daily 07.02
prompt: and, for, or, the, a
words: 341

daily 07.04

prompt:
bi-fi twists-
the clouds come down and take the form of a character's fears in front of them (from Fantastical_Words),
the main character spontaneously splits into multiple people (from -meow-L-cat-)
Original “chunk” from Heartless by Marissa Meyer, Chapter 52.

words: 1398

daily 07.05
prompt: put a fake green plant against the wall into a smoothie
words: 200

daily 07.06 - 07.07
prompt: write a song
words: 304

word war with syrozenne
words: 184 + 8
time: 5 minutes

weekly 07.09
prompt: symbolism & motifs
words: 1979

Part 1.
Prompt: Write your literal interpretation of ‘The Highest Depths,’ by Ileana Surducan.
Words: 351
A/N: I chose to write this interpretation as a story in itself. It does not refer to the comic in the third person; instead, it is the comic as it would be if written in prose.

Under the hastily stained sky of Scottendarl, a man trudges across through the grass slough, seemingly weary of his old routine. On his back, he carries a limp fishing net, though there are no seas, lakes, or rivers to be seen, and yet…

As he casts his net out, he flings it skyward, as colors bloom into the clouds, red-turquoise fish unveiling themselves. He draws in his net to reveal a whole school of entangled, ocean-deprived aquatics captured in the wiry folds.

…

There was no one waiting for him when he returned to his lonely home. Should there have been someone, that singular soul would have seen that the fisherman held only one red-blossoming, accidentally-freckled creature in his hands.

In the end, though, ‘twas no matter, for the newly captured fish soon joined a whole household of others — cyan blues, persimmon-oranges, blushing maroons, deep crimsons… each one held in a separate glass container of appropriate shape and size. The scarlet newcomer joined the rest in a perfect glass orb of his own.

…

She notices the man sitting with his pipe on the sand immediately, though she doesn’t know why. He is a stout, white-bearded man, wearing an obligatorily striped shirt — it is at the notice of his clothing that she realizes that he is a fisherman; what other could he be?

Then she sees the fish. They are beautiful, staining their glass homes with bright, bursting color, and she can’t help but notice the one in particular — a red-orange, curious fish, its two eyes on the side of its head staring back at her even as she stares (rather rudely) at it.

She walks closer. The man looks up, noticing her. She reaches out for the fish, and he seems to understand.

He holds out his fingers. Two. She nods, paying him in silvers.

Then, inexplicably, as she takes the fishbowl, it attaches on top of her head — her neck, really; she hasn’t had a head for decades — and it feels… complete, somehow.

She wades into the surf. As she submerges, she dives into the sky; she is free.

Part 2.
Prompt: Write about a character presenting another character with a cultural dish, and its significance.
Words: 490
A/N: I chose the Chinese hún tún, better known as the Romanized wonton as my cultural dish. I am by heritage Chinese; however, I was born in America, so frankly, I'm not much educated on the culture, and though I can speak the language fluently, I cannot read it. I'm not at all sure that I'm able to do this justice, but I tried my best! Talles is a kingdom of my own invention, which takes its language and customs from China; our main character, Rowan, only goes by her English name when on foreign soil; her legal name within her country is a Chinese name — to be honest, though, I'm not quite sure what it will be. The twist at the end is that, although most royal families hire cooks, Rowan had cooked this dish herself — does this show her character as I had meant it to? I'm not particularly proud of this piece, but it's alright, I suppose.

“All hail Rowan Darkthelm Qiu, Her Royal Majesty, Queen of Talles!” The doormen at the entrance of the throne room blew into their pristine trumpets, and the heavy marble doors swung wide for Rowan as she entered the enormous, gold-walled room, followed by two maidservants and the rest of her ensemble.

Well, that was rather useless, she thought irritatedly, although her face maintained a convincing falsification of a smiling countenance. No one’s even paying attention to the announcement. All around her, the court was still chatting away, the constant din of voices drowning out nearly everything else…

“Ahem!” the Queen of Scarrton declared loudly from her throne at the head of the court. Instantly, the room was silent, for though the Queen — whose name was Emilise Wearhon — was not a large woman, she had a way of carrying herself that made those who looked upon her feel as if they were being condemned, and a sinister manner of speaking which could terrify any queasy listener. “Please let us all welcome my dear friend, Rowan, to the court of Scarrton. We do hope you enjoy your stay here,” said she, with a rather patronizing smile.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Rowan replied, noticing that Emilise hadn’t bothered with using Rowan’s full title. That was like her, always looking down on Talles and the rest of the Six Kingdoms. No matter, she thought. We need her alliance to win this war, so we’ll to grovel at her feet for a while if we have to! “I hope you’ll allow us to bear you the gift of one of our most traditional dishes as a token of the long-lasting friendship of Talles and Scarrton,” she continued, beckoning one of her servants forward.

The servant stepped forward, holding a covered platter in front of her as she bowed in front of Queen Emilise. One of Emilise’s servants stepped forward and removed the cover, revealing a plate of Talles’ old-fashioned zhū ròu hún tún — 猪肉馄饨 — inside.

“Why, how kind of you!” Emilise proclaimed, and Rowan could hear the false note in her voice.

Rowan held her breath as Emilise peered inside the dish daintily — for only Emilise could make peering into a platter look dainty — and, picking up the chopsticks inside, took one of the hún tún and put it in her mouth. Rowan watched as Emilise chewed and swallowed, but the Queen’s face betrayed no emotion.

“Oh, delicious,” the Queen said, although Rowan seemed to hear a frown in her words, which was worrying. Did she think the gift was too simple? Or did the taste not suit her? Everyone in the palace had told Rowan that the hún tún were sure to impress Her Majesty; was she not satisfied? But nevertheless, the royal charade must go on — or, well, what if it didn’t? Because it would rather scandalize the entire court if she admitted the truth that…

“You flatter me, Queen Emilise: I made the dish myself.”

Part 3.
Prompt: Continue the motif of the turquoise ring in Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott.
Words: 484
A/N: Ah yes, Little Women! One of my favorite novels of all time; it's really a childhood relic. I've always wanted to try writing in Louisa May Alcott's style — it's lovely and really shows us the wisdom that Alcott possessed. I certainly am not up to that standard yet, but all the same, it's a very fun study. I didn't continue any of the scenes mentioned; instead, I used another scene from much later in the book, in which Amy March reminisces on the ring and what it means to her. The italicized part is the quote from the book; it was not included in my word count.

At three o’clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais — a charming place, for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills. Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing the latest celebrity who has arrived — Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the company and attract as much attention, especially the low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the porch behind.

It was in this sort of ‘equipage’ that a single young lady, blonde, adorned in blue, came driving along that walk on that day. The pretty, old-fashioned seaside villas, with their Roman arches and Parisian airs, which lined the bounds of the street, were a lovely sight to behold in her artistic eye, and presently she came upon one which seemed to her reminiscent of another House, on another continent entirely — Plumfield, that old estate upon American grounds, the settlement of that esteemed Aunt March.

She smiled, thinking gratefully of the crotchety, yet maternal, old lady, who had kindly sent her with Aunt Carrol on this trip to Europe, and was again conscious of the reassuring press of the single ring on her finger beneath her glove, which she wore as her only ornament of her slender hands. It fit her fifth finger perfectly now, and she kept the silver guard in her drawer with her other little things.

The reader will note, then, that the ring had served its purpose — which one might see from the fact that though she was a young woman now, and far from the young girl which had first yearned for the turquoise ring, she kept the ornament with her at all times, even when turquoise did not always become her dress. Amy was blossoming fully; charming and pretty, it is true, but without the shallowness which society seems to enjoy on young women of her age. She was observant and kind, with a spirit that was agreeable to everyone but yielded to none; of course, not at all perfect, for Amy was a human girl, and had her doubts and inconsistencies like any.

She remembered, too, when she had been gifted the ring. She had been eleven, and sent to Aunt March’s home for fear of her catching scarlet fever — she had been rather frightened to go, and Laurie had promised her to visit every day; bless him, he held true to his word… Laurie! It had been months, now, since she had seen him… she wondered what had changed since then. She had an odd intuition about some sentimental change within him — he seemed closed off now in his letters, when they came at all. Had it something to do with Jo? She had rather fancied, with that feminine intuition of which she possessed quantities, that the boy had held some sentiment for her older sister.

Perhaps she would need to comfort Laurie now, she thought, with sisterly sympathy for the boy. He had written that he would come the eve of Christmas, surely he would be here by now…

Suddenly, there was a dark head of curls, and a young man with that familiar American air, with a face that brightened into recognition as he saw her in her carriage… And here was Laurie, waving his hat like a boy, hurrying forward to meet her.

Part 4.
Prompt: Analyze the use of symbols and motifs in “The Highest Depths”!
Words: 480
A/N: Oooh, I actually didn't plan this out all the way. I had some vague notion about Roald Dahl's BFG, and how it seems that the fisherman is out being inspired by, and inspiring, ideas, but I never knew how I was going to end it until I started writing it, and by that point, it just seemed so natural.

Upon observation, our fisherman might remind some who are acquainted with the stories of Roald Dahl of the Big Friendly Giant, otherwise known as the BFG. The kindly BFG, set in a world where giants are known to be ruthless, disgusting, cannibalistic creatures, devouring humans by night and roaming the deserts by day, was none like his kin — he is rather small, at a miniscule 24 feet compared to the other giants, who are nearly twice his height.

This giant does not devour humans in their dreams but instead bestows upon them those dreams in the first place — by day, he goes ‘galumphing’ in the desert to a secret place to catch these dreams, which take the form of ethereal, effervescent jelly-like floating creatures; by night, he takes his trumpet and blows these dreams into the bedrooms of little children.

Similarly, I interpreted the fish in Ileana Surducan’s “The Highest Depths” as ideas — small, elusive little things, but brilliantly varicolored and beautiful once discovered. Each one is special — as one might see when the fisherman plucks only one singular scarlet fish out of the masses, instead of capturing them all.

Also, one might note that the ‘capturing’ of the fishes is not portrayed as cruel or in the light of removing a creature from its natural habitat and caging it. Instead, it is portrayed as a subtle acceptance; the fish are quite willing to go with the fisherman — and, in the end, our vermillion hero returns to the sea. The fisherman, then, is only an intermediate stage; he is the messenger which carries the ideas from sky to sea and sea to sky.

Thus we realize that the fisherman discovers ideas from the sky, and collects each one preciously. But what next? He takes them to the seaside. An unidentified being approaches our fisherman, and, after dialogue, takes the scarlet fish from him.

Perhaps this is a depiction of the inspiration that can be taken from a stranger. That the lone woman sitting evermore on the steps of the church hides a hero’s life story within her. That the busybody scrutinizing every corner of the CVS store for the perfect spatula is terribly worried for his only child’s health after the latter has been unable to recover from a fever. That the absentminded classmate on the other side of the room is, like you, a wisher, a poet, a dreamer.

And so you walk up to these people. Hear the stories of their lives. Talk to them. Become friends which no divide can separate. And you take these stories, these ideas, and you write them, draw them, paint them, sing them, pour your heart into them, and send them into the world, into the sea, into the sky.

And they are free.

“The Highest Depths,” by Ileana Surducan, is the journey of a writer; an artist; a person; and a singular, beautiful soul.

homo sapiens, wise man.

sapiens. vi.

the things you already know but haven’t realized—
they will be your downfall, Reverend.

you can Decapitate your allies, for they've upset your clichés
I will remember to Defenestrate your banality and replace it with mine.

sapiens. v.

will you scorn the pale-chalk lily?
for the iridescent depths of candy-clear emeralds
I used to wonder of the thoughts of greater kings
as they gorged on cruel newfound power
(with a side of saffron salamander eggs) —
then I became one.

you listened to reason when the echoes in your heart chambers said
that the stars were in reach of your fingertips
but as the sun dawned so did realization, now
I lie under the desert-scorching tear-caking blood-drying heat
waiting for night to blossom again like stained ink on funeral pages:
I die before the moon rises.

sapiens. iv.

I will take you by the nape of the neck
(your neck is the noose for your bottlecap head)
& grind your bones into coarse white sand
(rather irritating between the toes, of course)
my castle is a fish-stained yellow, God’s leftover bile
(bile which he vomited but the cleansing ocean refused.)
when waves tumble tousle crash on the sea they are beautiful
(look-see: these grime-thick gull droppings! I tarnish beauty.)
when I am destroyed the sea has no longer any blemish or fault
(fault? yours; these utter peasants have such weak bones…)

sapiens. iii.

Much to be said for the scramble in the dark
for lost photographs. Much to be said
About the things they’ve heard about him.
Too much said about what they—
thought—about her.

So, what do you do, when you try to match
the politician to the man, the president to the woman
the gossip to the girl, (the jeering to the boy)
who hid (who hid in the locker room yesterday?)

So, what do you do, when you try to match
yourself to the liar, the liar to yourself, and
What do you do when you almost succeed?

sapiens. ii.

we could’ve held time (at the tips of our fingers)
we chose to tell lies (every last one)
we could have had beauty (eyes words & souls)
we hunted for bounty (nail-screeching gold)
we wished to be bolder (to love and to kill)
why did we choose order? (a minister’s will)

better to stay wide-eyed & primitive
than to be so
dmn
self-
destructive.

(but they hungered for a shoulder-throwing air they called Ease.)
(possessed, it slipped into their mouths like candy.)

sapiens. i.

when the road not taken is advertised
it will soon be
taken.

sapiens.

we are sapiens.

word war with readingCat11
prompt: “Now I had not anticipated the cactus to come to life.”
words: 199
time: 5 minutes

daily 07.13
prompt: write a story with the flowers carnation (meaning fascination) and lavender (meaning devoted love)
words: 507
A/N: *sob* the historical inaccuracies in this… I sincerely apologize.

“May I have this dance?” a familiar voice whispers behind her in her ear. Oliver.

Charlotte spins back. “I don’t,” she says flatly, letting her eyes tell him that though she doesn’t care for the music, she does care for him — too much, perhaps.

She doesn’t know if he reads it or not. It has been months since she's last seen him; they’d been in the same regiment during the war, but once that was over… she was glad the war was over, but what about him? Were they over? “Where have you been, anyway?” she asks.

She’s interrupted when they move to the side to step twice with the other couple. They spin back and he’s facing her again.

“Same reason you wouldn’t tell me.” His expression darkens momentarily. They are both still haunted by the war, she knows, but just as they wouldn’t admit it then, they don’t talk about it now.

Oliver pulls her out of the dance and they make their way around the other partners to the back door. It doesn’t lead to a garden, but it’s secluded.

He smiles.

The music starts, and the couples around them begin to spin and step. “I thought you didn’t care for the tarantella, Char,” Ol says, as he lifts his arm for her to twirl.

weekly 07.14
prompt: writing workshops
words: 2630

Part 1.
Prompt: Write a workshop on poetry! Link on workshop thread here. Suggested by Clementine_Blue.
Words: 1901
A/N: Holy- this turned out to be way longer than I expected. I rant too much - but what would you expect from a poet who's just been given the rare opportunity to share an essay on, well, poetry?

i. prelude.

Poetry is the form of writing in which the measure of artistry lies not in the directness of the meaning, but in the eloquence of the shroud which covers it. Or, put another way, it is when more emphasis is placed on the language rather than the overall conclusion (such as plot or argumentative thesis) of the writing. Or perhaps the dictionary more suits your tastes — then, you have that poetry is “literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm.”

Despite the variance of language used in the definitions of poetry, one thing is always clear: there is no exact ‘criteria’ that a literary work must meet to be classified as poetry. Although some sources may define it as ‘metrical writing; verse’ (Merriam-Webster), given the existence of other modern forms such as prose poetry and erasure poetry (more on this later), we can see that this is not a necessary condition. Thus, in the end, poetry can exist anywhere in literature: in Shakespeare’s comparisons-of-thee-to-a-summer’s-day, in the free style employed by Maya Angelou, in your favorite novel’s gruesome description of a bloody carcass, even – yes — in the angsty ramblings of a teenager’s notebook. In fact, one may even notice poetry in the first line of this workshop — the description borders on flowering, it is true; yet the emphasis on the language of the definition is poetic in a way.

Well, we have poetry, but what, then, is good poetry? Frankly, this writer cannot give a definition or criteria to that: it is commonly known that poetry, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. Now, some aspiring poet out there may be thinking “Well, that’s just maddeningly unhelpful — (note the Pirates of the Caribbean reference!) — and cliché. I’ve been looking to improve my awful poetry.” Do not fret, friend — your poetry is not ‘awful,’ and please do not degrade it like that, for in insulting your own you insult the art as a whole. However, though I cannot tell you what ‘good’ poetry is as a rule, there are some techniques which are helpful for a poet to possess — so ‘without further ado,’ here they are.

ii. metaphor.

The metaphor is a very well-known term among writers — the definition being a comparison between two things for the purpose of creating dramatic effect or visualization. Now, I will spare you the mundane examples of ‘the stars were diamonds hung in the sky,’ &c., and use a poem instead. Take this stanza from Matthew Arnold’s ‘Dover Beach,’ in which he is drawing a description of the sound of turbulent ocean waves:

…

Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.


…

Here, Arnold uses the sound of ocean waves as a metaphor for misery. Note that, in the words ‘the turbid ebb and flow of human misery,’ he does not execute his comparison by linking the two concepts with a simple verb, i.e. ‘the turbulence of the waves shows my misery,’ but rather interweaves the two: in his lines, he is not comparing the two, but is rather representing them as the same thing. ‘Ebb and flow’ typically describes the crashing of waves on the shore; however, in pertaining them to ‘human misery,’ he takes for granted that the two are interchangeable — creating a very powerful poetic device.

This appears also in the first stanza, in which he describes how ‘the waves draw back, and fling …, and bring the eternal note of sadness in.’ Again, he does not use any obvious linking words (‘is,’ ‘shows,’ etc.). Instead, as ‘the waves bring the eternal note of sadness in,’ the reader realizes that the sound of the waves and the note of sadness are one and the same.

From the study of ‘Dover Beach,’ we see that we can apply this literary device to our own writing: not by using metaphor as a stark ‘this-is-that,’ but rather using it to interweave two concepts in our poem so that the reader cannot tell them apart — and, indeed, will not want to.

iii. satire.

Satire is a literary device which uses humorous irony to make a point or expose fallacies in another’s argument. This may seem like a concept more useful for a politician or a comedian, but poets have in fact been using it for centuries. The well-known poem ‘Ozymandias,’ by the English poet Percy Blysshe Shelley, goes as follows:

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said— “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Shelley narrates how the statue of Ozymandias, otherwise known as the Egyptian Pharaoh Ramses the Great, is found by a passing traveler, who sees on the pedestal an inscription proclaiming greatness and mighty deeds of Ramses, the ‘King of Kings,’ and beckons the onlooker to observe them. Shelley then goes on to say that ‘nothing else remains;’ the statue lies alone in the desert with nothing else in sight — i.e. there are no ‘mighty deeds’ left to observe.

This bleak contrast displays the irony in the situation: when this statue was built, Ramses II had been considered great; but in the end, all of his work had gone to dust, and only a wreck of his visage remained. Shelley uses this scathing description to not only satirize Ramses II, but also King George III, who was king of England while this was written.

Most satires are in this fashion — beginning with the description of some passionate exclamation by the opposing party, and then describing facts which prove otherwise. It is important to note that in a satire, the writer typically does not purposefully state their own argument: they let the facts do it for them, and they remain serene in their countenance, thus amplifying ridicule upon the other party.

Also, this writer personally has attempted the technique in free verse:

I will take you by the nape of the neck
(your neck is a noose used for your bottlecap head)
& grind your bones into coarse white sand
(rather irritating between the toes, of course)
my castle is a fish-stained yellow, God’s leftover bile
(bile which he vomited but the cleansing ocean refused.)
when waves tumble tousle crash on the sea they are beautiful
(look-see: these grime-thick gull droppings! I tarnish beauty.)
when i am destroyed the sea has no longer any blemish or fault
(fault? yours; these utter peasants have such weak bones…)

It’s not the best, and certainly cannot compare to the likes of Shelley, but I thought to include it here, as a sort of peer-example thing! Also, this poem, unlike ‘Ozymandias,’ does not follow any rhyme or meter; it is in free verse, and therefore another facet of poetry which I otherwise have not included. Speaking of which — you may want to take a look at ‘This Is Just To Say,’ by William Carlos Williams. Also a whole repository of irony (although it is a short poem)!

iv. using ambiguity; or, rather, being vague.

“Meaning is of the intellect, poetry is not … the intellect is not the fount of poetry … it may actually hinder its production.” A. E. Housman, The Name and Nature of Poetry.

What Housman means (‘means!’ Hah, how ironic) is that frankly, poetry is not the art of creating meaning but rather the art of how to word it – and how to disguise it.

In order for a poet to speak through their poem to the reader, there must not only be meaning (which is necessary to capture interest); there must also be some device of language which acts as a shroud to that meaning. Now, this may seem counterproductive: do we not want our readers to be able to interpret a meaning from our work? Yes, we certainly do. However, too much interpretation turns into dissection, and dissection takes away from the significance of the piece as a whole. Thus the ‘shroud’ has two purposes: to hide the meaning, adding intrigue so that the reader is motivated to find it; and to add depth through the meaning through descriptive language. Now I’m just being excessive. In simple terms, the ‘shroud’ is the language of the poem; poetry is the art of creating the shroud.

Thus, in ‘shrouding’ the meaning of our poem, we add ambiguity: we hint at the meaning (which we ourselves are perhaps unsure of as we write), but do not heap on so much morality that the reader is overwhelmed. Note that in the ‘shroud’ we use not only language but also the lack of language: leaving out some descriptions can be more powerful than heaping them on.

Take, for example, the beginning of The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge:

It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?


The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May'st hear the merry din.'


…


He holds him with his glittering eye—
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child:
The Mariner hath his will.


…

Here the reader is meant to deduce that the ‘one of three’ is going to a wedding, and yet it is never directly said. Only in the last stanza of this excerpt (which begins with ‘He holds him with his glittering eye—”) is the word ‘wedding’ even mentioned. The message is mainly conveyed in the second stanza, which mentions the ‘Bridegroom’ and the fact that the guest is ‘next of kin.’

In fact, this lack of explanation helps to introduce the voice of the poem — the narrator does not care to explain or argue to the reader; instead, the story is told by the Mariner to the Wedding-Guest. This gives the impression that the reader is not necessary in the story — unlike in a novel in which narration is generally provided as explanation to a character’s thoughts.

v. conclusion.

There are so very many other facets of poetry which have not been considered here; this is not by any means a conclusive list. But with that said, I hope you were inspired, informed, or otherwise enlightened by this! Now — go write.

Part 2.
Prompt: Write 400 words using laters_gators' workshop on Writing and Developing Effective Villains.
Words: 506
A/N: Well… alright, then.

Prince Saffen stared gloomily out the window at the chaos below. It was going to be a long battle, for sure. Pity he couldn’t end it sooner… But then again, the Crimson Army’s forces refused to retreat, so what could he do? Ardelhein was rightfully theirs, anyway.

“Your Highness.” A hand tapped him on the shoulder.

“Yes, Luthenien?” Luthenien was his advisor — and former friend, but Saffen had begun to keep an eye on him for the past weeks, for he’d gotten reports that Luthenien had been sneaking around the Palace Treasury… Saffen sighed. It was so hard to trust people these days.

“The Crimson Army is advancing. If we do not do something soon, they will be past the first towers. Shall I send out the 98th?”

Saffen rolled his eyes. The 98th Cavalry would do nothing against the Crim Army, and his advisor knew that. “Don’t be absurd, Luthenien. Send out our Alvaghanzar.”

“But— but sir,” Luthenien gulped. “The Alvaghanzar will destroy everything.”

Saffen smirked. “Just do it.”

The advisor scuttled away and Saffen turned towards the wall and rang the servant’s bell furiously. A maid appeared around the hallway. “Yes, sir?”

“Bring me a goblet of wine!” He snapped furiously. “And quickly!”

“Your Highness — the wine costs nearly seven thousand quands, more than one of your cavalries. Surely you do not mean to buy—”

“Are you questioning orders?”

The maid turned red. “No, sir. I will be right back.”

— — —

The speedship sailed through the air above the clashing armies. “Hurry up!” Saffen barked at the pilot, who nervously stammered out a “Yes, Your Highness,” before landing the ship on the ground below. Saffen smirked as he heard the crunch underneath the ship — no doubt the bodies of several soldiers who had not gotten out of the way in time. He hoped they were Crim soldiers — after all, if he was forced to surrender, he ought to do it with one last fight.

As the drawboard lowered, Saffen stepped out into the open. The Crimson captain stood below.

“Greetings, you bloody Crimson scum,” Saffen said, pleasantly. “Honored to make your acquaintance.”

“Shut the hell up, Prince Saffen. You know what you did.”

Saffen sighed. Must it have come to this? Well, that was alright — he had many underground commanders still doing his bidding; his life didn’t matter much. And, well, to the Grand Secar, everyone was replaceable. “Yes, yes, very well. Now stop attacking my tower.” He glared at the captain, feigning rebellion, knowing very well where this was going to lead.

The Crim commander whipped out a gun and pointed it at Prince Saffen’s head. Touché, Saffen thought, although really this was an old military move that he knew like the back of his hand. Still, he made his eyes look shocked and formed his face into a terrified expression. He held up his hands. “Hold up — hold on there.”

“Surrender Tower Ardelhein. We will not hesitate to fire.”

“No.” Saffen frowned convincingly. He braced himself for the shot that would come next.

Bang.

Part 3.
Prompt: Critique laters_gators' (very amazing <3) story!
Words: 223
A/N: This was originally in comment form, so I'm just copy-pasting and fixing some grammar and capitalization here! Haha, note my cringeworthy messaging style - it looks even worse when I try to ‘grammaticalize’ it.

Ooh, nice concept! Your word choice is very precise, and I honestly love it. I do feel like you could flesh out Nick's character a bit more though - we learn in the paragraph beginning with “Nick wasn't afraid of much…” that he has a very realistic and not-glorifying view of the war, but we don't know much else about him. Does he have a backstory or a family? Any strong emotions he has towards the war, the commander(s), etc.? Also, I feel like the ending was a bit confusing. The beginning , when the Nazis attack, is suspenseful, but then the next few paragraphs talk about the rest of the goings-on in the tent and the commanders looking ‘grim’ but ‘regaining their composure,’ whereas one would expect that the soldiers would jump to action and the commanders would issue commands. I'm not sure if you meant for it to be like this, but I feel like since the enemy soldiers are attacking, the ending should have some action - shouting, guns firing, etc. I’m not exactly sure how military camps work either though so take this with a grain of salt ^^' Finally, the conversation with the commanders seemed significant - maybe add another reference to that in the end ('the commander had been right. The Nazis were attacking. Nick jumped to his feet and awaited orders').

bi-daily 07.19
prompt: use smalltoes's picture to write a story/poem/analysis.
words: 439 (including the Author's Note!)

daily 07.20
prompt: write a story on the constellation Virgo, which honored the Greek goddess Persephone.
words: 332

critique for BookLover209's story!
words: 167 (+ 112 in parentheses, which doesn't count)

word war with Ilishaqueen
words: 283
time: 7 minutes

weekly 07.23
prompt: write a narrative
words: 151 + 394 + 532 + 337 + 272 = 1686

Elliot: 20 years. Deranged, but doesn’t know it.
Miss Wicket: 39 years. Shallow.
Remy: 14 years; would be 17. Dies.

Flashbacks are italicized.

Present. Elliot stands by the sea.
Present. Remy’s funeral remembrance.
Flashback to Remy’s death. Swears revenge against Miss Wicket.
Present. Elliot drives down the road, listening to the radio. The song playing is Eyes Closed, by Ed Sheeran. She ponders the circumstances leading to his suicide.
Present. Elliot asks around the city that Miss Wicket lives in for her address.
Present. Elliot and Miss Wicket in the middle of the argument. Elliot holds a gun.
Present. Miss Wicket reminds Elliot that the latter had caused Remy’s death, not her.
Flashback to argument. About mother(?) Three years, hours, minutes.
Present. Elliot realizes, but doesn’t care. Kills Miss Wicket.
Present. Therapist talks to Elliot. Trial/execution for murder? Last meal.
At some point, Elliot realizes she’s insane. Doesn’t care.
Dies.

Salt on the sea. Elliot can feel the salt; its essence in the air, sinking into her pores like a bloodstain.

She turns away from the salt and back to where the blood lies. Up the hill, a trodden-back, age old path. To a tombstone.

She’d promised Maman that she’d watch over him.

She’d failed. Only that primal desire for vengeance kept her going.

— — —

Miss Wicket was a woman of thirty-two, gaunt and steady. Elliot was thirteen when she met her; Remy was ten. Their mother was gone; Miss Wicket was adopting them.

She was only seventeen when Remy died.

Miss Wicket had yelled at Remy that day. Then he’d gone out; to the beach, he’d said. Oddly, he hadn’t been lying. He’d gone to the beach. By the time he got there, he was a mess of shattered blood and bone.

He’d jumped from the cliff straight onto the sand.

He’d never told her anything. But she should’ve found out, anyway. She should’ve found out before it happened.

— — —

Miss Wicket had worn organdy to the funeral. It’d rustled and draped most becomingly; she must have been conscious of it. Miss Wicket had weeped, being careful not to spill any tears on the organdy dress. “Oh, Elliot!” she’d cried. “What are we going to do without him!”

Elliot hated organdy; it was frilly and stuffy and insensitive. She hated weeping; it wasn’t genuine ever, especially when Miss Wicket did it at Remy’s funeral.

There were aunties and uncles and third-cousins there, too. How convenient for them to show up at Remy’s funeral but not in time for adoption; not when Maman had died and they needed someone to take them in. They could turn a blind eye then. Of course, they couldn’t afford more children. Elliot thought of those words as she observed an illustrious garnet necklace on one cousin’s neck.

They were all weeping — really, people wept too much.

Elliot didn’t cry. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t disgrace Remy with tears.

She hurt too much.

— — —

Only two hours later, when all the funeral guests had left, Miss Wicket had turned to Elliot sharply. “Now that your brother’s gone, clear up his bedroom and throw all that rubbish away. We’re going to take boarders.”

That was when Elliot knew that Miss Wicket was the reason he’d died. That was when Elliot knew who to kill.

— — —

It makes perfect sense, now that she thinks about it. Of course it had been because of Miss Wicket. She’d been so mean to him from the start, always going on about how small and unhelpful he was around the house… and there was a point where he couldn’t take it anymore. So he’d left.

— — —

I know it’s a bad idea // But how can I help myself?
Been inside for most this year… // And I thought a few drinks, they might help.

She smirks as she steps on the gas. The radio blares out into the dusk; the windows are open and she doesn’t care. She will find that murderess. She will kill her.

It’s been a while, my dear // Dealin’ with the cards life— dealt.

She brings the car around a swerve and drives onto the freeway. She still remembers the way Remy’d looked after Miss Wicket had yelled at him that day. She knows the scene. A screaming, seventeen-year-old voice… Of course, Miss Wicket had always had a rather teenage voice. She thought it made her seem younger.

I’m still holding back these tears // While my friends are somewhere else.

She thinks back furiously. She should’ve known that Remy had been wanting to die. To die. She should’ve known that those words would tip the balance.

I pictured this year, a little bit different // When it hit February

Little things can do much on a heart. He’d tried out for the soccer team… he’d been practicing so much over the summer.

The coach had laughed at him and waved him off.

But she also thinks that it had been because of — there had been a girl. She hadn’t known — she still doesn’t know — if he had asked her or not. She just knows that she hadn’t said yes.

I step in the bar, it hit me so hard // Oh, how can it be this heavy?

Every time he’d come home with bruises, he’d fallen been practicing soccer had climbed a tree slipped in the rain.

But she knows now — she should have known then — that someone had done it to him.

Everything changes, nothing’s the same // Except the truth is that you’re gone.

There had always been something deeper, though.

She still doesn’t know what it is.

And life just goes on.

— — —


The bell jingles as Elliot enters the small pawnshop. It hadn’t been hard to find the city Miss Wicket had moved to. She will have to search around a bit for the address, though — hence the pawnshop.

“Excuse me.”

“Yes? What can I help you with?” The shop’s clerk is a gaunt, graying man in his fifties, who eyes her with a rather suspicious look.

“I’m looking for a Miss Wicket. She’s my aunt — I’ve come to the city to visit her, but her phone line’s suddenly down… I can’t remember her address…”

But he doesn’t know where she is, so she moves on, to the next place.

“I’m trying to find a Miss Wicket; I have business to discuss with her…”

Nothing. She leaves.

“I’ve come here for Miss Wicket. Do you know her?”

But finally—

“Hello, Miss Wicket. It’s been a while.”

— — —

“What did I ever do to you!?” Miss Wicket’s eyes are wide now, delirious from fear.

Elliot answers calmly. “You know very well what you did to me. What you did to Remy.”

“It was never my fault that he—”

“You were happy when he was gone!” she snarls. Her finger is shaking on the trigger. She should just do it. Make the one move that will avenge Remy once and for all.

“Well maybe you could be the reason just as much as I!” the words burst suddenly out of Miss Wicket’s mouth.

Elliot’s eyes widen. “You little— you little bi—”

“You don’t remember?” Miss Wicket’s voice grows stronger now. She knows she’s gaining ground. “You don’t remember what you said to him that night?”

“I didn’t—” Does she remember?
— — —
Three years ago.

“Get out. Of my room.”

“I— I promise, El, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Get OUT!”

The door slams behind him as he walks out. Elliot’s fist clenches. She falls back on her bed.

— — —

Three minutes before three years ago.

“You should count yourself lucky! Maman never left anything for me!” Remy’s voice is furious.

“That doesn’t mean you needed to destroy mine! But you just had to, didn’t you? You were so… jealous…” Elliot sneers, cruelly.

“It’s just an old watch, anyway! So what?”

“You’re pathetic. Did you even love her? Did you even care when she died?”

“Shut up. I cared about her more than you ever could, you feral brat.”

Her footsteps sounded loudly as she strode the few steps over to him. “What did you say? Don’t you ever—”

“Why did Maman ever give you that! It should’ve been mine…”

“You wouldn’t have deserved it, sniveling little coward.” The words ring out. Suddenly, the room is silent.

“I—”

— — —

Three seconds before three minutes ago.

Slam. The watch bounces twice across the floor. Remy’s eyes are wide as Elliot runs over.

Tick. Toc— tick.

The watch stops.

She raises her head. “What did you do!?”

— — —

So what was it, really, in the end?

She doesn’t know. She will never know, probably, because the only other person who’d been there had just gotten a bullet put through her head.

Miss Wicket’s body slumps against the wall. The beginning ends.

— — —

The therapist, Dr. Philbourn, is a rather unsightly man. Large, bulbous nose; a balding head; a smell of rotting flesh always emanating from his mouth.

“So, Miss Elliot, what do you truly believe happened that day?”

Elliot doesn’t speak.

“Miss Elliot, you must talk to me. I can help you,” he spits.

Elliot scoffs internally. She is going to die in a few hours — whatever he was sent to do, he ought to be over with it quickly.

“Miss Elliot. Do believe Miss Wicket’s actions had anything to do with your brother’s suicide?”

A feral grin. “Yes.”

I believe what I want to believe.

— — —

They had asked her if she wanted a last meal. She'd said she’d rather not eat. They wouldn't let her refuse.

In the end, though, they couldn’t force the food down her mouth — they still had their humanities intact, unlike her — so she hadn’t eaten at all.

It takes a long time for them to manage all the straps and wires on the chair. It’s a reclining sort, as if it had belonged in a dentist’s office once, but had been taken away and tampered with until it was only a killing machine.

Elliot doesn’t mind. After all, she is one, too.

As the electricians and doctors and other sorts finally bustle out, she’s left alone. A voice comes over the loudspeakers.

Then, a shock.

critique for ap0l0's story!

Emery chases it down these desolate streets and their stench of despair, her breathing ragged as she dashes through the storm, legs pounding against concrete.

The shadows pull apart and the streets warp into a different scene – a memory from a few months ago.

“She'll be okay, won’t she?”

“Of course.”

Lying is as easy as breathing.

Sickness ruined her grandmother, she is one of the Gone now. to Sickness has ruined her grandmother, she is one of the Gone now.

The smile freezes on her face – inscribed in stone. Emery stops dead. Her heart is paralysed, on pause.

It brings her to an iron gate, hanging off its hinges.

Emery’s eyes run over the headstones, and freezes when she reaches one name.

daily 07.25
prompt: write 400 words in BookLover209's style!
words: 421

(unofficial) critique for CleverComment's story!

The polluted air was full of a dozen conversations. It was an incessant hubbub. You either got used to it after a few weeks, or never.

…He breathed in the cool morning air, and started coughing. Oh my gosh. I can’t take this anymore. He could barely see…

She blinked away her tears, and ran in to hug him.

Sometimes all that we need to brighten our lives is a bowl of soup.

daily 07.29
prompt: turn your hairbrush into a pet
words: 353