One of my characters is indecisive, and constantly changing their mind about things. This means they will have a lot of incomplete sentences, and they are likely to hesitate when speaking. (I’m calling them Vicky)

My second character is blunt and decisive, as a direct contrast to the first character. They use short sentences which convey a lot of information, and they do not retract statements. (I’m calling them Morgan)

“We need this plan,” says Morgan.

“It’s not as if we need it,” Vicky tries to argue, before frowning, deep in thought. “Actually, it’s not a good plan at all, and it would be better to- actually, wait, no, it’s amazing, we have to start right away!”

Morgan sighs. She’s had this exact conversation a hundred times before. “You sure about that?” they ask sarcastically.

Vicky frowns again. “Actually, now that you mention it, I’m not quite sure, to be honest.”

“Why don’t you come up with the plan? Because we do need a plan.”

“Well, we could always just distract the guard- or actually, we could really easily steal the code- but it would be quicker if we just knocked the guard out- but that’s really mean and it would leave a trail, anyway-”

Morgan interrupts. “We’ll steal the code.”

“Really? Because actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think that’s a good idea, to be honest, and I think it would be better to go with your plan.”

“We’ll steal the code and then use elements of my plan to break in.”

Vicky beams. “You think my plan is good? I don’t, not really, but I guess if you think so- no, it’s pretty good, actually, and I’m really proud I came up with it!”

Morgan sighs. “Let’s get started. If you’re sure you’re on board with this?”

“Well, now that you mention it-”

Vicky and Morgan are arguing again. It’s not unusual - those two always argue. Morgan knows what she wants, and Vicky never does. Usually what that means is Morgan comes up with an idea, and Vicky swings back and forth on whether it’s a good one or not. The biggest problem with this dynamic is that they’re a criminal duo, so it’s fairly important for them to agree on plans.

Today they’re breaking into the Bank of America, just for the hell of it. As per usual, Morgan has a plan. Morgan thinks the security guards are underpaid and therefore easy to bribe. Vicky thinks it’s too risky and they should just knock out the guard. Then less than a minute later, she’s decided it’s best if one of the pair stays behind to distract the guard while the other one robs the safe. It’s only about thirty seconds before she’s suddenly thinking that actually, Morgan’s plan isn’t that bad, really.

So they go with Morgan’s plan, and they agree that Vicky will offer the bribe. (Vicky looks nice and kind; Morgan just doesn't.)

The pair set off, and everything goes well, up until they encounter a security guard. Morgan nudges Vicky, prompting her to offer the bribe as planned. But Vicky’s classic indecision is coming into play, and she tries to engage the guard in conversation.

“Hi there! I’m doing a school project about careers options, and I’d love to interview you!”

Morgan raises an eyebrow, but goes along with it. Once Vicky has decided to be indecisive - the irony of that thought is not lost on Morgan - there is no persuading her to stick to one plan. She knows Vicky, and she can guarantee that in a moment she’ll probably try to offer the guard the bribe anyway. So Morgan steps forwards, tiptoeing softly, so the guard will hardly register her absence. That’s why Morgan never speaks, or speaks softly, when the pair use distraction techniques: so that nobody ever notices she’s there, and won’t notice when she’s gone.

She moves softly, paying close attention to what’s ahead of her, keeping her breathing shallow so she won’t be heard. Then she takes another step forwards, and she barely has time to realize what has happened - she must have triggered a laser - before the alarm starts to sound, and she freezes.
A second guard comes running up to her, and she knows instantly that they’ve got no chance of staying hidden.

“Put your hands up!” someone yells, and Morgan sees that there’s a gun in the guard’s hands, so she complies.

Vicky comes rushing around the corner, not even bothering to try to be careful. The money Morgan had given her as a bribe for the first guard is in her hands, and she waves it carelessly at the second guard.

“Please don’t shoot my friend! I’ll pay you, I swear, it’s got to be more than what you make working here-”

The security guard seems to be considering accepting the money, and then Vicky does the unthinkable - but of course, it’s not unthinkable really, because of course - it’s what Vicky does.

Vicky changes her mind. “Actually, hang on,” she says, rushing forward, preparing to punch the guard. Morgan wants to scream.

The guard shoots, and this time Morgan does scream, as she collapses onto the floor, a bullet in her brain.

Vicky gasps and drops, crouching by Morgan’s side. “I’m sorry- I’m so, so sorry- Morgan, please. Wake up- God, please- please, wake up!”

Morgan doesn’t move.

“This is all my fault,” Vicky sniffs as the two security guards move out of sight, letting her grieve privately. “I’ll change, Morgan, for you, I’m sorry, I know I messed up, I’m so sorry.”

She stands up, her eyes blazing with fury. “I’ll teach the guard who shot you a lesson. And this time I’ll know what I’m doing.”

My villain is going to be Morgan - it turns out that she wasn’t really dead after all: she has been working as a double agent against Vicky for a while and decided that faking her death would give her more freedom and let her stop pretending to be on Vicky’s side.

She has red curly hair down to her waist that she wears in a French braid for practicality. She usually wears suits.

She is blunt and unforgiving, and very decisive. She doesn’t talk much, but she is very observant and incisive. She is direct, and a quick thinker.

Despite the fact that she didn’t really die, she is still angry with Vicky because if it hadn’t been planned from the start - the security guard was instructed to shoot Morgan with a tranquillizer dart no matter what - Vicky’s actions could have caused her to die for real. Because of this, when she and Vicky meet again, years later, with Morgan as the head of a new criminal network, she is cold and won’t let anybody in. She is also harsh to people who are indecisive because she thinks they are a liability. This has also made her more decisive to the point where even reasonable evidence cannot convince her to change her mind. She could be described as bitter and angry.

Her minor flaw would be that she is very arrogant - she believes that her way of thinking and of acting is superior to anybody else’s. Her major flaw is that she is cold and untrusting due to what she perceives as Vicky’s betrayal. Her fatal flaw is that, as I mentioned, she is stubborn and will stick to a decision even if she knows it may be the wrong decision to make.

The main part of her backstory - her fake death - has been outlined in the story I’ve already written. As for how she came to be working as a double agent against Vicky, she was recruited by a criminal network as a teenager (the short story I’ve written is set when both characters are in their early twenties). It was around the same time that Vicky became interested in criminal activity - at first it was just small things, like shoplifting make-up and sweets, that are fairly common among teenagers, but as they started getting away with more and more things, they started thinking bigger until they were robbing banks.

After faking her death, Morgan works her way up the ranks of the criminal network until she is running the entire thing.

Her motive is to stay there, and not be killed like she killed the previous leader. This has contributed to her stubbornness - she does not want to seem weak. She has a dedicated small team of minions who are responsible for “disobeying orders” whenever Morgan does not want to change a plan but knows it would be sensible. This shows how paranoid and controlling she can be.

However, Vicky, who is ashamed of how her indecision cost Morgan her life, has become similarly stubborn and decisive, so they will mirror each other.

I’m in my basement. That’s pretty normal for a Wednesday afternoon, in my life.

My elite team of “rebels” are there with me as well, and we’re discussing what kind of disobedience is needed next. If that seems weird, well, it kind of is, but then again, I run a criminal network that stretches out across all 50 states. My life just is weird.

When my best friend got me killed because of her stupid indecisiveness, that was basically a huge turning point. On the one hand, I finally had the freedom to work with my network without having to worry about her finding out, since she thought I was dead. (Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.) But on the other hand, my best friend got me killed. Even if I was only pretending to be her friend so that I could steal from her, that still means something, you know?

I guess it’s a bit stupid that I still think about her.

Anyway, I don’t want anybody to think that I’m indecisive, ever. Before I faked my death, I was pretty decisive, but in a smart, flexible way. Now it’s more like if anyone sees me changing my mind about anything I’ll actually die.

That could be literal, by the way. I made it to the top of this network with a combination of metaphorical backstabbing and actual backstabbing. At any moment, somebody could try to assassinate me to get my place as leader of this whole organization. I’ve got my eye on a few people who I’m pretty sure are dangerously ambitious. But if people think I’m weak, more people will try and overthrow me to usurp my position. And even if I do sleep with a dagger under my pillow, and even if I do keep a gun on me at all times - what if one day it isn’t enough?

It wasn’t enough for Robin, who I killed.

But Robin was weak. He couldn’t control a network as big as ours, with branches in every state. He was used to leading only one branch of the organization. Then Jean, Robin’s best friend, decided to take out the current leader with a bomb. Only Jean got caught in the explosion as well, and since Jean had told Robin about her plan, Robin got credited with the kill and launched to the top.

I kind of feel sorry for him, but I’m glad of his incompetence, since if he hadn’t been so easy to kill, I wouldn’t be where I am now.

My best solution to not ending up like Robin, or the leader he displaced, Jesse, or any of the other leaders who came before that, is to not seem weak. So I don’t change my mind, ever. Once I’ve given an order, I don’t take it back, no matter what. If I’ve made a plan, even if it seems like a bad idea with new information, it doesn’t change.

That’s why I have my group of “rebels”. Their job is, essentially, to cover for me with plans. If I make a plan but in retrospect it seems less good than I thought it would - for example, if I get new information that changes the likelihood of it working - it’s their job to disobey my orders and go against the plan. We meet up every day in the basement of my old house; nobody will suspect that I’m there, since I’m legally dead.

I left the house to Vicky, but she’s never there. Out of guilt, I assume. She thinks her actions killed me (and they could have!) and she doesn’t want to be anywhere that reminds her of me. I’m glad of it - a while ago I might have felt bad about deceiving Vicky, but not any more. When we were kids, we went everywhere together. We did everything together - we started shoplifting together, then we started pickpocketing together, and then it all escalated until we started robbing banks together.

Honestly, it was the most fun I’ve had in my life. Then this organization reached out to me, and I accepted without a second thought, and never looked back.

I sigh and my thoughts return to the topic at hand. What do I need from my “rebel” team?

I’m scanning my memories for plans I formulated and now regret when I hear a key in the lock of the front door, and I freeze.

Someone’s here - someone who has a key.

My mind rushes through the possibilities quickly, but there’s really only one plausible answer.

I was so sure she wouldn’t come back!

My team looks at me for an answer, but somehow, for the first time in my life, I don’t have one immediately. There’s only a short delay before I come up with a plan, but I curse myself mentally. If any of them noticed my hesitation, I could be dead in a matter of weeks.

“We need to leave. Now,” I order. “If we wait until we hear footsteps on the stairs, we can leave from the front door, as long as we’re quiet.”

I’m suddenly reminded of the hours I spent with Vicky, always planning our next daring escapade. I’m sure we were in this exact situation - trapped in the basement while someone entered through the front door - at least twice when we started robbing houses.

I hear Vicky move upstairs, and I give my team the signal to leave. I’ll go last, to make sure everything is as it should be, and to double-check we didn’t leave any sign of our presence here.

My team leave one by one (so that if one is discovered, the rest have at least some chance) and I wait until I hear the signal - a crow’s caw - that all of them are safe outside. Moving quickly but stealthily, I make my way up the stairs of the basement towards the front door.

Then Vicky turns around.

It’s been five years since I faked my death - five years since I last saw my best friend. She’s changed only slightly since the last time I saw her. She’s cut her light blonde hair shorter - it reaches her chin where it used to be shoulder-length. She’s switched back to glasses, which she wore when we were teenagers. I remember when she got contacts - it was the week we robbed our first bank together.

She looks me dead in the eyes, and I know I’m not going to escape. Not because I can’t - if I leave now, she’ll have no proof I was ever here, and if she goes to the police claiming she saw a dead woman in her house, they’ll write her off as hysterical. But I don’t want to, despite knowing I should. It’s stupid to stay, and if there is one thing I am not, it’s stupid.

But I stay anyway.

“Morgan?” she asks, her voice hesitant.

I sigh. For the past five years, I’ve been deluding myself into thinking I no longer care about Vicky at all. That I left her behind when I faked my death. I’ve known it wasn’t true on some level, but I never confronted the truth. Well, now it’s come to confront me.

“It’s me. Vicky?” I respond. I know it’s Vicky - as if I would ever forget her face - but if I seem a little hesitant, she is more likely to trust me.

I hate myself for thinking like this.

“Oh my God, Morgan! I thought you were dead!” she screams, flying down the stairs. I think for a moment she’s going to attack me, but then she pulls me into a tight hug and I flinch slightly before leaning into her.

“I missed you,” she whispers, and I can’t cry, I can’t, I musn’t, but I do.

“Write about a character who happens to be a writer. The catch? This character is traveling the countryside as they work on their current novel. Double catch? This character finds themselves in a small town that shows a striking resemblance to the location of their novel.”

Link - https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/554998354076443075/

All my best inspiration comes from my dreams. I’m lucky enough to be able to remember what I dream most of the time, which definitely helps.

Right now, I’m planning my first full-length novel, and I’m really excited. The story is about two rival families in the Victorian era, who live in the same town, which I named Fairfields. They both want prestige, money, and a higher reputation, and for their children to marry rich. (Basically, Victorian gold-diggers.)

This was one of my many ideas that came from a dream.

When I dreamt up this story, the images in my mind after I woke up were unusually vivid compared to normal, but I figured it must just be random chance or something like that. I had the names for my characters and for my town clearly in my head too, but that’s not so unusual.

I’m doing some quick research to see whether anyone else has already used the names of my main characters as their main characters, but I’m in the clear. I don’t think anyone’s used Fairfields for a town before, but it doesn’t hurt to check, so I google it.

I’m right that no author has used it as their main setting, but it turns out that there’s actually a town in South England that has the same name.

I work from home, writing (quite a lot of short stories that I can sell pretty easily, to be honest), so I figure it’s definitely worth paying real-life Fairfields a visit.

When I get there, the first thing I notice is that there’s no cars parked on the roads I pass as I walk up to the house I rented for a week. No cars driving around, either. It’s a huge change from being in London. I don’t think it’s all that odd - I don’t have a car myself; I came here by train - so it’s pretty cool that this seems to be a car-free town.

I arrive at the house and quickly unpack my things, before grabbing a notebook and pen and setting out on a walk around the town.

The first thing I notice as I walk down to the main square is that there seems to be some kind of village fair going on. I jot that down as a good idea, and keep walking. If I’ve got time later, I’ll come back.

The second thing I notice is that although most of the town’s layout seems pretty normal, there’s three massive mansions dotted around - one on either side of the town, and one in the middle. In my novel, I’ve got the two rival families and also the richest family in the area, who both families are trying to marry into - that layout, with one rival on each side and the third family in the middle, would work really well.

I find a shop which seems to mainly cater to tourists, and buy myself a guidebook (and an ice-cream; this is a seaside town, after all).

Leaving the shop, I find a bench near the beach where I can sit down and flip through the guidebook.

When I reach the page about the three mansions, my eyes widen in shock, because the family that owns the mansion on the north side is called the York family, the family that owns the south side mansion is the Asquith family, and the family owning the mansion in the middle is the Cavendish family.

And in my novel, the two rival families are the Yorks and the Asquiths, and the richest family is the Cavendishes.

I look at the guidebook again to make sure I’m not hallucinating, then a third time just in case.

Nope. Definitely not hallucinating.

What am I going to do?

(Blue’s POV)

I enter the final line of code and exit the tab, satisfied with what I’ve done. I’ll launch the website tomorrow, and then everyone will know my name.

(Berry’s POV - two weeks later)

Everyone at school is talking about Icon and it’s getting really annoying. Basically, Icon is this stupid website that got launched about two weeks ago. People get to nominate other users as the “icon of the week”, and then you can vote for whether you think someone is an “icon” or not. Like, the homepage is just made up of polls with profile photos and the yes/no option.

Then if you win the poll, and you get more “yes” votes than “no” votes, your profile gets displayed on the home screen for a week. If you get 100% “yes” votes, you stay there for- well, forever, I’m guessing, but more than two weeks, anyway. But if you’re unlucky enough to get nominated by someone but still get 100% “no” votes, you get put in a special category - just for losers.

You can post photos as well - it’s kind of like a ripoff Instagram but with these new stupid features. Technically it’s supposed to be the content you post that decides whether you’re an “icon” or not, but usually people get encouraged to make their profile photo a picture of them in real life, and it gets decided based on your looks.

It’s so stupid.

(Blue’s POV)

It’s been two weeks since I launched Icon, and my life has never been better. The ad revenue is pouring in, and people are practically throwing money at me to get the premium features - the mystery ones.

The mystery premium features are, obviously, secret, but because Icon is aimed at teenagers, it doesn’t take long for rumours to spread.

The developer of Icon can make you into a permanent icon, with 100% “yes” votes, if you just pay them enough.

And it’s true, I can, which is why I planted the rumour in the first place. It’s surprisingly easy to convince people - especially when they have no idea I’m the developer. To them, I’m just another student who’s really, really into Icon.

And the hilarious thing is, other than the people who’ve actually paid me for the honour, nobody knows about it, because either they haven’t heard the rumour, or they heard it and dismissed it as absolute nonsense.

Some people manage to get 100% “yes” votes without the mystery premium - just enough to make sure not everyone believes the rumour.
It’s quite funny watching people become so desperate the second they’re nominated as an icon, begging people to vote “yes” for them like they’re a presidential candidate or something.

And I get to watch this all go down in real time, because at my school, nearly every student has Icon now. (The popular kids got it because of course they did, then the wannabes got it to be like the populars, then the populars and the wannabes bullied everyone else into getting it to vote for them.)

(Berry’s POV)

There’s a rumour going round that the developer of Icon can be bought off - can be bribed to make you get 100% “yes” votes. It’s probably all nonsense, but let’s face it: if someone is heartless enough to come up with an idea as callous as Icon, then they’re probably heartless enough to do this, as well.

One other thing is spreading, though: people think the developer goes to our school. Someone’s friend’s older sister’s friend’s younger brother (or something like that) says that they paid for 100% “yes” votes, and that they were asked to leave the money in an envelope in a specific teacher’s office.

It could just be made-up; after all, nobody else has been sneaking round the school with huge envelopes of money, so I guess they’ve all been told to send it in a different way. But still, who would have access to offices in this school except someone who’s either a student or a member of staff here?

I guess it’s a mystery.

I run back to the temple with my arms full of the papyrus scrolls I’ve been working on all day. I hand them in to Amy, who smiles gently. Quickly calculating in my head, I announce my word count to Frog, who is standing next to Amy, and they make a note of it on their scroll.

I completed the daily task, which Amy sees among my scrolls, and so xe presses a coin emblazoned with the symbol of a trident into my hand. I grin gratefully, and she counts quietly before realizing - my token has brought our group’s total up to twenty, which is enough to pay for an offering.

My group are scattered around the floor of the temple, some still writing furiously, others relaxing with confidence. Most of them are clutching their own coins, and I grin.

We are all time travellers, but not by our choice. We all picked up a copy of the same book, and got sucked into a temporal vortex. Or something. I don’t know. But in any case, the deities of the temple we landed by are really nice - thank goodness, or we might have gotten eaten, or slaughtered, or something.

The three of them - Amy, Frog, and Sai - all want to help us get back to our real time period, because as much as I’ve grown to love it here, I still miss my home, and my friends. (I’m still planning on staying in touch with people from here, of course - even if it does turn out we live on different continents!)

According to the deities, the only way for us to find our way home is by consulting different gods, because “some almighty being has decided to play some tricks” - apparently, various gods will have clues for us, which are single words we can then arrange into an order to find the answer. Essentially, it’s mischief on a cosmic scale.

Amy, Sai and Frog call for attention, and Amy explains how the offering will work. The god we are supposed to consult will not appear without an offering, and will not give us our clue unless we answer a riddle first. Also, we need to make offerings individually, rather than as a group - so the deities go round the temple, distributing the coins we have so each of us has enough to make an offering.

I am selected to go third. The temple has a dedicated offerings room, so the two people ahead of me go in one by one, make their offerings, and receive their riddle. One returns empty-handed, the other with a scrap of paper in hand, and I bite my lip nervously. What if I can’t solve the riddle?

When Frog calls my name, I go up to the door of the offerings room, gripping my coin tightly. As I enter, the room fills with scented smoke.

I kneel and drop my coins on the floor in front of me, thoughts intent on the deity I need to speak to - their name is Bookie, so I chant that, hoping they’ll appear.

When they do, I almost jump in fright, because they are corporeal - not what I expected. I greet them and ask for a riddle, and they reply: “Hello - here is your riddle. Everything you catch you throw away, but everything you don't catch you keep. What are you hunting?”

I think for a few moments, then give my answer, and they respond by handing me a slip of paper and disappearing.

I unfold the paper, and it has one word written on it. My clue. I store it carefully in my pocket, and walk outside.

i am queer
but what is queer?
it is a word of violence, they will tell you
but do not listen
we have taken it
reshaped it
made it our own.

if i were a hero
would you know me as i am
would you see me
if i were a hero
but i told you i was a villain
would you see through my ruse
or would you believe me?

you have lied.
i have forgiven you for everything
but i will not forgive you now
and you will never know.

i’d rather lose my humanity to win
than lose and have my story rewritten
my story is my greatest power
if i lose my story
i lose my humanity.

In Ancient Greece, myths were a metaphor for humanity - the gods and their fickle natures were all too human. This is a direct contrast to much of modern religion, where gods are portrayed as infallible.

Ancient Greeks knew all too well that their gods were flawed - look at Zeus, for example, or Poseidon. Yet they were still venerated - because in the same way that no human was without their flaws, no god was, either.

Gods were never meant to be above humanity - gods were just like us, with flaws and quarrels, but also strengths, and love.

Gods were us once.

I honestly can’t believe I got a C on the science test. I studied so hard to try and get my grades up in science, and, sure, my grade is higher than it used to be, but I was aiming for a B+, and this is very clearly not a B+. It’s not even a B!

My parents won’t be mad at me me for the bad grade or anything like some of my classmates’ parents would. They’ll just look at me, all sad and disappointed, and tell me they know I can try harder. The only issue is I don’t really think I can try any harder.

I look at my science test paper, and instantly my face breaks out into a huge smile. I got a C!

My grades have been Fs and Ds all year, especially in science, which is my worst subject, so I can’t believe I got a C on this test. I studied really hard for it, and clearly all my hard work has paid off, because not only did I pass, but I got a C!

I was aiming for a B+, but I’m still really pleased with this grade. It’s definitely a step on the way - it’s a bit crazy to go from Fs to Bs, but going from Fs to Cs is more realistic.

I’m really proud of myself.

I see the grade at the top of my science test, and I frown. I got a C - which is a step up from the Fs and Ds I’ve been getting all year, but nevertheless, I was aiming for a B+.

I flip through my test paper, determined to see what mistakes I made so I can get an A next time, but as I go through it, the more I see, the more my frown deepens. It looks as if I got enough questions right to make a B+ or maybe even an A-, so I get out my calculator to be sure.

I’m right. I should have gotten an A- (which is one grade higher than my target)! So why didn’t I?

This has been our most bizarre case yet, and even now, looking around my room at its results, I am not quite sure what to make of it.

It all started in our house, at an annoyingly early hour of the morning. Daisy woke me up, as she does often, but it was at four in the morning, so I hit her. Only gently, of course.

“Wake up! There’s something I want to investigate, and we have to start getting ready now - we’re going to the North Pole, Hazel!”

I looked at her, still half-asleep. “What do you mean we’re going to the North Pole?”

She grinned excitedly. “Hazel, people are saying there are dragons there!”

I frowned. “Daisy, it’s too early in the morning for this. Do you really believe in dragons?”

“I’ve been doing tons of research, and all the evidence points to there being a reptilian species that died out around one thousand, two hundred years ago, during the early Viking age. That was also the same time when weird stuff started happening in the Arctic Circle - like the seas suddenly freezing into ice caps when there was no Ice Age in the rest of the world.”

“Do you really think that’s enough evidence? Besides, didn’t you say they died out?”

She laughed, and it was clear she’d been waiting for this moment - her dramatic reveal. “Well, Hazel, you would think so. But, recently, as in, last week, a crate of manuscripts washed up on the beach in Cornwall, and they were translated from Old Norse into modern English, and they are the diaries of a Viking boy who lived with dragons!”

My eyes widened. “Is that true? Can I see them?” I asked, suddenly wide awake.

She gestured towards the foot of my bed, where there was a stack of thirteen books. “You can read them on the way. Hurry up and pack - Hazel, we’re going dragon hunting.”

In my opinion, quality is more important than quantity in writing, because although you can have a good story which is well-written but short, you cannot have a good story if it is long but poorly written. Although depending on the type of story you are trying to tell, quantity can be necessary, it is not always! For example, in poetry, you can tell a full story in a few lines by being concise and choosing the words you use carefully. Similarly, if you’re writing short stories, you can get a full narrative into a novella, provided you select which elements are necessary to the structure of your story.

However, if you write a story which is long and unengaging, that will not be enjoyable to read, and in fact, its length may contribute to the negative experience of the reader - a short story which is dull can be sped through and then discarded in a way a longer piece or novel cannot. Of course, readers are welcome to simply abandon a book partway through if they do not enjoy it, but if you want to find out the ending, or the resolution of the plot, that may not be an option.

Often, stories which are shorter are stripped down to the essentials, whereas stories which are longer can more easily have unnecessary elements which do not add anything to the story itself. Some readers may prefer that type of story - there is something to be said for a book with filler being a nice, comforting read: not everything has to be high-stakes! However, if what you are looking for is something which is satisfying, plot-wise, a shorter story that does not contain filler may be a wiser choice. It may be possible to get a longer novel which has no unnecessary elements, or a shorter story which is full of them, but it is definitely more common to find a long story which has struggled to meet a page or word count and has thus added filler, or a short story which has been forced to get rid of any filler to fit into the novella format, than vice versa.

If you are talented at writing, you can lengthen a piece, should it prove to be too short - but as any writer knows all too well, cutting down a piece once it is written to make it shorter is infinitely more challenging and painful. Therefore, writing with less quantity (but more quality) can help to streamline the writing process - it may not work for every writer, but it can aid for some. This shows how although in a final draft, quantity may be necessary (dependent on the genre you are writing in), quality is always required.

On the other hand, some people might argue that quantity is more important than quality, because if you read a short story by your favourite author, or a short story that is extremely good, you would wish that it were longer. If a story is good, you want it to be long also, so that there is more of the story to appreciate, or to show off the author’s skill even more. Therefore, even if quality is present - perhaps especially if quality is present - quantity is still desired, elevating it to a position of greater importance than quality.

However, to counter this argument, if you read a short story by a favourite author, or one which is extremely good, or simply one which appeals to you, the story is complete in and of itself. The novella format wraps up a full plot in fewer pages than a full novel, which is part of the appeal! If you read a short story and believe it would be better were it longer, you have not understood the short-story genre. The short story, lengthened, would struggle to fit in more elements to meet a new page or word count. A short story can have quality without quantity being desired.

In conclusion, when writing, quality is more important than quantity.

A coral reef is a type of marine ecosystem which is made up of corals. A coral is actually not a type of plant, but an animal - corals are made up of polyps which are held together by calcium carbonate. Coral belongs to the same group of organisms as jellyfish and sea anemones!

Coral reefs are a really diverse ecosystem, because they give homes to around 25% of all marine species. However, they are declining due to a variety of factors, including destructive fishing methods and overfishing, pollution, disease, and tourism. Tourism in particular affects coral reefs in different ways - boat anchors can scrape the coral and damage it; there is high demand for corals as souvenirs; and tourists may trample the corals whilst scuba diving.

This is really bad for the environment, because coral reefs serve a multitude of purposes. Not only do they provide shelter and food for many sea creatures, they can also protect the coastline from destructive waves and flooding.

There are several different types of coral reef, but there are four main types. The first type is a fringing reef (also known as a shore reef), which is the most common type of coral reef. Fringing reefs are found in shallow depths, close to the coastline. The second type is a barrier reef, which are separated from the coastline by a lagoon. They are much rarer than fringing reefs because of how long they take to form. The most famous barrier reef is the Great Barrier Reef, but there are many others found around the world.

The third type of coral reef is a platform reef, which is found on continental shelves, and the fourth type is an atoll, which is a circular reef which encloses a lagoon with no central island. They are usually formed when a fringing reef forms around a volcanic island, which then erodes, leaving the reef standing.

However, coral reefs make up a very small percentage of the world’s total oceans - only around 0.1%. The majority of coral reefs are found in the Indo-Pacific region and around Central America and the Caribbean.

Another threat to coral reefs is algae, which is an invasive species within the ecosystem. Algal encroachment is caused by excess nutrients, which can be a result of sewage or chemicals getting into the water. These excess nutrients, such as nitrogen and phosphorus, encourage growth of algae, which can compete for space with the corals. This then smothers the coral; the oxygen goes to the algae rather than the corals. This decreased intake of oxygen leaves corals more susceptible to diseases. Luckily, some species of sea urchin which inhabit coral reefs will consume algae, which prevents it from overrunning the reef.

A report on coral reef conservation shows that coral reef decline can potentially be reversed. For this to happen, overfishing and destructive fishing practices (like blast fishing) need to be stopped. In addition, measures must be taken to ensure sewage does not leak into the water, and there must be restrictions on coral reef tourism. Climate change mitigation can also aid with coral reef conservation - increased levels of atmospheric carbon dioxide cause ocean acidification, which damages corals.

Coral farming is also proving effective - this method involves growing the coral in safe conditions, then placing the strong coral on the reef. Another method which is being trialled is gene therapy, which would aid coral to become able to withstand higher temperatures and thus survive in a warming ocean. Relocation can also be useful if an area is overcrowded or otherwise unsuitable for coral reefs. As well as relocating the actual corals, fish can also be encouraged to relocate by playing recordings of healthy coral reef environments. No negative effects have been observed from either method of relocation, and with the second specifically, it has been shown to increase species biodiversity by 50%.

In conclusion, coral reefs are in danger, but there is hope for the future - the reefs can be saved.

The first time the computer arrived on Alanna’s desk, she smashed it to bits. The second time, she threw it out of the window. The third time, she stamped on it.

Glaring at the ceiling as if it could answer her, she yelled, “I don’t want any of your stupid gadgets! They don’t make sense and they’re probably enchanted by an evil sorcerer anyway!”

Aly heard her mom’s yells and quietly slipped down the stairs, appearing in Alanna’s doorway. “I can help you. I can See how it works, with my Sight. It’s not enchanted or anything. It’s just electricity.”

Scowling, Alanna took the computer from her desk, where it had appeared again, completely undamaged. “Fine. I don’t trust it at all, but you can try.”

Aly stifled a laugh. “Mom, you need to loosen up. It’s not spying on you or anything, it’s just a laptop.” Navigating to the setup page, she quickly created a login - she had done this before.

At Alanna’s curious glance, she explained: “My friend at school, Maisie, she showed me how it works. She thinks I’m a bit weird for not knowing already but I said it was just really different to my old one and I think she believes me.”

Alanna laughed. “You’ve always been a good liar, Aly.”

She grinned. “I learnt from the best.”

“Awww, that’s so sweet of you to say, love.”

“I meant Dad.”

Alanna gasped in mock outrage, then returned to staring at the laptop screen in confusion.

“You just log in with your name,” Aly explained, “because I made your email address just your first name and Trebond because I’m telling people that’s our last name. So it’s alannatrebond @ Gmail dot com. And your password is my middle name. See - easy to remember.”

Hesitantly, Alanna typed in the details Aly had told her, and gasped in surprise when the laptop unlocked itself to reveal a home screen.

“I installed a few handy apps, and you can text people as well. Texting is like when you write someone a letter, but you don’t have to wait for it to arrive - they see it immediately. I put in my number, and Auntie Daine and Uncle Numair’s.”

Alanna opened the messaging app and clicked Aly’s name, typing in a short message - Does this work?

Aly’s phone buzzed from her pocket, and she opened it, clicking on the notification and laughing at her mom’s text. She replied - yes Mom, it does work lol

Alanna peered at the message with confusion. “What does ell-oh-ell mean, Aly?”

“It’s a text abbreviation, Mom. It stands for laughing out loud, so it just means you said something funny.”

Aly patted her mom on the shoulder and went back to her own room, leaving Alanna to explore the laptop more.

Alanna pulled up the apps menu and frowned at the icons. “What is this ‘Assistant’? Aly?” she called upstairs.

There was no answer from Aly (who had her earphones in), but the app registered Alanna’s voice and opened.

“What can I help you with?” the robotic voice asked her.

She paused for a moment, stunned, before yelling at the ceiling, “Aly! You promised it wasn’t enchanted!”

“I’ve been alive for so long, and you’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met,” she sighs in frustration.

Sophia laughs. “Áine, you’ve been alive seventeen years.”

She rolls her eyes and shrugs. “So? You’re still the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

“I can think of at least ten people more annoying than me, and that’s when I’m purposefully making an effort to annoy you.”

Áine scowls. “You mean you’re this annoying on purpose? Makes sense, actually. Nobody could be this annoying by accident.”

“Aw, you know you love me really.”

“Maybe that’s the most annoying thing about you,” Áine mutters under her breath.

“How do you mean?” Sophia asks, even though she knows what Áine means - at least, she knows what she wants Áine to mean.

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter,” she replies, her defensive barriers shooting up.

“No, seriously, what do you mean? How is that the most annoying thing?”

“You made me love you, okay? You made me love you and you didn’t even notice,” she yells, tears starting to leak from her eyes. “You made me love you and you don’t care, you’ll never care because I know you, Sophia, I know how you leave a trail of broken hearts everywhere you go and you never seem to care about the people who you date and then dump for the next new, shiny thing.”

Sophia gasps, hurt. “I do care about you, Áine,” she says, not bothering to defend herself from the other accusations, because those - they are all true, and she knows it, and she hates herself for it. “But if you cared about me, you would have noticed that I haven’t dated anyone in a year. You’re accusing me of not noticing you, and you don’t even notice I’ve been trying to change.”

“Fine. But how do I know you changed for real? You said that last time, and then the next guy who loved you, you went off with him and you defended him in court when he mugged someone!”

“That- I was sixteen, in my defense- and also, Áine, I would totally defend you in court if you mugged someone.”

Áine just looks at her, eyes narrowed. “That’s the least romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Sophia grins, because if Áine is making fun of her, that means she’s not furious - it means that she was won over (just a little) by her joking attempt at flirting. “Then I guess I better try harder.”

Áine laughs. “By all means, go ahead.”

The Fairchilds are in town, possibly permanently, so of course, all anyone is thinking about is getting them married off. And naturally, it’s Earl Cavendish and Earl Ponsonby who are sort of almost competing for the honour. So Earl Paul Cavendish is head of the most prestigious family in all of Derbyshire, and Earl Theodore Ponsonby is head of the richest. The Fairchild family is perhaps richer even than the Ponsonbys, though, and they definitely have more prestige, so Theodore wants to get his kids, Margaret and Edward, married off to the Fairchild twins, Charles and Elizabeth.

Unfortunately for Theodore, Paul Cavendish also has designs on a marriage to the Fairchilds - his children, Tara and Stephen, would also greatly benefit from marrying the Fairchild twins. The Cavendish family isn’t super rich - they fell on hard times in the last few decades and have kind of been coasting on their reputation since then. Marrying his children to the Fairchilds would definitely get their fortunes up.

It’s a catch-22, really, though - both families want to marry the Fairchild twins for money or prestige, but without money and prestige, Lady Fairchild won’t let her niece and nephew marry them - so what they need is to find a way to get more money and more prestige, and fast.

The only way to do that is by hosting social events.

Let the games begin…

Paul Cavendish holds the first event of the summer, but invites only his son, Stephen - they are making plans for the upcoming village fair. It’s held twice in the summer, and if you help to plan it, that gets you a cut of the profits and if it’s a success, you get a huge boost to your reputation for being involved.

Theodore Ponsonby copies his rival’s idea, and invites his son, Edward, to help him plan for the village fair.

Over the course of the summer, both families will want to make improvements to their estates, and Theodore kicks that off by ordering a brushing room to be built.

The next week, Evelyn Cavendish and her daughter Tara play whist in their front parlour - which would mean next to nothing, but Tara gossips about it to her friends, and so two youths come to stay at the Cavendish estate for the summer - Alice Bingly and Winston Napier. In addition, they are able to have a riding stable built.

Theodore again uses the same tactic as the Cavendish family - Mabel and her daughter Margaret play whist in the front parlour, and Margaret tells her friends. Reginald Hopkins and Florence Oliver join the Ponsonby party of guests, but Florence is a gossip, so she may detract from the Ponsonby family’s reputation if they are known to be hosting her. They add to their renovations a croquet lawn in the grounds.

The third week of summer sees the first village fair, and both families reap their rewards. In addition, the Cavendish estate sees a social event - Winston plays bowls in the grounds with family friend Mary Russell, who then invites her friend, Diane Blowers, to stay. Meanwhile, the Ponsonby family is hiring more servants, and having a green room built.

The fourth week of summer, Charles Fairchild is looking for somewhere to stay and play sports with other young folks, and he selects the Cavendish estate for its superior grounds.

However, the Ponsonby family is next to host an event, and they play bowls on their bowling green with Francis Trotwood (a regular houseguest of theirs) and Reginald Hopkins. Reginald tells his friend, Anne Harlow, and invites her to stay. In the meantime, Theodore Ponsonby is overseeing the building of a butler’s pantry and the hiring of an under-butler.

That same week, Alice Bingly decides to have afternoon tea with Charles Fairchild in the main gazebo, and to tell her friends, Dmitry Konstantinor and Charles Walmy - who is a cad, and thus a stain on the Cavendish family’s reputation to have in the house. Paul Cavendish does not wish to offend Alice by telling her so, and Charles Walmy is allowed to stay. A marble floor is imported to add to the main hall, which lifts the family’s spirits.

The week after that, Anne Harlow and Walter Dalrymple have afternoon tea in the main gazebo on the Ponsonby estate, and Anne invites her friend Elizabeth Hastings to stay.

That week, the Cavendish estate has a brushing room added to it, and the week after, the Ponsonby estate gains a new dining room.

While the dining room is being built, Tara Cavendish hosts afternoon tea with Charles Fairchild, conscious of the fact that she may have to marry him at the end of the summer. Later that day, she invites her friends Elise Gilmour and Katherine Eden to stay, wishing to surround herself with support.
Charles returns to his own estate at his aunt’s request, but Elizabeth has gone to stay with the Ponsonby family for a few weeks.

The second village fair of the summer is that week, and again both families reap the rewards.

Later in the same week, Paul Cavendish hires a footman and a lady’s maid, to better accommodate the rush of guests. Theodore Ponsonby then hosts a formal dinner in his new dining room, inviting Florence Oliver, his son Edward, Walter Dalrymple, and Francis Trotwood - though not Elizabeth Fairchild. Despite this oversight, another guest arrives at the estate that evening: Agnes Harpstead.

The following week, Paul Cavendish goes for a ride with new guest Elise Gilmour, and the Ponsonby family hires a footman and a lady’s maid. Additionally, Theodore Ponsonby orders a gabled conservatory for his estate.

The next week sees another game of bowls on the Cavendish estate, this between Katherine Eden and Winston Napier. Katherine then invites Charles Hobart, who is a gossip - however, as Katherine is hugely wealthy, Paul Cavendish cannot dismiss Hobart without greatly offending her, which he deems not worth it. He has a drawing room built to compensate.

Meanwhile, rumours are spreading that the Ponsonby family mistreat their servants, which costs them a significant amount of reputation. Nevertheless, Mabel Ponsonby holds a philanthropy meeting that week, inviting Agnes Harpstead, Elizabeth Fairchild, and Elizabeth Hastings. William Hawke and Elinor Palmer hear of this and arrive to visit the estate, and Florence Oliver, overwhelmed by the sheer number of new guests, leaves the estate permanently, which is a relief to the family. In celebration, they purchase some gargoyles to position artfully in the grounds.

Delighted by the success of the meeting, Elizabeth Fairchild decides to stay at the Ponsonby estate for another few weeks, disappointing Paul Cavendish.

Margaret Ponsonby then hosts a dramatic performance, inviting Reginald Hopkins - notably scorning not only all their other guests, but particularly Elizabeth Fairchild. Despite this, another guest arrives: Theodore Lodge.

Evelyn Cavendish decides to receive some visitors in the drawing room, choosing her brother Stephen to help her. Charles Hobart, the cad, decides to leave, and Agnes Easton arrives.

The week after that, Elinor Palmer and Theodore Lodge play croquet in the grounds of the Ponsonby estate, again scorning Elizabeth Fairchild. Three new guests arrive - Thomas Ralphs, Stephen Clark (who is a pauper) and Anthony Cole.

Meanwhile, Agnes Easton plays bowls with Charles Walmy in the grounds of the Cavendish estate, and the Ponsonby family hold a recital in the music room, inviting Anthony Cole, Stephen Clark, and Thomas Ralphs to watch, while the Cavendish family hire more servants.

The end of the summer has arrived, and Charles Fairchild is refusing to marry, while Elizabeth has found her match in Stephen Ponsonby.

So I ask if she’s checked the computers in the computing lab because they might have been using those if they go here, and she says no she hasn’t because of course she hasn’t. Honestly I wish it had been anyone else who was investigating this, anyone but Beryl Thomas, because she’s so useless.

But she’s my last chance at not being discovered and outed as the Icon dev like I was outed as bisexual so I guess I have to rely on her and not let her know how useless I think she is because she really, really is but she’s my only chance.

I have to make her think I’m on her side, otherwise she could piece together the clues and discover my biggest secret - my biggest secret in years, anyway, ever since I was outed as bi. I can’t let that happen again. If I reveal myself to be the Icon dev, I want that to be on my terms, not anyone else’s. I was planning on coming out on my birthday, and then I was outed the week before that, which is why it hurt even more. It wasn’t that I was closeted for my safety or anything, but I still wanted it to be on my terms, you know? It was my secret.

I can’t let anything like that happen ever again.

It’s the middle of the night when I silently slip out of bed.

The moon is full, and although I have dreamed of escaping for as long as I can remember, tonight I feel drawn to the forest in a way I never have before. A plan has formed in my head crystal-clear, and for the first time in years, I am sure of where I must go. There are no doubts in my mind as there have been every other time I contemplated the prospect of leaving: tonight, I am certain, is my chance, and I am determined to seize that chance.

As I steal away into the seemingly endless woods, I am hyper-aware of my surroundings - the slightest mistake, I know, could lead to my whole plan collapsing. The sky is cloudy; the moon at its zenith obscured. A path has appeared before me - I am sure it was not there before, but something tells me to trust whatever mysterious force has created it. After all, what other choice do I have?

I run and run, until I am convinced that the storytellers did not lie: these woods truly are endless. Every bird that flies across my path seems to mock me with its cackle, and the wind laughs as it whistles through the trees.

I keep running.

Every time the thought of stopping crosses my mind, it is pushed away by a surge of energy: I must reach my destination before sunrise. How I know this, I have no idea, but it’s clear to me that it is a statement of fact. Tears are rolling down my cheeks now, and I can taste the salty tang as they fall. Branches poke into my feet, the wind stings my face, and still I run.

The trees grab at me suddenly, their branches whipping at my arms and their bark contorting into familiar faces. They want me back; they won’t let me go that easily. I knew this from the start, and yet I still left. I can’t let them take me back. I know it as surely as I know my own name. They can’t have me.

You’ll never make it, they whisper, their voices a cruel taunt. You’ll die alone out here.

I scream and twist out of their grasp, my breathing heavy. But as I run frantically, trying desperately to escape their harsh words, their voices follow me along my way.

After an eternity, I arrive at my destination: the grandest castle in all the woods. Why I have been compelled to this place, I do not know, but as soon as I rest my hands on the ornate wooden door, the voices stop, and I realise that all along they had been sounding in my head and not in my ears. Free from the burdensome curses and ill-wishes that have troubled me, I step back and take in the castle, which seems to me almost regal.

The smell of food wafts through an open window, and I almost faint in delight - it has been so long that I have forgotten the last time I ate. Voices ring out, so many and so loud that I hear them even standing outside, and I am reminded of how deathly quiet my life has been until this moment. I have never raised my own voice; it has been trained out of me.

The door itself is adorned with gemstones. Some I recognise; some I do not. Each one shines and glitters in the moonlight. No two are the same shade - each is entirely unique. The stones cover almost every inch of the door. There is no lock, no handle. No way in.

As I watch, though, a new jewel appears in a shade of yellow. I feel drawn to it, and if I have learnt one thing from tonight’s events, it is to follow my instincts.

I step forward once again and rest my palms on the door for the second time, now centering my hands around the gem. The door swings open and I gasp. A woman stands in the doorway, smiling benevolently.

“Welcome to the Castle of Fairy Tales,” she says, and, as if I’m in a trance, I walk inside.

When George fully realises his daughter has gone missing, he decides to call on her best friend for assistance. Normally he wouldn’t use children like that, but sixteen-year-old Áine has a knack for knowing what Aly would do in different situations. They’re extraordinarily similar, that’s why.

Áine arrives at Pirate’s Swoop, clearly not very pleased with having been called away from whatever she was working on. She’s the kind of person who always has a project on the go. If Aly’s fault is that she takes on too little work, Áine’s is that she takes on too much, George muses.

“Is there an issue?” she asks, sitting down in the chair opposite George’s.

He nods. “You could say that, yes. Aly is missing.”

Áine’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re kidding. And you couldn’t find her, not with all your agents and whatnot?”

He shakes his head. “No. I dare not. And Alanna has tried to scry for her, but something seems to be obscuring our view of her.”

Áine frowns. “A god, then.”

George shrugs. “Who knows? It could be, or it could be an enemy mage. I’m sure the Scanran army would love to get their hands on the Lioness’s daughter.”

She winces. “You’ve got a point.”

“I want you to try to find her. You know how she thinks. Alan only knows that she’s safe, and though that’s reassuring, I need more concrete information.”

“Of course.” She sits and thinks for a moment, before asking, “Did anything happen in the days before she went missing?”

George starts to shake his head before remembering - “She had a fight with Alanna. Same old, I thought, Alanna after her to find her place in the world.”

Áine narrows her eyes, deep in thought. “I bet she ran away. Not meaning it to be permanent, but she went, and then something happened. Otherwise she would have written to you by now.”

“That’s possible.”

“I reckon - there weren’t any storms lately, so we can rule that out, but pirates, maybe?”

George nods. “Maybe. But what about the god, or mage? Pirates don’t usually have one that powerful aboard.”

“Maybe she got taken, then noticed by a god.”

“Good theory. Will you go and look for her?”

Áine sighs, but agrees, just like George knew she would. Aly is too important to her.

So that is how it came about that a few days later, Aly was out tending her goats, and when she returned, Winnamine was waiting for her with important news.

“You have a guest from home, Aly,” she informed her. “She says her name is Angel.”

‘Angel’ was a code name for Áine. Both friends had several code names they had worked out over the years.

Aly nods. “Where is she?”

Winnamine points, and Aly hurries down the corridor to the room where Áine is waiting.

The second Áine sees Aly, her eyes light up. Then they fill with concern. “Where have you been?” she asks. “We’ve all been worried sick about you!”

“I’ve been here. Working as a slave. Don’t worry about me,” she says, her eyes dancing. “This is spy work.”

Áine shakes her head in amusement. “Spy work? Really? Your da would never let you. And anyway, he didn’t know where you were either.”

Aly rolls her eyes. “Da’s not to know I’m doing spy work. This is my own assignment.”

“If you insist.”

Queen Robiline arrives in the meeting room (which happens to also be her own bedroom) in considerable distress. She has received word from the majiks of Gibberland that Creggi has become unsettled, and is likely to attempt drastic action shortly.

If that seems strange, you must remember that the island of Gibberland is truly the nose of a giant named Creggi. He normally rests in the seas off the coast of Wales, but occasionally holidays in the Indian Ocean. This can cause disruption to the people of Gibberland, but it generally does not affect them so much - think of it as similar to an earthquake.

However, latest word from the majiks (who are the official court wizards of Gibberland) is that Creggi is tiring of having people walking around on his face, and he plans on doing whatever it takes to stop them.

Just as she finishes informing her advisors of this, the room suddenly starts to shake, and Robiline screams.

After a few hours, it shows no sign of stabilizing, and Robiline instructs her brother, the King of Gibberland, to attempt to contact the majiks.

The head majik, Tsrif, arrives in the room via teleportation. Her face is grim. “It doesn’t look good, your majesties.”

“So what’s going on?” Robiline asks. (She rarely stands on ceremony, because she is nine.)

“Creggi cut his own head off and launched it into space,” Tsrif answers, getting straight to the point.

Robiline splutters. “What do you mean, he cut his own head off and launched it into space? He can’t just do that!”

“Well, he has, and now I guess we have to deal with the consequences.”

“Can you reattach the head?”

“Maybe after we manage to get ourselves out of outer space, sure. But it’s going to take all we’ve got, and I’m sorry, your majesty, but you know what that means.”

“We’re not using my sister.”

Robiline’s sister, the Countess of Dexderonowoe, had been banished from the kingdom many years ago (for trying to change the national anthem). However, she still officially held the title of Countess, due to her blood relationship to the queen.

She was also a powerful majik, and Tsrif was sure they would need her power in order to get Creggi back in the sea.

MarcelinaxBooks wrote:

My critique
I really like it! It doesn't make sense at all and it's funny. I like your writing style and the way you introduced the characters. My only drawback is I wish you gave a little more insight on the character's backstories and such, but other than that, it's great!

Firetender wrote:

critique (if that's okay asdhf)

even though it's not supposed to make a lot of sense, this is actually incredible :0 like there's worldbuilding (even if it was made on the fly) and set-up for a plot? which is better than i did tbh i just wrote a drabble that doesn't make sense without context hbjasdf— this is genuinely really good and i am like low-key interested in a continuation about this sister :eyes:

The town of Tunstead was divided into two factions every winter, and somehow Ella was the only person who thought it was bizarre. The entire rivalry was over a simple frog.

Over one hundred years ago, a man named Bertie had started to breed frogs, and soon enough the frogs had spread all over the town, until everywhere you went you found at least three frogs. Bertie himself had left town (too many debts, the busybodies reported), and the frogs were named Bertie in his honour.

To this day, the frogs remained, and if you found a frog in your back garden, or one that had snuck its way into your house, you called it Bertie.

The football team had named itself the Frogs, and its mascot was a man in a frog costume - Bertie the Frog.

But the local band had called themselves “Bertie the Band”, and used the frog emblem to represent themselves.

Every year, the football season was at roughly the same time as the Battle of the Bands.

Each group wanted the frog, and Bertie’s name, for itself. Neither group was prepared to reach a stalemate or agree they could both share the frog.

Every year, when Battle of the Bands came around, the hardcore football fans would try to sabotage the band, and every year during football season, band groupies would cheer on the opposing team no matter what team it was.

The rivalry got pretty intense some years, with tyres being slit, and even people being mugged, simply for being part of the wrong team. For wearing the football team’s logo (a frog holding a football) or the band’s logo (a guitar with a frog painted on the back).

Ella purposefully wore both, just to irritate people. It was funny because her girlfriend was on the football team and her twin sister was in the band.

And what Ella knew from that could tear the whole town apart. Because she knew that the rivalry was orchestrated. Nobody had ever questioned the fact that the football team’s coach was married to the manager of the band, because nobody had even suspected. It wasn’t even as if they kept it a secret, but also they didn’t actively go around telling people.

As a fun prank to play on the two teams, the coach and the manager had cooked up the plan to fake a rivalry. But by the time they told the teams, the people on the teams had told their friends, who had told their friends, and so on. The two teams were perfectly happy to let go of the animosity, but the town was not.

It was almost scary to see how far it had escalated, from a simple prank played by a coach and a manager on their teams, to something real that people were getting hurt over.

The football team and the band members had tried to tell people that the rivalry wasn’t real, but nobody listened.

People loved having enemies, and they weren’t going to stop just because someone told them it wasn’t real.

the chosen one
Subvert by having a team which all contribute to the mission/plot
Subvert by killing the chosen one early in the plot

good vs evil
Subvert by using a character who often does evil things or good things
Subvert by having the villain believe they are doing the right thing

love triangle
Subvert by having all 3 people involved fall in love and have a poly relationship
Subvert by having the two love rivals fall in love with each other

forbidden love
Subvert by the characters deciding not to pursue a risky relationship
Subvert by having a forbidden friendship instead

the wise old mentor
Subvert by using a young character as the mentor archetype
Subvert by having no mentor at all: the characters must figure everything out on their own

The battle is in full swing, and Luca is front and center, slashing through zombies and flinging the pieces in all directions to stop them from reforming. Willow is darting around the battlefield, too quickly to spot if you aren’t paying attention, dealing with the humans - stabbing quickly, then darting off as her victim realises what has happened. Venus fires flaming arrows one after the other, burning the zombies to ashes. Morgana is sending spell after spell at the enemy forces.

They are all so busy that they don’t notice someone sneak in between them and drive a sword through Luca’s ribs.

Willow is first to spot what has happened, but it’s too late. The wound pierced a lung, and there’s no healer around.

“What do we do now?” Venus whispers. “About the prophecy.”

Morgana swallows a sob. “We go on. The three of us.”

Willow frowns. “But it was supposed to be Luca. We were just getting her there. Getting her to the center, the neutral ground, so she could-”

Venus interrupts. “Morgana’s right. We go on. We have to believe that all is not lost.”

“But it is,” Willow cries. “Luca is dead, and now we don’t have anyone who can fulfill the prophecy.”

Morgana shakes her head. “No. I’m sure of it. We have to continue.”

Luca. Willow. Freya. Venus. Morgana. Cleo. The six girls who had been there from the beginning, raised as fighters, as warriors, as sorceresses. The prophecy spoke of a girl born on the winter solstice. Lili had found all six baby girls born on that day, and offered to educate them at her school. All six sets of parents had agreed, and so Lili had taught the girls how to fight, with weapons and with magic.

They all knew about the prophecy; that on their fifteenth birthday, the ornate Peace Ring would choose one of them. The Peace Ring was a symbol of the royal family - in times of conflict or civil war, the magic placed in the ring by its crafter, the first queen, would choose who was crowned.

The kingdom had been in turmoil for years now, since before the six girls were born, and the Peace Ring had yet to choose the sovereign. Lili and her six apprentices knew that one of the six would end up being chosen. The only question left was which one.

It was a testament to the girls’ close friendship that this had not caused a rivalry between them. They had an unspoken agreement: whichever one of them was chosen by the Peace Ring, the other five would be her closest advisors.

Ella was flipping through her history textbook when she came across a strange hand-written note. It read: if you want to know the truth about the frogs, come to the pond at midnight.

She laughed, and tried to ignore it, but the closer midnight came, the more it weighed on her mind. Didn’t she have a responsibility to try and set everything right? It wasn’t as if she was the only person who knew the truth about the rivalry between the band and the football team, but maybe she was the only person who cared enough to actually do something about it.

One hundred years ago, outside a cottage by the pond, in a small village called Tunstead, the old man carefully blew onto his clay frog, and watched as the colour changed, from a brownish-orange to the vibrant green of a true frog. He set down the small creature by the pond, and watched as it hopped into the water.

So that night at midnight, Ella snuck out of her house and crept down to the pond. This was probably the scariest thing she had ever done. It was the night of the winter solstice, and the sky was pitch-black, with the moon hidden behind a cloud.

As she settled herself on a bench at the edge of the pond, it occurred to her that this was very much the start of a horror movie, but it was too late for her to back out now.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” she yelled, hoping someone would reply.

No answer. She tried again. “Anyone?”

Suddenly she had an idea. Perhaps the worst idea of her life. Perhaps the best. She slipped off her heavy coat and shoes, and carefully lowered herself into the water, yelping at its temperature.

Morgana smiled as her latest creation hopped away into the village. Then her thoughts turned to her rival, and it was as if a cloud had passed over her face. She was certain he would not allow her to be the sole creator of the Tunstead frogs. And she could do nothing now to stop him from taking over her miracle and twisting it into a curse of his own.

Ella swam down with firm strokes, cursing whatever stroke of fate had led her down this path. As she reached the bottom of the pond, she spotted a small clay frog, about the size of her thumbnail, hidden behind a rock. She picked it up in one hand and, feeling a certainty that this was what she had come for, swam back up to the surface.

She sat back down on the bench, drying herself as best she could with her coat, and held the clay frog in her hand. It seemed almost real, with intricate detail and a feeling of love poured into it.

She breathed into her hands, trying to warm them up, but as she did so, a change came over the tiny piece of clay. Its colour slowly changed, from brown to green, and it hopped out of her hand.

Switching on her phone torch, she walked on, following the frog.

After a while, the frog hopped inside a cottage, and Ella walked in as well, following in its wake. She shone her torch around, trying to see whether the cottage was inhabited or not. Unsurprisingly, it was empty. No furniture, except a large wooden table, or personal decorations. Just a hardcover journal lying on the edge of the table.

Ella picked it up, opened to the first page, and started reading.

If you are reading this, I am dead and Bertie has won. He will turn this town against itself, and he will not stop until everyone hates each other enough to call on him. I do not expect anyone in this town to survive the fallout if he is called back. He is dead already, long buried. I killed him, and for my trouble have been branded the villain of this piece. But already his dying curse works its magic on me. I will live for just long enough to see the beginning of the end.

He has taken my creations, the Tunstead frogs, and he has warped them into a tool for his own sinister plot. He needs everyone to know his name - he is counting on it. The frogs have a charm on them, one he created and placed on them without my knowing. The charm makes people covet the frogs for their own.

When Bertie is known as the creator of the frogs, and when the town is sufficiently divided that they seek his guidance on how to proceed, then he will strike. If he is called, he will come.

I beg of you, do not believe a word he says, or any of the legend he has built up surrounding himself. And above all do not recoil when you read my name, for I swear upon everything I hold dear that however monstrous of a figure he has made me into, I was good once.

Morgana.

You’re so careful, never doing anything impulsively. You know what you want and you know how you’re going to get it. I don’t hate you for it. I should, but I don’t. I love how you always consider every possible outcome. Because you’re like me that way. Because I’m surrounded day and night by people who do things just because they want to, and it’s blessed relief to talk to you and know you’re always thinking, always calculating behind those green eyes.

And it all ended well, I know, it ended better than I could have possibly imagined. I’m so proud of you for working up the courage to leave, so proud of you for everything. I know how hard it must have been for you.

And yet, I’m still angry. Not with you, never with you. But with the world, for letting that happen to you, for letting any of it happen at all. It’s like a fire burning inside my lungs, and I can’t let go of it, can’t let go the way I thought I’d be able to when we won.

To be honest, I’m not sure I’ll ever let go. I burn brightly, everybody says that, but you - your rage freezes under your skin, and some days even I can’t see when it’s coldest. Everyone sees when I blaze with anger. Nobody saw when your heart froze and shattered. I never want to let go of my anger. It heats me from the inside out, it is bright when the rest of me is too deeply hurt to be. You will never be able to let go of yours, it has changed you so deeply.

And I am angry for you, never at you, on the days when your heart is so frozen you don’t let even me in, when you ask me quietly if I trust you, and my answer is always yes. Always, I will trust you always, even if you make mistakes, even if you give me no reason to trust you, I will always be on your side.

People asked me why I trust you so unconditionally, when you ran away. I didn’t know what to say. But I suppose the answer is that I trust you because I want to. I want to trust you, I want to believe that you can be trusted. Because I couldn’t bear it if you were too far gone for that, back in the days when I thought there was a chance you might be.

Even then, I never let go of you, never stopped believing in you, and I swear if you had needed me, I would have been on your side no matter what you had done. Because I always will be. It’s engraved somewhere deep in my heart, that I am yours. I would not change that, even if I thought I could. I want to be yours forever. I don’t care if that leads me into trouble.

Everything that has happened before was one kind of awful. This is a new kind of awful. People leading me behind closed doors and asking if I’m sure I trust you. Asking if you have me enchanted and that's why I stayed with you.

I don’t care about everything you’ve done. I care about you.