY FOURTH JULY FOURTH JULY FOURTH JULY FOURTH

His breath stuttered at the onslaught, the fireworks screaming and roaring in his ears and washing out his senses with blinding bursts of color.

SOMETHING IS MISSING, his mind shouted.

His finger pulled on the trigger.

The discharge was concealed under the bang of another dazzling explosion, the muzzle flash disguised in the vibrant light. The Target went down, collapsing back into his own apartment. Nobody saw or heard a thing.

The Soldier, dazed, slipped unnoticed back down off the building to the rendezvous point with the agents. His eyes, wide and glazed over, stared unseeingly down at the ground. The agents bumbled around him, trying to work out the situation amongst themselves. The leader asked of him directly what had happened. The Soldier was unable to provide an answer.

He was led back into the van and shuttled back to base, sitting in silence and impervious to the buzzing conversations going on around him.

(July fourth July fourth July fourth July fourth.)

~~~

The Soldier followed numbly as he was ushered back inside, his head down and his brain thrumming with interference. Distractions. Malfunctions. Whatever they are. He didn’t have the presence of mind to care much about how to classify them.

He was taken back to the Prep Room where this all started that very morning, where he had been functioning properly not 24 hours ago. He stood still as his uniform and other field gear was removed (excluding his weaponry, which had already been extracted from him upon returning to the van) detached from the low conversations spoken in hushed murmurs from agents to others around him. A nervous energy pulsated in the atmosphere, a certain tension suspended in the air and weighing heavily on everyone around.

Handler Genrich marched in, seeming sharper and more on edge than usual. He stepped over to speak with the agent who had taken the lead on the Mission, speaking in stern tones and casting hard glances over at where the Soldier stood.

The Soldier didn’t move a muscle.

The Handler turned and strode sharply to him, his flinty eyes flicking over him in severe scrutiny– trying to assess what had gone wrong. The Soldier had no more understanding of it than he did.

Then Handler Genrich stiffly demanded to know what had happened. The Soldier gave his Mission Report to the best of his ability, growing increasingly aware that his account was not up to standard. He tried his best to follow protocol, he really did, but his programming kept getting blurred out by scraps of the sound of a rough voice and fragmented images of… of someone. His normally distinctive laserlike focus was now becoming regularly derailed, his eyes darting around instead of remaining fixed on the wall behind the Handler and his face breaking down from its characteristic stony guise. Real emotion was seeping through. The Soldier knew that he was not functioning properly and the Handler would not like this, but, he– His head– The buzzing wouldn’t stop.

(July fourth July fourth July fourth.)

Handler Genrich turned and waved over a technician, prescribing a wiping treatment. The Soldier’s head and heart hammered as one. A voice, different from his own– the rough one– it seemed to scream inside him. Don’t forget me, don’t forget me. But the Handler turned back to him, ordering him to the Chair, and there was nothing he could do. He tread over to the machine, sitting stiffly down on the metal seat of the apparatus. His brain wouldn’t stop thrumming; in fact, the imminent erasure of this– this whatever it is only made the interference increase.

(July fourth July fourth July fourth.)

Attached to it were muddled impressions of some apparition. The something missing was beginning to manifest itself to him, forming a hazy depiction of someone. Someone important. The Soldier clung to whatever shreds he could.

Snatches of blond hair, bloody knuckles, a crooked smile.

The technician fired up the machine.

A snorting laugh, a wheezing breath.

The restraints clamped down on his arms.

An unflinching moral code. The stubbornness of a donkey. The temper of a raging bull.

A sinister hum vibrated all around him.

“I can get by on my own” and “I had him on the ropes” and “Til the end of the line.”

And as the headpieces whirled around to lock around his face, three words rose up inexplicably to the front of his brain.

Happy birthday, Stevie.

Weekly 3

Task One - 316 words
It’s dark out here. Cold, too. The city lights flicker in the distance, and you can’t determine whether they seem warm and welcoming or cold and daunting. You shiver and pull your jacket tighter around yourself. A very thin layer of snow powders the ground, slippery ice hiding in places. You know you’d better find shelter soon, one way or another, or it’ll probably be too late for you. These woods– they seem merciless and unforgiving. You know that it’s a crazy thought and that it’s not actually alive to harm you, but still… The way the trees creak in the wind and cast looming angry shadows in the sparse moonlight, the way the bushes rustle and rattle and stick out at pointy angles, the way the chill drafts whistle ominously and rustle the dead leaves and brittle twigs and freeze your exposed ears. Despite being practically in the middle of nowhere, with no lights around to compete with the brightness of the stellar system, few stars are actually visible in the sky. The blackness of it all is overwhelming, all-consuming. Not only up in the heavens, but down here on the earth as well. It’s an inky, murky, almost even tangible substance; a darkness pervading throughout the forest and swamping everything like an inhospitable mist. It only hardens your resolve to get away as quickly as possible and find shelter for the night. Each moment longer you stay here, the woods seem more and more hostile and unwelcoming, and you become more and more certain that it doesn’t want you here. Which is a ridiculous thought, because you know that it’s just a collection of trees and plants and can’t actually want something, but still… A twisting gust of frigid air sends a small collection of snowflakes swirling past your ear, almost as if a silent impatient reminder prompting you to make up your mind.

Task Two - 213 words
You wander aimlessly through the dark wood for what feels like it must be hours. You don’t actually know; all you know is that the sun has been gone for a seemingly endless time by now, leaving with a blackness darker than any you’ve ever experienced before. You shiver and nestle deeper into your jacket– but you know that this will do little for the bone-aching cold that will inevitably penetrate your layers and your skin. You continue through the daunting forest, the trees looming angrily above you as you meander through the frigid copse. No matter where you walk, the twisting sad excuse for a pathway only gets you more and more lost the deeper you travel through the woods, as if intentionally trying to turn you around and mix up your directions so you'd be trapped here forever. Finally, after who-knows-how-long, you go far enough where you can just about breach the edge, a city coming into your sights on the horizon, its lights twinkling faintly far in the distance. You can’t determine whether they seem warm and welcoming or cold and daunting; whether it’s worth traveling such a great distance for only a potential of seeking refuge there. Maybe you would be better off finding shelter here in these woods.



Choose Your Own Adventure - 1474 words
You wander aimlessly through the dark wood for what feels like it must be hours. You don’t actually know; all you know is that the sun has been gone for a seemingly endless time by now, leaving with a blackness darker than any you’ve ever experienced before. It’s dark out here. Cold, too. You shiver and nestle deeper into your jacket– but you know that this will do little for the bone-aching cold that will inevitably penetrate your layers and your skin. A very thin layer of snow powders the ground, slippery ice hiding in places. You continue through the daunting forest, the trees looming angrily above you as you meander through the frigid copse. No matter where you walk, the twisting sad excuse for a pathway only gets you more and more lost the deeper you travel through the woods, as if intentionally trying to turn you around and mix up your directions so you'd be trapped here forever. These woods– they seem merciless and unforgiving. You know that it’s a crazy thought and that it’s not actually alive to harm you, but still… The way the trees creak in the wind and cast looming angry shadows in the sparse moonlight, the way the bushes rustle and rattle and stick out at pointy angles, the way the chill drafts whistle ominously and rustle the dead leaves and brittle twigs and freeze your exposed ears. Despite being practically in the middle of nowhere, with no lights around to compete with the brightness of the stellar system, few stars are actually visible in the sky. The blackness of it all is overwhelming, all-consuming. Not only up in the heavens, but down here on the earth as well. It’s an inky, murky, almost even tangible substance; a darkness pervading throughout the forest and swamping everything like an inhospitable mist. It only hardens your resolve to get away as quickly as possible and find shelter for the night. Each moment longer you stay here, the woods seem more and more hostile and unwelcoming, and you become more and more certain that it doesn’t want you here. Finally, after who-knows-how-long, you go far enough where you can just about breach the edge, a city coming into your sights on the horizon, its lights twinkling faintly far in the distance. You can’t determine whether they seem warm and welcoming or cold and daunting; whether it’s worth traveling such a great distance for only a potential of seeking refuge there. It seems so far away, and you have no idea whether its inhabitants would even welcome you or not. What if you walk all that way and spend what little energy you have left traveling exposed in this freezing cold, only to be rejected upon arrival? Maybe you would be better off finding shelter here in these woods. You know you’d better find shelter soon, one way or another, or it’ll probably be too late for you. A twisting gust of frigid air sends a small collection of snowflakes swirling past your ear, almost as if a silent impatient reminder prompting you to make up your mind. What do you do?

1A) Stay and find shelter in the forest
1B) Try your luck going to the city

1A
You’re tired, and an indeterminably long walk across rough terrain completely exposed to the elements with your already depleted energy levels isn’t appealing to you. Well, to be honest, neither is this creepy forest, but your other option is even less appealing. So, now to find and/or make shelter in these woods before you freeze to death. You wander around for a while and can’t shake the feeling that someone or something is watching you, following you. The leaves rustle, and you feel a presence behind you. You turn, and come to face a young woman with black hair and steel eyes and an aura that exudes hostility, a vicious looking dog at her side. To say that they’re intimidating is an understatement.

2A) Turn and run
2B) Try to reason with her

1B
This forest creeps you out just way too much. Garnering up your will and whatever strength you have left, you start off on your trek to the faint glow on the horizon. You were right in thinking that it would be a difficult journey; the cold bites even more out here, icy wind gusting at you near constantly. No matter, you tell yourself. You just have to reach the city before you freeze to death or conk out and you’ll be fine. An hour or so passes in that manner, your vitality slowly but surely seeping out of your bones. You hear somewhere off to your left– something more than just the squalls sweeping up snowflakes over the terrain. Your heart pounds in your chest as you consider the possibilities.

3A) Go and investigate
3B) Continue toward the city

2A
The first natural human response is either fight or flight, they say. Well, it seems that flight is natural for you. You turn and hightail it out of there as quickly as you can manage, long-dead leaves and snow crunching under your feet. You heavy footsteps and predatory barking after you, and know that they’re in pursuit. Great. You put what little energy you have left into sprinting, and the sounds following you begin to fade. You start to think that you might have actually miraculously lost them. You round the next turn on the path, only to be faced by that same snarling dog, and now a living shadow in the shape and size of that woman. You had known that something was off about them. And now your shoulders sag as you realize that this is a fight you can’t win.

2B
Not wanting to start a fight you don’t have the energy to even try to win, you quickly come up with the idea to attempt to bargain with this stranger. You quickly explain that you got turned around while traveling through this incredibly creepy forest, and are just looking for a safe place to spend the night. At a quiet snarl from the dog, you hurriedly emphasize that you are NOT looking for a fight. The woman considers this for an unbearably long moment, her steely eyes glinting with an innate coldness. You begin to fear that she’ll ignore your rationalization. She finally tilts her head and murmurs something which causes the dog to back off. Her eyes flick up and down over you, and she comments that you’re uninteresting anyway. You try not to take insult to that comment, considering your boringness is apparently your saving grace. She further has mercy on you, revealing that there’s a cave not too far down east and you probably won’t be dead by the time you reach it. With that, she turns and stalks off into the darkness.

3A
You’ve been walking across open land exposed to the elements for you lost track of how long, and the city seems no closer. Maybe following that sound would be worth a shot– after all, could whatever it is be worse than slowly dying of cold and exhaustion out here? You break off your route and head in that direction. Soon enough, you run into an old man, who greets you with a friendly smile. He says he’s a local who lives not far from here, and he admires you for your strength and determination travelling out here (but scolds you for your stupidity in venturing when you’re so clearly unprepared). He graciously offers up his home for you to rest up for the night– his wife just made duck for dinner, and the two had been preparing to settle round their fire for the night, and could use some company.

3B
No way you’re going to go check it out. It’s been a long and terrifying enough night as it is, you have no intention of trying to top your current level of fright. You adjust your course to stay as far away from the sound as possible while still continuing on towards the city, keeping a safe level of wariness as you travel. After what seems like an impossibly long time, the lights slowly get brighter and brighter as you near, until you’re on the outskirts of the civilization. The town is surrounded completely by a wall ten times taller than you, so you circle around until you find what must be the main gate. You raise your hand to knock on it, when a guard spots you from his post at the top. You’re just about to explain your situation, but he cuts in with a gruff explanation of how outsiders aren’t welcome in their city. Your heart falls to your toes as the message make itself loud and clear. You’re on your own.

Daily 7/25

This character belongs to @Mariammnn! Thanks to her for letting me use her, and I hope I did her justice ;'0

Lili closed her textbook, tossing the pencil she was using haphazardly back on to the desk, and hastily pushed away from it. She'd done enough work, she figured, so much that it felt like it was starting to get stuffy. She could always finish it when she got back– it's not like it was going anywhere.

Raking one hand through her long light brown waves, the hair silky between her fingers, she grabbed her skateboard from where it leaned against the leg of the table with the other. It was just to get her blood pumping, she told herself, that way she could be more energized and concentrate better on her work when she got back to it. Besides, she couldn't keep her focus for more than ten seconds at a time at this point, and she desperately needed a break. A break, preferably out in open air with asphalt beneath her four wheels. Her lips quirked up. Yes, that will do the trick. And if it just so happened to also be her favorite hobby– what a coincidence! She kicked on her white and black suede skate shoes, tying the laces as quickly as she could by automatic habit. The little brown and white puppy waddled up to where she sat, cocking his head and looking up at her with pleading eyes. Lili shushed him and shooed him away, wanting to make this trip as short and subtle as possible, and didn't want to worry about whether or not he would be keeping up or have to keep track of him and make sure he didn't wander off.

Jumping to her feet, she called out a “I'm taking a break!” to the house at large, before hurriedly slipping out and pulling the door shut behind her before her mom could reprimand her for not doing her homework. A girl's gotta have fun once in a while. She cantered over to the curb and rolled her skateboard out on the road in front of her, hopping on after it got a moment of motion. She leaned her balance forward and kicked a foot off on the ground to pick up speed. The warm wind of the afternoon pricked at her nose and cheeks, her long hair billowing out behind her in waves. She kicked two more times, before letting herself fall into a more relaxed glide, swerving in rounded zigzags as she cruised over the asphalt.

She knew she was supposed to be taking a break and really shouldn't be thinking about homework right now– and really, it truly was the last thing she wanted to have on her mind– but she did have that test coming up on Friday. Her marks had been low all semester so far, and she didn't want another bad grade sending her plummeting over the threshold from which no amount of begging her teacher for extra credit or just plain mercy could give her hope of redemption. It wasn't her fault American history was lame. Something about Federalists and Anti-Federalists… Didn't the Federalists become the Democratic-Republicans? Wait, no. Ugh. Why couldn't everything be as easy as algebra or chemistry? It wasn't fair.

One of her wheels caught on a rock in her distraction, jerking the skateboard to a crooked halt and sending Lili flying forward and tumbling to the ground. Her knee skidded over the rough pavement right where the rip in her jeans was– of course. She knew it wasn't very practical to always wear ripped jeans especially out on skating trips, considering the likelihood of accidents just like this happening, but she loved satisfying the whole “skater” aesthetic– which is why, even now, she wore a long sleeved white shirt under a short yellow tee despite it being a warm 74 degrees out. The girl huffed out a sharp sigh, rolling over bent knees to check the damages. The skin was scuffed but not broken; no blood. Lucky shot. She figured that was a good enough sign as any to call it quits for now, however, carefully pushing herself to her feet and hesitantly testing her weight on her scraped knee before going over and retrieving her skateboard after finding that she was fully able to support herself.

Headed home, Lili pushed the door open and sidled back in, calling out an announcement of her return as she slunk back to her room. She stuck the skateboard back in its usual place before plopping back into her seat and slumping over her desk with her cheek propped up on her fist. She let out a doleful sigh. Back to work.

Fun fact, the little history facts I put in there came straight from my own brain. I actually didn't retain a whole lot from my AP US History class, despite it being all-consuming XD

Daily 7/26

Ben lay in bed, his eyes tracing the ever-changing patterns moving in faint pops of color against the black of the backs of his lids. He wasn't tired, and despite it being in the dead of night, he knew he wouldn't be falling asleep anytime soon. While he was never one for being bothered by the dark (not that he'd ever admit, anyway) the stillness of it all was suffocating. Every second slipped by in slow motion as a single grain of sand falling to the bottom of an hour glass, and even the tick of the clock seemed broken and lost. His wings shuffled restlessly against his sheets, cramped and achy from staying in one position for so long.

He wished he were out flying, on a breezy sunny day or even out in the rain– just in something other than this stiflingly gray night. There was absolutely nothing happening; Ben was sure not even a soul in the entire colony was moving at this point, everything was positively stagnant. The exact opposite of his brain, in fact, which seemed focused on everything else in the world except falling asleep. His eyes slid open and stared up at the blank ceiling, the shadows seeming to perpetually shift in a bland optical illusion. Even that didn't fascinate him presently.

He rolled over on his side with a groan of frustration, his wings stretching out behind him– and that's when he heard the creak of his door with a tiny silhouette pushing it open.

“Benny?” Anaiyah peeped blearily, rubbing her eye with her fist as she bumbled into the room. Her other hand clutched her small plush blanket as she trawled it in after her, its normal tender yellow hue washed out in the gray darkness.

Ben let his frustration ebb away from the inside out, soft affection and sympathy replacing it with a distinct warmth. The girl must have taken that as an invitation, shuffling her way over to his bed and clambering up into it. Tucking herself up against his chest with her blanket half draped limply over her shoulders, her hand lay clamped over the scar on her right forearm and Ben knew without any other clues what all this was about.

Bad dreams didn't happen often for her, and that was just as well– she was too sweet and innocent to be constantly bogged down by them. But when they did, they often hit hard.

Ben gently pressed a hand to her back, his fingers nestling between her underdeveloped wings. He heard her take a sniffling breath, probably not far off from breaking down again, and knew he had to calm her as quickly as possible.

“You know how people like us, people with wings,” he started, his subdued voice sounding loud in the stillness, “we're not common, right?” He felt her nod into his shoulder after a moment of hesitation. “So a bunch of people like us made this colony, so that other people with wings could come and be together with people like them, and we could be safe.”

Anaiyah sniffled softly and pressed closer against him, her breathing starting to even out.

“…I'll admit, I don't know a whole lot of the history here,” he confessed, “but I do know that it's… it's nice living here. No one's gonna pick on you because you're different… And. And, I don't think they could have chosen a better place to settle.” He felt a smile touch his lips. “This whole scenery is so great. We're right up against the woods, where Rahim likes to take his walks every day– and not far from here is that meadow where we picked wild strawberries that one time, remember that?” Another nod.

“And there's even a few mountains not too far away. Did I ever take you to see them?” He felt her hesitate then shake her head. “We'll do that tomorrow, then,” he decided on a whim. “We'll go up to the mountain, and I can take you flying– would you like that?” She nodded again. He smiled. “So I'll take you flying– I heard that the weather tomorrow's gonna be perfect. Sunny, warm but not hot, not a cloud in the sky… I can take you up to the top, and we can have a picnic there…”

Ben felt the girl slowly relax against him, drifting back off into sleep as he rambled about the possibilities. He smiled softly, that warm feeling lingering in his chest as he tucked the blanket over Anaiyah's shoulders. He was lucky to have her.

The restless buzz in his head surrendered to a tired hum, and he let his eyes slip closed at last. His insides felt light, and soon he too lost himself to the sweet lullabies of his reveries.

HOLY * THIS IS AMAZING !!

I'm sorry if I got anyone's pronouns or personalities wrong or if I mixed up any jokes, this is a lot to keep track of for a first-time camper lol

The hosts and cohosts all sat in their well-lit and well air conditioned cabin– the best cabin at camp, naturally. Well, not exactly “sitting”, at least, not all of them. Birdi actually sat properly in her chair, her laptop on the table before her. Alba lay hanging upside down half off her bed, Robin sat on the floor polishing her Viking axe, Kat sat nearby with dozens of papers filled with each cabin's “most-likely-to”s splayed out on the floor all around her, Pi lay half slumped on their bed checking everyone's points for the day, and so on and so forth.

Allyelle's rant (done in a poor pirate impression) about how her cabin was destined to win yet again and Gigi's rambling about whatever fandom had currently consumed their existence were interrupted by Sprout's sudden (loud) discovery:

“Where are all the mangoes?!”

Polar remained off to the side, muttering “Counted amazing wonderful job epic work your writing is fantastic and so are you” to himself, clearly practicing for when he would count points in the main cabin.

Bakie turned around in her chair to face Sprout, disbelieving surprise and betrayal written all over her face. “Wait, the mangoes are gone?”

“I don't see them anywhere,” Sprout returned, thoroughly searching the empty cabinet that usually housed more mangoes than any person would ever consider sane.

“Maybe you should eat pineapples instead,” Starr commented, currently munching on said fruit.

“Okay, where did that pineapple Dystopian joke even start, anyway?” Honey questioned, feeling the need to ask.

“You'll never know,” Starr replied unhelpfully, sticking another yellow slice in her mouth.

“But seriously, where are the mangoes!?”

“Maybe Alba burned them to satisfy her addiction to arson,” Robin mildly suggested, working a cleaning rag over the blade of her axe.

“Fuel for my bonfire in tribute to Karl Marx,” Alba added hypothetically.

“Maybe some campers raided our supplies,” Birdi contributed distractedly, her eyes roving her laptop screen as she tallied up points. “…Maybe I should update the daily late today, just to mess with the campers,” she pondered. “I feel like that could be a good joke.”

Jinty rolled over in their bed. “Birdi you should give Non-Fi 5,000 points,” they slurred nearly incoherently, half awake. “Jus' ‘cause.”

“ ’Just cause',” Birdi quoted.

Jint nodded sleepily, their eyes closed. “Jus' ‘cause we’re awesome,” they added.

Birdi rolled her eyes and went back to her laptop, updating the daily twelve minutes late because why not.

The door slammed open, Replay bustling in. “Sorry I’m late, I had woooooooork–”

“Replay!!” Bakie exclaimed. “Do you know where the mangoes went?!”

“Replay,” Zura called, “do you remember what the daily for tomorrow is supposed to be?”

“Replay!” Pie chorused, apparently hopping on the bandwagon. “Have you seen Sini? She’s supposed to be in bed.” The last part was half-growled.

Replay raised an eyebrow, somewhat baffled by the onslaught of questions. “I saw her outside,” she answered to the last. “She was hiding in the bushes outside that window while I was coming in.”

“SINI!!” Alba shouted, not moving from her spot hanging upside down off her bed. “GET IN HERE AND GET SOME SLEEP OR I’LL PRACTICE MY PYROKINESIS ON YOU!”

There was the frantic rustling of leaves outside then Sini clambered in through the window over her bed, scrambling under the covers.

Alba smirked, her eyes glinting tyrannically. “Works every time.”

“But seriously, what about the mangoes??” Cherry twined.

“Cherry’s right,” Allyelle concurred. “We have a very serious issue on our hands.”

“Don’t look at me,” Polar defended instantly, breaking off from his repetitive ranting to contribute to the unraveling of this very urgent mystery.

Turns out, that was exactly it. The Mystery cabin stole them all, for an in-cabin game. But no one else would ever know that.

applause wonderful :0

Weekly 4

Cabin Theme Fanfiction - 1122 words
I hurriedly race over to the front door of the building, my hasty steps kicking up a tiny spray of water in the puddles lining the sidewalk from the gloomy rain of the early morning. Early early morning. I hadn’t even bothered to check the clock when I got the notice to come into work early (hadn’t wanted to check, in fact, in the interest of preserving whatever remained of my sanity) instead just rushing out of my house and taking the quickest route to the workplace despite the persistent drizzle– after downing an entire can of Dr Pepper. All I knew was that it was dark out– still is– and that's all I want to know. I don't need the details.

I rush down the hall, my wet sneakers proving to be a misnomer as they squeak obnoxiously over the linoleum flooring. The few insane people up and in the building at this hour jump and give me weird looks as I hurry past them to the workplace. Room 142. I push the door open to find the newsroom positively bustling with activity. The office is usually busy, day or night– but I mean, this was downright chaotic. Phone lines chime off the hook, papers rustling and crinkling so much it sounds like a constant overlay of static, workers charging around and shouting orders and demands across the room, and a pure nervous restless energy buzzing almost tangibly. I slow as I take it all in breathlessly and with wide eyes, running a hand through my long dirty blonde waves while my other clutches my binder and notebooks to my chest.

“Nicole!” Jint calls sharply as my arrival is finally noticed, looking like they haven’t slept in a week with dark rings under their eyes and their short green hair very much disheveled with even the small blue flower tucked behind their ear looking bedraggled. “Thank goodness you're here. Where on earth have you been?”

“Uhh, sleeping??” I stammer, my brain running a mile a minute yet not doing anything remotely productive. “Isn’t that, like, the whole mantra for this place about how sleep is more important than work–”

“I think this might just outweigh that, just this once,” Wae pipes up wearily, her eyes exuding exhaustion and her shoulder-length dark hair similarly unkempt. She, and everyone else present, actually, all wear matching dark circles under their eyes and look about as good as a smoking trainwreck. Probably about as good as I look right now, too. What on earth happened?

I stand there, looking like an idiot with my mouth gaping like a fish for entirely too long. “…Wh- Why? What’s happened?”

“You know that Viking clan that lives on the edge of town for seemingly no reason whatsoever?” Jint prefaces. Of course I do, everyone knew about those weirdos (I mean, other folks) who acted like it was still 800 AD and for some reason decided to call the bay just beside the town their home. “Well,” the editor continues, swiping a hand down their frazzled face, “they decided to mount an all-out full scale attack. On everyone.”

My tired brain stalls as it tries to digest this information. “…I’m sorry, what? On everyone?” That just seems beyond ridiculous– and ambitious, and preposterous and outrageous and heinous and all the other ous-es. An attack on that scale would take some serious planning, and serious guts.

“On enemies, on neutrals,” Jint lists.

“Even on folks they’re friendly with,” Violet cuts in, looking a little miffed.

“And now we’ve got to cover all the destruction they’ve caused,” Arti speaks up, in visible disarray and clearly worn enough to dread writing of all things when it’s her favorite hobby. “We’re talking articles on top of articles on top of articles.”

“This is a nightmare,” Niqhts groans from her desk towards the back.

“We’ve got 24 hours to write full coverage on everything,” Jint continues, their voice brittle with enervation. “And we’re operating at half capacity. Misty is already off on her own assignment, half our news crew is unavailable, I’ll have to be in-and-out half the time, and Replay–”

“–is right here,” the editor-in-chief finishes, striding out of the chief’s office attached to the main newsroom. It turns to the room at large, scanning the scuttling activity of the present writers, pushing its glasses higher up on its nose. “We’re going to need to break this down into crews,” it announces. “Divide yourselves quickly, get the work done quicker. Keep an ear out for updates, but otherwise I need pens on paper for the next 24 hours. I’m sorry, but the clock’s working against us.”

My jaw gapes uselessly as I try to process the sheer amount of everything that just happened. I stumble weakly to my desk and slump down, my movements sharp and detached like a marionette doll with its strings cut. Preparing my hand for the inevitable cramp it will sustain, I grab my pen and place it to my paper and begin scribbling away. New notes and reports are constantly dropped on to my tray, other transcripts written by myself being shuffled along amongst the other reporters. I swivel around in my chair, holding up my half-finished story. “Hey JC, can you–”

“On it!” she calls, already sweeping it away to complete herself.

Replay sits in its office, hacking away at reports of its own, or sometimes strides around the office to scrutinize the workers all while worriedly running its hand through its long dark hair. “Nicole!” it instructs abruptly. “I need you out in the field reporting. I just got updates that a cottage was destroyed and a family reunion ruined. We need coverage.”

“Yes, si’am,” I reply dutifully, instantly out of my seat. My notepad and pen in hand, I pack up and prepare to follow orders.

Suddenly, out of literally nowhere, a full-sized Viking ship crashes through the wall of the newsroom, raining down debris from the shattered plaster and brick. Writers yell and run, just narrowly avoiding getting their heads chopped off by the various means of destruction, instead coughing in the atmosphere now overwhelmed with silt.

A hazy figure emerges from the thick cloud of dust, backlit by the now rising sun with all the dramatic lighting one could possibly hope for with the clouds parting after a full night of rain. The person reveals herself to be none other than Robin, the chieftain or whatever of the Viking clan.

“Writers of non-fiction!” she bellows, fully decked out for battle. “You have not written enough of history! You must give my people the representation they deserve by the next sunset,” her sharp eyes glint ruthlessly, “or face the consequences!”

Oh, *, I bemoan.

Character Interactions - 1211 words
Sam tapped his foot as he waited outside the front door of the bowling alley, hovering just beside the wall to take advantage of the shade of the overhang. He checked his watch again, then scanned the parking lot and road leading to it, then checked the time once more. His lips pulled into a thin line. What could be taking so long?

He squinted in the sun, his eyes catching on a figure hurrying towards him. Sam’s face brightened. “About time, man! What, ‘d you somehow forget this date which happens every month? What’s the hold up?”

Rhodey slowed as he made his way over, his braces gliding smoothly to the point they may as well have been unnoticeable. The older man hunched over slightly to catch his breath, bracing one hand on his knee. “Sorry, man,” he puffed, a worn smile on his face. “Tony’s been up for the past two nights trying to make an upgrade to my braces with nanotech; I had to put my foot down when he went for his eighth pot of coffee in the last twenty four hours. You don’t understand how impossibly impossible it is to put a very grumpy, dog-tired but extremely caffeinated 48 year old idiot man-child to bed and get him to stay there.”

Sam snorted, his lips parting in a gap-toothed grin. “I think I have an idea. You weren’t there when he blew up half the lab at the compound after 30 straight hours at work in there. I thought Steve was going to lose his head when he heard the explosion.”

Rhodey’s lips quirked as he hummed. “Hm. Sounds like a good day.”

Sam rolled his eyes with a bark of sarcastic laughter, slapping a hand to the other man’s shoulder. “Whatever, man. Let’s just go.”

Rhodey chuckled but let Sam lead him inside, the two saying hi to Marcie at the front desk who knew them as regulars by now and at this point wasn’t fazed by two Avengers showing up to an ordinary bowling alley. The two liked this place in particular because it was relatively quiet and scarcely busy, without hordes of fans and starstruck onlookers crowding around them trying to steal pictures or touches or literally anything they could get their hands on. (They did, of course, like it because there would always be one or two people who would ask one of them for an autograph, in which case the lucky man would smirk all too smugly at the other for being the favorite of the current random stranger.) The two struck up normal light conversation, almost even small-talk, while they received their bowling shoes and balls and checked out a lane for the afternoon. Only once they had relative privacy in their usual lane second to the far wall did they get into more meaningful topics, as always.

“So Tony’s tryna modify your braces yet again for, like, the thirty-fourth time and being a little insomniac for it, huh?” Sam said with a ghost of a smirk on his face as he rolled the ball down the lane, watching it glide over the smooth boards and coast into eight pins.

Rhodey quirked an eyebrow, shifting the cold drink in his hand. “Thirty-fifth time, actually. And yeah; don’t say that like it’s anything out of the ordinary, Sam,” he jokingly accused, drawing a snort from the other man. Sobering up and returning to the actual topic at hand, he glanced down at his legs in their black trusses, the blue lights glowing softly at the joints. “But yeah, he’s still losing sleep trying to refine it. I know he’s obsessive over his technology and making improvements and all that– and really, he’s always been like that– but there’s a point where it just gets ridiculous. These are fine the way they are.”

Sam’s tongue darted out to lick his lips as he watched Rhodey out of the side of his eye while he launched the ball down the lane again, not bothering to watch it roll this time and instead straightening back up to face his friend. He only cast the pins a brief glance as a ninth was knocked over. “Well, I think he just feels guilty,” he said carefully, almost distantly. Rhodey knew he was harboring just as much guilt over it as Tony was.

“Well, he’s got nothing to feel guilty over,” he said pointedly, his words double-edged and not applying strictly to Tony.

Sam pursed his lips and slipped over to the small table Rhodey sat at, trading off. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “what about you? You getting enough sleep?”

The colonel raised an eyebrow as he rolled the ball. “Me? When I’m not suffering through yet another Tony-induced stress headache, yeah. But we all know how rare that is,” he joked. “You weren’t even there for his most recent prototype armor test. He very narrowly avoided ending up with only one hand.”

Sam choked on a laugh at that, picking at his serving of fried pickles (a dish which Rhodes absolutely hated and constantly ribbed him for liking). “Honestly, I wish that surprised me more.”

“Me too,” Rhodey said dryly, rolling the ball again and racking up seven pins. “Well, how’s Steve doing? Especially with the whole separation thing.”

Sam took a sip of his drink. Bucky had been gone for the past two weeks or so, apparently having left with only a brief explanation to his best friend that he was off to get some things sorted out for himself before seemingly disappearing completely, and had only made contact once since then. “He’s handling it about as well as any man can after the person you’ve known your entire life just up and leaves with barely an explanation why,” he decided on saying. “…A few sleepless nights on his part, I think, worrying about all of it, but he’s taking it pretty well all things considered.”

Rhodey hummed in acknowledgement. “And you?”

Sam’s mouth twisted in a wry approximation of a smile. “Just making sure he takes care of himself. The man’s great at a lot of things, but that is not one of them. I can see what Bucky means when he calls him a ‘stupid foolhardy little punk’,” he noted with a snort. “…But yeah, I’m doing fine, man. Things could be, and have been worse.”

Rhodey looked up to meet his eye in understanding. If there’s one thing the two could do, it’s understand each other.

The rest of the afternoon carried on much the same, the two checking on each other and lightheartedly making fun of each other’s suits and sharing old war stories (Sam liked to rat Steve out for always being so reckless, and the stories he told showed that he was just as bad, if not worse at times). Rhodey ended up winning this game of bowling by a mere twelve points, but his smug grin was wiped off his face by Sam’s smirk at a pair of Falcon fans asking for his autograph.

Their meetup ended with smiles and good attitudes as always, the stress of their lives having melted away for the day. The two exchanged their farewells and scheduled again for the next month.

Multi Fandom Crossover - 1169
Bucky sat in the grass out in the field around the compound, the tree's foliage which hung over him casting dappled shade over him and the ground as he became very engrossed in reading The Hobbit. Apparently, it had been a majorly popular book back in his time (and its popularity had even continued here in modern day) and he had read it at least four times in one year alone, according to Steve. However, he unfortunately didn't remember any of that, so he wanted to re-experience it for himself. So far it was living up to the hype.

Steve was somewhere nearby, running laps around the track and inadvertently (or advertently) being a showboat as always. Typical of him. Bucky could hop in and give him a run for his money (pun intended), but right now he really just wanted to sit and read. The day truly couldn't be nicer; it was the perfect level of warmth that made sitting in the shade like some kind of paradise, the sun was tucked behind a very thin curtain of clouds, the rays peeking through and casting mellow rays on the ground below, and a calm breeze passed on over the meadow– just enough to gently tousle Bucky's long hair, but not too much so as to disturb the pages of his book. All in all, it couldn't be more perfect.

That's when it happened.

It started off distantly, a faraway thundering hammering in his sensitive ears.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Bucky looked up from his book, his eyebrows furrowing as he scanned the area. The wind started to pick up, rustling the pages beneath his fingers as the rumbling steadily increased in volume. His nose– the only one of his senses stronger than any one of Steve’s– picked up the scent of something unlike anything he’d ever smelled before in his century of living on this Earth. He squinted as he saw something twinkle brightly in the sky, the light pattern somehow different from any he’d seen– it wasn’t like a glint off metal or glass; the closest comparison would be the way light reflects off a gemstone. The light winked in and out as it moved and grew closer, the shimmer now revealing itself to be blue in hue.

The supersoldier wasn’t able to watch it come any nearer, having to screw his eyes shut and clamp his hands over his ears as the noise became absolutely deafening to his enhanced hearing. Wind buffeted him in gusts and gales, twisting his hair and scrambling the pages in his book until his place in it was hopelessly lost and nearly knocking him over entirely. The ground suddenly shook with a very heavy impact, and he became aware of a massive warmth before him. Only once his head stopped pulsating and his ears throbbed less did he venture to peek one eye open. Then he immediately questioned his sanity.

Before his eyes, in its sapphire scaled, massive winged, fanged and horned and clawed glory, was a dragon.

Bucky stared at it then blinked twice then scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles, only to find the brilliantly blue beast still standing there, staring back at him. “…I really gotta go see Shuri again,” he mumbled. “Clearly my head still ain’t screwed on right.”

The obviously-not-real dragon snorted, puffing steamy air in his face and leaving wisps of smoke trailing from its nostrils from which the barest hints of flames had sprouted in their depths just a moment ago. Then Bucky felt something that he could only describe as a tickle on his consciousness.

You’re not– what you humans say, “seeing things.”

Bucky jolted backwards, a hand flying up to press against the side of his head and a startled stream of curses bursting from his mouth. The dragon tilted its head, looking none-too-impressed. “Okay, I’m definitely losing it,” he affirmed, shell-shocked as the cogs in his brain frantically tried to crank out an explanation. This had to be his screwed-up brain playing tricks on him, right? Because, well, it’s happened before, and he’s currently at two and a half days without sleep and that’s when his mind sometimes liked to mess around with him, so it’s not too far-fetched. Right? Certainly not more far-fetched than a literal living breathing mythological beast standing before his very eyes.

I am not some illusion, that new voice in his brain spoke up again– not Winter’s voice. This one was comparatively very effeminate, and sounded thoroughly affronted in present time. The dragon snorted again, perfectly in sync with the words floating around in his mind of their own accord.

Bucky blinked twice more, gears revolving in his brain as he slowly started to piece together the impossible.

It’s about time that you’re getting it, the voice sniped again rather impatiently. Just so you know, it’s offensive and preposterous to think that your mind could just invent something as majestic as myself of its own accord.

Bucky’s jaw hung slack as he stared at the maybe-actually-real reptile before him, eyes glazing over its brilliant sapphire scales and gleaming ivory fangs, horns and claws. Its azure eyes stared back at him, piercing and undeniably intelligent.

I’m not an “it”, it (she?) spoke again, indignant.

Her tone then became colored by amusement and intrigue. You’re interesting. Your mind… She cocked her head, sharp eyes assessing every aspect of him. It’s not like any other human’s I’ve ever met.

Bucky’s mouth gaped uselessly, and he was vaguely aware of how impossibly idiotic he must look right now, but was too preoccupied to care, much less do something about it. “…I’m sorry, what–…?”

The dragon shifted, her scales rustling and scraping together and winking in the sun as she sat down. What, never seen a dragon before?

“Can’t say that I have,” he countered. Now this seemed to only intrigue her more. Her tail dragged over the ground as she swept it over to curl around her forefeet, squashing and tearing up the grass in its path.

What? But the Riders should be all around by now. Eragon finished training the first group ages ago; they were sent back to keep an eye on all the major cities.

“Riders?” Bucky half scoffed in disbelief. “Hate to break it to you, but dragons don’t exist.”

The dragon shuffled back into a standing position before bowing down into a stretching position, her back arching like a cat’s as her massive jaws parted in a gaping yawn with her tongue curling up behind razor sharp teeth. That’s an absurd statement, she mused idly. I’m right here, aren’t I?

The supersoldier scoffed yet again, this time more in awe. “Right. And who exactly are you?” He watched her with a keen eye, his brain still trying to process this but growing more and more enthused as it seemed to prove itself to be truly real.

The dragon blinked lazy at him, her eyes analyzing and curious. None other than the famed Brightscales– Saphira, of course.

THSIS IS SO GOOD AND I ENJOYED READING IT HAHAA <3