Some goals that I have for this SWC session are 1) honing my writing skills and 2) adding more descriptions/details to my writing. I think the weeklies and their tips, along with the workshops will help with this, too. If you have any tips for my writing please tell me on my profile. Feel free to critique any of my writing pieces.

✎✐✎✐✎✐✎✐✎✐✎✐

Word Count: 63

3/2/22
Daily
Prompt: Today's daily is about writing in the perspective of an inanimate object. Write at least 300 words from the perspective of an inanimate object (lamps, computers, erasers, etc) for 500 points!
Object: An ice cube given to my former foster dog
Word count: 323
Writing:

Dear human,

The freezer was fine. I could have stayed there, lived a happy ice cube life stashed under the mountain of dino-nuggets, whatever those are. But no, you had to shatter all hope of happiness. All hope of enjoying the outside view.

Usually when an ice cube like myself is taken to the outside they are going to be put in a cup to keep a drink cool. This is a fine way to go, melting is not painful, and you get a nice change of scenery. But, an unlucky few (including me) are given to the horrific dog you humans call “Ivy” as TREATS! I am a very respectable ice cube, thank you very much. Have you seen my perfect crystalline structure? I deserve to be treated as more than a prize. And for a dog no less!

Anyway, back to my short, tragic life. I was taken out of the freezer at a mere one day old. I was too young to die! Then, I saw her. The dog was wagging her tail like a maniac, and staring at me. You held me out for the dog to sniff, and that evil creature snatched me in its jaws and sauntered off, my screams dying as I accepted my fate.

She brought me to her crate, lying down in her bed to gnaw on me. Do you remember when I told you melting isn’t painful? Being chewed on by a dog was very painful. After I was shattered, emotionally and physically, Ivy put me on the hardwood floor to chase and attack, like a cat toying with its prey before it makes the finishing swipe. I am tossed around, while you humans stand there and laugh at my pain. Wow, thanks, guys. I felt so loved. Then I was pounced on and eaten.

I expect you to attend to this issue immediately,
Ice Cube (no, not the rapper. Sorry to disappoint)

Yo! Hello! Hi! You can read these catastrophes and critique them (I probably need it) but warning, they are quite cringy

Dailies
March 1: here
March 2: here
March 3: here
March 4: project
March 5:
March 6:
March 7:
March 8:
March 9: Courtney Got Cancer (the zodiac)
March 10: here
March 11: project
March 12: CABIN WARSSS
March 13: RP Day!
March 14: (Pi Day) here
March 15:
March 16:
March 17:
March 18:
March 19:
March 20:
March 21: here
March 22: here

Weeklies
Week 1: N/A
Week 2: Missed Deadline :[

Poetry Cabin Activities
March 1 (free verse poem): here
March 11 (haiku poems): here

Word Wars
comment (won)
comment (lost)
comment (won)

Writing Comp
here!

Misc.
ELA Poetry Extra Credit: here
A Shoe falls out of the sky. Justify why: here
Diary story thing? Not sure what to call it: here
Greeno Invasion (Idek lol): here

Going to compile all my writing in this post

March 2nd
(poem written in the perspective of a tissue box, 303 words)
I spend my days watching him cry—
When everyone is absent, his outside
Facade drops away, like tears streaming
Downwards, like River Hope always streaming
Downwards—
Life becomes a downward
Spiral, his hand approaches me once more
Visibly shaking, but behind closed doors
Nobody is there to see his shuddering.
His fingers, almost stuttering,
Silently ask for something to hold,
To grab on to, but chances have grown old
And nobody is there to answer.
Fingers dart forward with no manners
To grab a tissue
Straight out my head to wipe away the issues
The world presents today.
The more I watch him lay
Alone on his bed defeated
The more I feel depleted
As he takes more and more
Tissues out from the crude door
Torn into the top of my head. Wrinkled up balls
He throws at the wall,
The tissue’s elegant descent to the ground
Has transformed into a hailstorm without a sound
His mind’s elegant descent to tranquility
Has transformed into a rage of insanity
I remain stationary—
It’s the only thing I know how to do. He
Does not ask me how I am doing.
He does not ask me what I am doing.
I do not say anything back either.
I know that this feeling of becoming lighter
Is my way of being there for him,
Even if I won’t see him again.
I know my lifespan dwindles down
Every time he takes tissues out,
But my job is not to show defiance,
But be compliant
Even if it kills me.
The floor is covered haphazardly
With little igloos. They have made a home
On the floor. His mind has made a home
In denial, and it appears
He cohabits with his fears.
He extends his arm for a gift;
I give him everything I have left.

March 3rd
(ice cream flavors were sunny, rainy, and windy ice cream, 405 words)
I. Sunshine
The day begins bright and I can see the world so much clearly right now.
At least, I tell myself the world is a little brighter
But really, I think I'm just glad that I can make out
The tones in the forest a little better.
The sun seems to smile at me with shining teeth
And I wish I could look him straight in the eye and
smile back, but my instincts always tell me to look away.

II. Windy
Somewhere far away, I think of an exit.
I have been wandering through these woods now for a while now
and I think I am going in circles, but there is no way for
me to know whether I have been here before.
It is getting a little colder
And I want to go home
Or maybe that is just my initial excitement running low
Or my lack of running as I get tired and would like
To rest for a while
While the rest of my surroundings runs
Around in my head to formulate a storm
That I shall call worry,
I am shivering, and I think the wind is picking up
But the sun is still smiling down, so I do not know what
I should think about this confusing change in weather.
My skin tingles from the cold
Or maybe it is just my emotions
that are frozen right now
because being lost has numbed my feelings
and my main priority is
escape.

III. Rainy
The first drop of water lands on me to warn me that I am in trouble.
Even the trees are not much help to cover me from the rain
And I know that things will get worse if I do not find some shelter
Because I need a ceiling
To cover my capabilities
In order to protect myself.
Capping what I can accomplish
So I can never get high enough to a certain point
Is the sacrifice I must make if I want to stay dry
from the neverending on pour
The trees seem to shake around me
Or maybe that is me shaking
Or maybe it is both.
There is no ceiling to save me from the rain
And I am fully soaked with the regrets of the past hour
I am fully saturated with the failures of the past day
And I am fully oblivious to my fate in the next hour.

Weekly 1 (March 2nd-March 9th)

This is honestly the most work I've done for a weekly, I actually tried to do quality writing for my weekly and I'm proud of what came out even if nobody is going to read it <3 2740 words total

Poetry section: 322 words total, used Pantoum, Acrostic, Tetractys, Quatern, and Haiku

Pantoum: Looking Glass (133 words)

The reflection I see is not my own;
An imposter has taken the place of my view.
I wish for him to go back home,
But he has chosen not to move.

An imposter has taken the place of my view,
And I mimic a finger pistol to point at his head,
But he has chosen not to move.
It seems that living with him is worse than being dead.

I mimic a finger pistol to point at his head
And ask him what he wants from me.
He says that living is worse than being dead,
Because life has become unrecognizable to see.

I ask him what he wants from me;
He wishes to go back home
Because life has become unrecognizable to see.
The reflection I see is not my own.

Acrostic: Insult (62 words)

I am always running out of reasons to
Not be caught up in the drama and fear that
Simmers and lurks whenever I turn my back. A girl
Uses her hands the wrong way; I tell her to back off; she responds I should've
Liked it. Saying no will not work
This time, so I keep my head down and walk faster.

Tetractys: Stepping Stones (16 words)

You–
Me– Love.
Distance's a
Long way to go,
But we can count stepping stones together.

Quatern: Smiling (101 words)

I smile when you tell me to
Because I know that I have to.
Smiles are not the only thing
I fake since I fake everything.

In order to not appear rude,
I smile when you tell me to
So good impressions are made now,
While later, beliefs break down.

I hope you enjoyed the facades
I wear, laid before to you all.
I smile when you tell me to;
Even carved smiles work fine too.

Permanent smiles on my mask,
I keep smiling once I've passed.
Say the word; I respond to you.
I smile when you tell me to.

Haiku: Dementia (10 words)

Remember; I try.
Papers in folders, language
I can't decipher.

Essay section: 547 words, arguing how “Lethargy” is the best song on Bastille's Wild World album

By far one of the most iconic indie/alternative bands of all time, Bastille rises to a distinction beyond no other (they even have a day named after them! Or maybe they were named after the day, but as Dan Smith sings it, “let's pick the truth that we believe in”). Their longest studio album to date, Wild World is their sophomore album with a whopping nineteen songs on the deluxe version. With so many songs, how can somebody listen to them all? Well, here's one song to start with: “Lethargy,” the greatest and most innovative song on the album. Despite every song on the Wild World album having its own unique style, “Lethargy” beats them all by combining all the reasons fans love Bastille into one song.

To begin, Bastille is a genius at finding forms of media to sample from. When listening to a song, it's refreshing, even anticipated, for their signature sample refrains to play some thoughtful quotes from random sources of media. “Lethargy,” as expected, has a sample, even if it's only a few seconds long and a total of three words: “come on, relax.” This is the shortest sample Bastille uses in Wild World, making “Lethargy” a song that stands out amongst its other contenders. Bastille also takes advantage of chords to bring out the meaning of “Lethargy”; instead of using cliche chord progressions that typically include the home chord, Bastille omits the home chord throughout the song until smacking it right dab in the middle of the chorus. Home chords are meant to be at the beginning or end of a musical idea (hence their name, since you start or end at home), so why did Bastille take the risk of not resolving musical ideas properly? It's simple: meaning. “Lethargy” is about feeling lost when you try to go out and do something different from what everybody else is doing, and the absence of the home chord is a brilliant addition to the song's meaning. Placing the home chord in the middle of a musical idea to give a sense of regret and wanting to return back to normality in the midst of turmoil is by far something no other song on the album has done. The experimentation involved to create “Lethargy” takes music to a whole different sound space, and no other song on Wild World comes close to its cleverness.

Bastille is a pioneer when it comes to finding new ways to innovate its music. It's typical to notice things you missed every time you relisten to a song created by Bastille due to all the attention to detail. Not only is Bastille phenomenal at revolutionizing music theory and manipulating sounds, but their lyrics and wordplay are unbelievable to the point it deserves its very own essay (I sadly do not have the time to cover the wit and technique behind every verse written by Bastille). “Lethargy” is a perfect starting point for those wanting to get into Bastille, as it contains all the aspects fans love and is a prime showcase of Bastille's experimental and creative style. So what are you waiting for? It's time to “get up, get up, pressure, pressure, run away as fast as you can go” to the nearest device to listen to “Lethargy”!

Scriptwriting section: 716 words, Adaptation of the middle portion of my writing comp entry last year

MATT slowly walks down an empty hallway. MATT approaches an apartment door and knocks.

ZANE
(creaks open the door slightly)
Oh, it's you. Come in.

ZANE motions for MATT to enter the apartment. ZANE looks at MATT's satchel but says nothing. ZANE closes the door behind MATT and leads MATT to the couch. MATT sits down, and ZANE retrieves a glass to water a plant.

MATT
(points at a plant across the stage)
What's that?

ZANE
(puts away the glass)
It's an aloe vera plant. It's apparently symbolic of healing and luck.

MATT
(interested)
You like plants?

ZANE
(shrugs)
Who doesn't?

ZANE sits down next to MATT. MATT suddenly feels at ease next to ZANE.

MATT
(clear his throat)
You… you teleported us. You're one of them, a Superno.

MATT fidgets with the contents in his satchel.

MATT
(worried)
You're the Alchemist.

ZANE
(looks at MATT)
I'm not going to hurt you.

MATT
(looks at ZANE for a long time, then shakes his head)
I know what you've done. You've murdered people, completely decimated cities. Does that make you happy? You enjoy seeing everybody suffering? Shouldn't it be rational of me to at least be scared of this murderer I'm sitting next to?

ZANE remains silent. MATT continues to rant on.

MATT
Tell me, was it fun? Having the upper hand so you can dominate the helpless? I know about all the things you've done.

ZANE lowers his head.

ZANE
(distressed, solemn)
You done?

MATT opens his mouth to say more, but MATT stays silent.

ZANE
(sighs)
I haven't used my powers in years. If you know everything about me, then you should know that already. That was the first time I had used it for a long while, and you should be glad because I saved our lives. But I guess I should have probably just let us die back there, since then it would have made you happier.

MATT hesitantly shakes his head.

MATT
Don't try to manipulate me. You have no remorse. There's no redemption for you. If you're so regretful, why did you kill all those innocent people then? Taking a vacation from your bloodlust doesn't make you any saint. You're broken, and you still haven't fixed yourself yet.

ZANE looks out the window, thinking.

ZANE
(emotional)
There's… I see fire. I see fire everywhere I go. There's a fire in every single one of us, and yes, there's no excuse to let that fire hold your hand and coax you into bad decisions. There's no excuse to let that fire chase us down a road to Hell. But when you're stuck in the exhilaration of it all, that temptation blinds you. The sudden responsibility that comes from power–it takes a stronger person to handle it.

ZANE looks back at MATT.

ZANE
And I'm not that person. I'm not strong enough. Power covered my eyes with blindfolds, and I couldn't fight it back. Fire held my hand, and the only way I could move is to follow its lead.

ZANE begins to cry.

ZANE
I tried. I tried to tear off that blindfold. And once I did, all I saw was the fire. Fire, everywhere. You realize the smoke all around you, the illusions that you once believed crumbling away into soot. There's no way of stopping it. You can only wait it out. All you're left with are the ashes of your mistakes, the darkness littered on the ground as a reminder of who you were. And that's no excuse. Because all people see you as now is the person you were. They see you for what you've done.

ZANE lays against the couch.

ZANE
Are you satisfied yet? With my answer?

MATT is indecisive about what to do now.

MATT
(confused)
Why–why are you telling me this?

ZANE
You asked. And I'm lonely. It's nice to talk.

There is a brief moment of silence.

ZANE
Sorry if you're cold right now.

MATT
(confused)
It's… summer?

ZANE
Sorry about that too.

ZANE approaches closer to MATT. ZANE and MATT look at each other, tacitly. Their faces are mere inches apart.

MATT
(regretful)
I'm sorry too.

MATT pulls the trigger of the ray gun held against ZANE's chest. A blast of light separates MATT from ZANE. ZANE lays motionless over the armrest.

Non-fiction section: 430 + 725, 1155 words, wrote a memoir and a tutorial

Type 1: 430 words, Memoir about my social anxiety
I never understood why people give demons a bad rap; all they've ever done is protect me, so I welcome them. It's great to have other opinions dictating what I should or should not do. After all, I was raised in a household where consulting with my parents was required for any decision, so what's the difference?

When I walk down the hall, it's customary for me to look down. That's where all the demons are: down. The outside world is a big place, and it's difficult to navigate when you have nobody to turn to. So I look down. From the corner of my eye, I think I can see a familiar face, and I am presented with my first moment of uncertainty. What do I do now? The demons tell me to hide. They're never wrong with their suggestions, so I listen. Surrounded by crowds of students rushing to their next class, I slide myself towards the wall and hope that the bodies of other people prevent me from being seen. Years of being friends with my demons have taught me how easy it is to lurk under the surface of a sea of people.

I know that I'm taking a longer way to my class. It's on purpose. It's not because certain parts of the hallways are congested, nor is it because I'm walking with another student. It's my mastermind plan that keeps me arriving at class too early or too late. If I arrive to class early, that draws attention to myself. If I arrive to class late, that draws attention to myself. If I arrive in the middle, then that's the sweet spot to not getting noticed.

I try to pace the speed of my walking because I know if I walk too fast, that draws attention to myself. If i walk to slow, however, that also draws attention to myself. People these days do whatever they can to get attention, but my demons have taught me better. I do whatever I can to stay out of the limelight.

When you're trying to save yourself from the judgement of others, you don't have time for friends. I have gotten used to the absence of others; it makes me independent, and besides, I have my demons to remind me of my place in society. As always, my demons are there to protect me from the realities that haunt me. No matter how far I run from who I am, something is always bound to follow, whether that's the opinion of others or the demons in control.

Type 2: 725 words, tutorial on writing spoken word poetry (I tried to keep it short but I went a little overboard)
Spoken word poetry is by far one of the most expressive mediums out there. That feeling of standing on a stage and reciting verses can seem daunting, and writing a spoken word poem is no easy feat. Lucky for you, I've complied a few steps on how to write a spoken word poem!
Step 1: Find a topic.
Before you start any poem, you need to know the subject matter of your poem. Pick a broad topic that you can expand on later. This topic should be something you have a lot to say on or are passionate about. For my example, I'll choose depression as my topic.
Step 2: Expand on your topic.
After choosing a topic, you need to narrow it down to something more specific. A good way to make your spoken word poem stand out is to narrow your topic down to something other people wouldn't normally associate with your topic. Having a good original topic makes you stand out from the rest of the spoken word poems out there. For my example, most people expect a poem about depression to be dark or about somebody struggling with the illness, but I'll focus my poem on the post-recovery state of depression instead.
Step 3: Write your first line.
Your first and last line is the most important part of your poem; it's what draws the audience in. A good way to begin your poem is with an anecdote, a question, a statistic or fact, or some form of figurative language. I'll begin my poem with this line: “I can tell you from experience that there are multiple ways you can die in this room right now.”
Step 4: Begin writing the rest of your poem.
Write what you feel, and write what comes naturally. When you're reciting your poem, you want it to sound natural and flow, and what better way of doing that but to just write? Don't stop to edit your poem; you can do that later. Since this is just a brief tutorial, I'm going to stick to only a few lines for my poem, but normally spoken word poems are two to four minutes long.
Step 5: Use imagery and figurative language when editing your lines.
You want your poem to sound casual and not formal, since you're trying to connect with your audience. However, that shouldn't stop you from using figurative language for your poem! For example, I'll edit this line from my poem: “I no longer have the urge to jump out of windows.” I can transform this line to become: “I no longer see a window as a safe exit away from the fire that surrounds me, but as a thoughtful view to appreciate.”
Step 6: Finalize and recite your poem!
After you're done with your poem, the last step is to read it out loud to somebody! The purpose of spoken word poetry is not to impress somebody, but to build a bridge between you and your audience. Poetry has the power of having voices be heard, and reciting your poem to an audience can have the power to change or even save a life. Here's the final short poem I came up with:
“I know from experience that you can die in this room right now.
I also know that if we were to die right now, it won't be from our own hands.
I've worked hard to disconnect my body from the corrupted control room that operates it,
and I'm still fighting to regain full jurisdiction, but I can finally step into a house
Properly for the first time.
I no longer see a window as a safe exit away from the fire that surrounds me,
but as a thoughtful view to appreciate.
I no longer see weapons as a way of being both a prisoner and torturer,
but as things that are better left untouched.
I no longer see medicine as an experiment to see how many doses the human body can handle,
but as things that you read the instructions for and listen.
And I can listen to the sweet melodies of living now
without feeling like I don't deserve to hear the music
Because I do deserve this.
I deserve every part of this.
I deserve to listen to this unique song
that was composed just for me.”

March 6th
(Paired up with Kat, wrote 318 words on the prompt “Suddenly the hanged man started to speak…”)

Suddenly the hanged man started to speak
And I realized the mistake I made.
The man begins to grow a beak
so I have summoned the grim reaper today.

I beg for forgiveness
As a scythe cuts the rope around his neck.
No matter how much I insist on accidents,
It doesn't stop what is going to happen next.

Death tells me I shouldn't have killed
My depression hanging in the gallows.
I tell him it was for my well-being, but still,
the man does not accept the answer “no.”

He says murder is still murder, and there's
no pardoning such a heinous crime.
There's no redeeming myself here,
and I worry how much time

I have left before Death takes my soul.
I point out how murder can be justified
But I know I can not escape the hole
I have dugged. My life is on the line

And these excuses I make
are only to stall time before my demise.
I point out how depression breaks
so many laws, and it was about time

He got what he deserved.
I point out what depression has
stolen from me, but Death is not concerned
about my defense. The path

I am walking down is precarious
and I know all I will find at the end
is a precipice
for Death to send

me off the edge.
The grim reaper tells me it is time.
Death
announces my punishment for life:

To swap positions with hanging depression.
I scream for mercy,
But Deah has come to a decision.
I am lifted off my feet

And I feel the tight twine
Wrapping around my neck.
I worked so hard not to die
in the depression's hands, but now I can not disconnect

The fate Death has in store.
I struggle to find air, and Death beams
at me. I can not fight it anymore.
I forget how to breathe.

March 7th

409 words total!

“What is your character's biggest fear?” (104 words)

My character's biggest fear is probably the fear of dying. Throughout my novel, she does whatever it takes to stay alive, whether that's killing her own family members or resorting to *not-so-scratch-friendly food sources.* She is also scared of losing the people she cares about, which may seem hypocritical since she technically killed most of her family members, but their deaths were indirect and it affected her in many ways. The only person she directly kills is her sister, which was due to her hallucinations from starvation and dehydration, and when she realizes what she has done, she can't bear to live with herself.

“What is one life-changing event your character has experienced? How has it changed them?” (100 words)

The entire plot line of my book is a life-changing event that my character experienced. It has caused my character to mature much earlier due to the responsibility thrown her way. Due to the flooding of the city, she has to resort to things that a normal teenager would never have to endure. Throughout the book, all she faces is grief and loss, and that can change a person dramatically. By the end of the book, my character has a new insight on the world that she lives in, and she regrets the choices she had to take to survive.

“How would your character solve the trolley problem?” (101 words)

My character would probably have to know who is on the train tracks in order to make a decision. If she doesn't know any of the people on the train tracks, she would probably choose to kill one person in normal circumstances. However, in the circumstances she lived in during her time in the flooded city, she would probably choose to kill more people due to less competition for resources that way. If she knows the people on the tracks, she will probably save the person that is the most useful to her or the person she cares the most for.

“What is your character's greatest weakness?” (104 words)

My character's greatest weakness is her inability to think rationally during stressful circumstances. During stressful circumstances, her mind shuts down and she doesn't think before she acts. This causes her to lose most of her love ones, and she accidentally poisons her mother because of this weakness. She also kills her sister because of this weakness, and due to the stressful environment she was in while she was rescuing her father from the rival gang, she did not notice the gang sneaking up on them and shooting her father. Her constant lack of attention when in life-threatening situations causes the majority of her downfalls.

March 8th

Luna's unfinished writing:
As the war raged on, the sinking sun cast it's golden light on a small, lonely cottage. Out in the distance, soldiers fight bloody battles to the death, knocking down brothers and friends and enemies alike.

But one soldier chooses to seperate from the rest. He sneaks away, turning into the thicket of green leaves that make up the deep forest nearby. As he follows the cobbled stone, he arrives at the wooden cottage with a sign.

Pulling off his blood-stained armor with a grunt, the soldier calls, “Narik, I'm home!”

Another man, coppery skinned with dark brown curls and shaggy blue clothes makes his way out of the cottage, his eyes widening at the sight of the soldier. “Akan!” Narik calls, waving wildly at his boyfriend with a bright grin.

Continued as a poem, slight experimentation of e. e. cumming's poetry style (588 words, poem + translation/explanation):

Embr/
acing,
The two men wel/
come/
each
back. With()backs
turned,
Akan
leaves his sho-
es
at#
th-
e/f-
ro-
nt!
dO|
Or|
ste<
ps.<
Knowing the n)
broke:
ews. en
MUST b-e-

A sigh is let
l o o s e.
Living on like
this is self-
is-
h for bot-
h
of t-
h-
em.
Akan is not
here(but)to(to)stay(leave).
Knowing that N)
deser
ar/ves/ik*
*better, though it
is not eas-
y
for the bot-
h
of t-
h-
em.

“Sit?” Narik asks, though he knows this conversation will NOt
Last that
l
o
n
g.
The siGht of Akan's facial expression
is enouG
h-
to kNow sOmething
is s-g-t-o-r-n-a-e-ined.
S-w-E-o-P-n-A-t-R-w-A-o-T-r-I-k-ON
out in the end.
T-
his
/is
not Love.
Hol-some-ding-body (on to)
Out of
necessity during
a time like
T-
his.

Akan shakes his head.
There is clearly no reason to sit.

“This isn.t right.”

“It is.”

“It.s not.”

Akan:
hav-ing-en (a) boyfr.d out
fighting
away
(a
w
a
y

a
w
a
y)
will h-bre-i-ak-m.

Nariik:
worrying for w/h/e/n IF
he
returns
(r
e
t
u
r
n
s

r
e
t
u
r
n
s)
will h-bre-i-ak-m.

Neither dare to say the words to call it off.

Neither dare to be the one to say it.

Neither dare to say the one.

Neither dare–one say.

Say: neither.


People can cry without words being said.
Words hold
words-w-words-e-words-i-words-g-words-h-words-t-words
but silence can hold
your
SI-HE-LEN-ART-CE.

Silently, Akan picks
b
a
c
k
p
u
.
EXITS)
front/the
do}
or}
.
silently; Narik;
closesthe;;
do;;
or;;
be-;
hind;
him;

n | >o n > e |ed to ack/
know/
ledge.
any | | more.

o v e r
it. s

Translation for those who don't like my poem :(
Embracing, the two men welcome each other back. Withdrawing (his weapons) and with his back turned, Akan leaves his shoes at the front doorsteps. Knowing the news must be broken, a sigh is let loose. Living life at the bottom–living on like this–is selfish for the both of them. Akan is not here to stay but to leave; Even though he knows Narik deserves better, it is not easy for the both of them. “Sit?” Narik asks, though he knows this conversation will not last that long; the sight of Akan's facial expression is enough to know something is strained–gone–because separation won't work out in the end. This is not love: holding on to somebody out of somebody during a time like this, even if his love is wholesome. Akan shakes his head. There is clearly no reason to sit. “This isn't right.” It is.“ ”It's not." Akan thinks that Narik having his haven (boyfriend) out fighting away will break him. Narik thinks Akan knowing Narik is worried if he returns will break him. Neither of them dare to be the one to say the words to call them off, so they say nothing. People can cry without words being said; words hold weight, but silence can hold your heart. Silently, Akan picks back up and exits out the front door; Narik close the door behind him. There is no need to acknowledge anyone anymore; it's over.
(The translated version sounds really bad I know but the poem is where the emotions and everything shows! Certain punctuations to show emotions, the structure representing shifts in heartbeat, wordplay and moving words around to create new words that show correlation, symbols and formatting to paint the scene/describe the setting, etc. I worked really hard on that poem, even if it looks like some random key smash it's not <33)

March 10th

Luna's writing where I got the concept from (look I wrote a poem but it's written in hi-fi too you never said I couldn't combine genres):

Avada Kedavra.

Imperio.

Crucio.

Four words every witch, wizard and wix knows.

Three spells that will send you down a road you can't return from.

Two curses that will spare your life- barely.

One that will skip the damage and send you to the other side.

None that will leave you as you were before.

Curses like these separate your life into a before and an after.

There's no way around it.

They're called Unforgivables for a reason.

I don't read Harry Potter so I'll continue this as an account of the Salem Witch Trials (not historically accurate I just have to write hi-fi unfortunately) (563 words):

She runs out of her house in a frantic panic, escaping without time to pack, running into the night
A group of witch hunters follows after her, their footsteps pitter pattering, weapons unsheathed, provoking a fight,
Her secret is out now, they know what she can do, they know who she is, and now she must hide,
as she escapes the inside confines of this city she used to call home and heads outside,
outwards, towards the unknown wilderness filled with the unforgivable, because witches are not
welcomed around this lot.
She has heard of the rumors from faraway places as word gets around, all of the tales
about the unsuspecting women taken forcefully from their homes and sent into jail,
their fates now sealed, their hope now concealed, later to be executed, hung from a tree
as a gathering crowd surrounds the spectacle, smiling with contempt and with glee;
She wonders how they found out, how they knew she was one of them,
and wonders why anybody would condemn
the work that she does because all she has even done was good; she heals, and she saves,
she rescues, she teaches; she protects and she sacrifices; and never misbehaves
She wants to believe that everything that is occurring right now is a misunderstanding,
But if it was, then the hunters pursuing her, wanting to see her blood spilled, should've already disbanded,
And then a memory floods back to her; she remembers something from her past
that may have been the reason these hunters want her dead, due to a spell that she casts
She knows of Crucio, a spell she has only used once, for she was forced to,
During the war in her country, they made her do it in order for the torturers to accrue
information from the suffering people who were captured; she had no choice,
because if she did not comply, they would have destroyed
her entire livelihood, her family, everything that she owned;
She had used Imperio too because of the revolution, and though she did not condone
this inhumane behavior, she had to do what she had to do to survive
in her torn country, and she is just trying to move on, trying to stay alive;
But this was not the worst of the crimes she had committed
For if you break her enough, she will admit it,
a curse that she projected that caused the murder of an innocent person,
every witness of this event will tell you a different version
of what happened, but one thing remains the same:
she took away the life of a person, a person with a future, a person with a name.
Avada Kedavra, a curse that instantly causes death
Without the recipient even taking a final breath
It was an accident, or so she says,
and she claims to regret it to this day
But can you forgive somebody for murder?
The sight of the poor person's demise was horrifying, ask any observer
and they will tell her that she deserves to be caught
she deserves to face the wrath of the knot
And so she keeps on running, running from the consequences,
She no longer has anything, she no longer has any defenses,
she can insist whatever she pleases, but in the end, she shall take the blame,
because nobody will forget the monster she became…

Cabin War Words
Pi's cabin war, 1000 words exactly, two characters exactly: random person and a crow lol
He could hear everything circling around,
but his eyes remained closed, trying to block out the sound
He puts his hands around himself as if trying to suffocate, like blankets constricting tighter
In order to feel some form of warmth, in order to feel something until the fire
he has created will burn himself alive
Nobody will hear his screams when the flickering firelight
masks out the notice with its calming crackling, with its gentle glow,
tendrils of heat like hands from the abyss, pulling him closer to home,
but does he really know what home is? does he really know where
Will this path lead him downwards, far from here,
or will it circle back, like throwing twine around a branch to create a noose,
dangling from above; when all chaos is let loose,
will he finally open his eyes to see the monsters beckoning to him,
will he finally open his eyes to see the real world beckoning to him
to see society as it truly is; a place where nobody pays attention to your suffering
because everybody else's issues are direr, to the point it is smothering
your cries for help, like an emergency call with a bad reception,
so the ones you want to save you will not hear your directions
of where to go, of what is happening, of the struggles ensuing,
and now you no longer know what you are doing.
His eyes continue to remain closed; maybe being naive is his way of coping
with the hazards chasing him in the real world, hoping
that if he shuts his eyes long enough, the scenery around will disappear
and vanish into thin air, as if it was just a bad nightmare,
maybe he hopes that if he watches everything fade to black,
he will be able to watch the world around him fade back
into a life that he desires, into a life without all the trauma that shadows
behind him, he will run and try to escape the chains of the past, but when you low
on sanity, it seems that there are walls in every direction you try to run,
and no matter what path you take, it always seems that none
of your choices will make a difference when the actions of others control your fate.
He tries hard to believe that what he is doing will make a difference in his destiny,
but in the end, there is nothing that you can do to change your reality;
some people are just meant to live life in order to survive,
but never learn what it truly means to live their life.
There are people going around, looking as they are,
and it always appears that the stars
will align with whatever decision that they make,
but when you try to do something to save yourself, every small mistake
will become the definition of who you are as a person.
There is no longer any previous backups or versions
of you, because people see you as the person you are now,
not the person you are trying to aspire to be; the earth tends to bound
all the humans on the earth with its gravity;
no matter how high you try to reach,
the universe will always pull you down and destroy all of your progress.
humans are treated as chess pieces, mere objects
to be brutally manipulated in somebody else's plan,
we do not truly matter in the grand
scheme of things.
People constantly rotate around in their lives, looking for meaning,
trying to orient themselves into a better position for a better view
on life, but as all actions are, nothing that they do
will stop the inevitable repercussions of others,
but the question is, will anybody bother
when there are already so many problems in society,
how will another issue make things any worse? He
has a point in keeping his eyes shut,
when everything seems to just add up
into a pile of dubiety
No matter what the weather forecast says, every day is a cloudy
day to him. In the midst of the cloudy days, a crow circles overhead,
As if he was just a carcass as crows surround the dead
the crow lands on his shoulder,
wings pointing towards a boulder,
as if mocking his inability to roll the heavy stones
in his life that keep him grounded and alone
The crow opens its mouth to speak,
And it reminds him why he does not deserve to be
Here with all the other accomplished people that breathe the same air
as him, because at least they are not a waste
in society's standards; the crow gives him options to weigh,
and encourages him to choose the one where he no longer has to be
the inconvenience that society believes him to be.
Upon hearing this, he begins to have a heart attack,
as if he had just swallowed a bee, stinging his organs, a stab
to his clarity, he is trying so hard to become somebody
but in the end, he always finds himself back to being the nonentity
that everybody tells him he is, and if he listens to them say
his faults on repeat, maybe he will start to believe that his future days
mean nothing, and that the only use he can have in this world is to be
fertilizer to the ground once he is dead, and then he
can finally be the organic piece of matter he was meant to be,
decomposing into the ground until there is nothing left to see.
The crow continues to taunt him, and he thinks of opening his eyes
to finally let in some of the outside light,
because if he is going to give up, at least he should turn towards the sun
and allow it to shine down on him, because if he is no one,
at least the sun still beams at everything it touches,
no matter who or what it is.

Vi's cabin war, 1006 words, exactly 2 characters, two random people lol
You know, nobody really talks much here anymore.
It's fine, simmering in the quiet because nobody will notice once I have decided to go.
I come here often.
Normally it is to think.
Tonight, it is because I want to stop thinking.
Thoughts… always circling like vultures… Death, always circling like vultures,
ready to swoop in and lift me away, away, away…
I want to get away. Not away from the world, but away from the responsibilities
Life throws at me without permission.
Life throws at me with permission random curveballs, and I try to adjust
accordingly, but everything I do will lead me to miss my chance.
I miss my chance at having a better life long ago.
Long ago, I wish I had made some better choices, had set priorities,
set priorities of things that will actually have meaning, be important,
you want to be important, you want to be important enough to be recognized,
You want be recognized as being enough,
But people keep moving on in their lives, they don't stop at the sight
of you have a mental crisis; we all deal with our struggles alone.
Struggling alone, I come here to find some sanctuary from the rumbles
of civilization. Normally, I come here to escape temporarily,
but today, I feel like I want this escape to be permanent.
I am sitting on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the city below.
This is the only time where I am above somebody at something for once.
For once, I am not the one being looked at, but the one looking at others.
Looking at others, you notice how they have their life all sorted out now.
They are out and about now, living their best life, partying their nights away,
Somewhere away in the night, they have enjoyment, something you
Wish you had, always wishing for things you don't have, because that is all
wishing is: wanting something you know that you can not have.
That's why you are wishing for a better life.
If that is something you can not have, then the next best option is to stop
Continuing on in this solemn life you continue to lead–
at least, you think this is the life you lead, but are you really the one
leading it, or are you traveling down a path that has already been paved
for you– are you truly the one in control here?
Well, it does not matter who is in control when in a few hours from now,
you will no longer have the ability to think about that.
Now, you get to decide the fun part– will you do this standing or sitting?
I continue to wilt in the misery of the night,
And I feel a hand brush against my shoulder, as if it the world
was ready to push my over this cliff, as if the world was nudging me
along to finally make the decision I have been wanting to do since forever,
as if even the world would prefer me to…
A voice from behind me speaks; the voice is masculine and husky,
murmuring in a quiet and hushed tone:
“Hi.” I am taken aback from his comment, and I nearly fall over,
I nearly tumble into the abyss below, but he pulls me closer to him,
saving me from being swallowed into the darkness.
I do not know what to say now, so I respond with “hello.”
He does not ask me why I am up here, as if he silently knows
what I am doing… I hope he thinks that I am merely just
trying to find some quiet time in order to think, even if it is partially
a lie, even if I am not telling the whole truth, even if the world itself
is always telling lies in order to convince us to continue on when
there is nothing to continue on for, as everybody's fate is the same
in the end, and that may be one of the only similarities in this life
that we all live in. The man looks to be around the same age as me,
With short hair that matches the color of the late night city lights
down below, and with eyes that match the hue of the night sky
up above. And though we do not talk, the silence is comforting.
I can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his gentle breathing,
and I wonder how when humans just stop themselves for a moment,
there can be beauty in just being.
Just being human has its flaws, and maybe tonight will not be the
night to stop thinking. Perhaps if you have no control of the situation
you are in, the most you can do is to think, and perhaps that is enough.
Perhaps it is simply enough to be able to think, because the one thing
that makes us different from everybody else is our ability to think. Sititng
on the edge of the cliff, the night seems to pass seamlessly. The sun and
moon always change the lighting in a seamless fashion, and life continues
to go on in a seamless fashion, and all we can do is continue on until
the seams finally stop. As the sun begins to rise again, you stand up
and rise again. You recognize the man who is with you as a close friend,
and he tells you he was worried. I tell him that I was worried too.
I walk down from the precipice, and he asks if we can have lunch together.
I agree, especially because staying up all night staring at the people
below has made me more tired and hungry than I thought I could be.
I could really use some coffee and caffeine right about now, and something
good to eat. He tells me that lunch is on him, and I agree, too tired to
argue. It is like the night had never happened, and maybe it is better that way.

March 14th
(pie day daily, 314 words)
I like to bake pies for myself because I know these slices I make are meant to be shared,
But in every slice of life, I am always at the table, with plates but nobody behind them,
With these portions of dessert equally distributed, but never anyone to accept the offer…
I wonder what is better; waiting, as the pie grows cold on the dinner table, hoping maybe
somebody will have seen the invitation, somebody will have seen the desperate cry for help,
or if I should eat my slice now while it's warm, even if I am eating silently all alone.
Today's pie flavor appears to be apple, mixed with a hint of cinnamon, with buttercream crust,
But I do not really care about the taste of what I am eating, for it does not fill the emptiness
Inside of me, like a cookie-cutter to a piece of dough, there is a hole inside me, but people will
just tell you that it is only part of the process, the process of creating a delicious treat in the end.
I wonder what I did to have scared everybody away; everybody likes food, right? Or maybe
they do like the food, but not the person behind it; perhaps they would have came if the pie was
from anybody else. I am not a good person, but I am not a bad one either; I am flawed, just like
every person, just like the occasional ashened burns peppered haphazardly on the crust of my pie,
just like the occasional uneven slicing, or the fact that I can make mistakes too sometimes, but
maybe it is my mistakes that people focus on because, without a mirror, they can not see their
own faults without looking at somebody else. Today, no matter how long I will wait, I know that
I will be eating this pie alone.


March 15th
(Used the idiom, “dead of winter”) (376 words)
According to statistics, more people die in winter than in any season.
Winter just so happens to be my favorite season.
I am walking through the thick hallways of snow; the snow
Is an adhesive to my feet as I walk through this snow
Labyrinth. I pretend the bodies I see on the perimeter
Are just sculptures lining the perimeter—
It is easier to believe something is beautiful
To cope with how reality is not truly beautiful.
A glacier glides through my heart, down my spine, taking my mind
With it; I wonder what else it can take from me, but I do not mind
Anymore; I have learned to stop caring because that is what
Keeps you going when people stop going on. You may wonder what
The purpose is anymore; you are bound to become a statue
Like the rest of them, and right now, becoming a statue
Does not seem so bad compared to the blizzard that swallows me;
I wonder why I am outside right now. I know that this will only hurt me,
But maybe that is why I am out right now; to hurt.
I do not know what hurts more; the physical or mental hurt
From the cold fire that burns at my skin, or the grief
And desensitization of the death that surrounds me. I have no time for grief
When my main focus is to keep on moving; that is how you stop yourself
From freezing. You keep looking forward because that is how you stop yourself
From dwelling on the past. You keep telling yourself it will be over
Because that will hide the fact that everything has been over
Since this winter started. I wonder when Christmas is. I wonder
If anybody will celebrate this year, or if there will be any gifts. I wonder
If surviving until the new year will be my gift from the heavens,
Or a punishment that keeps me out of the sanctuary of the heavens.
People say there is a lesson to be learned from every disaster.
I wonder what I can learn from this disaster.
Winter just so happens to be my favorite season.
It is statistically proven that more people die in winter than in any season.

Weekly 2 (March 10th-16th)

This weekly was rushed really badly – 3066 words ^^

Part 1: Collab Story with Alba (@-Alocasia) (995 words for my part):

You are a very superstitious person, and your horoscope told you this morning that some of your small secrets will come to light. Therefore, you intend to approach the coming day with utmost secrecy. - Alba

It begins with buying padlocks from the local locksmith. You ask him for the bulkiest locks he sells; he raises an eyebrow but does not question the request. You walk away carrying four bags of different types and sizes of locks, enough to cover every aspect of your house and have some left to spare. - Zai

Mission complete! You’ve successfully locked yourself inside your house. You’re starting to feel a bit safer, until you realise you’ve put a lock on your fridge and lost the key. Looks like lunch will need to be found elsewhere, but you’ll have to do it… secretly. - Alba

You sigh; it turns out you can not be a hermit today after all. Sighing, you enter the carhouse, preparing to drive to your favorite Italian lasagna restaurant, but now you can not find your car keys anywhere. It looks like you will have to do some extra exercise today. - Zai

This must all be done, however, in secret. You put on a face mask, sunglasses, then a large hat with a wide brim to hide your face further. As the finishing touch, you disguise yourself completely by bringing along your large umbrella (never mind the fact it’s a lovely sunny day). You deem it safe to set foot outside and finally, after a long hard trek, make it to the Italian lasagna restaurant. - Alba

You reach for the handle, but the door refuses to obey your desperate pleas for entry. You look at the operation hours poster posted on the impolite door; it reads: “CLOSED ON SATURDAYS AND SUNDAYS.” Great. You begin to cry, but then you remember the umbrella you are holding. It just so happens to be an umbrella made mostly of metal. Hard metal. The door also just so happens to be made of glass. Glass that could easily be broken by a very heavy object, say, something made of hard metal. The Italian lasagna restaurant also just so happens to be in the middle of nowhere, with no surveillance cameras, no cars in the parking lot, and nobody around to hear any loud sounds, such as, perhaps, the sound of glass being broken by a very heavy object made of hard metal. - Zai

You stand and think about your current scenario and the possibilities ahead of you for a couple of minutes. Eventually you conclude that actually, your horoscope said nothing about being careful when making big decisions today, and so promptly smash your umbrella through the glass door. The shriek of alarm bells screams through the air, but it’s not like anyone is around to listen! Secretively, you pick your way through the rather sharp hole you have just created and make your way to the kitchen. You flick on the lights, switch on a Bastille album to tune out the sound of the sirens, and pick a pre-sliced portion of your favourite lasagna out of the industrial fridge. This is going perfectly! - Alba

You begin to help yourself to many slices of very delicious lasagna, not thinking of the possibility that the restaurant may have a lockdown function. Over the sound of your favorite Bastille song, you hear a robotic and monotone voice announcing, “lockdown protocol initiated.” You peek your head out the kitchen door, just in time to watch in horror as a large sheet of metal blocks the front door and all the windows. The lights automatically turn themselves off, basking you in darkness. Depressed, you continue to nibble blindly on the lasagna in your hands. - Zai

By the time you have eaten all the lasagna you can, you have plenty of energy with which to tackle the next problem in your ever-complicating life: escape. The doors and windows seem pretty firmly blocked, and there’s no point screaming for help when nobody’s in the vicinity to listen. Finally, you pick up the landline phone on the wall and are ready to dial the police’s number so you can be freed again - when you realise that if you did so, your secret would be out and your horoscope come true. A pit of horror opens in your stomach (also a symptom of lasagna overconsumption). - Alba

Instead of dialing the police, you decide to call your favorite ghost to help you out. Over the phone, you convince your favorite ghost into helping you escape the Italian lasagna restaurant, but under one condition: you pay Sini back in kneecap currency. You agree; you have plenty of kneecaps stored in one of the locked boxes back home. As soon as you hang up the phone, Sini materializes from thin air and, with the power of reverse architectural and structural trigonometry, the walls of the restaurant turn into a mush of chlorinated water and daisies. You do not question this. Running out of the restaurant, you decide to head back home as soon as possible to pay Sini the kneecaps. - Zai

At home, you find the box and unlock the padlock - fresh kneecaps! Delicious! It will be a shame to part with them, but you know better than to break a promise to a ghost (especially your favourite one). Sini, having received her payment, promptly dematerialises again; you breathe a sigh of relief, casting an eye to the clock on the wall. After the antics of the lasagna restaurant, it is now late afternoon - you're almost free! You might just prove your horoscope wrong yet. - Alba

But first, you need to find all your lost keys. You begin looking in the basket that you kept all the keys from the locksmith from, trying every single one of them, but none of them will work on your locked fridge nor your car. Frustrated, you pick up your mobile phone and call Mechoy—maybe the programming genius somehow knows a thing or two about lockpicking. Upon hearing the words “lock” and “key,” Mechoy proceeds to give an in-depth lesson on cybersecurity, digital public and private keys, and malware. You attempt to explain the context of the situation, omitting as much detail as possible to keep most of the day a secret, but Mechoy insists on talking about cyber locks and keys. Sighing, you hang up and decide to call Kat instead—she works with spreadsheet cells, so maybe she also works with lockpicking (jail) cells as well. - Zai

Kat suggests creating a spreadsheet for all your keys and locks which automatically orders them in alphabetical order and compares their compatibility. However, that all seems extremely time-consuming, and you settle instead for jamming all the keys you have in various locks one by one and hoping something clicks. Maybe once today is over you’ll be able to return some of these to the locksmith… wait! That’s it! If anyone will know how to unlock all these locks, it will be the locksmith. - Alba

You start waddling back to the locksmith, but it appears the road to his store is blocked. Sirens surround the roadblock, and you approach a police officer, questioning what happened. The officer refuses to give much detail, only mentioning a curfew and how they are looking for a lasagna robber. The police must have arrived at the scene of the robbery after all. You thank the officer for his time and waddle back home. - Zai

Planning to relax, you switch the local news on and watch with mild shock as you see the headline: LOCAL GHOST ARRESTED ON SUSPICION OF LASAGNA RESTAURANT ROBBERY. From the grainy police footage, it looks like Sini is co-operating - she could always just teleport herself away, but it looks like she’s quite enjoying the novelty of being apprehended by the police. Still, your heart fills with guilt at this miscarriage of justice. Can you really sit back and watch as Sini is slated for a crime she didn’t technically commit? - Alba

Determined, you pick up your phone and dial a contact listed as, “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.” You watch your phone dialing, praying that the receiver will pick up. You hear a voice from the other side, and you are relieved. Your favorite plant playing plant-corpse (who also doubles down as an arsonist) has arrived to help! You explain the situation to her, and she says she will “take care of it.” As soon as you hang up, you can see a change in scenery in the news coverage: the news station is on… fire? You quickly change to a different station, but you see fire everywhere you look. - Zai

You glance out the window. “Oh,” you say, because what else is there to say? The world is burning. Your lawn, the neighbour’s lawn - all the lawns in your neighbourhood, actually, and all the neighbourhood itself. You guess that’s what the chronic arsonist meant by ‘take care of it’. Oh well - her methods are efficient. You imagine the police will not be so focused on the lasagna robbery anymore. - Alba

You celebrate as you watch the neighbourhood (and the neighbours themself) dance in the fire–or maybe the fire is dancing on them, but, whatever! Something's dancing, and that calls for a celebration! You pull out the beer (root beer obviously, because you drink responsibly!) and begin to watch the light show outside. It's pretty, yes, but it could really use a different color, perhaps a bright purple or a mysterious green. - Zai

Maybe the other hosts could liven the colour spectrum up! You give them a ring. They all sound very excited (there’s lots of screaming, at least) and Birdi says she’s coming over to deal with it. You don’t know exactly what that means, but probably more fireworks! You run to make some microwave popcorn, but have to go empty-handed after you forgot you padlocked the microwave too. A pity. - Alba

Then you come up with a genius plan—bring the fire into your house so it can melt all the locks! You compliment yourself for such a brilliant plan, and proceed to get a few pieces of firewood from the backyard. After catching the pieces of wood on fire, you bring the fire inside and proceed to melt the locks—the fire realizes it does such a great job it begins to dance on the walls! You dance with the fire, and watch as the fire calls in more of its friends to dance around the house. - Zai

Standing in the burning ruins of what once was home sweet home, you stand and survey the wreckage. “This is fine,” you decide, and watch as the silvery moon rises to the centre of the dark, smoke-clouded sky. Wait - that means it’s the next day! Your horoscope will have changed! - Alba

You rush to salvage your laptop from the rubble surrounding you. Booting the old machine up, you login and head straight to the Zodiac bot. You hastily type in, “.horoscope” and wait for the bot to reply. - Zai

“Danger! You will be at risk from fire signs today. Do not invite them into your home, <zodiac>! The universe will thank you later.” - Alba

Part 2: Character (508 words)

Name: Polar Bear
Age: Unknown, immortal
Species: polar bear

Personality and Traits (203 words): Polar Bear is very cool animal, however, they are also very lazy; they will not do anything if it does not benefit them, and even if it does benefit them, the incentive has to be really good or else they won't do anything. Polar Bear is really ignorant of the real world and will dismiss anything people tell them and thinks that they are the center of the world, thus, they also order people around and are very smart and bossy. Because Polar Bear is too smart and bossy, they sometimes have a hard time making friends and finding people to work with, which makes them really sad. Polar Bear, however, does not realize they are smart and bossy, so they never change and continue to be too smart and bossy to people. This also makes Polar Bear a very lonely creature as well (which may be because they eat everybody they meet). Polar Bear should not be confused with their other polar bear counterparts; it is highly stereotypical to believe that all polar bears act the same, and it is even more discriminatory to think that every polar bear looks the same because every polar bear is unique in their own way.

Wants, Hopes, and Strengths (205 words): Talking about wants first, Polar Bear's main want is to eat food; they will eat anything, even people who try to provide them food (they will eat the food first obviously, but then they will eat the people if they have not run away yet). Polar Bear also wants friends, but this is really hard because Polar Bear eats everybody they meet. Polar Bear hopes one day that the world will be fully covered in food so they can finally be happy. As you can probably tell, Polar Bear's main focus in life is getting food and nothing else. Polar Bear also hopes to find a source of food that is reliable; they hate having to roam around searching for food, they would rather sleep and have food as soon as they wake up. One of Polar Bear's strengths is that they can eat anything; this makes Polar Bear a very good solution to plastic pollution because they also eat plastic. Another one of Polar Bear's strengths is that they can sleep through anything; nothing will wake Polar Bear up unless they want to wake up. Lastly, Polar Bear is immortal and can not die in any way because they are too cool for you.

Dislikes and Fears (100 words): Polar Bear dislikes anybody who tries to stop their goal, and since their goal is to eat as much food as possible and sleep, anybody who disturbs this will be eaten by Polar Bear. Polar Bear also dislikes people who try to attack them, since polar bears are not meant to be attacked. Polar Bear has only one fear in this world, which is not having enough food to eat; Polar Bear is immortal, thus, they can survive without food and can live forever, but they still like eating food and are scared if there will be any food left.

Part 3: Setting (402 words)

The weird man who lives in the house on the hill has a garden right behind his house. Nobody knows much about the man, let alone anything about the things on his property. It has been rumored that anybody who goes into his garden never comes out… at least, they don't come out alive.

His house is always dark; he never turns the lights on in the house, if there are any lights. Besides, the house does not even have a door, so there is no way to check. His windows are all boarded shut, so the only place you can visit is the garden behind the house. According to the rumors, the garden is a hedge maze, filled with a lot of… interesting contraptions. Nobody knows for sure what is inside the labyrinth, but there are theories of what is inside. From what I have heard, people always mention how the commodities in the hedge maze are… alive. They tell me that they hear strange noises coming from behind the house; some tell me there's a strange metal whirring, like the blades of a chainsaw, while others tell me they can hear whispers, like children telling a secret. The more far-fetched stories have mentioned the sound of devilish screams as if they were coming from the underworld, or the dissonant melodies of chimes shaking in the wind, ringing like false memories.

Nobody can really tell me what they have seen in the garden, however. Nobody really knows what is in there. In the center of the maze, the townspeople have multiple rumors of what is at the center. The most common one I have heard is that there is a dead body at the center. Some people even tell me that it's the man's wife or husband, or maybe even his dead child. They told me that the weird man built the garden just for the dead body as a way to commemorate them. It's like his entire property is a memorial to what he has lost.

I have learned not to ask about the garden because the stories get weirder and weirder the more I hear about it. If I want to know more about the garden, I would have to go visit and see for myself. They say that nobody comes out of the garden alive, but just like everything I've described, it's all hearsay. Or so I think.

Part 4: Premise (154 words)

The main character has lost somebody close to them, and now they are on a mission they find where they are, or what happened to them. They have tried to contact them using many different means, but all of their attempts have proven unsuccessful, and they are not satisfied with coming up short. Now the only way to come close to the truth is to go on a journey to search for them. First, however, they need to escape the place they are at currently, due to some obstacles that have impeded their progress. Once they have escaped that place, they meet other characters that are willing to cooperate and search for the main character's missing person. As they continue on their journey, they find more clues and piece together the puzzle of what happened to the missing person, and by the end, the main character makes a shocking discovery about the missing person.

Part 5: Story (1007 words)

Character from @Cru-mble, Setting from @Stariqe, Premise from @Sunclaw68 (this is rushed so don't expect anything great)

She has heard of the rumors of the forest, but never expected it to be so close…
And with the mysterious backstory and her detective tendencies, it was a perfect concoction
for her to find out what was really happening.
It began with school; her journaling class, she wanted to cover something big,
she wanted to write the next big thing, wanted her name to be posted as the author of one of
the biggest headlines; not for the attention, but the validation that she could
do something. Her teacher did not agree with
her plan. She did not agree with her big hopes and told her to focus on her
school assignment. Sy was not happy about this at all; who did her teacher think she was?
Sy was going to do whatever she wanted to do, and if that desire was journaling, then
she was going to follow it no matter what her teachers told her.
Sy rarely goes to the backyard, but on this particular day, she decides that
maybe it is best to get some fresh air to cool her temper.
As she is in the backyard, she notices something peculiar, a different
color amongst the typical green and blue of the outside world, a slight
deviation from what she expected to see, and this immediately drew her
eyes on the first rose.
The red rose, tangled in thorns of other red roses, smiling, petals like lips
made of blood, forming a grin, beckoning…
Sy has heard the rumors of the forest.
She knows the hidden secret, the candy house that is meant to be at
the end of the rose path… but here, at her very own home?
Could it be?
She can not help but approach the roses; it would make a great story, after all,
and if she found something, she could publish it; it would make an instant
hit.
She needed this more than she knew, and without thinking, she has
stepped foot on the rose path. She reaches for one of the roses, but
the wind has predicted her movement; the roses shift just in time to
tear a hole in her gloves. She curses, but continues to go down this
rose path, like a red carpet leading to an awaiting throne for her to
claim. She knows she will probably not find anything, she knows
that her actions here will probably be in vain, but can she help herself?
This possibility has excited her now, and there is nothing stopping her
when she is filled with the excitement of a potential surprise.
The day flies by, and before she knows it, it is night, leaving her in
darkness, except for the red roses that appear to… glow.
They seem to make their own light, like glowing magma flowing
from its source, from the top of a volcano; she has been hiking
through this trail for a very long time, and Sy thinks it is about time
that she finally reached the epicenter of her findings.
She is about to lose hope on the entire journey when she catches a
glimpse of white; she would not have noticed it if it were not for the
shiny reflection the white material casts. As she approaches the
structure, she realizes it is a house; she makes out the candy
drops that decorate the roof of the house, the sugar blocks that
create the walls, the peppermints and chocolates that add a touch
of flavor to the entire appeal of the cottage. Has she really found it?
Excitement courses through her veins like a sugar rush, and, without
thinking, barges through the door of the cottage. She feels like
she is Hansel and Gretel, but then she worries about the possibility
of a witch; could they really be a witch living in here?
She takes out a small notepad and begins to write down what she sees,
document everything that would make a good story, when suddenly, a
hand grabs her shoulder; Sy screams. She turns to see the person
who has grabbed her, and she recognizes them immediately; a witch.
Sy panics, but the witch calms her. The witch does not say a word,
but it is clear that she is here to help. The witch leads Sy to the front door
of the cottage, puts a piece of paper in the palm of her hands, and pushes
Sy out the door. Sy expects herself to fall softly on the grass surrounding
the house, but she continues to fall, and fall, and fall…
Sy wakes up in her bed. It was all a dream, apparently, but then she feels
the paper still in her hands. The exact paper that the witch had given her.
Sy feels for her notepad in her pocket and takes it out; the notes of the
candy house remain on the delicate pages. Sy reads the information
that the witch has left her, and is left in shock; this town she lives in
is not what she expected. She is horrified upon hearing the truth;
children here are being grown, only to be harvested when they come of age.
During her journaling class, she writes the entire news article of the
truth of the candy cottage, but her teacher stops her; she is pulled aside,
and is threatened to not reveal the truth of the town. Sy knows it is
her responsibility to save the children being kept in this town, but the teacher
gives her a promising offer she can not resist; an opportunity to escape the
town and become a detective and journalist, as long as she does not
mention the horrid truth of the town. Sy realizes that it is not just the government
who is involved with the harvest, but all the adults in the town as well.
She weighs her option, but she knows what is most important to her; she knows
what she must do. Approaching her news story, she polishes it up
and posts it for all to read.

March 16th
Translated lyrics of West Coast - OneRepublic:
I dream west of the sea (i dream)
I found faces I didn't know (dreaming)
Give me only one day a year (o)
I kissed the sky and it disappeared
I go to the earthen sky
Look, you can find my happiness, but it's over
It was like the worst time in my mind
I can still use paradise recipes
Sometimes you have to double your heart
Before I became a monster, I had to start over.
Go to the beach, people, not for long
Eh, they have found the sun in LA and the stars are bright

Writing (603 words):
I remember… it began with a dream,
of an endless blanket of the mirrored sky, like sapphire sequins cradling
to a steady rhythm… the ocean is a masterpiece of itself,
and if I look close enough at the waters, I think I can see the faces
of other souls trapped beneath the surface; do I see my reflection too?
Those who look down at this shifting portal will only see themselves
looking upwards; there is no way of seeing ourselves looking down,
for all we can do is have our eyes set to the sky. No matter how
hard I orient myself, no matter how hard I watch the moving surface
from different perspectives, there is always one thing in common…
up.
I am always looking upwards in my own reflection. These souls
that stare back at me, I wonder if they are trapped, just like I am
trapped in this one direction. I have gotten used to this shade of
sky.
When you have spent your entire life staring up at the sky, you
realize the small shifts in color as the sky moves along in it's
daily journey, eventually becoming the black of night.
The ocean has its eyes; it never shows the back of its head to me,
so I will never know the ocean as itself truly;
One day, perhaps I will become trapped too in my own reflection,
falling into the depths of the illusion beneath me; it only takes one
fall to be sucked into the whirlpool that drags you further down
until you finally realize that looking up is not the only reflection you
can see; when you are below the surface, looking up outward,
you see yourself looking back down. It only takes one day for
you to kiss the mirrored sky before it disappears behind you.
The sky is no longer made of air when you are drowning, but instead,
a solid; the Earth has now become your sky, the bottom of the ocean
allows you to reach closer and closer to Earth's core, and maybe
this will be the first time you will have been able to touch the
sky.
Deep in the waters, you can finally find where my happiness is;
I find relief in these thousands of arms that pull me in all directions,
I find relief in knowing that it is all over; I approach closer to the earthen heavens.
This feeling is a recipe to create a paradise remedy, one that will
stop the worst times of my life. In my mind, I believe I have truly found
paradise.
I remember reading somewhere that octopuses have three hearts;
no wonder they can be mistaken as monsters. In a reflection, hearts are
doubled; is the one I see the monster, or is it I? Or is it both?
The mirror is a blank slate that starts over every time I leave; it makes
a new image of me every time I come back. I see the people on the
beaches looking out into the habitat that is filled with creatures of the
dark. They do not stay for long, as they always leave when the sky
has finished its burning. The sun has found it's home, and it is no
longer overhead, but in lower altitudes, sunken into the ocean
like a meteorite embedding craters into the earth's unbroken surface.
At least the stars remain bright down here, for light allows us to see,
but having the sun so close blinds us; who needs the darkness when
the light can blind me of the monsters around, whilst swimming in brightness?

March 18th
(Fanfic of HTGAWM, 537 words)
There is a moment when you just can't run anymore.
Running, running…
I don't think I can stop once I've started.
Thank god I'm a runner.
That night of Sam's murder, I remember… I remember
Running, running…
Scenarios through my head, wondering what to do…
Thank god I'm a runner.
The statue, a protractor slicing a perfect arc,
Running, running…
Along the paper, until reaching an obstruction of justice
Thank god I'm a runner.
We hid the body. We burnt the body. I cut the pieces.
Running, running…
Blood pooling, like an opening umbrella, a blossoming rose,
Thank god I'm a runner.
I didn't do it because I was high on adrenaline, but traumatized
Running, running…
Backwards into the past, back to past dreams, back to past lovers
Thank god I'm a runner.
I messed up. I screwed up. I screwed up so bad…
Running, running…
back to you. I messed up Oli. I screwed up. I screwed up.
Thank god I'm a runner.
I tried to stay collected, tried to collect the driftwood from my mind's wreck,
Running, running…
Water, pushing me back, never fast enough, never fast but
Thank god I'm a runner.
I tried to get away. Be free of Annalise's orders, be free of the law, tried
Running, running…
away, moving away, but racing highways are infested moats circling.
Thank god I'm a runner.
I said it wouldn't happen again. I said I wasn't going to be part of their plan,
Running, running…
from responsibilities, but the others held me back, kept me here…
Thank god I'm a runner.
She told me to shoot her. Handed me the handle, wanted me to come
Running, running…
to her and I almost did it, I almost listened, I almost, I almost…
Thank god I'm a runner.
I panicked, scoured for an escape, eyes tracing zigzags, exits that are
Running, running…
down to unknown fates; I choose doors and walk blindly through
Thank god I'm a runner.
I told myself I would wound up fine, but wounds in my mind break me down fine,
Running, running…
out of time, fine sand trickling from the overhead hourglass space,
Thank god I'm a runner.
Wes's death; was it my fault? Saw him dead, tried resuscitating life, tried
Running, running…
oxygen into his veins, tried circulating air, tried compressing, tried…
Thank god I'm a runner.
Fire. A glance to the side, a broken gas pipe, fuel taking flight and
Running, running…
spools of death, lacing the house, had to get out, couldn't save Wes,
Thank god I'm a runner.
The others; they get by alright, nothing seems to phase them, but I am
Running, running…
short on sanity, and now the voices in my mind are out of phase.
Thank god I'm a runner.
I go out on runs into the city now that I have Oli again, earbuds in and
Running, running…
never stopping; I imagine the consequences are hounds chasing behind.
Thank god I'm a runner.
The memories; they reinvite themselves like past lovers, spread like a blossoming rose, I am
Running, running…
into the traffic, in front of a transit bus, shoes stepping onto thin black ice… last second, falling back.
Thank god I'm a runner.

March 20th
(505 words)
The pearl-white building begins to shake.
Everything is crumbling around us. Society is falling apart.
The keys have all been unlocked. The thousands of locks we've
placed on the door, hoping nobody would gain entrance–
it was all futile. They cracked them all. They managed to storm
their way inside. I feel the building about to collapse. The rumbles
of the walls, the loud trembles, I am quivering thinking about
how this will end. We have never meant any harm–
we just wanted society to run smoothly. We were what
was holding the government in place. We were their
only hope. They do not realize how big of a mistake they are
making, attempting to overthrow us. We were the glue keeping
everything intact– do they think they can run a government
better than us? We were doing our best, and this was what we
gained in return. They want us dead. They want us out of control.
I can not see it, but I know the rooms around us are being demolished.
Soon enough, they will find where we are hiding and take full control
of the government. We are powerless. Our defenses are all broken,
and the rioters will not listen to our pleas for help. It is their loss–
once they have us overthrown, who will be the ones to lead? They
will not be able to decide on a leader– too many contrasting ideas, too
many different approaches, they will create chaos amongst themselves
without us. The only thing keeping them together is their hatred of us
ruling– once we are out of the picture, what is left to keep them bonded,
what is left to keep them in agreement? Nothing, just like the rubbles of
the pearl-white building they are destroying. They will be both their own
beginning and their own ending. Nothing good comes from leading a
society; it was better with us around. The rioters; they do not know what
is required of them to lead. They do not know what it takes to become
a ruler. I can sense my time coming. I know they are about to find me.
Will they kill me or leave me to rot in their jail? I do not know, but I know
my ultimate fate will be something bad. I do not deserve this; nobody
deserves this. Soon enough, they will realize who the bad guys are–
it is not us, but the ones trying to remove any organization left inside
of our world. Do not call our government a dystopia– call it practical.
They will figure out soon enough that our way of leading is the only
way of leading. They will figure out soon enough that without us, they
will turn on each other, fighting each other, trying to get on top. It will
be fun to watch as they tear each other apart. It will be fun to see if
anybody comes up on top, or if all that is left are the rubbles they leave behind.

March 24th
(204 words)
“It's fine. Everything is fine. I think life is okay. Life is okay, right?”
“The streets are falling apart these days.”
“Words never seem to make sense or perhaps I'm reading upside down.”
“I like watching the sand trickle down as I turn the hourglass upside down.”
“Procrastination is basically wasting time, but in a fun way.”
“Today is a good day to have some fun. I think I should try being happy.”
“Where are my keys again? Why do I lose these all the time?”
“Talking to myself is fun, especially when nobody is around to hear it.”
“Dementia is a serious problem that needs to be addressed in this world.”
“I can't handle it anymore, the voices in my head tell me different messages.”
“I have a lot of messages in my inbox that are waiting to be read.”
“I do not have time to socialize these days, I'm drowning in work.”
“Oceans are salty. I know this because I have tasted them. They taste like tears.”
“Crying makes me feel better, why have I not thought of this sooner?”
“I think I have found the solution to all my problems in this locked drawer.”
“Remember to keep firearms away from children.”

March 25th
(308 words from me)
“Wait.”
She pauses.
“One.”
A step forward, feet crunch on the dead grass, covered by Jack Frost's morning breath.
“Two.”
She turns, checking behind her as her foot moves again without her own volition.
“Three!” - Finley

The gun in her hand goes off. She can feel a sharp wince in her skull—perhaps it is from the loud bang that accompanies a pistol whip. The scorching pain takes full control of her body, and she can feel herself paralyzing. She falls onto the dead grass, eyes wide open, painting each of the delicate blades a luscious red.
Her soul begins to leave her body, and she can travel the world freely now as a spectator of the games. She will have to wait until tomorrow to play again. She finishes coloring the ground and sets off into the sky for new adventures. - Zai

“Almost too easy” he chuckles, the grasp of control leaving his bones as her soul floats off. The relief is immediate, and he's free to fall to his knees, careful to stay back from the melting grass. A console pops up, the words bobbing up and down: Mission Complete - Finley

The console gives him options of more unexpecting people to assassinate, their lucrative bounties promising money, money, and more money. His most recent was an easy target, yet, he wasted a bullet on her. He had only received an average bounty from her, and he would need to up the stakes if he was going to pay his dues in time. He scans all of the choices provided, debating who should be his next target—he has to make sure his target has enough of a bounty to pay off his weekly dues, but he also has to make sure that his target is easy and won’t be able to fight back. He looks at the pistol in his hand, then puts it away and retrieves a dagger from his pocket. He shouldn't be wasting bullets on easier targets, especially since ammunition costs money as well. The dagger will have to do for the easier people to pick off. It was always risky using the dagger—it made things messier, and his victims didn't always die at first. Some even fought back, which was even more dangerous. After all, if he gets killed on his assassination mission, then his balance will be reduced to 0. - Zai

Main Cabin daily - March 2 - 340 words
Okay, so, being a pencil is not everything you might think it would crack up to be. For one thing, being touched by human hands all the time is absolutely disgusting. Especially the kids’ hands - always covered in dirt or jam or crumbs. I can barely stand it! But of course there’s nothing I can do, since I’m a pencil and it’s not like I can move on my own.
And yes, I know, I should be grateful that people use me to write so many amazing ideas and stories and bla bla bla. But in reality? The majority of what people write with me are the answers to math problems. Or shopping lists. Or mean names to call their siblings.
Additionally, I’m getting shorter. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I’m literally shrinking. I’ve heard it’s pretty normal for a pencil. You can look it up if you don’t believe me.
Today, one of the kids in my house used me to draw diamonds on a piece of construction paper. I have no idea why. Then they took an acquaintance of mine, the green marker, and started coloring the diamonds in. With the help of an older sibling, they cut out the diamonds and stuck them on the walls. It was actually kind of interesting to watch.
That older sibling, a sister, likes to write poetry. I like what she writes, and I like how she hums under breath as she uses me to scrawl out her ideas. Sometimes, she’ll grab me all of a sudden, because an idea has suddenly come to her, I think. One time she even wrote a poem about me. Her favorite pencil.
So I guess there are some good parts to being a pencil - like, also, for example, I have this great pattern on me, with blue and green stripes. And I get to stay in this really roomy pencup, at least when people remember to put me there.
And there you go; the life of a pencil, more or less.

Daily for 3/2/22!

The mystical door opened, a wave of light entering my dark cave. I blinked in surprise, I was almost never called upon this late in the day.
Grabbing me from my perch on the second shelf—the best of all the shelves, in my opinion—, Max raced into the living room. With no care for my safety, he drops me down almost five inches onto the table before settling himself in a chair next to me.
My eyes widened as I saw who else was on the table.
“Heyy,” I said to Scissors, wishing desperately that my face wasn't squished against the table.
“Hi, Tape!” Scissors replied. Luckily, the cute appliance was facing away from me and was unable to see my sorry state.
“So, how ar-” My words were interrupted when Max obliviously scooped me up, grabbing my tongue and tugging it fiercely out of my mouth.
Before I could even yelp in surprise, Max pushed my extended tongue against my bottom teeth, shaking it back and forth until the long piece rips off.
“Maxxx!” I thought. “How am I supposed to talk to Scissors in this state?”
“What were you saying, Tape?” Scissors' sweet voice drifted towards me as Max thumped me back on the wooden tabletop.
“Mm-mmmmm!” I tried to reply, but the missing part of my tongue made it surprisingly hard.
“What?” Scissors asked, confused.
“IIII smaiiid, hwww rr uuu?”
“How am I?”
Wow. I didn't know how Scissors was able to understand that. She must really be the perfect girl for me… if only we didn't live on different shelves.
“Well, Tape, I'm actually doing pretty good! Max has been using me for his craft projects all day, but I've gotten to talk to a few friends that I haven't seen for a while. It's been so long since I got to talk to Stapler! And you, of course!”
At her words, I could feel my serrated mouth turn up in a smile. “It's been nice to see you too, Scissors.”

March 2, 2022

Word count: 314 words

POV: Eevee's fancy hairdryer in Cheese Jr's belly (told you no one else would think of it ;) )

Hello there. We’re in a dark place. How do we get out? I don’t know. Can I try? Not really. Don’t worry, it’s mostly safe here. I mean, it can get tight when we get stuffed in the compartment in Paige’s head. But it’s not that bad here. The growling can be relaxing at times. Okay okay, it’s not ideal. I would rather be out there, connected to electricity and buzzing with noise. I’m supposed to be showcased in Eevee’s collection of hairdryers. I also cost a lot, and Eevee spent a lot of her savings on me. Oh well, we’ve got to work with what we’ve got.
We probably won’t be able to get out of here. It’s not the best life but hearing children scream while tumbling around is definitely not fun. Just rolling around and crashing into things isn’t on my ‘top ten things to do’. I just hate it when my wires get tangled; it’s so uncomfortable, really. It’s not like I can untangle them, just have to wait for another tumble and hope to at least get loosened. Not that it happens often, I believe. Then again the odds of becoming, oh never mind.
I got in here, geez, how long has it been? From what I can hear, it’s been almost a year. A year of being trapped in, uh, this place. It sure has been a wild ride, being tossed around while Cheese Jr goes crazy. Man, that cow is out of control. I’m telling you, you do not know what I’ve dealt with. You do not want to see them acting like a gorilla; I still have painful memories of that day. He is amusing at times, I can’t lie about that.
What about you? How did you get in here? I’m sure that you didn’t want to get trampled and swallowed. What is your story?

kitty's writing folder

writing comp entry
writing comp fanfic entry
thank you notes

dailies

march 2 daily
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weeklies

weekly 1

daily - march 2nd
༺ back to megapost

words: 304/300
perspective: pen

I rest on the pencilcase. My work has ended. For today, of course. Tomorrow, I shall get back to writing endless pages of stories, that, sadly, end up unfinished. Well, I'll go to sleep now…
“Tomorrow” arrived. I take a quick glance around as I finish waking up. My owner, Allie, is already up and ready for writing. It's a bit earlier than the usual, but it doesn't really matter. Let's get to work, I guess.
But, before we get to work, Allie looks something up in her laptop. From where I am, I can't really see what she is doing. But it doesn't really matter, I guess.
I notice Allie is writing more happily, and every time we finish a piece, she leaves me for a few minutes and gets in her laptop. And then we get back to writing. The end of my work has come once again, and Allie looks rarely happy. Normally after writing the half of what we wrote today makes her a bit mad and tired. Weird. But as a pen, it's not my job to investigate what my owner does or stops doing. I'm going to sleep now…
Another day. Allie, like yesterday, got up earlier. And again, she left me me for a few minutes and checked something in her laptop. She takes a quick look at the calendar, and then grabs me to continue what we were working on yesterday. After writing for a while, she takes a break and goes to the bathroom. When she disappears through the door, I decide to look at her laptop. I see only one tab open - some sort of coding website… It's called Scratch. Why would Allie want a coding website? She's not into coding. Wait… The complete tab title reads “Scratch Writing Camp Main Cabin, March 2022.”

SWC Daily 3/2

425 words

I stood silently on the stage, although I wouldn’t be silent for long. The hushed whispers of an anxious crowd vibrated off the elegantly carved walls of the music hall. Soon, I heard the sound of someone approaching, rhythmic tapping against a polished stage. The sound got louder with every step.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
All of a sudden, the clicking sound stopped and I could feel the performer right next to me. She placed her hand on my polished surface and began to introduce herself. I caught snippets of her voice, saying things like “piano” and “performance.”
Piano. That was a name I had grown used to hearing. In all my eight years of being on stage, “piano” was the name I heard most. Was that who I was? A piano? What a peculiar word, I thought to myself. If only I could speak words. Then I would be able to say the name out loud.
Now, the person approached me from the front. I could feel her delicate touch on my black and white keys. It all happened rather quickly after that. For a brief moment, that sensation of being touched disappeared as her hands rose dramatically. Then they came crashing back down, resulting in a powerful forte. At first, I was caught off guard. I struggled and gasped as the sound was forced out of me. That was the worst part about being played—having no control over the sound that comes out of you. It was all in the hands of the person playing. Literally. After those startling first notes, I could feel the volume begin to lessen. My sound gradually grew quieter, and I could feel myself playing a decrescendo. The next few minutes were a blur of pianissimos and fortes, high notes and low notes, minor keys and major keys.
The intensity of my music started to thicken. Just when I thought I was about to continue, the player’s hands came crashing down. Again? I thought to myself. I was getting tired, but I managed to choke out one last forte. The woman lifted her hands with graceful poise, marking the end of that much-too-long performance. The audience rose from their seats, clapping and cheering with great admiration. I couldn’t tell if they were recognizing me or the person. Still, I got the sense that I had done a beautiful job. Feeling satisfied and content, I decided to rest. I may not have been able to talk, but I could play music.
And that was a gift greater than any other voice.

3-2 SWC Daily
POV of a diary
350 Words

Most of the time I'm Open, Closed, or Locked. When my Writer goes somewhere, they never leave me Open. I guess they're too worried there will be a Reader. A Reader is someone who comes and has the intention of reading me. I'm always Closed or Locked because of that. But I like being Closed. When you're closed you have some quiet time away from all your Writer's concerns, secrets, and problems. But eventually, my Writer does come back and pick up a pen and start to write in me. The pen feels like something, either gently or roughly, stroking your skin. It's kind of annoying. There is always some new problem when they're writing in me. But the one thing that's worse than their problems, is when they rip me. Usually, it's an accident, but sometimes they get mad and do it. The pain is indescribable. It's like they're taking your personality away from you, and their experiences, too. My Writer writes in me once a day, usually in the evening. But sometimes, very rarely, they don't write in me at all! This is what gets me angry. I start to wonder “Do they still need me?” and “Do they still want me anymore?”. The possibilities of questions are endless. But, eventually, the next day in the evening, they write two entries. One for the previous day, and one for the day of. One day though, I will run out of pages. This is the day where I will go and rest with the Used. The Used are other diaries that have run out of paper. I went to visit them once, my Writer mistook me for a Used. They told me about all they could of their stories before my Writer realized their mistake. I always wonder what it's like being a Used though, even though I got that rare experience. I wonder if they're comfortable. The oldest Used are at the bottom of the stack. It must hurt. But right now, I must enjoy the time I have left being In Use. These are the golden days.

march 2 daily: I sit on the bookshelf, feeling cold and lonely. The sun has never shined on my small corner. My pages are folded and creased, some are even torn out. I can't comprehend how much these humans disrespect me! They grab me off the bookshelf carelessly, dropping me on the ground and stamping on me. Some of my siblings are especially unlucky, the humans stack them into piles and stand on them like they're a ladder! Us books are too fragile for that! One of my siblings was thrown into the trash due to a little toddler ripping her apart! Honestly! Most of us are lying about on the ground instead of being put back to our homes. My lovely spine is creased. Not a surprise though, people are always opening me. I know, some people are better than others. I once met one little girl who treated me so carefully, stroking my pages and trying not to crease my pages. I wish all humans were like that. Oh, and one last thing. I have no idea why those humans decided to aggressively draw on my lovely pages! You might think I hate the words inside me, but no. We're pretty good friends! They all agree that it is literally illegal to draw on my precious pages or stab me with a pen. Oh, how much I hate those pens! Their ink smudges my pages and it is impossible to get off! I also despise markers. They're like pens, but worse.

Despite what I said above, I still think being a book is a pretty good thing. Our purpose is to deliver a story, or perhaps teach someone how to do something, or even give an important life lesson. Us books can change how someone thinks about things. We are an essential part of the world. Before computers, humans used us all the time! I highly appreciate anyone who is a bookworm. 321 words

A Message from Your Computer by Blush

Hello, you must be wondering who I am, but based on the title of my piece, I think that you should know, or at least have a hunch. Start off with your wild guesses…I'm sure you're close, either way I'm going to tell you. I'm your computer - the one you use each day to complete work, chat with friends, play games, etc.

You may be questioning this statement, but yes, it's me; your fellow computer that you forget to shut off all the time. Or even worse, forget to take proper care of. You do realize I need to be charged with energy just the same way you need food and water. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if my dreams are.. how do I say this, unreachable: in the sense that they’re not what I want to accomplish.

Sure, my lifelong dream since I was a little chip was to be useful, but now that I am, it’s pretty exhausting. I like to wonder what my life would be like without you using me 24/7, and without the constant slapping and hitting on my keys. Oh my… sometimes I feel like they’re about to break due to the immense amount of pressure you put on them. But, I guess I should be thankful that I’m not lying around, having rust growing on me.

Since you do use me on a daily basis, I have some requests for you. For one, please shut me down each night before you go to bed so that I get a good nights’ rest. Also, please try to plug me in every so often, it’s very frustrating when I’m running on low battery and you continue to ignore it until I shut off.

Let me just ask you, how hard is it to do these things each day? I would say, not that hard. It practically only takes a couple minutes - which is no time at all (obviously considering the endless hours you take just staring at me).

I know you may not think of me as a real person, as I’m an inanimate object, but I am real. You just can’t hear me because you’re too immersed in your own thoughts to acknowledge, and even notices others’ voices and problems that are probably even bigger than yours. So moving on in life, take this as a lesson, and try to learn from this as you won’t always have a second chance to make things right.

- Your computer (413 words)

2/03
Today's daily is about writing in the perspective of an inanimate object. Write at least 300 words from the perspective of an inanimate object (lamps, computers, erasers, etc) for 500 points!

Total word count: 505

From the perspective of a notebook

I’m lying down, my head against the smooth surface of the wooden desk beneath me. I take a deep breath, and look around at my surroundings. I have been left in a room - a bedroom it seems. Cream coloured walls, soft yellow lighting, a fuzzy, white rug covering the floorboards. It's cozy here… but almost lonely.
I sigh, longing to get up and about. I remember the days when I would be taken everywhere, bouncing along inside a backpack, or being held tightly and safely in a trusted hand. Now the human barely acknowledges me. It's as though I have been forgotten entirely.
When I was young, I explored the world! The bustle of school, the peaceful feelings of the park, the scary rush of riding in the bus. Now, I just stay in this room all day, bored, sitting on a table.
I steal a glance at the human girl who used to always hang out with me. She’s lying on her bed, tapping away at some large, annoying device. It takes me a moment to recognize what it is. A laptop. Seriously? She replaced me with that thing?
I feel a stab of betrayal. She used to write with me, not some fancy modern thing. But ‘oh’, as soon as she gets a laptop, I don't matter anymore. After all, I'm just a mere notebook, right?
My anger and jealousy doesn't last long. Now I just feel sad and regretful.
Was I not good enough for her? I always tried my best to hold all her stories and thoughts, and keep things nice and organised for when she wanted to write. Perhaps our happiness was never meant to last. I’ll always be here for her though. If she ever wishes to write by hand… or she finds she does not like that laptop, and it doesn't live up to expectations… I’ll be waiting.
I mean, I never need to be charged to work properly. I’m not going to shatter into a million expensive pieces if you accidentally drop me. I’m not bad for your eyes! I never yell annoying school reminders or emails at you when you just want to do some writing in your free time!
I don’t know why she likes that device…
I will be honest with you though, I do know that I have my flaws. I can’t automatically find your word count total for you, or help you find and instantly correct grammatical errors and spelling mistakes in your work. I know that I can’t glow in the dark, and play music. I know that I can sometimes make your hand ache when you do a lot of writing… but I try my best to be a fantastic notebook. Seriously.
There is one thing for sure though. One thing I bet that gosh darn laptop will never live up to.
I swear, I promise with my life that I will never, ever accidentally delete or ‘not save’ your work. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.
~ Notebook

✧ Introduction {Also the first daily} ✧
Hello! I'm Dream, an 11 year old pansexual bookworm and writer with she/her pronouns ! Some of my favourite pastimes include, drawing, writing (of course), reading and playing piano! I also LOVE puzzles & brain games! I speak English and French but I'm also learning Latin. This is my second time participating in SWC, my first time was on my old account @Novathewriter. I absolutely adore cats and owls, but I can't have a pet cat due to my dad being allergic. I am super excited to be in SWC!
{ Dailies }
Daily 2 A pencil's point of view
I tense up as a person throws me to the ground in anger, ow I exclaim. Of course, no human could hear me, their brains are too minuscule to comprehend that they are not the only things that can talk and think. I used to be a star among writers, they'd jot down every little thing that popped into their head with me but now it the… computer When people want to note something down or write something they just go onto their devices. Even worse than that most people don't even want to write anymore because they are to busy playing ignorant video games! Oh, someone's coming. Wait, I haven't seen this girl before… A man puts a hand on her shoulder and says,
“Well Lily this is our new home..” That's what the old owners had been doing with the boxes! They had moved and now there was a new family. The dad left to the living room but the girl, Lily stays. She looks around scouring the room and then she lays eyes on me. To my surprise she, squeals and runs out of the room. One minute later she's back with a… pencil sharpener! A pencil sharpener, she's going to use me. The girl picks me up and starts to sharpen me. Aah, it's so satisfying. I know most people think it would be painful but it's actually really relaxing. It's like a massage. After she's done she grabs her notebook and starts writing with me! With, ME. I can't believe it, it's been years since someone's decided to write using me or any other pencil! The title of her story is unusual but interesting, “If I were a pencil {A poem}”. A poem! Wow, I haven't been used to write a poem, since well forever! As she continues to write I know my life has changed…

{ Weeklies }
{ Extra Writing }

Celes's Swc March 2022 Daily #1
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Table Of Contents


Introduction:
(writing down my introduction since it was the first daily I did it in the main cabin before ofc lol)
Heyy Im Celes! Im twelve and absolutely obsessed with star wars and marvel. This is my third swc session (second on this account my first session was on @Carshotta. I'm super excited for this session and I am loving seeing people I recognize. (Im in Sci-Fi this session my leader is Soki <3) Idrk what else to say, but im going to work on writing an essay so that'll get some words in xD

Introduction:
Hello! My name is Avali but if you want you can refer to me as woot or wootdragon. My pronouns are she/her. I like to attempt art, animate and watch (mostly action) movies! Some random movies I like are tenet, inception, marvel movies, lord of the rings, oceans 11-13 and kung fu hustle. This is my first session of SWC and I look forward to meeting you guys!

Goodbye cringe writing o7 you have been replaced by checkmarks now.

Dailies
3/1 daily:✓
3/2 daily:✓
3/3 daily:✓
3/4 daily:✓
3/5 daily:✓
3/6 daily:✓
3/7 daily:✓
3/8 daily:✓
3/9 daily:✓
3/10 daily:
3/11 daily:✓
3/12 daily:
3/13 daily:
3/14 daily:✓
3/15 daily:✓
3/16 daily:✓

Khan Ajamal was the leader of the church. He was stronger than the surface of the earth and could move mountains. He helped people harvest things, carry things and even mine things like diamonds and platinum. In his spare time, he would entertain people with his skill at using three rings in a circus. Despite his great strength, he accepted what he had and though many people asked him to, he did not want to fight the Serbs, who were people that lived in the neighboring town. Not many people knew this about Khan Ajamal, but he was gay.

One day, Khan Ajamal saw a long path that he didn’t remember being there before. This was strange since he had traversed the streets numerous times. He curiously walked towards it. Penny moss grew all over the path, but he tried not to be discouraged and continued. The path winded down a road where there seemed to be some type of gift-giving festival going on. People were throwing gifts at their talented brothers, and he heard someone shout. “Your sister is your sister! Give her something heavy!” Khan heard cheering and turned around. There were ten people playing a sport he didn’t recognize. They were kicking around a large red ball, it looked like a variation of soccer. “Who can’t run with the ball?!” someone shouted angrily as the crowd booed loudly. Khan Ajamal looked away, continuing to explore the foreign town.

“If YOU do not find them, WHO will find them?” A shrill voice screeched, startling Khan. She was talking to a man who scrambled off in the opposite direction. “I’m afraid someone will hurt them!” The woman screamed after the man, who was now frantically searching. The sound of a loud boat horn shifted Khan’s attention to the nearby docks, where people were struggling to get a boat that was stuck in a pool of ice to move.

In the distance, a cult was trying to change the weather by shouting seemingly random phrases into the sky. A few people were trying to recover their lost dominoes and arguing amongst themselves about who destroyed them. A scammer was trying to convince a businessman to join his site for free, as it was fun and relaxing. The businessman did not seem amused and wasn’t even paying attention to the scammer and was instead measuring the increase in pressure.

Khan Ajamal continued the path, which surprisingly was still going without any signs of stopping. As he went on, he saw a couple's therapist gently telling a woman not to insult her ex. (She looked furious.) A strange clicking sound filled his ears and he looked around for a while before realizing it was just a group of crabs in a rave. A doctor was telling an adult about how obesity was not the only factor and not to give up. The scammer continued to try to sell his idea to the grumpy looking businessman. He was saying something like “Press on the screen until you are ready to spread.” The businessman started trying to measure the pressure again and the impatient scammer told him “Do not be surprised if the pressure is the same!” The woman was now screaming at the couple's therapist “WHO WILL NOT LOVE ME?” The couple's therapist rambled on trying to comfort her. He told her not to worry and that she hadn’t made any mistakes.

At last, the path trailed off into a forest and Khan Ajamal turned around and observed all the chaos that was going on in the strange town. People were smashing gifts into each other's heads, the cult was now doing a weather dance, the boat still had not budged from the ice, the crowd was throwing food at the sports players, the scammer had snapped the instrument the businessman was using to measure the temperature, the crab rave had turned into a crab fight, the couple’s therapist was running away from the angry woman, the doctor’s patient was now sobbing and the shrill sounding woman had finally found her children and was giving them a nasty lecture.

Try to guess the song lol

Weeklies
Weekly 1:✓
Weekly 2:✓

Daily 3/2 (300 words from inanimate object perspective)
Oh, what it would be like to be a human. But no, I’m just a dumb stapler. Day after day, paper after paper, I'm squeezed together, for human satisfaction. Do you know what that's like? Squeezed and squished till you pop just for another's satisfaction? Until that one day, you can’t hold it together, and you break. But unlike the humans, I don’t drift away, I sit there to rot. But I can’t rot. I sit in a little dark can, alone. All until one day I’m picked up and dumped into a new machine, one of humans. But for a split second, I think I'm gonna be free. Not hidden in a black can, not squished for others, free. Free to do what any stapler dreams, nothing. But no, I shouldn’t have been so optimistic. I just got thrown back into a bigger black can, along with strangers, but also my brothers and my sisters. My brothers and sisters who were squished and squeezed till they broke, were thrown away, and who were, eventually, put in here with me. But there’s no time to think about this, because before I know it, the walls of the large can start caving in. The strangers and my brothers and my sisters scream, but we can’t be heard, we’re staplers, and glue sticks, and objects that humans treat like trash. Eventually, I cave in, too. I’m squished and squeezed till I pop.
After a long time I do what humans call “wake up”. I’m in an unknown place.
But here’s the thing.
I’m free. No humans are going to come and squeeze and squish me. I’m not gonna be thrown in a dark tube. To humans it might seem terrible, just lying on the ground like this forever. But, to me, this is the dream.
(303 words)
NOTE: Please ask before critique ^^