Part One
- I used Eisenhower's matrix to prepare for my final weeks of school. I will surely use this next year to prioritse my tasks!
- I also tried out the pomorodo technique, it was really useful as it helped me to calm down and reset my mindset.

Part Two
I decided to join Brainstorming, I posted one main comment, and 3-4 replies!

Part Three
In my eyes, reading is really important. Just finding a book and snuggling up in a corner with your favourite blanket and some tea or a calming drink can make a big difference. Not only does it clear your mind but it allows you to ‘dive’ into another world and to experience something that you may not be able to experience in reality. In addition, science has proven that reading CAN relieve stress. I myself love to take a break from my busy schedule, and reading is the perfect thing to do. As well as this, writers will be able to take many ideas or plots (try not to plagiarize) from the books as well as the books enhancing your vocabulary.

Another important point is to turn off electronic devices. The blue light from your screen can easily damage your eyes, even if you have an important assessment due soon, work on your assessment in moderation. Learning to moderate screen time is very important and you will benefit from it. As well as this our minds do need to rest, you might be saying that it can rest a night, but the mind needs rest during the day too. As well as this remember to shut off your device well before you sleep. You need to be warned of the consequences if you don't, you may suffer from insomnia that night you don't shut of your device.

In conclusion, I have told you two vital ways to take care of yourself mentally. A great way to combine these two topics is to take a break from your screen and read a book. Just as I mentioned above. I hope you can remember to do this!

(285 words)

LET'S GET STARTED

LET'S GET STARTED

Ursa Major and Ursa Minor

In the night sky, the bears are hunting.
They’re hungry. They always are.
Stars don’t make for good food, you see. Ever since being banished to the sky, the bears have been starving. And soon they will starve to death - as was foretold. It was their death sentence, so many years ago.
It doesn’t matter how much they try to fight. They’ll get what they deserve, eventually.
Not even bears made of stars can avoid death.

The intro hit HARD. I was immediately sucked in by the mystery, and it got me going! you can tell this is gonna be a dark story by the first paragraph- this is a great intro. <3

Ursa Major and Ursa Minor - the ‘big bear’ and the ‘little bear’ in the sky. But they weren’t always bears. They were people once.

This is just like the greek tale of the Ursas! makes you wonder what will entail.

Their names are lost to history, replaced by latin words astronomers shoved upon them. They didn’t even speak latin; nor english. The language they spoke has not been heard by human ears for thousands of years - but the stars speak it still, even if no-one can hear them.
Not many people know the story of the bears, but I think it’s interesting. Whether it’s true or not, we’ll never know. But all myths have roots in real life, in history. Which is why I’m doing a project on a fable in history class.

Aaaaaand- now it fell flat. you started as if it were a tale from an old grandmother by the hearth, spinning a tale, but then you just barreled straight into “yep this is homework! anyway-” I think the “Which is why I'm doing a project on a fable in history class” can be placed into parentheses or omitted entirely.

I know I’m rambling, so I’ll get to the point. I’ve never been good at essays - but maybe think of this one as a story. I can write stories.

again, the “oh, homework” part, but- I can see how it fits in with the rest of the sentence. I would still ditch the “I know I'm rambling, so I'll get to the point.” If you're deleting the “Which is why I'm doing a project on a fable in history class” part, then I'd recommend also putting the “I've never been good at essays” part in parentheses.

A thousand years ago, the story starts.

Okay, now we're into the story!

A world coated in snow, in the middle of winter. Streets of ice and mist-shrouded houses. There’s frost on the ground.
There’s a boy outside. In the dark. In the snow. He’s looking for something.

I can barely critique this, this is so good-

Maybe he’s wearing a scarf. A red one would go well with his dark hair. In the moonlight his hair looks almost blue.
He carries a bow over his shoulder, one lone arrow clutched in his gloved hand. His fingers are shaking, his breaths puffing smoke into the cold air.

I love the description and the setting for the rest of the story- you're a pro at getting your words onto the page!

Let’s pretend he’s called Uakki.
I got that name from google; it’s not fitting for the son of a god. But we can pretend.

XDDDD

He’s going to hunt a bear.
He only has one arrow - but he never misses. He knows this, and he is not nervous.

Now we're getting into his character- I'm seeing a lot of confidence right here.

Meanwhile, his mother is looking for him.
Let’s call her Una. Not fitting for a daughter of gods; but perhaps she took a simple name when she came down to Earth. To fit in with the mortals she was sent to serve.

Serving the mortals was the worst punishment for a disobedient god-child.

the lore here is slaying- is this mother worried? sad? hungry? It really sucks me in, and gets me anticipating what's next!

And she had argued with her father, argued over the boy who was now tiptoeing down frosted streets trying to kill a bear with a single arrow.

You’re not supposed to argue with a Norse God.

And now she was stuck here, powerless, among mortals that had no idea who she was. The disrespect must have stung - but Una was a survivor. Or whatever her real name was.

Oh, spice- and a tough, stubborn personality. not good for a mother.

Una puts on the stove, awaiting her son’s return. Awaiting breakfast. A squirrel, maybe. Something easily caught with one arrow.

didn't you say it was dark? is it the wee hours of the morning?

Meanwhile, the boy reaches the woods. The white-painted grass crunches underneath his boots. His eyes flick through the trees, fixating on something in the distance. Something in the distance…

He slips on the frost.

He falls.

The suspense building here is perfect. Not too long, Not too short. not bad.

I’ve broken my leg, the cowardly boy thinks. I can’t get up.
I’ll just wait here for a bit…
It is quite peaceful here…
Maybe I’ll fall asleep…
Then I won’t need to hunt a bear. Why do I need to do everything anyway? I don’t care about my mother or her stupid breakfast. We can all go hungry for all I care.

And he falls asleep in the snow, resting on a pillow of broken frosted leaves.

And a bear smells the boy on the wind.

He's selfish, and uncaring. bad things for a Demigod. (I love the writing styleeee)

“Uakki?”

Where is that stupid boy, Una thinks, as she tramps through the frosted streets. I’m hungry!

He’ll be at the lake. That’s where the best squirrels are.

Again with the stubbornness- not good for a mom.

She’s halfway there when she realizes.

Her heart sinks. He’s not there. She asked him to hunt a bear, didn’t she?

Oh. No.

She changes directions and begins running towards the forest.

Gahhhhh this can hardly be called a critique- I'm analyzing it then. hhhh but I love the anticipation right here. she's running, running, running- will she make it?

Uakki wakes up, frozen and aching and tired and lazy.

And then he sees the bear standing over him.

Back to Uakki. this kid needs help.

“Hello,” says the bear. “I’ve come to help you.”

“Do you need a hand?”

“No!” Uakki snaps. “I’ve come to kill you, and I’m going to eat you for breakfast.”

This is character portrayment at its best. he's hungry, and angry, and cold and tired-

He gets out his arrow, and nocks it to his bow.

“I only want to help you!” The bear cries. “Please! I’m not a bear, I-”

The arrow flies straight into the bear’s heart.

But it’s a human that falls to the ground.

The snow splatters red.

DaRk StUfF- I love it. this is crazy, and I have the full image of a very unfamily-friendly body in my head.

Uakki turns, and runs.

Coward. I would too, tbh

“I’m a bear from the gods,” The boy that used to be a bear gasped. “I help people! I grant wishes! I-”

And he died.

You messed up bad, Uakki- And I love that the boy told his place before he died, starting the theme of the next part.

The gods saw all this.

And with a flick of their godly wrists, Uakki fell to the ground. His legs no longer human, but that of a great black bear.

They hoped he would learn more kindness as the new wishing-bear.

pfft they wish xd And this is how many myths go- I'm very impressed at how you've kept the theme going the whole time. I feel like i'm reading a real greek/idk myth, just without the Old English

"Uakki!”

Una is still looking for her son when she comes across a bear.

If my pathetic son can’t kill one, I’ll do it myself, she declares. The bear comes closer, and she pulls out her knife.

This stubbornness is back to bite her. you're going down, Una.


This is such a sad moment in the story, and you enforce the fact that she has no remorse because she doesn't know that this is her son. It's a really well-written moment, and an anguishing one.

Uakki rises from his body, rises all the way up to the sky, and speaks the words his mother can never hear.

“I’m - your son.”

I WOULD CRY IF I HAD HUMAN EMOTION!

But Una is a daughter of gods, after all. And although she can’t hear Uakki, she can hear the rumbling fury of her fathers as they scream from the heavens-

“What have you done?”

There’s a sinking feeling in Una’s chest. She doesn't know what she’s done; but she knows she will be punished.

DaRk StUfF

She runs to the edge of the forest, runs across the lake.

But it is morning. And the ice is beginning to crack.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

The ice breaks. And Una plunges downwards.

But she doesn’t fall into the water. She falls into the sky.

And then there's the end! I love how you ended on an assumed note that she ended up in the sky, as stars after that, starving.

(fin)

A Gradual Loss Of Innocence

She was unaware that death would feel so quiet. She had expected something more dramatic, more final. However, it felt like everything had ended.

Her eyes are weary, framed by dark circles. With her hands resting gently on her knees, she slowly pushes the swing up and down with her feet, feeling the vibrations of the ground echo through her body.

The stresses of her life are practically weaved into her hair, her heart heavy. She had lived a long life, and she is ready to let go.

She stands up slowly, her arms hanging limp at her sides. What is the ground made of? It is shifting underneath her feet, moving to accommodate her movement. As she walks, she notices a small wooden table, a small box on top.

Approaching the table, she lifts the box up, gently shaking the contents into her calloused palm. A deck of cards falls out, old parchment stained with faded colors.

She holds up the first card. A frog, sketched in hues of orange and green, and a tree. However, something is wrong with this frog. The proportions are not right. It appears… distorted. The card shakes in her hand as if blown by some unseen wind. She drops it, and it falls to the ground below, out of sight. She attempts to recall the card. Was the frog climbing the tree, or was it pinned to it?

“Push me higher!,” she demands, her feet kicking in the open air between the swing seat and the ground. Her socks are pulled up, almost to her knees, and her long sleeves cover her hands almost completely.

Her mother laughs, ducking out of the way of the swing as it goes back down again. “I would push you if I could!” she calls back, a huge smile on her face. She finally approaches the swing with caution, holding it with one hand as it slows down. Lifting her child out of the chair, she holds her close, whispering words of affection into her ear.

Her daughter does not pay attention to these words. She wriggles her way out of the embrace, her eyes focused on something in the distance. “It’s a frog!”she yells as she runs toward it, hands outstretched.

The frog notices the young girl and freezes, but it does not run away. It stays equally still as it is picked up, resting gently in the soft palms of the child.

“Momma, look at it,” the girl whispers as her mother quietly stands behind her. “I think it likes me.”

The woman freezes, eyes scanning for the card. She crouches down on her knees, frantically feeling her way across the ground. Her fingers touch paper, and she lets out a hysterical laugh of relief, clutching the card tightly to her chest-

Something has changed. The card no longer shows a frog, but a tall wine glass. She holds it closer to her face, trying to memorize the way it looks, but her eyes cannot seem to focus on the sketched glass. A memory tugs at her, drawing her mind away from the paper in her hand.

A teenage girl is sitting on the couch, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her foot is tapping impatiently against the floor, her eyes narrowed with annoyance and frustration. “What is it?” she asks, voice cold.

Her mother is sitting across from her, eyes full of worry. “I don’t think you should go out tonight. It’s getting late, and it’s so dark. Weren’t you away last night, too? Wouldn’t you rather just stay home? We could do something, just the two of us.”

The girl lets out a barking laugh and stands up. “Maybe tomorrow night,” she responds, her voice tinged with false patience and artificial kindness. Grabbing her phone off the kitchen counter, she zips her purse shut, making her way toward the front door. As she pulls it open, she hears her mom calling to her from the living room. Ignoring it, the girl steps through the front door, slamming it shut behind her as she steps onto the porch.

The outdoor air is crisp, and her arms shiver. She knows that it is too late to go back for a coat- sometimes the pain is worth it. She steps off the porch onto the driveway, clicking the keys in her pocket. Opening the door to her car, she collapses into the driver's seat, swallowing back the nerves in her stomach. She should not be nervous.

Unzipping her purse, she pulls out a silver glass. She had filled it with lukewarm soda hours earlier, hoping that someone would mistake her for being more mature than she really is. She takes a small sip before placing it back into the bag.

She turns the car on and begins to drive, first slowly, then more confidently. As she leaves the street, her mom stands by the window, a lump in her throat. Her mom slides the curtains shut, preparing for her night alone.

Her heartbeat begins to increase. What is this? She clutches the card so tightly that her fingers begin to whiten. She will not let it happen again. She will not let this one change. There is nothing more she needs to remember.

The wind around her begins to increase. It blows her off of her crouched position, and she sits fully on the ground, head collapsed in her knees. Her hair flows around her head in a greasy halo.

The sketched wine glass on the card shatters. She is somehow cut, not by paper, but by glass. The drawing moves, changes. A faint outline of a meal is now apparent on the parchment card.

“No,” she says, first quietly, then louder. “No.”

She feels her mind slipping away once again. The wind around her begins to subside. Her eyes close.

Sunlight streams through the room, and the woman continues to stare at her crossword puzzle. She has been stuck on one word for almost ten minutes, and she is frustrated beyond belief. With a disappointed sigh, she folds the newspaper up, throwing it in the recycling bin as she goes to open the fridge.

This has been her morning routine for months. She wakes up as her alarm goes off. She puts on a white blouse and black pants, very similar to the clothes from the previous days. She walks downstairs, picking up the newspaper from her porch. After staring at the crossword, she will prepare a small sandwich, one that she does not enjoy eating but that will sustain her until her lunch break.

That is exactly what she does today. The sandwich she chooses to make is peanut butter and jelly, and she enjoys it just as much as she normally does.

She arrives at work half an hour later. She works at an accounting firm, where she does one thing or another. The day passes with legible signatures and empty small talk between co-workers. This job is not spectacular, but it pays well, and she always knows what to expect each morning.

When she was a child, she had wanted to be a biologist. Her dream was to study the behaviors of amphibians, particularly frogs, in their habitats. She gave up on this as she grew up.

When she was a teenager, she had wanted to be an actor. The Hollywood sign called her name- she wanted a life of luxury and power where she did not have to worry about where the next bill would come from.

She had a feeling that they would both be disappointed with the woman she had become- mid-forties, without a spouse, a mid-level job with a recycling bin filled with half completed crossword puzzles and the crusts of old sandwiches.

The black softens, and she opens her eyes. The wind is gone. Everything is still. Her cupped palms are empty, but a small card is sitting on the ground in front of her knees.

Her shoulders are wracked by sobs, but she cannot resist. Something is drawing her hand towards the card. She picks it up. A remote is drawn on the card, a small rectangle covered in buttons.

She stomps on the ground, feeling it convulse underneath her feet. She is trapped. She looks up, noticing the infinitely tall circle of trees forming an arch around her head. How are the trees bending that way?

Her eyes flit back to the card.

“Is everything okay in here?” a kind voice asks. The woman nods, not looking up from the chair where she is reading. “It’s almost time for dinner,” the person adds, “would you like me to bring it to your room instead?”

The woman looks up. “Bring it to my room,” she agrees.

“Of course,” the care worker responds with a smile. She leaves the room, closing the door gently behind her. The woman is still sitting in her chair. She had not left it all day.

These long days, sitting beneath the window, had led her to question her life. What had she accomplished? She had worked a decent job for fifty years, then she had retired with a solid pension. She had not met any of her co-workers properly. She did not ‘properly’ know anyone. Her own mother had been lost only years ago, but the two of them had broken off contact years earlier.

The old woman knows that she is nearing the end of her life. She is almost grateful for that fact. She had made so many bad decisions, left so many good people behind. But, then again, who hasn’t? What is life, if not just a gradual loss of innocence?

The sunlight continues streaming through her window. She does not move.

She rests still. She does not care if the card changes. She does not care if she is forced to relive another moment.

“What did I do wrong?,” she whispers, her voice cracking, but she knows what she did wrong. She wishes that she could return to those moments, full of knowledge, full of everything she now remembers. She wishes she could tell her younger self that her mother is the most important person in her life. She wishes she could tell her teenage self that appearances can be deceiving, and displaying maturity through clothes is different from having maturity in your mind. She wishes that she could tell her elderly self that all was not lost at that moment.

She wishes she could tell herself that life is more than just a series of actions.

Wind blows through the trees, autumn leaves rustling on the ground.

Something new is taking up space in the cemetery. A new stone, with a name engraved, somewhere near the back corner close to the road. There are no flowers left near it, no signed messages, either.

Nobody attended the funeral. Nobody was invited, either- this is because no funeral was held. There was nothing dramatic, nothing final, nothing at all. A small headstone was carved. It was placed in the cemetery, and it has not been moved since.

Grass has started to grow around the stone. Someday, flowers will bloom. This is a good thing.

Life has begun to exist because of a person who never tried to.

Mango looked around in interest—hadn't Aaron told her to meet him here? Why wasn't he here?
“I swear to god, Aaron—where are you?” she muttered. Just because he was her boyfriend didn't give him a special pass.
“I'm coming!” she heard Aaron shout. He walked up to her and kneeled down. No way, Mango thought, he isn't actually going to do it, is he?
“Mango,” Aaron began, pulling out a ring and propping the box open. “Mango—you've been the love of my life ever since I met you at the café in downtown. When I asked you out after some weeks, I was overjoyed. We've been together through so much—good and bad. So here, I, Aaron Bielski, ask you, Mango Araeya Johnsons—will you marry me?”
My breath is shallow. “Of course, Aaron.”

LET'S GET STARTED

lio wrote:

for critiquitaire 11.20.2022

Nestled between the river deep and the mountain high lay a cozy stone cottage. It seemed straight from the pages of a fairy tale, covered in ivy and shrouded by beautiful birch trees all around. Out the kitchen door was a grand garden, full of life and lovely plants, buzzing with bees and butterflies. Joy radiated from the space, and a profound love for the world and all that it could offer.
Joy and love given by none other than the cottage’s witch.
Dahlia had no greater pleasure than her garden. She took great pride in cultivating its variety and beauty and tended to it all year round, rain or shine, snow or wind. And, in return for her care and compassion, the garden told her what she wanted to know.

From long-forgotten libraries to misty moors and manors, the world’s hidden secrets always tempt a certain few. Together, they formed an organization, a society for those curious enough to ask the questions without answers and dare to dig them up. Many years had passed since that first group gathered, but still their legacy lived on in the quests of travelers. Always faced by danger but never backing down, these proud travelers sought and saw and returned, every time.
Thus, danger was no stranger to the best traveler of her generation, the scholar errant.
But Blaise had never faced anything quite like this. The puzzles had been simple enough, the traps easy to evade, in the beginning. Now, it was changing. This place knew her. Knew her weaknesses and could exploit them. In a way, it reminded her of home, a twisted, broken version of her home. And she wasn’t sure she could make it out, not from this far in.

Enchanted as seeds and nurtured fondly for all their lives, Dahlia’s flowers divulged her in many tales, in tidbits she’d otherwise never know. Most prized among them were the woven matches of dahlia and nightshade. One bloom for her, the other for her beloved.
In times like this, with the scholar off on a quest and the witch here at home, the two would grow apart. All around, forget-me-nots blossomed, each small floret a reminder of love shared across the widest of distances. Warnings came alongside the little blue flowers, the pale pink of oleander accompanied by violet hyacinth for carelessness or dark hellebore for madness.
No warnings had yet appeared among the lovely usual blooms, not when Dahlia last looked out across the yard.

Lost, trapped, hopeless, Blaise knew she was all three. If only she had time, but her lantern would certainly burn out soon. If only she had wax, perhaps a spell could save her from this place. If only she had thought instead of blinding lunging at this chance.
Tears clouded her vision, morbid realization dawning. She reached for the one thing she always carried, the one reminder of her truest love. A bouquet, picked carefully from the cottage garden. One shaky breath in, one shaky breath out, flowers pressed close to her chest.
“Te amo, mi flor,” came her shaky whisper, last words with eyes shut tight.

Across the world, a flurry of growth, a bright burst of orange and yellow. Marigolds choked the garden.
Dahlia screamed.
One blossom fell into her hands. A lone white snowdrop. The promise of hope. The promise that the story isn’t over. Dahlia held it tight, the promise never to let go.

The fox

Vulpecula — ‘a small, faint constellation in the northern sky.’
With that description, it rather seems like it could go unnoticed. Like you could brush it to the side. Sweep it away with the cobwebs. Like it is insignificant.

But it is not.
And this is the story of The Fox.

The shadows grow taller and taller. The fox feels it, even deep in the land of dreams. And then they vanish — and, although subconsciously, he knows it is time. He must wake.

The cold air creeps through the den, through his fur, finally making its way into his mind. And so when he opens his eyes, there is no need to shake himself of sleep; He is alert, and he already knows that something is wrong.

As he leaves the den, he begins to sense it. He smells it in the earth, damp from the layer of snow that covers it. He hears it in the swaying of the branches and in the dark, thick leaves of the trees that surround his den. They almost whisper to him. He tastes it in the air that hangs heavy with fog around him.
And… he feels it in every inch of his body. Each bronze strand of his thick fur stands up on edge. His muscles are tense, as if ready to dart across the hills before him, and his eyes are wide.
He stays like this for a few moments, while the frost begins to creep up his spine.

He knows what it is.

He runs.

He is nearly completely blind in the darkness of the forest. There is no light but a few dappled pools of moonlight, diffused by fog. But for this, he doesn’t need his sight. He knows where to go — and he is running and leaping towards it.

He sees it, through the shadows and the layers of swirling mist.

The place with the darkness hanging over it.

There is… a girl.

Though confused, still he bounds towards her, until…

He skids and slips, and must stop. And then he understands. She is on a frozen lake. She’s falling, drowning. Trying not to slip beneath, into that dark black icy water.

He sees no longer like the clear, crisp clouds. Instead his vision is a lightning storm — images flashing before him. First he sees his feet in the snow. Then the ice. The sky. Trees. His surroundings flicker like fire until he sees… water.

He leaps.
Hair.
All that he can see is hair. Dark, thick, tangled hair. The girl’s hair. He feels two frozen hands grasping the fur around his neck. His back legs kick out, trying to push against something, but there’s nothing except the freezing water.

He’s going to fail. He’s going to fall. He’s running out of energy…

No. With his last bit of strength, he digs his claws into the top of the thick ice layer and clambers up. All that is in his mind is climbing. He has to get up.

And, finally… he collapses onto the surface, exhausted, and so does the girl.

He hears her behind him — she’s shaking, gasping for air. But she’s alive. And so is he. They lie there for a moment. And then she begins to laugh.

“You saved me, Vulpecula,” she nearly cries.

The fox turns to see her face. Framed by her dark hair, it is as white as the ice. But as much as he is smiling inwardly, she is outwardly.

Her smile is the last thing he sees before the ice beneath them breaks once more.

He is pulled beneath it immediately. The water is /cold/.
It’s not an icy sort of cold, but a hungry, dark sort. And the water is as black as the night sky.

There is no escape for them this time.

For a moment, an eerie array of white stars appear, deep under the lake. And then everything is gone.

Not every story can end happily.