7/9 daily
I present to you, 867 words of my most sleep-deprived characters ayyyy

• Mayworth Amherst is afflicted with the unfortunate issue of her clients and boss both having opposing views on sleep, thus resulting in a sleep schedule that is almost nonexistent. Essentially, she barely gets any sleep- and when she does, it’s not for long. Being a freelancer currently employed by the most famous detective group available for hire by ghosts, she often ends up with clients who aren’t used to accommodating human needs. They’re just about her only source of income, and there’s little she can do to inform them of this issue without offending them; Thus, she often ends up just having to grin and bear it. Meanwhile, said group’s boss is rather stingy and would prefer not to have to shell out overtime pay, so Mayworth still has to be present during the day- while at night, still having to help clients. And while there are ghosts that do happen to be considerate of human needs, they are few and far between- due to their rarity, Mayworth often finds herself feeling caught off guard when such a ghost comes along, and loses a large chunk of the time that she could have spent trying to sleep. Some days, she feels like it won’t be long until she herself is a ghost. And, speaking from beyond the fourth wall- if she doesn’t get a full night’s sleep soon, she won’t be able to continue for long.
  
• Verity Aves, as the sole ruler and last living royal family member of a country ruled by an absolute monarchy, is naturally busy. While her sleep schedule was very uncontrolled and chaotic at the beginning of her reign due to the sudden and heavy burden that was unexpectedly dropped on her shoulders, by now it has mostly evened out as she has gotten used to her duties and not needed to burn the midnight oil for a while. She is a light sleeper, but most nights is still able to get a good night’s sleep- which is a far contrast from the start of her reign, where if she could get more than a few hours that would already be incredibly lucky. In addition, back then she faced an overwhelming flood of constant interruptions from people with requests of her, and the fear of letting them down kept her up late at night; now, with capable assistants to handle the more minor tasks, Verity isn’t as overwhelmed. However, prior to when she inherited the throne, Verity was able to get a much more healthy amount of sleep, which was mostly because of her lack of major duties and flexible day schedule.
  
• Letha Penrose is often troubled with nightmares, and can rarely get a full night’s sleep. Ever since she inherited the duties of looking after the family library, her work keeps her up long into the night, and the stress of her important position in the family prophecy isn’t helping either. As she is regularly required to spend hours in the library, time often slips right past her, and she ends up accidentally working through the whole night. On the occasional holiday, she’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep, but mostly she spends the daytime taking brief naps in an attempt to make up for what she’s lost. Even before inheriting the library, she was still like this, however; as she previously wasn’t allowed to visit the treasure trove of knowledge, she would sneak out of the house at night to spend an hour or two a day reading the works within. In addition, she was known from birth to have a major role in the prophecy, and from the first day she was made aware of this she had been dogged by the resulting stress. (Though Letha wouldn’t dare to admit it for fear of her family’s reaction, the prophecy, its prophet, and resulting loss of autonomy as well as almost-paralyzing fear of failure, are often major features in her nightmares. If it wouldn’t get her disowned, she would renounce her role in the family’s fate, if only to preserve her mental health.) If you were to ask her how she felt about her sleep schedule before and after inheriting the library, she would simply say it wasn’t much different from how it was before, and that she doesn’t have any particular feelings in regards to that topic.
  
• Cheryl Green doesn’t intentionally stay up late- nor is there much of a reason for her to do so. However, she has long since made it a habit, and to change it now would be very difficult, especially considering that her body has now adjusted to this schedule and rarely lets her go to sleep at a time earlier than she is used to. The fact that she often stays up past midnight doesn’t seem to have much of an impact on her sleep schedule; she wakes up around the same time as anyone else, and has long since gotten used to how tired she often feels as a result of this habit. She herself doesn’t quite remember when this pattern started, but knows it was probably a long while ago, when she was much younger than she is now.

THIS IS SO LAST MINUTE BUT DAILY 7/9

Sleep is a very important thing. Without sleep you’d all be wobbly bobbly all the time, not knowing the difference between a pear and a xylophone you got for Christmas. Now here we have three examples of sleep schedules that will hopefully tell you what to do and what not to do.
First on the list, we have Faith. Faith is considered as the “not-ordinary girl,” and we agree on that. Her sleep schedule is definitely very not-ordinary. Since she spends all night thinking about karma and being absolutely perfect like the girl she was born to be, she doesn’t have a very consistent sleep schedule. Every night her lights are off at 8 PM–being perfect, as usual–and it takes her about four or five hours to fall asleep, or instead, she just doesn’t sleep at all. This is an extremely disastrous thing to do and she ends up making at least two mistakes a day instead of her usual zero. That just makes her think about karma more, and her sleep gets worse and worse and worse. How horrible!
Next, we have Skye. Skye, with her wicked evil parents, has to sleep on a mattress on the ground mainly described as “thorns pricking her back” when she lies down. Plus having to do all her house’s work, she’s treated as a mini Cinderella. So, you could assume her sleep schedule isn’t very up to par either. In fact, she jumps onto her mattress at twelve at night and ends up feeling uncomfortable for an hour until she falls asleep.
Alright, those are two very bad examples on how you should sleep. So make sure you’re not thinking about karma too much and have a decent bed! But well, what /should/ you do? What is an example of a fantastic, consistent, immaculate sleep schedule?
This is Lynx. She is adventuring day and night, in the Lost or Forbidden cities, on ocean or land, and whatnot. She also especially likes writing. Every night she sleeps at 9 or 10 and quickly falls asleep in thirty minutes. She is happy day and night, waking up early and keeping healthy. What a great sleep schedule, don’t you think? It’s great for adventuring and writing of all sorts.
And that’s why you should have a consistent sleep schedule, folks! Always remember to stay happy, active, and healthy and you’ll figure out the difference between a pear and a xylophone in no time! Bye!

409 words

Weekly #1
2034 words

Part 1: Literal interpretation of the silent comic, The Weight of Words

A man sits at a campfire, his features illuminated by its glowing light As the next panel pans out, it is shown that he is holding a large book, and appears to be pulling out a page. The fire grows towards the man. He leans over to put the page in the fire. The man’s somber expression on this page stands out the most to me. He isn’t joyfully burning the page, but he isn’t crying either. He simply is resigned. As the page burns, it elicits a flashback. A young man is hiking, holding a large book. He sits at the feet of an elderly man with a halo, and listens to him speak. He opens the book and the elders' words are sucked in. Again, the young man sits below someone speaking, and he holds the book up to his words, collecting them. He does this once more at the feet of another elder. All three times the young man collects someone’s words in the book, he is kneeling below them and holding the book up to their words. Additionally, each respective elder’s words, though written with squiggles, have different shapes and line thicknesses. Each person he listens to also has an authoritative air, and is holding up their hands, closing their eyes, and speaking. But, by the last woman, the young man’s face seems tired. The next page has a montage, of sorts, with each panel being a little blob of gray. He looks appreciatively through the book, then he struggles to pick it up. As he tries to carry it, he grows more weary and beaten down, till he falls. The panel’s background color changes to yellow as the man kneels across from the book and stares at it. And thus, the flashback is over, and the man empties out the pages of the book into the fire, which is now leaning in the opposite direction. The fire burns out, and the smoke lifts into the air, bearing squiggled words. The whole scene is in grayscale, except for the man, who flies away on the wings of the empty book. (354/300 words)

Part 2: Hunter, Claudia, and french fries (oh no)
(Based off of conversations with my mom, who is Colombian)

“And so anyway, on the Fourth of July they set up this huge thing in the park where everyone can come and, like, have fun, and watch the fireworks, and, most importantly, eat!” Hunter babbled on and on as he strode down the streets of his old town, his friends trailing after him like baby ducks. Claudia followed dutifully behind them, her hands in her pockets, as she glanced around at the familiar place. They had it all decked out with flags and posters; decorations were practically exploding from some of the storefronts. There even were ribbons curling down the lampposts!
Americans.
But the kid was so eager to show off his hometown that she got saddled with chaperoning him and his friends. Hunter was currently nearing a big stretch of grass in the middle of the town, probably the park he was yammering about. Big tarps stretched over tables, people milled around, and a stage was set up on the far side of the park. Someone was barbecuing, by the smell of it. Claudia herself didn’t really care to stick around: she had choreography to work on, but getting the kids out was more important.
And besides, it’s adorable how Hunter’s acting like a tour guide, despite the fact that we’ve set up here before.
So she followed the five into the park and the celebration. They had just walked past the first few tables when Hunter exclaimed, “It’s still here!” and ran off towards the grills.
¡Ese chino!
She followed the kids to the messy grilling area. Hunter was already chattering to his friends and gesturing to the cookout.
“Yeah and every year that we’ve come, they always had a free lunch. It’s probably the only reason we attended, ‘cause, I mean, free lunch! But seriously you’ve got to try it,” he turned his pleading eyes onto Claudia, “Please please please can we eat here?”
Lazzlo had already told her to “for heaven's sake take the kids out to lunch otherwise they’ll eat us out of house and home”, so the free July 4th meal sounded pretty good, but she also felt like making Hunter squirm.
“I don’t know mijo, I think we’ve got to go back soon.”
Hunter, of course, was only more motivated by the rejection.
“Pleeeaase,” his voice wavered, “isn’t that supposed to be the magic word?”
Claudia tsked, “Man, you’re supposed to be older than this, what’d you mean ‘magic word’?”
Hunter’s face got real red at that, and one of his friends patted his back in sympathy.
She laughed and ruffled his mop of gray hair, “Alright, we can eat here. But I’m gonna be the judge of whether this barbecue is all it’s cracked up to be.”
…
Hunter proudly presented a paper plate in front of Claudia. The other kids had already settled around the table she claimed with similarly loaded plates. Hunter sat down and waited for his town’s pride to be defended.
“Well?” he cheekily started, “I’m waiting.”
But Claudia couldn’t take her eyes off of the offense that occurred on her plate.
“¿Qué,” she started, “es esto?”
She held up the perpetrator.
Hunter looked confused. “Well based on my limited understanding of Spanish, I’d say that’s a wedge cut french fry.” He blinked. “What’s wrong?”
The fries on her plate were all golden brown half-circles. In Hunter’s eyes, probably, nothing appeared wrong.
“No. Esto no es un ‘french fry’. Esto es-. Bueno, no sé qué es esta cosa, pero no es una papa frita.” She threw the fry back on her plate and waited for an explanation.
“Um, I don’t understand you,” Hunter meekly said. “But, seriously, what’s wrong?”
Claudia raised an eyebrow. Hunter thought this was the greatest free July 4th barbecue he’d ever eaten at, but no! She didn’t think so.
“These ‘french fries’ are terrible,” she needed to give the kid an explanation. “Just look at them! They have cáscara all over them!”
“What?” Hunter’s confusion doubled.
She huffed. “In Colombia, you peel the potatoes before using them. These are covered in skin! Why would I eat this? It’s like you did a lazy job making them.”
Hunter’s eyes widened with understanding. “Ohh, the potato skin isn’t cut off. I guess I can see what you mean.”
She picked up a fry and threw it back on the plate. “Guácala. I’m not eating those.”
Claudia looked up at Hunter and his staring friends, “Next time we’re in Colombia I’m taking you for real fries.” (750/400)

Part 3: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
*pulls out copy* let us begin. One Susan redemption arc coming up

“It runs in my mind that I have seen the like before; as if it were in a dream, or in the dream of a dream.’”
Queen Susan exclaimed, “Let us go no further past this odd thing and leave to find the Stag while the day is still young.”
“But sister,” said Queen Lucy, “what will become of this lamp on the post? I say, it calls to me so dearly.”
“It is true,” said King Peter, “to find the White Stag in this thicket would be especially difficult, but the lamp on the post harkens to a different sort of adventure, one where we very much will not be the same.”
King Edmund peered out past the post and into the thicket. “My fair brother, I feel the same way. Can you not hear the call to adventure, Susan? It’s crying out to me so loudly now.”
“And to I as well,” cried Queen Lucy, “We must go Susan. There is so much more out there to discover.”
“And in all my time as High King of Narnia,” said King Peter, “I feel as though, for the first time, there is something more out there worth more than any jewel, and an adventure unlike anything we have ever come across before.”
Queen Susan, too, came over to touch the post and peer into the unknown.
“But fair brothers and sister, there is also risk.” Queen Susan looked far into the thicket. “An adventure this grand would not be without its many dangers. Art thou sure?”
“It feels more right than any other decision I have ever made in my life,” said King Edmund.
“Then we shall embark on perhaps the most important journey of our lives,” said King Peter, “So in Aslan’s name, we shall do it.”
The Kings and Queens turned back to the lamp on the post, a familiar sight they recognized from the deep recesses of their hearts. And so they set out, tentatively at first, hesitating to wander far past the lamp. Still, the lamp on the post remained a cheerful beacon, encouraging them to step further and explore deeper into the thicket. However, the branches and bush were difficult, it seemed only creatures who belonged there, like the White Stag, were given admittance to the wild possibility beyond the thicket. But with every look back to the lamp on the post, they gained the courage to keep moving forward and find for themselves the grand adventure lying just past. Gradually, the thicket grew compliant, and the lamp fell, in some places, out of sight. The siblings marveled at the once scratching branches that now turned gentle, and it seemed more and more familiar as they moved further in.
Lucy looked up, one last time, as she felt her hand touch solid wood, and she glimpsed the now remembered lamppost for the last time. (454/400)

Part 4: Rewriting

A man sits at a campfire, his features illuminated by its glowing light. He is holding a large book, and pulls out a page. The fire grows towards the man. He leans over to put the page in the fire. The man wears a somber expression. He doesn’t joyfully burn the page, but he doesn't cry either. He simply is resigned. He resigns to burning the knowledge that he worked so hard for. His book carried the teachings he spent years learning and recording. As the page burns, it elicits a flashback. His younger self is hiking, holding the book. He is going to listen to the teachings of many wise ones and to learn all he can from their words. “The world needs to hear this! I’ll be the wisest in the world!”, he thought. He sits at the feet of an elderly man with a halo, and listens to him speak. He opens the book and the elders' teachings are sucked in, forever recorded in his precious book. He gathers the teachings dutifully, he needs them. He needs to remember them. Again, his younger self sits below an elder teaching, and he holds the book up to his words, collecting them. He does this once more at the feet of another elder. Every time he collects the wise words of the learned, he kneels below them and holds his book up to their words. The elders came from all over the world, as he would travel any distance just to listen to their teachings. Wisdom has no boundaries. Each person he listened to also had an authoritative air, as they should. After all, they need people to listen to their teachings. And even if people wouldn’t listen, he would record it all in his book. But, by the last woman, his younger self’s face seems tired. Going from place to place and listening to the word of the wise was tiring him. The book grew heavy. And heavier. And soon he wondered, “what is this all for? All this work and I don't feel any wiser.” He went all over the world to gather teachings, people needed to hear them! But, did he ever hear them? And thus, the flashback is over, and the man empties out the pages of the book into the fire, which is now leaning in the opposite direction. He never took the time to actually listen when he was younger. He filled his whole book with the words of the wise to share with the world, but he never shared it with himself. The book burdened him; he no longer needed it. The fire burns out, and the smoke lifts into the air, bearing squiggled words. The man, who flies away on the wings of the empty book. Turns out the best wisdom comes from a life well lived. (476/400)

7/9 Daily - Sleep Habits - 427 words - 8 hours of sleep

Aliana: Her usual school days are crowded with lengthy classes and extracurriculars. Her mind is buzzing with the long list of things that have to be accomplished. Her parents push her a couple more steps forward than people who are her age, causing her to work harder and live a busier life. When it’s time for her to sleep, she props herself on a soft pillow and turns on a bedside lamp that emits warm yellow light on the book she’s reading. Reading calms her mind from the usual chaos every day and lets her dissolve into a different world. After reading for thirty minutes, her eyes start to shut. Before even turning off her lamp, she’s in a dreamless sleep where she’s able to sleep calmly for many hours until her morning alarm wakes her up.

Scott: Scott dreads school. He strains his ears to listen to long hours of absolute boringness. Scott isn’t a fan of extracurriculars either. His parents make him do many extracurriculars so he isn’t wasting his valuable time before college. Scott, however, has no interest in college and plans to do other things with his future. To escape his reality, before sleeping, he consumes himself staring at the screen of his phone. Either playing games or watching videos. They serve as entertainment for him away from his worrying parents. When he’s ready to sleep, he turns off his phone and closes his eyes. Many hours pass by and he doesn’t fall asleep yet. When he finally does, he usually has a restless night. He tosses and turns as vague dreams play in his mind. He usually feels pretty tired when forcing himself to get out of bed the next morning.

Rose: Rose is a huge fan of sports. Especially basketball. Every day during the week, she has a basketball class for two hours. During the weekend, she and her friends play basketball together for several hours. She heavily enjoys the sport, wishing she could be a professional athlete when she grows up. Her parents support her goal of becoming an athlete, as they are sportspeople as well. They sent Rose to many classes taught by professional coaches. Her basketball skills are rapidly increasing with each day. She’s exhausted by the time she goes to bed. Most of the time, she just falls on her bed and goes to sleep. Her muscles are too tired to do anything. She even forgets to brush and turn the lights off. She usually has dreamless nights where she can sleep peacefully until the next morning.

Cabin wars masterpost
Had to give proof for the stuff I wrote, so here ya go behold the mess!
Left out one bit for privacy reasons, hopefully this is enough

4.5k from Hi-fi (bruh, I just woke up)

Fifty headed hydra
Hello, welcome to redacted swear word, aka cabin wars with only two active people right at the beginning. I’m actually really nervous. I'm ever so grateful that this first war has a fifty headed hydra as a challenge, my font is in bold and i’m making typos left and right but we need wordssss, wait, when does the shield go down? I’m three hours in I think. Wait two. Help, we need to get it done within two hours. I might have to single-handedly do this one. Actually, someone might be active right now, idk I’m just writing as fast as humanly possible even though it doesn’t really make sense. Let’s see, what else? This is one of the few cabin wars where I haven't actually finished the weekly, which is kinda great but kinda sucks so that’s one of my goals for the session. Another is that.. Uhh.. forgot I wrote a song yesterday for Raya and Zeph, it was fun but painful because I had an instrumental that was too short and lyrics that were too short and everything was just waaay too short. Welp, just over one minute on the clock. Have I got around three hundred now? Maybe four. Cat, mat, flat, fat, hat, aft raft, daft glandular, pharynx, larynx, oh that’s hilarious for someone with my sense of humour. Maybe I did it? Maybe I’m close? I really don't know, can’t take my eyes of the prize CABIN WARS MY GREAT UNFINISHED SYMPHONY

Tragedy - 2 people 500
Fifty headed hydra
Hello again, this should be fun. I’m writing in bold, why the heck am I writing in bold this is a bit strange. Anyway, it’s cabin wars still and we got the fifty headed hydra challenge again, so yayyy. I’m not sure I like this challenge even though it's probably the easiest one. And I forgot to turn on my timer oops-
Ok, now we write full speed. Gifty oops, fifty headed hydras give you words by magic and I don’t know what I’m saying, help-
Anway, we have won two wars, lost zero and have one ongoing. Our shield is gonna stay up for a while after this, because the plus side of having no active leaders is that the shield stays up no matter what. I should really work on the weekly, but meh this works too. This is waaaay less points but fulfils my satisfaction needs for a bit so hydra time it is then!
Anwya, I forgot how much fun cabin wars are, I feel soo powerful. I’m kinda taking charge because I have a feeling I have to, even though Coco’s online now and I’m technically not soloing anymore. Sersoily, Coco came at the best possible time.
So yeah, I’ve met two people from my cabin now, Coco and Arli who also came at a perfect time. Also all the ex fairy tales trails guys are killing it. Lax and Icy are both soloing, Sandy’s taking charge and well… I think it’s a sign that Fairy tales July 2022 was the most iconic session.
I’m having a ton of fun. After this I’m gonna try part three of the weekly for the rest of the words. Ow, mosquito bite that hurt-
Sixten second crunch munch bunch lunch grinch stole christmas push it Delta-


Poetry - 2k as a cabin
*starts rambling about lore from my book, this won't make sense*
Ok, it is time to address the loose threads from my last brainstorming session.
The magic system still isn’t entirely fleshed out at all, but I have a better idea of it maybe? I kinda want to do a soft magic system and focus more on the medium of magic if that makes any sense. Maybe instead of types of magic we can have branches and a language of incantations for each branch, which people study to become mages, which means you can know more than one type of magic, but branches take a lifetime of study so mages tend to settle on one. Gods on the other hand, know their own magic language inherently. Which is why Zeph can speak the wind language without ever learning it, because they are the wind while Raya has to learn to control fire. Some creatures know magic more inherently than others, and thus find it easier to learn other types of magic. I’d imagine the rank be something like this; humans, beings like sirens etc, mages, dragons, gods. Some humans have an affinity for certain types of magic, where they inherently understand its language. A few can understand all types of magic, but they’re very rare. Gale is one of them, but she’s… not the most focused or cooperative with actually learning anything.
There’s a difference between understanding magic, and actually doing it. In this world, magic is basically the life force of the world, the consciousness of all things. It’s divided into branches, and the incantations people use are actually speaking to the world around them. Of course, not all incantations work for everything. You can’t use something that makes a tree grow to make fire bigger for example. And you can only do what the world can do. For example, you can’t command something to spontaneously levitate, but you can ask the wind to levitate it for you. And I do mean ask. The world has to respect you for it to do anything, which is why mages are so rare. This is all about the magic language, but there is another phase to it. Anyone can learn an incantation and shout it out, but you need to do more than that. Of course, having a natural affinity helps, but on top of that, you need to understand what the world is telling you. And beyond that, focus and intent plays a big role in it. There’s basically two factors, the total focus from your mind, and the language.
The more complicated the spells, the more complicated the incantation. Mages can spend hours just muttering words under their breath. Even more complicated spells require full conversations. The trick for this is a lot of mages write runes and draw spell incantations on the floor or in books that they carry around with them, but learning the written language of magic is extremely hard.
Now let’s take all this jargon and use it as an example.
Raya starts off with a fairly average affinity for fire. Of course, she lives in the North where fire magic is especially rare and her flames can quelch the darkness (because phoenix) so Ziya doesn’t bury and hide her natural magic like she does with everyone else's. Raya doesn’t know the fire language at all, but she does occasionally feel a kinship with fire, or feel like it’s trying to tell her something. Even though she can’t command it, it does come to her aid when Ziya is about to die. This is especially rare, even for mages with years of experience let alone a low level magic user, unfortunately, it’s fate pulling at the strings. That’s another thing, magic doesn’t always help out. It’s a living consciousness that has its own agenda. In this case, to fulfil the prophecy and rid itself of darkness. When Raya runs away, she properly learns about magic with Zephyr, who doesn’t know the fire language but knows a lot about magic in general. In the red empire, she meets a cranky old inventor who teaches her a couple of basic commands, which work… most of the time. Plus, she’s pretty good at using fire as a weapon the old fashioned way - with a flint or torches. Between Zephyr’s guidance and the dragon she meets at one point telling her to shut up and listen, she eventually gets better at fire, to the point where she can call it to the oil on her sword and have a flaming weapon. She isn’t very good at versatile spells, but she’s innovative and uses the few spells she has as much as possible. When she gets to the land of the fire people, she eventually starts to properly learn the fire language, but because she has had no formal training whatsoever, she finds it difficult, and prefers doing magic in her own hotchpotch way. Then right at the end, she becomes the phoenix and fulfils the prophecy. That’s different. All in all, apart from the phoenix thing, Raya is pretty standard in terms of magic affinity.
Gale on the other hand is a very very rare case. She was born with an inherent understanding of all types of magic, which means her life is basically a living nightmare. She can talk to the world around her, she can understand and feel the flow of magic and it’s such an extraordinary gift that they locked her away for it. And what does she do with this? Absolutely nothing. Well, technically not nothing, she uses it for inspiration for her painting I suppose, but that’s just about it. When the gods take her in to cultivate her skills, she doesn’t particularly care. She doesn’t want to be the supreme mage or anything, she’s happy just being free. And then of course, that doesn’t last for long when she realises that even her power and ability pales in contrast to immortals. When she sees Zephyr effortlessly flattening a city and not caring. When she realises that it’s time for the age of humanity, and the time of gods is over. She takes the throne. And fights with Zeph. And dies. And the only thing that keeps her presence lingering is her influence on magic. She becomes a form of magic that devours the other, a destructive force that wants nothing but death and darkness for all eternity. She becomes the Corruption. And when Zephyr soothes the darkness, they accidentally bring her back.

Thriller - 1k as a cabin
*continues ramblings about lore*
As for gods, they’re the bridge between the inherent force of magic and mortal consciousness. They’re brought upon by the human’s beliefs, they become embodiments of magic and have full affinity from their creation. Zephyr could always speak to wind. Mono could always figure out how anything worked. Mel could always see the future, but Mel is a bit different too. Basically, it’s a cycle. Having a god patron helps a ton with your magical ability and language. Gods can both speak the language of the world and influence it with their will because that's how it works. It’s a cycle, humans draw magic then supply it back to the gods through faith, who send it back into the magic underneath. And over and over. Until Gale comes and throws the balance out of whack, then the gods start to fade. Except for Zephyr who’s stuck in the cage, Mono and Mel who figure out a sneaky way to hide from the darkness and Kas is an exiled god so she doesn’t really count. It’s a bit weird what happens with the darkness, and I haven’t truly figured it out but the magic balance is destroyed and magic is basically the life force of the world, so life begins to slowly drain out. I haven’t quite figured out the specifics, but it's going to affect the remaining gods. Zeph is already connected to the darkness since they basically started it, so they’re a bit different but Mono, Mitho and Kas all get significantly weaker to the point where the future is blurry, the laws of physics are being actual laws and flying is even more of a pain than usual.
As for others, dragons are ancient beings made from stardust that no one really knows anything about, sirens and nymphs and the like are mostly extinct, or have lost all magic and become humans. And oh yeah! Magic affects your lifespan, which is why humans live for the least time and gods are immortal. This is also how Zephyr dies. They lose all magic and their connection to the world is severed in a last ditch effort to fix the balance.
Okay, now a bit about the branches/types-
Fire - Raya and fam basically. Fire magic is pretty unstable, it’s one of the harder to control kinds of magic which is why complicated spells are especially hard. You can talk to it quite a bit though, even if it never listens.
Earth - the only person we ever see with even a trace of earth magic is Lai’s dad. Lai herself renounced it. It was one of the first magic to vanish when the darkness started. Very cooperative, but the language is mostly forgotten.
Water - lost among all but the pirate folk. Olvar is the last water magic user, Olive just couldn’t figure it out. Water is very complicated and mysterious. The language is one of the hardest to interpret, but mastery is very well rewarded.
Wind - probably the most versatile branch and very tricky to learn. With the wind, you’re basically arguing 24/7 with it whenever you want it to do what you want. High levels of natural affinity required. We don’t see any mortals with this magic, just Zephyr and Kas


My writing thread

I chose
198 words

The noise is loud
Too loud for my liking
I cover my ears, but I can’t cover the crowd
I breath in two, three
And dive in
They say I’m strong, but I couldn’t agree
The water holds me in an embrace
I’m drowning
Please, get me out of this place
My lungs and brain fight
What do I want?
I already gave my friends the height
My hands are tied
Unable to get freed
I need a guide
I’m down six feet
My shouts are unheard
I’m riding in the backseat
My mind screams
I can’t go right
Tell me it’s a dream
I shout and hear quiet
I bang on glass but it does not shatter
But I still hear the crowd’s riot
But now is the time
I have to relax
Stopping now can’t be a crime
Nobody would know
I’m lost at sea
I scream yet am still a no show
To them, when does it stop
I hate the noise, but quiet more
Will I ever be upgraded from a prop
My eyes close
It’s time to let go
I chose

anyway, dearest | cw: d#ath.

In battle, the only thought on your mind is survival. It should be, anyway—in all times past, it has been. With single-minded focus, you would carve a path through the opposing forces when it seemed impossible.

Rising through the army’s ranks was easy with that strength. To a cadet with no past, “general” seemed like the moon.

Then tragedy struck. If you weren’t striving for the moon, what were you doing?

(Running. Your soldiers may not know, your friends may not know, your family may not know, but you can’t lie to yourself.

You run, and you don’t think about the past.

In the academy, they told you, “Soulmates cannot k#ll each other.”

You thought it meant, “Soulmates cannot harm each other.”

You were wrong.)

You’ve achieved the unachievable. You rose from a peasant to a general, and now enemies surrender at the sound of your name. And if they don’t, those fools meet you in battle and don’t live to tell the tale.

It’s as simple as that. This time will be the same.

(Soulmates cannot k#ll each other.)

You lead your soldiers into war. Some will d#e, others will survive. It isn’t your job to keep them alive—you do anyway—but to ensure this win for the empire.

Losing is inexcusable. You dismount from your horse in the heart of the battle and start making your victory. You will cobble it together from your own strength and intellect and no one else’s. Victory belongs to you alone.

(Once upon a time, someone stood at your side. They shared the victory. They tasted like bl#od and strawberries.

No longer, though. You stand alone.

Soulmates cannot k#ll each other.)

The tides of battle change the moment your feet hit the ground, you’ve learned. You don’t know why you’re this way—a gift from Above, a curse from Below, or your own making? Speculation follows you. You shrug it off and keep swinging.

You’re winning until you’re not.

It hits you like a sack of bricks. You shove it away, get your feet under you, and go straight to the enemy general.

They greet you like a friend.

(It’s what you would do if the roles were reversed. If you were a filthy traitor, and they were a loyal dog.

Soulmates cannot k#ll each other.)

You don’t hesitate. Your army is behind you, losing under the enemy’s renewed vigour. This general is your reflection: like you, they change the tides.

You expected this. You know everything about them. A thousand years could pass, and you would still know them best.

As you lunge forward, you meet every strike, parry every hit, and catch every dirty trick. They are the back of your hand, and you know their mind like it’s yours.

By all means, they should be your equal. They match you perfectly.

They are undeniably good, and therein lies the difference.

They are good, and you are dirty, stinking scum. You sla#ghter whoever the empire tells you. The bl#od on your hands could drown a city. Sin after sin stains you.

In the end, they are good with a sword, and you are excellent.

Soulmates cannot k#ll each other.

You do anyway.

Critique for @seIkie-

okay starting off this was overall so good?? :starstruck: the mood and the tone was excellent, and i loved the way you used the second person. it felt entirely natural and flowed very well with the way you write the story, and i also really enjoyed the way that even in such a short piece, you managed to build suspense and make us wonder what was coming next. i love everything you have, so in general any critique i have is about things you could potentially add

the first line is amazing - it automatically pulled me in and made me want to know why this battle was different, and sets the suspenseful, grim tone to the story.

To a cadet with no past, “general” seemed like the moon.

here, it might be nice to stick in a line like “that's exactly what you were, and that's exactly what you achieved” or something to that effect to clarify this part just a little bit.

Then tragedy struck. If you weren’t striving for the moon, what were you doing?

this part seems a bit…disconnected - you could maybe entirely take out the “if you weren't” line because i'm not entirely sure what it has to do with the tragedy of soulmates and what not, and you already implied that the character had been made a general in the last paragraph. it also might be more dramatic to just have “then tragedy struck” - my english teacher is always going on about short sentences for emphasis XD

It isn’t your job to keep them alive—you do anyway—

okay this is so, so, so nitpicky XDD but stylistically and for just a bit more clarity you might want to put the “you do anyways” in parenthesis and add a but so it'd be like “alive (but you do anyways)” to make just a bit more clear that the character keeps the soldiers alive beyond what their duty is

Losing is inexcusable. You dismount from your horse in the heart of the battle and start making your victory. You will cobble it together from your own strength and intellect and no one else’s. Victory belongs to you alone.

this is such a good paragraph <33 it characterizes the character so well and shows their purpose and driving force so clearly

You’re winning until you’re not.

okay so this line - since the character does actually win at the end, maybe you could change this to “you're winning until you see them”

You shove it away,

i might delete this simply because it doesn't really add anything to the tone - it might be more impactful to just have the character go straight to their soulmate, and this phrase right here…while it doesn't detract from the moment, it doesn't really add it the intensity either, if that makes sense

They greet you like a friend.

(It’s what you would do if the roles were reversed. If you were a filthy traitor, and they were a loyal dog.

Soulmates cannot k#ll each other.)

again i love this, its amazing how well you create a backstory and show the character's pasts with so few words

You expected this. You know everything about them. A thousand years could pass, and you would still know them best.

okay maybe here you could add in a little insert about their past? in the same way you establish the rest of the backstory, with a few well-picked words and the italics in the parenthesis. it might be cool to expand on that mention of strawberries you had in the beginning, or something about their time at the academy, where i assume they met? it could add like an extra emotional factor to the story

catch every dirty trick

since later on you call the main character dirty, you might want to take the word dirty out here when referring to soulmate in order to really emphasize the juxtaposition between them (again, this is really nitpicky XD)

In the end, they are good with a sword, and you are excellent.

the callback here to calling the soulmate good!! this is genius right here i love it <33

overall, like i said above, most everything about this story worked except for those few reallyyy nitpicky things i pointed out. i loved reading this, and thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to be able to critique your writing!

(581 words)

Name: Ava
Cabin: Lyric
Word count- 403
Content: Critique (My writing)

LET'S GET IT

Dark walls were barely illuminated by lanterns, which seemed to float in the air. A boy walked with purpose, followed by five men in dark robes. He was dressed in a black shirt and a purple robe. His black pants clung to his figure as he continued to lightly walk forward.

The boy hummed, completely opposite to his dark, eerie surroundings. The men, however, blended right in. Their faces were stoic, while the boy switched to another tune.

The man on his right opened his mouth slightly before receiving a warning pat from one of his comrades. They conversed silently through their eyes before the man hesitantly opened his mouth again.

“Master Callous,” he said, careful with his wording, as the other four men stared on at his brave attempt. “A-Are you sure you-” he gulped slightly, “Want to continue with the procedure? I-” he bit his lip, not risking anymore.

“Of course,” said the boy cheerfully. “Don't you think I would have gone back if I had changed my mind? How silly of you, Dran.”

The man nodded and retreated. The man next to him patted his back.

After a while, they reached a hollowed-out place underground. It was the size of two football fields, and there were stone seats around the amphitheater look-alike. There were thousands in the crowd, cheering. The defining sound only got louder as the boy walked into the underground theater from the tunnel.

There was a person on the elevated ground in the middle.  On closer look, it wasn't exactly a person. It was a black smoke cloud shaped like a human on the top and floated away like a ghost on the bottom. The boy walked next to the humanoid figure and said, “Thank you, announcer.”

The announcer excitedly spoke. “Welcome your prince, Lord CALLOUS!”

The screaming got louder.

As the boy, who was now receiving chants of his name, stepped on an even elevated ground in the center of the stage, he started muttering a spell. A green aura started floating around him, and people “oohed”. It gave a slight whiff of medicine, like the liquid your mother would put on you so you would fall asleep.

After the green aura had become so intoxicating that some people had even drooped off, Lord Callous opened his mouth.

But it wasn't his voice that spoke.

It was the voice of the forbidden prophecy.

.

YOU KNOW I WANT THAT HOoOoOoOoooOME~
YOU KNOW YOU GOT THAT HOOoOooOOoOOOOoME~

Name: Ava
Cabin: Lyric
Wordcount (critique): 303
Content: Critique (For their writing)
Writing by: @legocookie6

LET'S GET IT

A Canvas Stained Crimson

OK THIS NAME IS :Chef kiss: The name already gets the reader filled with that reading feeling, if you know what I mean.

The paintbrush sits untouched on the highest shelf above my desk. No matter how hard I try to forget its existence, my eyes always travel to that shelf before I leave my small, single-room apartment.
I know I should throw it away, as I have the rest of my dreams. But every time I want to, something inside of me makes my entire body freeze. No matter how hard I try, a part of me still clings to my past self- clings to the hope that there’s still a chance I’ll one day fulfill my dreams.

I have read A LOT of good writing in the past on wattpd, and I can confirm you're on your way to reach that level. Already, the readers (*cough* me *cough*) are hooked. We feel the need to know what's going on - why the paintbrush is left alone - why your dreams have been abandoned. There are specific ways for a person to make the reader question the story they want them to, and I think you've done it very well

It’s stupid, I know. Someone who has fallen as low as I have has no hope of retribution. But I sometimes still like to imagine things were different.
I grab my knife from the desk, securing it in the sheath at my hip. I imagine it is a paintbrush dipping itself into a fresh jar of paint. As I leave my apartment, I stop to glance at the highest shelf- the paintbrush hidden in the shadows. I repeat a phrase several times in my head.

ok KNIFE?! WOAH THIS TOOK A TURN- Things are getting intresting now! I especially loved the part where it compares the knife to a paintbrush dipping into a a jar of paint. It gave me this feeling I don't know how to explain-

I am an artist, and the world is my canvas.
Then, without another backward glance, I leave. The hallway is dim, the floorboards uneven. The plastered drywall cadet gray and cracked. I ignore all of this as I hurry through, barely breathing until I make it outside.
I am an artist, and the world is my canvas.
A cold gust of wind bites at my face as I take huge gulps of fresh air. I glance at the information from my client, projected from a small handheld device. The projection casts a robin-egg blue glow around me, breaking through the evening shadows.
My target: an old man, sixty years of age. His hair is blanc de blanc and his eyes are Carolina blue. I know where I’ll find him.
The park, which is covered in shadows, is eerily silent except for the sound of the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. I stick to the path, trying to seem like a normal person taking an evening stroll.
I am an artist, and the world is my canvas.

I like how they keep repeating the line again and again. Usually when a perosn does this,they are trying to stop themselves from going isane or trying to remember something before they forget (“I am not insane, I am not insane,” do you know that book?)

I am searching for my canvas, I tell myself. But, who am I kidding?

I feel bad for laughing-

The old man is walking towards me now, whistling a strange tune. He holds up one hand in greeting and smiles. “Lovely evening, am I right?”
I swallow the bile in my throat and force myself to nod. At the same time, my hand moves towards my sheath.
The old man catches the movement and frowns. “Ah, so they’ve finally sent someone to do their dirty work, haven’t they?”
I have no idea why my client wants this old man killed. Neither do I care. My artwork is the only thing keeping me alive.
I am an artist, and the world is my canvas.

I like how you represent the art as a thng of sanity, or a thing which is keeping her sane.

I take my paintbrush from the jar of paint and slash at the canvas with bold strokes.
The old man lets out a startled cry. His legs give out and he sinks to the ground, his face twisting into a heartbreaking smile.
My hands start to shake as I remember that there isn’t a paintbrush in my hand, but a knife. The knife slips from my grasp, clanging onto the pavement. I see a flash of silver as the moonlight reflects onto the blade.
And crimson, so much crimson.

IS IT JUST ME WHO LOVES IR WHEN THE BOOK/PIECE NAME BECOMES SOMETHING YOU CAN UNDERSTAND?!

I take a step back as if to examine my masterpiece from a different angle. Carolina blue eyes void of life; crimson blood everywhere.
I retch as I realize that my fingertips are stained crimson as well. It’s ironic how it almost looks like paint.
I am an artist, and the world is my canvas.
My dream of being an artist sticks with me, even though I know it’ll never come true. The only medium I’ll ever be able to paint with is blood.
I sink to the ground, ignoring the wind that sends chills throughout my body
I am not an artist, and the world isn’t my canvas.

I don't think I'm going to be able to give critique to you- I don't know what to say about it which is wrong TT I love this so much- But since this is for critique I'm going to reread this and search for anything wrong.

I found nothing wrong :-: If I had to rate this, I would give this a 10 out of 10. WELL DONE

.

YOU KNOW I WANT THAT HOoOoOoOoooOME~
YOU KNOW YOU GOT THAT HOOoOooOOoOOOOoME~

Yesterday's daily
Courtney:
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to go to sleep. The sun’s barely gone down, but the gangs will be out before long. Better to get home before you find your pockets empty. I had a measly dinner of one potato, but it’s more than I get sometimes. My stomach’s still rumbling, waiting for more. It won’t get more. Not unless I sneak out.
No. I can’t sneak out. Not unless I want the police to find me.
With my eyes still squished closed, I cling to my possessions like they’re my lifeline. The gangs don’t usually break in, and even if someone did, they wouldn’t dare wake me up. I’m hanging onto my eleven dollars and twenty cents, my necklace, and a few other things I wouldn’t want to lose – things I can’t lose. I try to organise my thoughts, trying to drift into sleep…
…I can’t remember how long it was since I first shut my eyes… the gangs are probably out…
My mind flings momentarily into a state of chaos and what-ifs and strange sounds. My path to sleep is thrown away, replaced by disorder… the peace returns… now I just have to go to sleep… it can’t be that difficult, can it?
Sleep… just sleep… it’s not hard… just block everything and calm down… easy… go to sleep… surely it hasn’t been that long since I first shut my eyes? If I had a watch, I would know…
…but I’m too poor to have a watch… will I always be too poor to have a watch?
Sleep… dark… night… dreams…
Light streams through the gaps in my bedroom wall.

Winni:
Rats. It’s 9:30 already. I’ve got to go to sleep now. Part of me wants to watch television forever. Another part knows I need rest and need to turn off the remote. Just until this show finishes… it can’t be that long.
I glance around for the remote, looking at my watch. Rats. 10pm. That show went way longer than I was intending. I finally find the remote and press the power button. Dragging my feet up the stairs, I head to my bedroom, barely able to move from my fatigue. Rats. I’ll never get to school on time tomorrow.
Staring at the ceiling, I try to relax in bed. It’s got to be more comfortable than what the people in the shanty town sleep in, but I’m not even getting closer to sleep despite my luxuries. I’ve got two assignments and an exam this week, and I’ll never get them done like this. Rats. So much for straight A’s.
I just need to get to sleep.
Sleep… eyes closed… relax… it’ll be okay…
Light streams through the window. My eyes fling open.
Rats. My exam’s tomorrow. I can’t keep doing this.

(insert title here)
for critique

you really don’t remember anything from that night? i feel li— hugo. you should know what happened that night. you should know what you did, for me.
that’s not okay, it’s not okay, for her to just take something like that away from you. something that… well, that night matters a lot to me. i think it does for you to. sorry, i shouldn’t be getting so overwhelmed like this. could i just… can i tell you about it? i think you should know. yes, you should know.
it was just after we left that first town, you remember what happened there right? yeah, so we were leaving there, and you were saying bye to that other boy, and i was feeling jealous because we’d hardly talked since leaving the university and here we were in a world that had more to offer you than i did and here was this guy who had something in common with you. i saw him slip you a piece of paper.
i saw you blush.
i know you remember this, i just want you to hear my perspective. so i got to thinking that, hey this kid can’t just steal my best friend from me! he can’t take my— my hugo from me. no one can take you away from me, i promise.
so my plan was, i would write you a letter. not just a letter. a ballad.
i would use my education for something good, and tell you how i felt. i would blow you away, cease your thoughts about bierk, or whatever his name was. i would rekindle that friendship, whatever we’d lost—
what did we lose, hugo, why did we lose it? why did we waste our time, searching for— i don’t know. i don’t know what i was thinking. but then, i was finally seeing clear. i needed to win you back, show you i still loved you.
i still love you.
the letter, yes, the letter. i still have it, around here som— oh, here it is. only a few lines. terribly shakey penmanship; i was a mess of emotions, and besides we were on that wagon— why am i trying to justify my handwriting to you? it doesn’t matter. as you can see here, i never finished the letter. the ballad. whatever you want to call it. we stopped early that night, because you said you sensed frey coming. so i lost hope, yeah?
i shouldn’t have, i know that now.
we set up camp. you volunteered to cook, so i made myself scarce. theoretically, i was gathering firewood for the winter night ahead. and theoretically, for me, i was continuing to compose my grand gesture. but neither was the truth. no, i was doing nothing helpful, not even remotely.
i was trying to remember the last time you said my name.
and i couldn’t. i loved the way you said my name, two soft syllables, like you regret even thinking them, like they were poison, but the sweetest poison. perhaps i am trying too hard to be poetic. but i do love hearing you say my name, hugo. truly. so it hurt my heart to realize that you hadn’t said it, at least not in the month since our journey began. since my journey began, and you chased after me. i was in a pathetic state, wandering that new growth. it’s a wonder nothing awful happened then.
i started muttering your name. hugo, hugo, hugo, hugo, hugo, hugo. i think i collapsed on a stump, full dramatics, convinced, somehow, that you hated me. which makes no sense, how would you have traveled miles on foot to follow me into nowhere, into an uncertain future, when you had such a grand one laid out in front of you, if you hated me?
anyways, i was out there an hour. i collected not even a twig of fire wood. and i headed back to camp, all in shambles.
you had just about finished up, and were making some apologies about the lack of authentic ingredients or the like, but really i wasn’t paying attention to your words or the delicious smell from over the fire you’d somehow conjured. in the light of the just-set sun, you were radiant. i couldn’t look away from you. i somehow did.
i thought, i’m in love.
so cliche, i’m sorry. but looking at you, thinking about the terrible past month, the realization simultaneously filled me up and broke my heart. how many broken hearts can a poor lord take in a day?
you were still fussing over the meal, clearly didn’t notice my puffy eyes and tear-stained face. honestly i didn’t care. just as i reached for the letter, the utterly incomplete record of my thoughts and feelings, you set down a plate in my lap.
you smiled, that uncertain, perfect smile, and offered pleasantries about the day. you said something about the weather, i replied that it’d been perfect. you complained about the roads, i nodded in agreement. you didn’t question my quiet. and you seemed nervous, about something. not sure how i noticed, with everything going on with me.
i eventually asked about the meal. you winced; you were worried i would say something bad, i think. so i reassured you, tried to reassure you, it was very good, and what was it? so you smiled and explained.
i committed that smile to memory.
you said, quite excitedly, that the town we’d passed through was an alacian settlement, that you’d never met alacians before and struggled with that aspect of your history, that beiroc had gifted you a recipe, that you hoped i liked it. i re-examined the dish laid before me. the colors, the flavors, the textures; all so you. i smiled, you smiled back.
“thank you, hugo.”
“and thank you, rejean.”

For Critique

Red hair glinted like fire in the fading rays of the setting sun. A breeze rushed across the hilltop, whipping our cloaks up in billowing clouds behind us, stinging my cheeks, sending a shiver down my arms. My father stood before me. His clothes hung rumpled and stained, and his shoulders slumped. A few day’s worth of beard clung stubbornly to his chin, which might have made me laugh—my father never wore a beard—had his mouth not been set in so firm a line.

“I’m sorry, Rachel. I came to say goodbye.”

I frowned, hugging myself. This was not unusual. Father and mother often went on trips—for his business, he said. What was unusual was this ceremony. He’d never asked for me, alone, to say his goodbyes.

“You’ll be coming back, though?” I asked.

Hesitation. Eyes, frozen on my face, before darting down to the earth. “Yes. Of course.”

A misgiving, dark and creeping like the clouds on the horizon, twinged within me.

But no. This was Father I was thinking of.

If he said he would return, he would return.

Father’s jaw clenched as he met my eyes once more. “Seeing as your mother is coming with me, you and your sister will have to stay at your uncle’s for the time being. He’ll take good care of you while we’re away, I’m sure.”

I nodded, eyes on the ground.

“You’ll be good for your aunt and uncle?” Father asked.

I nodded.

“Take care of your sister,” he said.

I nodded.

“Good.” He lifted my chin so I looked him in the face.

My father towered, tall and sturdy, though I rarely thought of it. It was just how he was. But at times like these—where my frame was enveloped entirely by his—that I noticed, and was grateful. His cheeks crinkled around his eyes as he smiled and hugged me tight.

Warmth, protection, like another cloak around my shoulders.

I hugged him back, hoping to impart some small part of that warmth to him. He looked like he needed it.

As he released me, I noted his unfurrowed brow and unclenched jaw.

Father sighed. “Rachel . . . .”

I tilted my head to the side. “What is it?”

Perhaps now I would hear the real reason for his taking me aside.

A moment passed. A muscle in his jaw jumped. He ran his hand through his hair. The sun sank further beyond us, spilling like honey into the sea. I chewed my cheek, trying to stop myself from pushing him. Finally, Father looked down and reached into the satchel at his side, pulling out a small bundle of fabric.

“Keep these safe,” he said, holding my gaze until I nodded. “Swear it.”

“I swear it,” I said.

“Good. It will be our secret, all right? You may find that you need them, someday. If you do, think of me. And be strong, okay?”

Finding my voice proved difficult, and my burning eyes wouldn’t focus on his, but I managed: “I will, Father. I promise.”

He smiled once more and rested the bundle in my hands. It weighed more than I expected—at least as much as a stack of my school books, though it was only the size of one. I hugged the package to my chest as he squeezed my shoulder. “Goodbye,” he said.

Father walked over to my mother and sister, who stood by the dock. After giving Elizabeth a swift hug, he grabbed his and Mother’s things and boarded the ship.

Soon enough, they were disappearing into the horizon where the sun fizzed out against the bay.

“Goodbye,” I whispered.

For Critique

Three hundred thousand, and the number was rising. Rapidly. The projection on the screen bore ill will to the Elvin population. The elf nation of Abrea had been struck hard by the disease, and every death added to the hatred they had of the Sprixian race. For it was the fault of the Sprixies, they were convinced. Their sprite-like adversaries were the only one of the 6 Sentient Races who had the technological — not to mention fantastical — advancements necessary to produce a virus that spread at this rate and accelerated at this pace. Carpa Scolosis — or Carpe-25, as it was more commonly referred to — had blatantly wiped out half of the Elvin population. And the number rose.

The Dwarves despised their Elvin counterparts. It had been five decades and the Kingdom of Vethor still struggled with the aftereffects of the Bloodstained War. Poverty lined every street, hunger racked every household, and life in the kingdom was no longer the image of freedom it had once been. What had once been a system of democracy had devolved into an aristocracy — one that favored the rich and disregarded the poor. And 98% of the Kingdom was poor. It was the dream of every child, every adolescent, every adult, and every elder to be in that 2%. Two percent of people who could eat breakfast in the morning. Two percent of people who lived in a house with running water. Two percent of people who slept in a bed every night. Two percent. That was it, and they just had to live with it.

The Supernaturals were the strongest. Tales circulated around the other Races about their power. Their strength. Their cunning. Their intelligence. But most often of all, the stories talked about magic. Not the elemental magic of the Halfdragons, nor the technological abilities of the Sprixies, and not even the biological gifts of the Dwarves. But magic beyond imagination. Magic beyond compare. Magic that could reverse time and bend reality. In actuality, the Supernaturals were illusionists. They created images that were much more than images. They had a texture, a smell, a sound, and even a taste, if applicable. Visual mirages, audible deceptions, and tangible hallucinations. But the other Races didn’t know that. And the Supernaturals took advantage of that. It was the perfect way to stay in power. Because along with being the strongest, they were also the smallest. The least populated race in all Aarde. And if it wasn’t for their legends, they would have been wiped out a long time ago. It was necessary, to say the least.

The Halfdragons took what no one else wanted and made it enviable. The country of Espirit, originally a cold, barren wasteland that none of the other races had wanted, had become the world capital of landmarks and tourism. The metropolis of Espirit was a city fittingly called Prime, and it had attracted people from all over the world with its art museums, music centers, first-class cuisine, and impressive landmarks. But the war had deteriorated the empire of Espirit into nothing more than a myth, as the ghost of the nation remained. The Halfdragons went into a self-imposed exile and the empress never came to any Race Negotiation Conferences. Rumors began that they were planning something big, something that could wipe the other races off the face of the earth. The story stayed the same every time it circulated, excepting one thing. No one could ever agree on what it would be.

The Conquerors were brutal. Vicious. Bloodthirsty. Those were the words — those and worse — that the other races used to describe the race formerly known as humans. Warmongering beings that would sneak into your house and murder you in your sleep. The creatures of little children’s nightmares. The savage beasts would sit in their plush chairs and demand unspeakable things of their own race. They were a dangerous people. And the only thing keeping them from wreaking further havoc on the planet was the Adam Treaty. Their president had insisted on having it named after the first of their kind and refused to sign it unless that was what it was referred to in all political discussions. (Their race was also unnecessarily stubborn.) Despite this, the treaty was signed and the races were safe. Until the war. That is when the Conquerors unveiled their roundwinning ammunition. And they were a battle away from winning the war when suddenly they surrendered. And no one knew why.

The Sprixies’ technological empire was unstoppable. With new developments being made practically every month, the country of Azard was the closest to the future. Their combinations of the biological and nanotechnological were groundbreaking. Their most remarkable creation was the Iester Crystal. Seen by few, heard of by thousands, envied by all. No one knew just what it did, nor did they have any inkling of the power it contained. Not even the Sprixies themselves knew. But the Councillors knew. They knew what it could do to a body, how it could…change it. And they had every inkling of how dangerous it was.

And the silent war raged on.

Critique:
OP (@1lMaM) asked for thoughts on character voices + a general overview. Here you go!

For Courtney’s segment, the most standout feature had to have been the ellipsis. To me, it gave off the semantic field of panic, and fear- with the ellipsis almost resembling somewhat of a breathing pattern, with the inconsistent use of ellipsis making the pattern seem discordant, which is very effective at conveying Courtney’s panic and unsettled thoughts about her surroundings. Furthermore, the use of more negative language is really good at expressing Courtney’s dread and irritation (e.g. repetition of ‘no’, such as, ‘It won’t get more. Not unless I sneak out. // No. I can’t sneak out. Not unless I want the police to find me.’) which gives Courtney a more bitter personality, and more despondent in their view of life, a bi-product of their dread about their living conditions, perhaps. It conveys a more fed-up character, which is effective in suggesting that the gangs have been around for a long time, irritating the character as a result and eventually leading them to be more sullen, and angered. Since I’ve been drawing inferences at the backstory, you can tell I’m really interested in the character and worldbuilding- it’s really nice. :]

For Winni, however, the sentence form (shorter sentences, shorter clauses/phrases) does convey the character’s lethargy very effectively. The lack of extensive vocabulary and description in their words does make him seem more simple minded, which might- as inferred- be the impact of his hometown, being in a shanty area, so his life/life goals are more simple rather than complex (and potentially delusional, as he isn’t wrapped up in tons of ideas for what he wants to do, he just has simple goals with a simple path to achieve them). Him being straightforward also makes them seem more tired- which obviously alludes to how he wants to sleep- but since this was referenced even before he was in bed it does give him an overarching chill, laid back personality. Repetition of ‘rats’ also made him seem more of a pessimist, but again- this can easily be because of his tiredness. It also gives him a comedic flair, which makes the text enjoyable to read.

Overall, both are very interesting, and hooked me at every word. Both have a very distinctive structural choice which mirror their personalities very effectively, so this was actually a nice read.

For improvements, I’d give Courtney a description about her breathing to match the ellipsis pattern, to make that more obvious (it might not have even been the intention, but that’s what I got out of it lol). For Winni, I’d give them more simple sentences, and try to stray from using complex sentences (the sentence type), or maybe more fragments. That’ll emphasise their straightforward attitude more, in my opinion.

These were a nice read, OP :]]

Hello! I'm Reeds, and for July SWC 2023 I am in the poetry cabin Here is my writing for critique, proof, and just for fun!
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For Critique: An excerpt from my novel, “The Dreamer” 8/10/23

basic context from the previous chapter; story takes place on another planet, and the previous night Leslie had an encounter with a monster called a Shadow, whose name is Legend. Leslie also has terrible insomnia and isn't normally able to sleep, and he is a sort of outcast in his hometown, GretsVan


As Leslie wandered into the jungle, he had to admit that he was a stranger here. He had spent hours in here, yes, but had never gone deeper than a quarter-mile. Within half of an hour, he was twice that far, looking around at the dark trees with both terror and wonder. The canopy above was so thick that it felt like twilight, though he knew it to be mid-morning.
Bird cries echoed through the woods, foreboding and full of warning. Boffins and other creatures rustled the leaves and branches. Every few minutes, a shaft of light would suddenly break the still darkness, causing Leslie’s heart to quicken. When he looked up, the animal who had broken the canopy would be slipping just out of sight. Leslie shivered.
For two hours, the jungle remained fairly monotonous— the rich reds and greens that made up the trees and brush never changed in hue, and the noises, though constant, remained quiet and distant. Only now did the question of his destination cross Leslie’s mind. Where would he go? If he was truly not returning to the city, where would he sleep? The trees, perhaps?
“Well, shoot,” he whispered, taking a break from walking. He reached into his bag to pull out a bit of fishing line, then bent over and arranged it into the shape of an arrow, pointed in the direction he had been walking since he left. This would hopefully ensure that he did not lose his way after a short rest.
The boy walked a few paces over to the nearest tree, and slid down against it with a dejected sigh. He decided to let his mind wander, in the hopes of stumbling upon a plan.
Leslie’s eyes drifted close as his breathing steadied. Images of every terrible monster said to live in these woods flickered in his mind, paired with strings of Mother’s words and warnings.
Don’t go too far, Leslie, for the Gaursufan is where nightmares lurk.
But then, a different voice interrupted her. Cold. Silky.
Because I am your friend, I shall give you what you desire. Sleep.
Leslie’s eyes shot open, and he stared up at the canopy, where he could suddenly see stars decorating a deep purple sky through cracks in the leaves. It was nighttime. Had he really… fallen asleep?
The boy sat up straight, and his eyes fell upon the fishing line a few feet in front of him. He sighed in relief, seeing that the arrow was still intact. Leslie stood up, brushing reddish brown dirt from his pants and backside.
Suddenly, a light cough sounded from the brush behind him. He froze mid-pat, hardly daring to turn around.
“Ayma? Are you seriously following me? I said, I want to be alone,” he said hoarsely. When there was no answer, Leslie touched his fingers to the back of his neck, over the two pointy vertebrae. There was no cold, tingling sensation— it didn’t seem to be Legend.
“Hello?”
Leslie whirled around, holding his breath. There was no one. Was it his imagination? Mother had always told him to keep it contained.
“Okay, cool, paranoia, I love it,” he whispered to himself.
The boy straightened his satchel, turned back to the fishing line, then screamed.
Eight bulbous eyes were staring at him through the trees ahead. They glowed an unpleasant yellow, full of small black irises that flickered with every minute movement of his breathing, which had sped up to hyperventilation.
Leslie’s limbs were frozen in terror— he had heard of this monster before. It was the Mammoth, an enormous spider that roamed the jungle only under moonlight. He had been foolish to allow himself to fall asleep past nightfall.
The Mammoth slowly walked out of the shadows, each large and hairy leg stepping forward in complete silence. The boy’s eyes grew as wide as the spider’s as he looked up at its entire form, at least ten feet tall. Saliva dripped from its fang-filled mouth. The only noise it made was the airy roar of its breath, increasing in volume as it surveyed its prey.
“Help,” he whispered. “Please.”
Just as the spider lunged, a blur of grey leapt in front of Leslie, sending him backward into the tree behind. Twigs and bark scratched into his clothing, and he covered his head with his arms, expecting the worst.
“Back, Fiend!” A voice cried.
A bright flash of silver drew Leslie’s eyes involuntarily from behind his arms, and he watched in awe as an extremely tall man with a strange helmet bearing antennae fought the Mammoth back into the woods with a sword. He heard unpleasant hisses and strangled roars as the two figures disappeared from sight. The noises grew more and more distant until finally, Leslie heard a terrible shrieking howl, and the triumphant call of the man.
The boy relaxed his body. The spider was dead, or at least gone. He got up from the dirt a second time and stared into the trees, waiting for his hero to return.
A few moments later, the man emerged from the darkness. Leslie let another scream escape his mouth as he saw what stood before him. He had been mistaken— the man did not have a helmet bearing antennae— he was some sort of bug creature, and the antennae sprouted directly from his skull. His skin was greyish green and littered with bumps and warts, and his eyes were the size of coconuts, checkered like a flys, and glowing electric blue.
“Ah! I’m so sorry, Sir, it’s just… I didn’t expect…” Leslie stammered, feeling awful for screaming at the creature.
“That’s alright, dear Boy, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” the bug man replied. His voice was nasally and static, and it buzzed around strangely in the boy’s head.
“Who… who are you?” Leslie asked for the second time that day.
“Musca! Guardian of the Gaursufan,” the bug man stuck out one of his arms— Leslie suddenly noticed that he had four of them. He got to his feet and nervously shook the hand. His fingers were long and bumpy like the rest of him, and his grip stronger than anyone Leslie had ever shaken hands with. The creature seemed very enthusiastic.
“Guardian?” The boy repeated.
Musca nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ve seen you around the edge of the woods, haven’t I? Now what are you doing so deep in here at this hour? The Mammoth almost killed you! You’ll be swallowed up by one thing or another if you aren’t careful.”
Leslie nodded. “I… I noticed. Thank you, for saving me.”
“My pleasure. As the Guardian, it is my sole purpose to answer anyone who should call for help, whether inhabitant of the jungle or not. Unfortunately, it’s been more and more necessarily in the last year…” Musca sighed, rubbing the hilt of his sword, which was strapped securely against his hip, a foot above Leslie’s head.
The boy cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Er, pardon my asking, if it’s rude, but what exactly are you, anyway?”
“Ah, I take it you’ve never met an Entomyte?” Musca chuckled. His buzzy voice tickled Leslie’s ears. He shook his head no. “Mm, well I am one the very last of my kind. Most Entomytes live underground, but a small colony of us adapted to living on the surface many decades ago. But at the cost of our vision— you see, I am blind. But with these,” Musca knocked on his left eye with a fist, and it gave an unexpected thunk! sound. “Prosthetics,” he explained with a grin, “I can see just fine. Not that that’s what you asked, though, my apologies. I tend to ramble, a bit.”
Leslie took a deep breath and smiled. “That’s okay. I should have prepared myself a bit better for the terrors of the jungle. Er, not to say that you’re a terror, but…” Leslie trailed off, biting his tongue. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant.”
“I understand, child,” Musca replied kindly. “Now, might I ask your name? And you haven’t answered my question— what are you doing here at night?”
“Oh! Sorry, my name’s Leslie. As for what I’m doing? Well…” He sucked air through gritted teeth, and looked around nervously.
“Are you lost?”
“No. I’m not lost.”
Musca frowned, and leaned forward. He appeared to be studying the boy’s face, but it was hard to tell with his strange eyes.
“You’re right. You’re not lost, at least directionally. But I think you are lost at heart, Leslie,” Musca said softly.
The boy scrunched up his nose and shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Musca was quiet for another moment, then shook his own head. “That’s alright. For now, let’s worry about getting you somewhere safe for the night. You ought to get some sleep.”
Leslie sighed. “No, thanks. I don’t really sleep. I think I’ll just keep heading West, if you don’t mind.”
“Are you heading to Durlan Country? I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Well, I’m not entirely sure where I’m heading. Just far away from where I came, is all.”
“Ah, I see,” Musca said. “Then let me send you off with a gift: my company. What do you say, Leslie? Will you allow me to come along? I could assist you. Protect you from other monster, and be your friend, if you wish.”
Friend? Leslie wasn’t so sure what that word meant anymore.
“How do I know I can trust you?” He asked the bug man. Sure, Musca had saved him, but that could just as well have been for his own sake, or perhaps only for moral reasons.
Musca smiled kindly once more. “You will never know if you can trust anyone, Leslie. That’s what it is to trust— to have faith, and to hope in the unknown.”
The boy pondered this for a moment. He remembered the unpleasant feeling that Legend brought him, and thought about how this Musca made him feel. He also claimed to be the Guardian of the Gaursufan, and perhaps had an idea of where Leslie could make his new home. He nodded to himself, and allowed another smile to curl his lips.
“Okay,” he told Musca. “Yes, I’d like you to come. Thanks.”
“Wonderful! I will offer you only advice and protection, Leslie— the rest shall be up to you. Where would you like to go from here?”
Leslie looked around, then down to the dirt, where he found the fishing line still twisted in the shape of an arrow on the ground. Then he looked back up at his new companion, as terrifying as ever. Musca’s toothy grin waited patiently for his answer.
“Let’s find somewhere safe to stay the rest of the night, like you said. Where might that be?”
The bug man nodded and turned his head, gesturing behind him. “Up North are the Fairy Caves. That is where I call home, and you may enjoy a bit of rest there before continuing on your journey. What do you say?”
Leslie smiled. “I say, let’s go!”

(1,845 words)

Rainstorm-09 wrote:

First chapter of my book. There is a prologue, if anyone wants to see that as well.


Chapter One
Welcome to the Assassins Guild
Year, 2138



THUMP!
Storm hit the punching bag. She hit it for everything she loved.
THUMP!
Her family.
THUMP!
Her friends.
THUMP!
Her cat, Oli.
Oli watched her as she beat up the bag, wanting to be fed.
“I’ll feed you in a second, bud.” Storm grunted. She stopped punching the bag, slipped off her boxing gloves, and walked over to where she had set her water bottle.
“You know, mate.” she said after taking a long sip “You’re getting a little chubby, maybe I shouldn’t feed you.”
Marow
“Okay, okay, I’ll feed you. Good grief.” She walked over to the cabinet. Oli followed, wishing she would hurry up and feed him. An unread letter addressed to Miss Olive Anderson sat on the counter. Shortly after she escaped from the police fifteenth years ago, she started going by Olive Anderson, so that no one would guess that she was the ‘missing’ Thompson girl. So, at the Assassins Guild she was Storm, but to everyone else she was Miss Anderson.She looked at the letter.
“It’s from the landlord.” Storm said as she opened the cabinet. She looked back down at it. I paid the apartment rent this month, what could he want? She decided to look at it later, Oli’s meowing was getting louder.
“Oh dear.” she said “Sorry Oli, we’re out of cat food.” Oli did not like this. If he didn’t get fed, and soon, he would just have to eat his owner's food. Storm turned to the shopping list on the fridge.
“Adding cat food…” she mumbled. She looked at the list.
Ugh, we’re out of so many things! Guess I have to go shopping… She walked to her front door stopping at the mirror in the hall. Looking back at her was a woman, about 6”, dark hair with a blue stripe, and a blue eye. She looked away, not wanting to acknowledge her other eye. When she was fifthteen, she had a run in with a cop by the name of Lieutenant Pearl Capri. Well, Pearl wasn’t a cop then. They were both going to the same high school. Pearl was top of the class, and Storm was falling behind. To her defence, it was hard to do normal school work AND take classes at the AG training centre. Pearl and Storm never could get along. So one day as Storm was walking out of the school, Pearl had thrown a pebble at her, as luck would have it, it hit her in the eye. And for the past ten years, Storm was half blind. That was the moment Storm knew she had found a new enemy. They grew up, Pearl was accepted into the police academy, and Storm was invited to join the Guild. Storm made a pretty good living at the Guild.
It could be worse. She thought as she stuffed her wallet inside her purse I could be in Siberia like my parents. She fixed her hair so that it covered her bad eye. She slipped on her boots.
“Oli! Watch the apartment when I’m gone!” she heard a rather grumpy sounding meow from the kitchen. Storm stepped out the door, grabbing her key along the way. In the hall, other people were coming out of their apartments too. Mr. Mason, an elderly man a few doors down from Storm, came out of his apartment with a rabbit on a leash. No matter how many times his neighbours tried to tell him that his pet has a rabbit and not a dog, he wouldn’t listen.
“I see you’re taking Lassie for a walk, Mr. Mason.” Storm said, looking down at the small brown Leporidae.
“Ay, I am.” he replied, grinning. They both got in the elevator, and headed down to the ground floor. Lassie was sniffing Storm's boots. They got off the elevator, said goodbye, and went separate ways. Storm opened the door of her car and got in. As the car drove itself to the store, Storm scrolled through new headlines on her phone. The top one read,

NEW LEAD ON STORM

The Brighton City Police say they have a lead on the assassin, Storm. It is still unknown who they think this assassin's false identity is, but they hope to soon have her in custody. Lieutenant Capri states: “Once we have Storm, she’ll lead us to the rest of the Assassins Guild. Then, and only then, can Brighton and Hove rest easy.” The hunt for this troublesome assassin has been going on for eight years, and citizens are starting to wonder if she can actually be caught. Fortunately, the police force has a new method for finding her. They have not told anyone what the secret weapon is, but all of England hopes it works. Tomorrow we will be publishing an article about the upcoming CDBU (Cops and Detectives Unite) Conference, and the hair dyeing trend that’s all the rage. Join us tomorrow for more info. -The Brighton Daliy staff

Storm did a double take.
Secret weapon? What the heck is that about? And do they really think they’ve found me? Ha! I am the best assassin in the UK, you can catch me that easily. The car pulled up to the store. She decided to push the article out of her mind for the time being.

+++
As Storm was checking out, she got a message on her watch. The watch was given to her by the leader of the AG, Scott Baird. The watch was linked up to the message line for the AG. The message read.
Storm, you’re needed at HQ ASAP. Two new members just signed in. -Scott

snip

I really like it! The character presented seems very interesting, and I love the concept of the guild of assassins. Very cool.
My main critiques would be that I felt there was a bit of info dumping, particularly that you would explain things that weren’t really necessary for us to understand. The main places I spotted this, where it kind of took me out of the story, were in the description of her alias of Olive Anderson and also the description of how she lost her eye. I think noting that she covers it up as a point of interest in the character is well done, but I think it would be almost more intriguing if we weren’t told right away how it happened. Perhaps then you could show a simmering resentment for Capri, for example after she reads the article, that we aren’t quite sure the cause of until later. I just think this would make us more interested and give a slight air of mystery as to Storm’s past, which I think could be beneficial. As well, I noticed the unnecessary information being presented when you explained where she got her watch - I just felt the aside didn’t really add to the scene. Other than that, there were a few instances of incorrect grammar and punctuation, but nothing a round of editing couldn’t fix. The main error I noticed you repeating was that I don’t believe you spelled “fifteen” correctly in either instance where you used it. Nothing big in terms of grammar flaws, however!


I’ll do some line-by-line editing below. I know you mostly requested an overview, but a few of these critiques I think will work better with a line-by-line format.

New members? We normally don’t accept members until the start of the year! Storm was not a fan of this, she had had to wait for the start of the year. Why couldn’t these people wait to?

I think this is another point where you gave the information a bit freely, and while this information is important and I actually quite like Storm’s irritation here - it seems well-founded and natural - I think you could phrase it in a more natural way. This is how I would do it:

New members? It’s not even the end of August! Storm huffed irately. She’d had to wait until the usual acceptance date in January. Why couldn’t these newbies wait too? What was so special about them?

And you can interchange the times of year as you like, of course. I just think (a) the irritated huff shows her frustration without having to state it so blatantly, and (b) the information is presented in a slightly more natural way when it’s explained like this. As well, I corrected a small error where you’d accidentally used the wrong form of “too.”

“Took you too long enough to get here.” He said. His accent was a mix of Scottish and British, and every time Storm heard it, she couldn’t help but wonder why it did that.

I actually quite like this line of dialogue, though it does use the wrong form of to/too/two - here it should be two. ^^ Otherwise, I’d also change the latter part of the sentence to “and Storm still didn’t know where he had learned to talk like that” or something along those lines.

Overall, I really like the piece, particularly the concepts and flow. As well, the opening bit where she is punching the punching bag was a great way to introduce her character and kind of hint at her occupation. Thanks for letting me critique it!

Word war with @-rainyskiies- (306 words)
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a sprout.
“Those are lilies.” My dad replies. “Do you want to try to grow some? I’ll pay for it.”
“Really?” I asked. It isn’t that common that my dad lets me get stuff without using my allowance. “Can I?”
“They’re fairly easy to grow. And you got a green thumb, so why not?”
I take the packet and feel the seeds inside. Let’s get growing!
The moment I return from the plant shop, I hop, literally, into our garden. I find a spot for the lilies, and then I read the directions.
I place the small sprout in the ground, and then I water them. I wait. Nothing’s happening. But I know that. I know nothing will happen right at this moment. But I wanted to see something. Why? I don’t know. Just something in my head said something will happen right as you started growing. But as I know, that’ll never happen.
I take a few more seconds to look at it, just making sure nothing is going to happen, then head back inside.
A few weeks later of watering and care of the lily, I start to see leaves. It was bright and early in the morning, and I went to check on it.
“OH MY GOODNESS THERE ARE LEAVES!” I almost shout, but then I realize that our neighbors are probably still sleeping, and I shouldn’t yell unless I want to wake them up.
Another few weeks later, I see some buds. I couldn’t see if they were leaves or buds, so I waited.
And then another, yes, another few weeks later, something beautiful happened.
It bloomed!
The petals were beautiful. They were so pretty! I jumped up and down and I wanted to run down the street and back up again, I was so excited!

Critique for fizz, @snickle-snackle

• First of all, I absolutely love the first sentence. “Once there was happiness” really sets an ominous tone for the rest of the excerpt and already makes the reader question what happened to rid Crelshire of its happiness.

• Repetition of the word “days” instils the image of happiness and freedom that took place before which adds to the suspense.

• I love the line “nothing seems real anymore” - it gives the implication that the narrator is thrown and still in shock by the events that happened.

• My favourite part is when you start mentioning Ever: “I’d be pretty like Ever. It’s always been sweet, pretty, admirable Ever. And me standing at the side.” This is extremely effective because the reader can already sense the character's internal conflict; she's jealous of Ever and wants to be more like that.

• “Finally, it was going to change” - I feel like this is the turning point and where we really get a glimpse of who the character is. And because of this, the reader starts to root for the character, and is therefore intrigued and annoyed on the character's behalf when “the war came like a raging storm” (btw this simile is :chefskiss: ).

• One thing I would suggest is taking the bit where you said “nothing feels real anymore” and expanding on it just to clarify what you mean here. I do love this line but some people might be confused as to the meaning of it.

• I really appreciate your use of symbolism in terms of the weather: you refer to the war as a “raging storm” which “rained upon the heads of innocent people” and tore it apart with “vicious thunder”. This was beautiful <3

- 282 words

my critiqueaire things- will keep them all in one post and put new ones at the top of this post so they're easier to find

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July 31 for @Sandy-Dunes: 284 words (not including quotes)

First reaction: this is so sad aaah- this is wonderful, and I would honestly love to read a longer version of this story! I love the descriptions of how Max and Klaus connected and became friends, stories about friendship are super underrated imo so this is exactly the kind of story I like <3

As for character dynamics, we see a lot about Klaus but not as much about Max- so balancing the two out more could be good. We know that Klaus shows him the things he sends home. Does Max have letters or stories to share as well, or does he prefer to just listen? If so, why? In addition, Max and his friend are described as boys in the beginning, while Klaus is compared to Max’s father. this makes me wonder, does Klaus become more of a father figure/older brother to Max, or is it more of a typical friendship?

we do see a bit more of Max’s character at the end though, when he vows to take the flowers home to Klaus’s daughter. Between that and the rest of the final few paragraphs, he seems hopeful in a way, despite the tragic loss. That’s super interesting to me, since in so many stories these things cause the character to just be full of despair- so I’d like to see where that hope came from.

In conclusion: this story is awesome, and adding more details about Max/the friendship would take it to the next level! Also, I just realized you asked for stuff about the ending but I didn’t have much- the last line is so so good though. “The machine guns fire as they have always been and always will, but there is nothing to rival the flowers that bloom where they were never expected to bloom.” like- its so poetic, and the symbolism here is also amazing <3

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July 23rd for @_kittykay_: 144 words (not including quotes)
first of all: great job! I definitely feel the shock Nico’s going through in the first two paragraphs/sections, and I like that it starts out with a minimal amount of details and fills them in as the story continues.

As for critiques- the third sentence “It was, at least.” doesn’t make much sense to me, it might help to either remove it or edit it with different wording. another very tiny thing- in the third paragraph, after “around and around his thoughts bubbled” I think you forgot a period at the end of the sentence.

Also, in this sentence (fourth paragraph): “Going on the footpath on the bridge, Nico was anxious.” adding more descriptions of his emotions could be good too. In the first paragraph you had some really great descriptions of this, with the repeated “this can’t be real” and with mentioning his breathing, heartbeat, etc- maybe it’s just personal preference, but I’d love to see more of that in the fourth paragraph!

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July 19th for @PoppyWriter: 325 words, not including quotes and the first and last sentence (because they're not part of the critiques)

So first of all, that sixth and seventh stanza (and its context) are incredibly similar to something I experienced a few years ago- it’s neat to see that someone else has been in this situation!

This entire poem is beautifully written- clear imagery, good flow, and the rhythm’s pretty easy to follow as well. One small thing I can think of as a critique is that towards the end (13th, 14th, and last stanza) there are a few lines in first person, but there aren’t any in the beginning. If there were a few towards the beginning as well, or if they were edited to third person like the rest, that could make the switch less distracting. for example, switching “a happy tiptoe voice” to “my happy tiptoe voice” and a few small things like that.

As for lines that could be changed, I just have a couple tiny things that could keep the rhythm a tiny bit steadier. The first line in the seventh stanza- “Running from each lost hope”- has one syllable less than the other three, and one way to fix that could be to add a one syllable word after “running-” maybe it could be “running far” or “running fast”.

In the sixth stanza, the rhythm works perfectly with a pause after the second line, so adding a dash – at the end of it could show that. additionally, in the last line (same stanza) the word “then” could be removed to fit the rhythm as well.

finally, in the second to last stanza, “as a whole” could be changed to just “as whole” or something else with two syllables, and “they’ll” can be removed in the next line (or it could be reworded with one fewer syllable). This would match them to the rhythm of the other lines in the stanza.

You’ve probably heard this tip before, but I’ll say it just in case- reading it aloud (even just whispering/mouthing it) can help with figuring out the rhythms. Since most of your stanzas had a steady rhythm to them, I figured that’s what you were going for. I know there are kinds of poems where the rhythm isn’t relevant at all though, so if that’s what you’re going for you can ignore this.

Overall, this is a joy to read, the critiques are just my poetry class and inner music nerd coming out lol.

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July 16th for Ember @embXR_THEauthZr: 310 words, not including quotes
I like the style you have going on! Your first paragraph says a lot about who the character is and how they think about the world, which is great- I’d love to see a little leading up to that point though, to set the scene a bit. Just a little info about where the character is, what they’re doing, and what started this train of thought.
The story overall feels like it starts in the middle of something, so perhaps a little more context throughout would be helpful. For example, it’s not clear why the teacher is just talking to Kai and not the whole class (although im homeschooled so maybe thats normal? idk lol) and I’m not sure what the assignment is that they’re working on, but the way its written seems like the reader already knows those things.
Speaking of which, the character’s thoughts are very well balanced with the action/dialogue- it always fits what’s happening and doesn’t go on for too long or too short, so great job with that! There are a few grammar things there that I’m slightly confused on, though.
like in this sentence: “Well, they must have been very dedicated to getting over here if they seem to be pulling their phone out.” the grammar here seems slightly off- maybe switch “they seem to be pulling their phone out” to “they’re already pulling their phone out”?
and in this phrase- “I try to find the words to make what I need to clear,” not gonna lie I can’t tell what that means. something there could definitely be reworded, and maybe a short sentence about what it is that the character needs would help?
One last thing- at the very end, after they sorta admit to loving each other, there’s this bit: “realizing what this means for us.” What does it mean though? This might just be my homeschooler bias again, but more clues as to what it means to the characters would be nice. Did Elliot mean love as in friendship, or something different? Does Kai feel the same way, despite just calling them a best friend earlier?

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July 13th for @-WildClan-: 440 words, not including quotes.
I’m going to write this critique sort of as I’m reading the story, since you asked for reactions, commentary, and what I think is going on. Here we go!
Right off the bat- that was an awesome hook! I read the first sentence and immediately did a double take lol. I was immediately intrigued and wanted to see where this was going. After finishing the first two paragraphs, the style this is written in still has me 100% engaged- it reminds me of a narrator voiceover at the start of a movie or something. Aaaaah the narrator made a little gift for their family- that is adorable. Of course it’s a prank lol. A few paragraphs later and wow, this world is so unique and fascinating- Canon and Half-Canon and everything.
‘They begin monologuing at each other, and the battle around them pauses to listen. So predictable.” I love all the little details like this, plus the characters earlier complaining about their character arcs. I’m still not exactly sure what’s happening, but the narration is convincing me that it all makes sense in a way. Like listening to an adult tell a story and having no clue what’s going on, but still being interested enough that you don’t question it.
The more I read, the more the intro seems to line up with everything else.
“Time seems to stop. But it doesn’t.” In any other story, I would think this is a relatively normal line, but with everything else going on in this tale it seems far more sinister. The way that the context completely changes the feel of certain phrases is awesome.
I’ve now read through the whole thing- even past the required amount, because wow this world is fascinating! The particular style of it feels, like I said earlier, like the narration at the beginning of a movie, or listening to someone recounting a story they lived through.
The only thing I can think of that could be different is that the last few paragraphs sorta change the style, where it sounds to me like the end of a long letter- or even like the narrator was the author of the story that came before, and the last two paragraphs are the author’s notes afterwards.
As for my interpretation of what’s going on here: Canon is like the world- or perhaps the story- that the shazarxas live in, and IRL is where the creators of Canon are from. Perhaps a “realm of the gods” sorta situation. I’m guessing Half-Canon is the place where those words somehow meet, maybe a place for the author’s ideas that aren’t officially part of the story? There’s a lot about this that I don’t understand, but again, with the style it’s written in, that doesn’t really feel like a problem. I can totally see this being the voiceover to an animation of what’s happening- a visual aid of sorts would go with this absolutely perfectly.

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July 10th for @jalapeno9: 307 words (not including quotes)
First impression: this is intriguing! You took the prompt in a direction I never would’ve thought of, and executed it well. I like that the sentences are short and to the point, so it’s easy to understand and I can tell exactly what’s going on. There’s lots of strong verbs and descriptions without it being flowery or over the top, which fits with the tone of the writing great!
I don’t see any obvious grammar mistakes- creative writing like books and such tend to push the boundaries of perfect English class grammar anyways. These two things are probably more personal preference than anything else- In this sentence it might make for sense for the comma to be a period- “I shake my head, it’s probably the poppies.” In this next one, the “of the” could be removed to match the sentence structure of the other pieces: “No more of the green grass or trees, just brown rotting stumps and dirt.”
To point out one thing to improve on, I’d love to see more connection with the main character here. This seems to be more about the world in general than any specific person living in it- which is absolutely fine if the goal is worldbuilding!- but for more emotional impact it could be helpful to give ways the fear of orange has impacted the character’s personal life. Have any of their friends or family members died or been injured because of it? Are there any favorite activities that the character can no longer do, or have any favorite locations been destroyed? What motivated the character to learn so much about it- does the character work a job that requires them to be up close with the impacts of the orange fear, or are they constantly monitoring the news in hopes that something positive will appear?
Overall, this is great! The writing is very strong, and it paints a clear picture of the world this is set in. Adding a few small personal details about the protagonist would solidify the emotional impact and bring it to the next level!