7/12/2023
- for weekly part 2
- workshop followed
- amount: 522

He raced through the empty halls—past the kitchen, past the living room, past the study. His long black hair whipped past his eyes, his footsteps echoing in the halls, in the rooms, in his ears, in— he was in the backyard.

It was a bright day. Atlantis had just done the laundry. Clothes were strung everywhere he looked, and a pile of them lay ironed but unfolded on a glass table.

He seated himself on a patio chair and began carefully folding the clothes. Etain folded a pair of newly ironed jeans, lost in thought. Unknowingly, he unfolded them and folded them once more until it was an endless cycle. But what else was he supposed to do? His entire world had been shattered into a million glass shards, and then he had run off like a complete fool, leaving Venus bawling her heart out on the floor.

Usually, doing chores kept his mind off things, but he helplessly came back to the same thought over and over again.

(“Why do you think it’s cool to be moody all the time—you’re not even depressed! It’s an insult to everyone who is! What’s the point of being intelligent if you hide it all the time? Does it make you happy to see—“)

“Etain, you’ve been folding those jeans for five minutes now.” Startled, he looked up to see Eris holding a bundle of clothes, standing in front of the table. Unloading them on the table, he started to iron them.

Etain stared at the jeans and realized that yes, he was halfway through folding them again.

“Something on your mind?” Eris asked.

His mouth started to open on its own, and before he could stop it, his voice sounding oddly high said, “Yes.”

He slapped a hand over his mouth. This went against all his rules! He should’ve said no and whipped around, looking exceptionally epic, and act depressed until Eris followed him. Lord almighty, what was he turning into?

Eris raised an eyebrow—since when did Etain ever say yes? Where were the carefully articulated flowing words? The quotes from ancient philosophers?

Before he could ask, Etain spoke up once more, “It’s about Venus.”

“What about her?”

“I…”

He met his brother’s vibrant blue gaze. His hands clenched the denim, preparing to meet an onslaught of scolding from Eris. Yet he had to say it, he had to, had to. The words she had screamed were simple, not flowery or elegant in the least, but they were sharper than knives, sharper than arrows, sharp, sharp, sharp—so sharp that they had pierced him directly through his puny, mortal heart.

“We had an argument.”

“An argument?”

“Yes, didn’t you hear me?”

(“I don’t understand anything you say nowadays! Nothing, absolutely nothing! You go on and on about Plato and Diogenes, Seth and Osiris, but what does it matter if nobody else can understand it? We’re German, not Egyptian, not Greek!”)

“An argument with a dead person?”

“What?”

Eris twirled one of the white strands framing his face. A long, slender finger wound it round and round.

“She’s been dead for 10 years. Are you feeling alright?”

Fantasy Fanta Factory
The bus pulls up to the factory, and a loud voice comes from the front. “Okay, well um please exit in a single file line please very neatly please.” You follow everyone else who applied for a job here neatly out of the bus, amazed by what you see. Butterflies flutter around the walls, and vines are creeping up the sides of the building. You notice that there were people seemingly using the Force or something hanging up a ‘Welcome New Employees!’ The factory looked overrun with animals- you noticed rabbits hopping around the large front area, joined by hedgehogs-for some reason one was blue-and that there seemingly wasn’t a single outdoor lighting thing. The person who told you to exit the bus exited the bus themself, followed by someone else- likely your co-manager. The person you thought was your boss situated themself in front of the group, and pulled out a notebook. They cleared their throat and said, “Welcome new employees! I’m your boss, and this is , your co-boss.” Your co boss waves.
“And everyone here has a power- here you will find out yours, and make Fanta cool stuff while doing it.” your co-boss says.
“So,” your boss says, “welcome to the Fantasy Fanta Factory!”
211 words~

Daily 12 July:
Dragons soar above your head and the sound of they’re courting songs fill the air. You look up at the sky, white puffy clouds float up in the sky. A small bussiling village in a valley down below, and unicorns and pink geese graze nearby.

Then the loud sound of something pierces the air, the unicorns run and pink geese take flight. You look around in surprise as a huge machine rolls in, guards at each side of it. You run into the woods nearby “That thing just keeps destroying everything” a voice behind you says.
You jump and turn around in surprise, and see a girl “That machine was made by the king, and it’s awful. It scares away all the creatures, sometimes hurting them.” The girl says “We’re trying to get rid of it, can you help us?”

<<You have journeyed far,>> says a voice inside your brain.

Caught by surprise, you look around, but no one's there. Just the lake stretching out to the horizon, ancient trees rising from the earth. Your feet sink into the soft sand, untouched by the footsteps of outsiders for decades, maybe centuries. It’s quite possibly the most uninhabited place you’ve ever seen, even though you’ve travelled all your life.

<<Not entirely uninhabited. Others should be arriving soon.>>

Did the voice just read your mind? Who even-

<<Yes. Look down.>>

You look to your feet, at the pale sand. Wha-

<<No, in the lake.>>

The lake? You scan the waters again, sure there’s nothing but the occasional log breaking the surface, rows of turtles lined up upon the bark.

<<Yes. Us.>>

The… turtles?

<<Correct.>>

Before you can voice your confusion, other people emerge from the trees, seemingly drawn to the same spot. Why were they here? Wait, why were YOU here? You-

<<That would be our fault. We summoned you all, travellers from all over the world.>>

You glance at the people who have gathered around. These turtles had some explaining to do.

<<You see, we’ve got to save the world.>>

Lynx’s weekly yayayaya

Part 1

Villains and heroes are the ones most important to a plot if you’re writing in specific genres. So, you should know how to create one. Creating a villain or hero character is simple, you just have to know a few simple things.

- Internal conflict. What does the character really want? Why do they want this? What is stopping them from achieving this thing? Both villains and heroes need internal conflict to really have a cause to do whatever they’re doing at all and to make the reader care about them.

- Weaknesses. There needs to be a way one defeats the other. For example, maybe the villain/hero dislikes something, or doesn’t think before they act.

- Backstory/reasoning. Sort of similar to internal conflict. Okay, we’re tired of the sob story on how the villain came to be evil. But it is important. It reveals to the reader why the villain was evil all along and can play a crucial part of the plot (villain tricking hero to help them, etc) Create a backstory, a reason why the hero/villain is doing this.

Let’s dive deeper into these three points.

Internal conflict
Internal conflict is the internal problem of the character. Different from external conflict, internal conflict is something they want, but something is stopping them from getting that thing. For example, in my story, Faith only wants karma to those who mock her, but the thing stopping her from it is her will and need to be perfect at all times. The character must have a desire, fear, and a misbelief. Faith’s desire is to give karma to others, her fear that is stopping her is that she will not have a perfect life anymore, and her misbelief is that she has to be perfect twenty-four seven. These three points are crucial to making strong internal conflict and strong connections with the reader and making them care. Otherwise, your character would have no meaning and no reason why they are doing the thing they are doing, no reason why the villain is evil and the hero is good.

Weaknesses
A Mary Sue character is something we all hate. True, a superhero character with all the abilities of the world seems extra cool, but without weaknesses, the character is just a famous, overpowered brat. Every human has weaknesses, and that means realistic characters should have to. You must give weak points to your characters in order to make internal conflict. If not, why even bother reading the book when it’s all about the hero saving the day? Weaknesses are also so essential to the making of a villain. There has to be a way they are defeated, has to have a weak spot that allows them to lose. It can also be pretty fun reading about a character figuring out the villain’s weak spots and could also be helpful to the plot.

Backstory/Reasoning
Backstories—our favorite part, of course, the villain telling about their childhood and how they seek revenge, or the hero’s brutal life as an orphan or whatever. This is pretty similar to internal conflict, and gives /reasoning/ on why they are a villain, on why they are a hero. If there’s absolutely no reason to be evil or good, why bother even writing the character? It probably has no feeling whatsoever and no internal conflict. I really enjoy writing backstories because you can really feel and understand the character.

And that wraps up most of writing a hero/villain! Thanks for reading this, you’re looking beautiful today

Part 2
“Get down here!”
What did I do now? I slammed my sketchbook into my drawer. Great! My only time to sketch. I stomp to the door and stop myself. I can’t show any sign of weakness to my mother. Quietly, I rush down the stairs.
I scrubbed the floor, made our breakfast, cleaned all my mother’s shoes, ironed my mother’s clothing—what else didn’t I do?
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Do you see my breakfast?” My mother’s face was red.
“Yes, it’s on the table right there.” I pointed to the perfectly fine eggs with bacon, thinking I outsmarted her. I even remembered to give her a cup of coffee with it.
My mother squinted at my fake cheeky smile. “Guess what! You forgot to add the milk. For! The. Last. Time!”
“Last time I added the milk you said it was too sweet, ma’am.” I retorted, squeezing my lips together in a smile. You wouldn't even know I was once scared of her.
“I clearly said to you, yesterday, to add the milk today, didn’t I?”
Oh.
There was silence for a while. My mother chuckled and stopped to a halt to glare at me seriously. “Old forgetful Skye.”
Skye finally added the milk in complete silence. “You know who else is forgetful? Yesterday was my birthday.”
“Ah, finally got to the double digits now, eh? And why would I care, brat? You’ve just gone through another year of your life. You know, when I was ten I wasn’t as slouchy and forgetful as you.” I gasp. She continues. “No one was!”
“You still think I’m ten?”
“Are you nine? I thought your ninth birthday had already passed.”
I closed the fridge door. “What?” I looked at her with betrayal in my eyes. “I’m—I’m thirteen, woman.” I ran upstairs, voice cracking, slamming the door behind me. I heard her chuckle about “a temper” I’m having now.
I’m no longer a little kid. I’m not scared of her. It’s scary to believe that just a few months ago I could barely look her in the eye.
The dragon experience changed me forever. My past self would never believe I would be saying these things to my mother.
***
“Wake aaaaaaaup!” My mother sang. The gray curtains were wide open—though barely any light was coming from there—and she was shining the light of a dusty lamp in my eye.
I swat her away, rub my eyes and put a hand to my sore back. I frown. “Since when do you wake up so early?”
“Here’s the deal. It’s quarter to six right now. Today’s your adoption anniversary, and let me guess…”
“Nope! I didn’t forget, ma’am!” I fibbed. “And let /me/ guess now, you’re going to give me extra chores in celebration of my parents dying?”
“No. What a naive mind you have.” Her sharp words struck my heart like an arrow. “Get up, you!”
“Why do you care so much about my adoption anniversary?” I stood up and wobbled from my sore bones. I stretched my hips, waiting for an answer. She glared. “Ma’am?” I added, teeth gritted.
“Because it’s a time of trauma! For you,” she adds.
“Why?”
“Because I feel you’d rather be in the orphanage than with me.” My cruel mother smirks. “I knew it.”
“When did I say that?” I asked, even though it was true.
My mother’s mouth twitched. I could tell she was trying not to rat out at me.
“Why did you even adopt me anyway? Ma’am?”
There was silence and my mother was trying not to show weakness. Like I was right then. It’s extremely difficult.
“To give—trauma to kids, of course—yes, that’s it—“
“I’m not that dumb, ma’am.”
My mother looked down at me. Her eyes were knives. “You dare say one word!”
“One word.” I uttered.
“YOU! You’re just like your parents—“ She threw up her arm and I prepared for the worst—
No. I had to dodge. I had to ask. “You knew my parents?”
My mother’s eyes became knives again. This time they seemed sharper. Like they were going to burst out of her face any second. “Yes.”
“How did they die?”
“WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?”
“Why do you give trauma to kids?” I stood my ground. “Tell me! Tell me why you’re like this!”
“Because—because it’s what I was born for. It’s my choice. Brat.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”

part 3
critique: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/694457/?page=22#post-7382307

weekly #2

part 1
741 words

can be found here ^^

part 2
505 words

Torin and Lynn sat at the cozy cafe, sipping their steaming cups of coffee. They were childhood best friends, diaper babies if you may. As they engaged in their usual weekend catch-up, the conversation took a turn towards realistic dreams and aspirations.

Torin, a young architect, sighed and leaned back in his chair. “You know, Lynn, sometimes I wonder if I made the right career choice. Don't get me wrong, I love what I do, but the reality of the industry can be quite overwhelming. How do I know whether it was the right or wrong choice?”

Jazlynn nodded empathetically. “I understand that, the world can be tough. But remember, it's important to follow your passion and strive for what makes you happy. Architectural work might be challenging, but the fulfillment it brings is incomparable.”

“You always know how to put things into perspective. I guess what frustrates me is the lack of creativity allowed in my current projects.” He chuckled, appreciating her optimism. “It feels like I'm constantly bound by regulations and clients who don't fully appreciate the art behind the design.”

Lynn inclined in agreement. “I get it. Sometimes the corporate world can stifle creativity. But perhaps you can find ways to inject that artistic flair into your personal projects or collaborate with like-minded colleagues who value creativity. Remember, limitation can often ignite innovation.”

Torin's eyes lit up as he considered his friend's suggestion. “You're right. I shouldn't let setbacks discourage me. There's always a way to find a balance between practicality and creativity. Maybe it's time for me to explore independent projects that truly reflect my vision.”

Their conversation then shifted to Jazlynn's professional journey as a journalist. “I love my work,” She stated, swirling the straw in her beverage. “But there are times when the media environment feels suffocating. The pressure to deliver stories quickly sometimes compromises the depth and accuracy of the information.”

“That sounds challenging. How do you deal with it?” Torin leaned forward, genuinely interested in Lynn's perspective.

She smirked. “I've learned to adapt and find my own way. In today's era of ‘fast news,’ I focus on finding unique angles, conducting thorough research, and telling stories that truly matter. It requires a delicate balance between speed and accuracy.”

Torin nodded, pondering Lynn's approach. “You're absolutely right. In any profession, there will always be obstacles that test our resilience. It's about finding our own paths and staying true to our values.”

As the conversation continued, they exchanged stories of success, failure, and the various dilemmas they faced in their careers. They both realized that while their chosen paths came with their fair share of challenges, they could overcome them by staying true to their passions, adapting to the circumstances, and seeking support from each other and like-minded individuals.

United by their mutual understanding and determination, Torin and Lynn left the cafe that day with renewed inspiration. With a newfound perspective, they knew that realistic conversations about their dreams and aspirations were essential for growth, both professionally and personally.

part 3
204 words

my critique for them : https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/7378568/
their critique for me : https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/0000000/

July 13, 2023

Charlotte rolled over in her bed, burying her head further into her pillow. She reached out a hand tentatively into the cold and grabbed the edge of her thick blanket, wrapping it around herself more.

The loud beep of her alarm echoed through her head once more. Charlotte reached her arm once more out from under the comforting confines of her blanket, and aimlessly tapped her fingers around the ice-cold surface of her phone. The beeping silenced, and Charlotte groaned inwardly to herself. She squinted her eyes and checked the time. 6:30. She would risk being late if she continued to roll around aimlessly in her bed.

Charlotte sat up, not fully conscious in the moment. She slowly crawled out of bed and headed to the adjacent bathroom.

“Char! Get up, it’s time for school!”

“I know!” Charlotte called in reply. She quickly watered the fuschias that sat on her windowsill and dragged a brush through her hair.

“Can you make sure Rachel is awake?” her mom said, popping her head through the door. “I have to answer some last minute calls.”

“Yes, of course mom,” Charlotte sighed, taking in a deep breath. Her eyes were still adjusting to the light.

Rachel’s room was painted baby pink and covered in colorful stickers of many different varieties. Her toys and clothes were scattered all over the floor, and Charlotte had to dance between them. Almost as if she was playing a game of the floor is lava.

As expected, Rachel was sleeping soundly in her bed, her dark hair splayed wildly on the pillow. Her pink alarm clock on the bedside table was turned off. “Rach, get up,” Charlotte said, exasperated. She reached out and shook Rachel a few times.

“Go awayyyyy,” Rachel complained with her eyes still closed, rolling in the opposite direction. Charlotte grabbed Rachel’s arm and pulled her out of the bed. “We’ll leave you behind if you’re not ready,” she warned.”

“You’re so mean,” Rachel muttered, putting on her daisy hair clip.

When Charlotte finally entered the kitchen for breakfast, her mom had finally finished her last call. She was wearing her typically fuzzy bathrobe and slippers, and her eye bags were more apparent than ever, yet her smile still invoked a warm feeling. “Thanks Char, you’re a lifesaver.” She pulled in Charlotte for a hug, which ordinarily would’ve been awkward, but today Charlotte was grateful for it. Her mom’s hair smelled of sweet honeysuckle that reminded her of their old house. Before her dad had left. When they were all one happy family.

Charlotte was only able to grab a couple of bites before her mom kissed the top of her head. “Time for school,” she said. “Rachel, go get your backpack.”

Charlotte grabbed her backpack and helped Rachel put on her shoes (they had laces as opposed to the velcro shoes she was used to) before hopping out the door.

The air was crisp and made her eyes dry. She blinked, trying to clear her head. It was almost as if her body was moving on autopilot; performing task to task, hardly noticing anything around her. Charlotte shivered under the barely rising sun; like a ghost had overtaken her body. And she was watching it happen.

Charlotte sighed and squatted down to brush a stray lock of hair from Rachel’s eyes. “You’re gonna do great at school today.”

564 words

Language of Flowers Daily! (proof for extra points!)

———————————————-

“Heartbreak Flower Prose” ?

Once you gave me roses, soft petaled and sweet. Back when the pumpkins were young and before you were my sunflower, I drifted through life unthethered, waiting and searching for that sparkle in someone’s eyes— the one that told me you were mine. I accepted your flowers, oh Dearest, but aye— eight sevens later they finally died. Now from their ashes, sweet peas are born: the pink and green colors that decorate our crowns. It might have lasted an eternity, Darling, for you were so many things to me, and I you. My sunshine, my tangerine, my jellybean. You were everything light and sweet, but now because of me… Because of my fear and dead strong belief, I’ve had to let go and beg for my peace. Sweet old friend of mine, for friend I must call you, please allow the beautiful blue of periwinkles to adorn our minds. If our hands may not join, then let their stems twist around our fingers, looping and blooming until we are one. I could have been your wallflower, oh Closest Friend: through deep and through deeper, when wires grew thin. But something inside me fell straight to the ground— a piece of my heart that shattered right off. If I had not severed that magnetic tie, the piece would have cut through my chest, waved me goodbye, and been yours for the rest of time. I must keep my heart to myself, don’t you see? The future is now and I’m on my knees— Oh God, make the confusion go away! What must I choose, do I leave, do I stay? At the end of the day, God will have His say, and it seems that He calls for my heart by itself. I can give you bundles of snowdrops for hope, but I can see in your eyes that your sadness is greater than I feared. Marigolds bloom from your chest and your ears, they’ll cover our graves and paint us all fool. Yes, I grieve for us depite being the Ender, could you ever forgive me? Could you love another? Oh Dearest, I’m scared for us, truly, its sad. I hate myself endlessly for leaving you, though I chose this pain for myself in the knowledge that it would hurt. Does the pain of heartbreak go away? Or does it merely hide and take its time, waiting longer and longer between assaults? I hate that losing you was all my fault.


Hi I feel like the flower allusions were too obvious and not very poetic but oh well its honest work

Name: Ava
Cabin: Lyric
Wordcount: 426/400
Topic: Write a story using flower meanings
Content: July 13th Daily

LET'S GET IT

MY FLOWERS-
ulex (humility)
Carnation (fascination)
Fern (concealed love)
Periwinkle (memory, friendship)
Lotus (eloquence)

The essence of her lured him in. Her Lotus's scent caught hold of him as he fell into a trance, into her spell. She was completely oblivious to the longing of his gazes, and he was completely oblivious of the punishment with ferns growing in his mind.

As the auditions from the town play, he signed up without a moment's hesitation. Acting had always been his strong suit, but his breath hitched as he saw that she had gotten accepted too. He should have probably thought this through.

On the night of the play, he caught sight of her in her white flowy dress, playing the role of the princess. How ironic, considering she was one herself. As he glanced at her eyes, he stiffened up and decided that it was now or never. He walked over to her and smiled, hiding the fear of embarassing himself from his eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi?” She replied and caught sight of his fidgeting hands. “Are you nervous too?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” He chuckled as he caught sight of her grin. “You're playing princess, right?”

She nodded. “And you're the headmaster?”

As they spoke their first words to eachother, a periwinkle bloomed in between them. Now, people could see them laughing and going places together like good friends. He had found out that they had a lot in common, and decided to use that to his advantage.

Unfortunately, his parents caught sight of this too.

“HOW DARE YOU?!” his mother shouted at him as he looked down at his feet, though not a trace of ulex in the air.

“KNOW YOUR PLACE!” His mother screamed. “YOU ARE A BAKER, AND SHE IS A PRINCESS! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH TROUBLE WE WOULD GO THROUGH IF ANYONE SAW YOU TOGETHER?”

“But nobody has said anything so far-” he muttered before the shrill noise filled his ears again.

“DON'T YOU DARE TALK BACK TO ME YOUNG MAN.”

Over the months, he was forced to stay away from her, and so was she from him. The periwinkles wilted in between them, and they started to drift apart. Until one day when the town play started up again. He snuck out to go audition, the memory of her barely a sliver.

On the night of the play, before the curtains opened, he saw a girl with a white flowy dress. A periwinkle sprung in his brain as the memory came back to him. He stood breathless, just like a few years ago, on this very spot.

“CMON EVERYONE, THE CURTAINS ARE RISING!”

.

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

July 13th Daily

Flowers Used:
Oleanders
Marigolds
Trefoils
Foxgloves
Tansies
Ice Plants
Rhododendrons

February 20th
I received a bouquet of oleanders today. There was no message. It's beginning to scare me. Yesterday, it was marigolds. The day before, it was trefoils. Soren was the only one who knew what these meant. But Soren is gone. And that's why it scares me.

Revenge. Grief. Beware.

Soren is gone. Everybody thinks he left. That the small town of Winford got too suffocating for him. But he didn't leave. He died. And I'm the reason why.

Someone must know my secret. I don't know how, I don't know who, but they must know. Whoever it is must've known Soren too, must have had to sit through his ten-minute explanations about why the Victorian Language of Flowers was an “ingenious method of communication.” Or else they found his notebook with the flower pressings. The problem is, everybody in Winford knows who Soren is. You don't win the town baking contest three years in a row and remain unnoticed. Especially not in a neighborhood like ours, where you can't walk seven feet out of your own house without someone asking you how your day is going. Soren's Winford-famous. So I suppose I'll have to wait for the next flower-message.

February 21st
Today I got foxgloves.Treachery. I talked with Freya - Soren's sister. She's sad about Soren, but she says once she grows up, she'll find him. I felt tears well up in my eyes when she said that, but she thought it was because I was also sad that he left. It wasn't. It was because I saw Soren die and I didn't do anything to stop it. This little 10-year-old girl is going to grow up with the hope that she'll find her brother again, but she won't, and it's all because of me.

February 22nd
I spent the better part of an hour staring at today’s delivery. Tansies and ice plants. I have to find out who is sending me these, and why.

February 23rd
I finally asked the deliveryman if he knew. He said he didn’t, that the orders were anonymous. Great. Today it was rhododendrons. Danger.

Revenge. Grief. Beware. Treachery. I declare against you, heartless. Danger.

I know I should leave, before the messenger becomes more than just a messenger, but somehow I can’t bring myself to. I feel a sense of obligation to stay, for Soren. Being there for his family has to make up for what I did. Or, more accurately, what I didn’t do.

Daily for July 13th!
Flowers used:
Snowdrop
ambrosia
geranium
ox-eye

I wait.
I lay in a field of snowdrops. I shower them with my tears of hope. The whiteness of them reminds me of the whiteness of his curly locks. I always hope he will come back to me and repair my broken heart. I remember his pale-blue eyes, that always shone when he laughed, I remember his cute freckles that came out in the summer, I remember his smile, that smile kept me going. Now, nothing is left to keep me going; only the snowdrops that comfort me.

I wait some more.
I stare dreamily at the picture of the joyful ambrosia. I envy it. It seems always happy, with that vibrant yellow it is giving off. Now I am never happy, after what he did. My glum face is always grey, only the frequent tears slightly light it up. I wish his love returned to me, his half to the half of my destroyed heart. But it will never come. I picture him embracing me, now embracing someone else. His love returned to another, someone better than me. How can someone be better than me?

I grow tired of waiting.
Waiting and waiting, waiting and waiting, for nothing! He will never come back, only if I force him to. I could never damage his fragile feelings, I will never force him. Like the geranium resting in the vase, his new lover fills me with jealousy. I can force her to leave him, I would enjoy that. The geranium is so perfect, as perfect as she seems to be. He just doesn't notice all her irritating flaws, which she is full of. She does not deserve him, I do, I deserve every part of him. We match each over ideally - we are both perfect. Perfect for each over!

I am going insane from the waiting.
Patience is my only answer everyone says, well, everyone's wrong. I have been waiting for five whole years and that has been the only thing I have been doing. I am as thin as a stick, I am as pale as snow and tired all the time. No one understands all I have been through, not even him. The ox-eye in my garden reminds me to be patient, just like my mother did, my grandmother did and my best friend. I have lost contact with them now. All I focus is on him. My house is full of his attractive face; on the furniture, on the wall, on the floor, everywhere. I feel like I'm going insane, I feel like, like…

13th July Daily - Language of Flowers
701 words
Note: Someone please tell me that the names Scarlett, Albert and Ettie mean something to you- I need to find someone else who has read the book
Daisy - Innocence
Sunflower - Adoration
Oleander - Beware

Scarlett McCain and Albert Browne had been pursued for about half a day since they left Stow. The men following them had guns, but Scarlett had both guns and wits. She had managed to escape detection for long enough, and though she had to leave two of them lying face down in a stream with holes in their backs, it had been a relatively clean getaway. She practically had to drag Albert and Ettie through the woods, but she had to admit that Albert was learning. The progress was slow, and his powers often distracted him, but he was becoming more independent and capable. Having a little four-year-old did slow them down though. Scarlett rarely revealed her true feelings, and Ettie was no exception (she usually regarded her as a nuisance), but she had a deep and secretive attachment to the little child.
When Scarlett was satisfied that they had travelled far enough, and Albert had all but collapsed, she let them rest inside a derelict house in a dense thicket.
“I’m going to see if I can fetch something to eat,” Scarlett announced.
“Yes, Scarlett, I’ll try to light a fire while you’re gone,” replied Albert.
“Good luck with that,” she said jokingly - there were no matches to make fire with, and Albert certainly couldn’t make fire all by himself.
“Also, Albert..”
“Yes Scarlett?”
“Please look after Ettie.” They both looked at the toddler, who was beaming madly at some rocks she had arranged in a line.
Scarlett had been gone for about half an hour, and Albert, having had no luck with the business of building a fire, had decided to take Ettie sightseeing. They walked among rows of crumbling ruins, once inhabited by men, now by creatures of the forest. They stopped in the middle of a street, a place that had probably once been the main square of a village. The floor was cobbled, so the trees hadn’t been able to destroy the area, and a neat circular gap in the forest was created as a result.
Ettie had taken to picking daisies out of the mossy gaps in the pavement, squealing with delight in the late afternoon sunlight. Albert, meanwhile, was admiring a tall yellow flower at the edge of the square. He had taken to counting the seeds in the middle of it, and was totally unaware of his surroundings.
Ettie had run out of daisies to pick. She frowned and stood up on her chubby little legs, and began to waddle off to find some more. She found some pretty pink flowers in the doorway of a large old building, and contented herself with those.
When Scarlett came back to their camping spot, a dead rabbit strapped to her backpack, Albert and Ettie were gone. She sighed frustratedly, and muttered,
“Albert. *, Albert, where are you?” Slipping a coin into her cuss box, she began to wander around, searching for them.
It wasn’t long before she found Albert staring vacantly at a yellow flower
“Albert!” He jumped and turned around.
“Oh! Hello, Scarlett. You startled me, but it’s only you. I thought the men might have found us for a second. Look at this pretty flower-”
“Where’s Ettie?” she cut him off, exasperated.
“She was right there..” Albert pointed to a pile of daisies. All at once, the two of them were searching frantically for the little girl.
“Ettie! Oh, Ettie, where have you gone?” muttered Scarlett as she trod amongst patches of pink flowers. She was faced with a towering building which might once have been a church, and at the door was the ancient skull of a colossal beast, and beside it, the rotting carcass of a huge bird. The stench made her gag. She walked around it, and practically fell over a little girl with pale blond hair, who was picking some pink flowers.
“Ettie!” Scarlett snapped. The little girl appeared to take no notice. Scarlett picked her up and looked round. It was getting dark, and whatever had killed that bird would be back to finish it off soon. What was worse, she had now lost Albert in the search for Ettie.
It wasn’t exactly one of Scarlett’s good days.

7/13 daily - or, 894 words

deleted

Critique for Telianar– 2nd weekly

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Hi! I absolutely love this piece, you did an excellent job of creating a scene through mainly dialogue! From my own knowledge of dialogue and from the workshop you used, I'd say this is great. I usually have a lot of little pet peevey comments and thoughts when reading a lot of people's dialogue, but I didn't find that at all while reading this piece! The punctuation is the main thing I looked at, as well as flowery or bland dialogue tags, of which I found none– it was very consistent in tone, and each tag choice was clearly contributing to the story, as well as conveying the messages and tones in the most concise and descriptive way. Overall, excellent job! There was one issue with capitalization in two sentences that were broken by action–

Telianar wrote:

“You know,” she whispers as I peek around a wall, “You could just go to the kitchens and ask them for some food. It’s not like they’d deny the prince anything he asks.”

Technically in the second part of the sentence, “you” should begin with a lowercase, as well as “she's” in the following:

Telianar wrote:

As for this one,” she glares at Tari, “She’s now banned from the kitchen forever. If I see you anywhere near it again, I will personally have you removed from the castle.”

But seriously, those were the only things that were off out of the entire thing, and they were super minor! It didn't influence the scene, characters, or tone at all. Again, I love reading well-written dialogue, and this is a great example of that. I also felt that I got a good idea of the characters' personalities, and that the way each of them spoke was distinct and unique. And as an additional, slightly off-topic comment, I LOVE the consistency of present-tense with the first-person perspective. My greatest pet peeve of them all is when people switch tenses without switching perspectives!! So thank you x100 for that. And thanks for sharing your writing!

-Reeds <3

critiquare feedback ^^

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overall, I loved the idea of the story, the main character k!lling her best friend. it was an interesting (in a good way) and slightly surprising piece and I would definitely love to see more! mainly at this point, I think adding in more details and small touches is all the passage needs. also, perhaps you can mention the reason behind sophie's decision somewhere? other than a few minor bothers, this was a truly amazing job done! thanks so much for allowing me, and good luck with future writing <3

“No. We’re not the same. I’m dying, and you’re the cause. I would have never been able to kill you, but I always knew you were.” she winced and leaned on the closest wall. “And just so you know, you were my best friend.”

if she's really dying, it might be best to add more description. she must be in severe pain, so saying she only winced might not be enough. add more meaning to the sentence. ex: she clenched the nearest wall as she writhed in anguish, groaning (in agony). also, the period between “no we're not the same” is unnecessary. instead, you can switch it for a comma.

Her eyes went blank as she gave one last laugh.

wording problem here, I would switch the order up. “she laughed one final time before her eyes went blank.”

It was obvious it was one of hers.

“it was obviously the creation of chris.” or “it was obvious being one of hers”

“I would, thank you, sir. Uhm, today I also have something for you and your wife.” I handed him the bouquet of sweet pea and mustard flowers I had bought before coming. If Chris wanted to play with flowers, so be it.

instead of “your wife”, perhaps “m(r)s. (name)” sounds more polite?

daily no. 13

my fave daily <3333

snowdrop - hope
wallflower - loyalty in misfortune
ice plant - heartless
fuschia - anxiety
thistle - austerity

characters: august, henry, etta, felix

they say that a heart is the most brittle object in the world, yet also the strongest. while i know this can’t be possible, those words still resonate with me. they feel like home.

oh, i don’t know. maybe i’m a hopeless romantic. maybe i’m too far in the quicksand to ever feel a breeze on my face again. maybe felix is rubbing off on me.

felix. his name is warm and sweet to the ear. it rolls off of the tongue - i used to say that of henry, but felix seems like the name of a poet, or a composer. henry just sounds like a broken heart now. betrayed trust, secrets and lies. her - etta. disloyalty.

at first, i had hoped i was being paranoid. but after weeks of hearing him talking of her in his sleep, that hope was lost. still, i remained loyal to him. i tried to be the best lover i could be, bringing him gifts, doing all the housework to my very best … all because i thought he would come back to me. but no. henry had been swept away by etta’s charm for far longer than i had ever realised.

and then, on the 13th of july, he left. no note, no explanation. nothing. you can’t imagine what it was like; knowing that someone you had devoted your whole being to had flicked you away like a fly. i never heard from him again - well, at least not for many months. not till long after i met felix, and we fell in love.

i can remember it so clearly - i first saw felix in battersea park, in the middle of september. he was walking around looking rather … lost. the sun was high in the sky, and there was not a cloud in sight. i almost felt an - an invisible string, pulling us together. we talked for hours about everything and anything: the weather, shakespeare, queen victoria! before long, he was buying me bouquets of marigolds and roses. red roses.

of course, there was always an anxious voice in the back of my mind. what if henry returns? i learned to push it away, however. worrying is useless when you are with the love of your life. felix was warm where henry had been cold, gentle where henry had been austere, forgiving where henry had been harsh. i realised i was the happiest i had ever been. that summer flew away like a dove, until only joyous memories were left. the beach. picnics. libraries. i knew this was where i was meant to be.

but, as life has taught me so cruelly, no peace lasts forever. just as that little voice had predicted, henry came back to me. he begged for forgiveness, and for a moment, i have to admit that my heart relented a little. however, as i have previously mentioned, the heart can be the strongest thing in this world. and my heart now belonged to felix. no matter what henry did for me, no matter how much he spoiled me, i now knew what he was capable of.

how heartless he had been.

that was enough to keep me with felix forever.

July 13th Daily
1,062 words
(But only 2 flowers used TwT)
“Jane, look at this wonderful card I got!”
My younger sister, Mary, bounded into the sitting room and held up a little postal card.
“Well, what could it possibly say to make you this excited?” I asked, putting down my work to look at my sister.
“It’s not about what it says, Jane. It’s the card! Look at this!”
She held the card up to me, and on the back was an illustration of quite a variety of flowers. It read, “the Language of Flowers” in the middle.
“Isn’t it fascinating,” Mary exclaimed, “that each flower should have its own meaning? Some of the girls in my class say floriography is all the rage in England right now.”
I looked at her. “You have no reason to trust the word of those girls than you had on any other fad they informed you about.”
Mary mulishly snatched the card away from me. “Yes, I do!” she cried. “Minnie has a book that goes into great detail about all sorts of flowers and what they mean! At any rate, I ought to have a lot more fun with my ‘fads’ than you have doing nothing entertaining all day.”
Mary’s idea of entertaining was vastly different from mine: she was easily excitable and prone to being swept off in flights of fancy. I have been described as ‘simpler’; I suppose because I am more content with life and its ordinary pleasures. After all, to ask for more prevents one from being satisfied with what was already there.
But Mary did not see life this way. “Imagine, sending bouquets to your lover, fated to be apart, but — oh! I have an idea!”
That declaration immediately made me dread what she was going to say next. Everyone in our family knew that when Mary said, “I have an idea,” nothing good was going to come of it.
“You must use flowers to finally tell Mr. Burk of your feelings!”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
Mary’s face was lit up with excitement. “You both are more shy than anyone I have ever met in my entire life. If you must use flowers to get it out with, then so be it!”
I was shocked at the notions of my sister and said, “I cannot believe you, Mary, meddling with my affairs! You should know now that Mr. Burk is only a very good acquaintance, but nothing more!”
Mary smiled saucily back at me, “If that is what you say, you are both shy and uselessly in denial.”
…
The next day, the unlucky subject of our conversation happened to call upon my mother. His parents have long been dear family friends of ours, and he often came to inquire about how we were doing and such. Today was no different.
“How is your family, Mrs. Smith?” I heard him ask as I brought refreshments into the parlor.
I had known Mr. Burk for a long time, yet his presence still managed to brighten the room, in his own quiet, cheerful way. My mother engaged him in pleasant conversation, until Mary came flouncing into the room.
“How do you do?” she called as she plopped down. “I say, I have something to tell you about; it's very important.”
Mary’s manners were lacking at best, so interruptions of this sort were expected from her. I couldn’t help but apologize on her behalf, though, for completely changing the course of the conversation to whatever subject interested her.
“I’m so sorry-” I started, but Mr. Burk held up a hand.
“It's alright,” he said with an easy smile, “I’m quite used to your sister’s antics.”
And just like that, my sister had a captivated audience, who asked the right questions at the right times and listened to her with all the patience in the world.
…
The next time I got around to seeing Mr. Burk again, Mary put a sprig of lavender in my hair. When I protested against this, she explained, “Lavender means confession of love. How else is anything going to happen between you both?”
“But Mary, we’re just going to the library! There’s truly no reason for it!”
Mary had made flowers her new fascination, and she was starting to impose this on me. We walked into the library, and there was Mr. Burk. He worked there, and I blushed as he looked up from his desk and smiled at me. The silly flowers in my hair made me feel self conscious, but Mary dragged us foreword to return our books.
“Hullo there!” she jovially greeted Mr. Burk. “My sister has a question for you.”
I stammered. While I was more comfortable seeing him in the safety of my home, anytime else I was rendered dumb. “Do you- do you have any new books in?” I asked.
He smiled again, “Of course. There’s one that I think you will especially like.”
He brought over the precious book, and I checked it out without even looking at the cover.
…
This afternoon, Mr. Burk called, Mary gave me a cheeky look when he arrived, and his warm smile made my face a spectacular shade of red. After the pleasantries of his visit were over, he asked me, “Would you like to go out for a ramble in the meadow with me? We would still be in sight at the house.”
I was about to protest that I couldn’t take up anymore of his time when Mary made a shooing gesture with her hand and nodded profusely.
“It would be my pleasure,” I said.
So we went out to walk in the meadow and talked about all sorts of interesting subjects until we came upon a patch of flowers. Mr. Burk stopped to admire their colorful little petals.
“This is Ambrosia. I know they’re just a common weed, but aren’t they beautiful?”
We stood amongst the flowers, and he picked a few and gave them to me.
“Since you seem to have taken to flowers, recently,” he explained.
I looked at their lovely leaves and petals and smiled at Nature’s simple beauty. Mary would know more about them, but I was content at just loving them for what they were. I glanced back at him. “Did you know that each flower has its own intricate meaning?”
Mr. Burk laughed and said, “Yes, your sister, Mary, taught me all about them.

Ambrosia: love returned

7/13/2023
- made while listening to caramelldansen
- amount: 439

if roses represented love, then yarrow represented her burning hatred.

she hated them all, every last one of them. she wanted them to burn to cinders before her eyes, she wanted them to be mauled by lions—ripped to shreds so small she couldn’t ever see them again. she wanted them to die, repent for their sins, slice their owns necks off. they had not loved her, and she had not loved them either.

they did not make her stronger, instead they made her break and crumble at every cruel word thrown at her. but that never meant she didn’t wish the worst fates upon them. even as she bawled her eyes out, even as her heart bled until she lay sprawled across the floor in a pile of wilted roses, she wished with all that she had left for them to die, die, die.

they did not make her into a moldable doll, instead they made her want to break free even more. she broke all the rules they set out for her, and even as they spent hours screaming at her for her insolence, she screamed right back until her throat went sore. she yelled and shouted until they left her alone to sob—the one privilege she knew they could never take away.

they did not make her meet any of their goals, instead they made her the complete opposite. she was not gentle, not feminine. she propped her leg up to rest her head on it during dinner, she swore like a sailor, she used every advantage she had, every assest. but she made sure she was still kind. she never wanted to become so despicable that she stooped to their level even if what she was doing was considered “right” in somebody else’s eyes.

if god struck her down, she knew she would be fine with it. even if the darkest, most grotesque, abysmal creature in existence came from the bermuda triangle to personally murder her, she would be fine. she knew she deserved every last bit of it. if the only thing she achieved in her life was making them suffer, she would be fine.

and so as she lay, in the pile of wilted roses, clutching a piece of yarrow with all her might, she grinned. the only thing she had ever achieved was making them despise their life, but in her twisted mind, she was satisfied. even if her life held no meaning, even if she would never be remembered in the history books, she was content with all she had accomplished.

she closed her eyes and waited for death to take her.

Daily 13: Flowers (447 words)

“My little buttercup,” Mom sighs, “Why? What could have possibly driven you to do this, Ali?” She gestures for me to sit down on the plush leather armchair reserved for the “naughty kids”, as I watch enviously through the frosted glass door as my friends, JC and Alex, walk past, chatting happily.
At least they weren’t stuck in the office of the school principal/my mother, who is currently lecturing me about the fact that I had snuck out of my piano lesson to go to a party at JC’s house the other night. I was summoned to this prison in the middle of an important lit class, which I need to be at for next week’s test. Seriously, does this woman care about my education?
“Mom, I’m not a little kid anymore. I can make my own decisions, and if you don’t like them, then that’s not my problem. I’m in high school, and despite the many” I glared at my mom- “social disadvantages you have presented me with,” gesturing to her ugly, worn, unflattering floral suit (stitched with lotuses, a gift from my grandma right before she passed away. Apparently they’re supposed to represent eloquence, but they’re super ugly.) “I am popular, I have friends, and I have a boyfriend, and I would like things to stay that way. Mrs. Meadowsweet can skip one lesson. Plus, she’s 89, and I think she should retire. How do you think I snuck out? She fell asleep halfway through HER OWN rendition of Fur Elise. That woman needs a break!”
My mom waves her hands around violently as if trying to wage war with the air. “We are not discussing whether or not Mrs. Meadowsweet should retire, although she certainly should. That lady is useless, just like her name. But I digress. We are discussing the fact that you took advantage of a poor old woman’s time to go do whatever you want! She woke up and panicked when you weren’t there! She almost had a heart attack! Ali, you are being irresponsible. Do you know what a buttercup represents?” I groan. “No more flower stuff, please, Mom!”
She glares at me. “It means childishness. You are being a child, Ali, and I don’t want to hear anything else. You are hereby grounded for the next two weeks. And I am calling the parents of every person who went to that party and giving them detention. And not another word, young lady!” She glares at me as I open my mouth, then close it again. “Whatever, Mom. I’m going back to lit.” I can feel her eyes boring into my back as I stalk out of the office.

Daily <3

word count - 424

I stared down at the marigolds lying at the top of my doorstep. It couldn't be.. I didn't want it to end this way. I mean, in all honesty, I wouldn't say end, but my whole world had broken apart. I scooped up the bouquet of yellow marigolds and trudged my way back to the living room. I should've placed it around your offrenda, but I didn't have the courage. Who knew that our time would be so limited - that I would be the one placing marigolds around your photo; the one that we laughed about together each and every day? I can't bare to continue living in the world without you.. and to be honest, this all ends up feeling like it's my fault deep down inside. I have no clue what to do, and all of this grief - the constant reminder with all of these flower offerings, are not helping one bit. Thinking back to that day, it honestly wasn't too far back. At times, I still clutch your journal close to my heart, imagining you right next to me. It hurts that I can't talk to you once more before going, but it's all that I want. This sense of longing that I feel is beyond compare, and nothing anyone ever says or does is going to fix that. I'm just going to try to live each day to the fullest, these marigolds just being a constant reminder.. the grief and sense of longing I feel after this accident, something that I feel although wasn't in my control, is somehow my fault. People have their own theories of why you did it, why it happened, and how it came to be. But I know - I saw the rose attached to the letter left by my beside earlier that morning. We all knew what it meant - or more so, both of us knew what it was. Honestly, the burden of pain I felt was like a heavy rock pushing me down. At some point, it's going to become too much that I collapse, and until that day, I'm going to hold these flowers in mind. Not out of remorse or sadness, but more so as a reminder to never let this happen again. To ensure that I- I am never the cause for something like as I was this time. And with that, I let the flowers fall down in front of me, as a gush of tears began to leak out of my eyes. I was done with all of this..