Fae's SWC Writing Collection July 2023


hello there! <3 yet another session and yet another writing thread - this is to be a likely incomplete collection of my writing over the month but most dailies and weeklies can be found below. ^^ If you'd for some reason like to read through - go ahead, although a forewarning that most of these will be fairly rushed pieces with little comprehensible material.

★ dailies:

july 2
july 5
july 9
july 12
july 14th {unfinished}
july 17th
july 24th

★ weeklies:

★ writing competition:

The Sun Is Chained

★ cabin wars/misc:

critique for lunalu

ᴅᴀɪʟʏ: 2/7/23
340 words

edit: this was super rushed - I'll come back and edit this when I have time but please set your expectations low </3

Whoops another one of fae’s dailies which have no real meaning just vibes – I think we’ve all established that my ability to plot/ put a story together is very limited and I just like prose :sobs:


words recived: Stone breath sob promise demon


{present}
It’s quiet, and cold. The frigid sunlight seeps in, lent form by the dust that is suspended in the air. Through the warped panes of the window, the hues fracture as the pass and pool on the floor below. Between the floorboards, the weedy forms of forgotten foliage spring, and waver uncertainly. Along the walls, stone archways , that have weathered and chipped. Wind rattles through the empty room like lungs, groaning and creaking with their last breaths.
It’s waiting.

- - - - - -

{past}
They wait outside the tomb. The funeral procession – robed in black and sprouting flowers and spilling promises that break before they collide with the ground. Half-formed intentions that are soft and slippery and intend to disappear before the grave is closed. The sky is dark and knotted with clouds.

What do you do when you have murdered the one you mourn?

Listen, be quiet, hide that the spill of tears and break of sobs they expect will never come. Apologies slipped in eulogies that you hope will make it right.

It won’t

- - - - - - -

{present}

So close now.
It can feel it in the wavering of the sunlight, the fracture of the panes in the windows. There is one thing to be settled. One to be put to rest. The tomb has waited as the procession diminished over the years. Broken bodies laid into the earth, wrapped tightly in webs of deception that were never untangled. It sticks to the sides of the grave as they’re lowered in, a web that snares their spirits.
Almost.
Premature deaths, fortunes crumbled, and fame forgotten .
The last of them, the funeral was held today, a quiet gathering attended by only the wind and witnessed only by the sky full of clouds.
The whispering falls silent, the windowpanes stop rattling as the wind rolls through the crevices and forgotten opening in the tomb. It doesn’t breathe.
It is at rest.
Demons put to bed.
- - - - -

ᴅᴀɪʟʏ: 5/7/23
216 words

Object: a pillow


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ᴅᴀɪʟʏ: 9/7/23
260 words

Characters what characters? – surely I can’t be the only one without the time/and or commitment to a longer novel – these two were characters I had planned for a smaller animated series or comic that I never got around to.

Connie: connie would get a decent amount of sleep most nights, simply because she believes in the importance of sleep for functioning properly/ attention to her work. However as the studious type, she can be prone to late-night reading or studying, or potentially cramming the night before an exam. She believes in punctual and regular starting times to each day, and as a student, needs to be up by 6am to have a reasonable time for preparing and commuting to school on time. Connie is a light sleeper, and very routine – she doesn’t sleep well on vehicles or outside her usual sleeping times.

Marcy: Marcy is definitely more a night person, and she loves sleeping in. while she, like connie attends school, she’s less punctual/ less worried about the consequences of a late arrival, and so doesn’t pay much attention to the early starts that are required. She needs at least 9 hours of sleep a night, and usually goes to bed around eleven, and wakes up around eight on school days, though on weekends she’s usually asleep by one or two in the morning. Marcy is a deep sleeper, and can sleep in most locations and usually at any time. While she needs quite a bit of sleep to function, she doesn’t do so at any sort of reasonable hours.

ᴅᴀɪʟʏ: 12/7/23
161 words

fantasy wandering archipelago! This was an idea of mine that I proposed in my leader app and i thought this would be a great way to expand on it.


Inked onto weathering paper with salt-licked edges that have crumpled and fallen away, a set of islands lay. Cast aside and dropped into the ocean - slips of a mapmaker's fingers on careless hands that were soon to be forgotten by even the one who drew them. Caught somewhere between tales and truths, the islands had slowly slipped from memory. Yet you're approaching them now, and for perhaps the first time in many hundreds of years a ship sales towards their shores. Waves break against your boat gently, but there’s something wrong – where the islands should sprout from the seafloor there is nothing but the expanse of cerulean sea until it dips away at the horizon.
Then. A jolt, and you watch as the ship banks against the shore that was missing just before. The strange feeling of an illusion falling down.
You look down at your map once more, but it’s different.
“Welcome to the wandering archipelago”

ᴅᴀɪʟʏ: 14/7/23
{unfinished}

Translated lyrics from cool about it by Boygenius! If you haven't listed to The Record I would definitely recommend it ^^

But try to forget it
I feel like I've been sweating since
Please get my head out.
Tell me that one day I will forget
Knowing that it's probably not true
Once, I got to know your medicine



The lights press against his eyelids, gently pushing against them until they open.

It’s a room, the walls bearing down too closely around him, clinically white, but thick and heavy - he can only assume they’re held up by the light, which brightly runs into every corner unchained, and props them up.

He is caught, snared within a roughly sewn mess of tubes and wires, running through his skin like twine, stitching together his body.

There’s something there – a memory he can’t quite grasp – a stretch of Polaroid photos that haven’t developed or were left in the light so that the colors never really came through. There are spaces for memories there- slots of film - but they’re blank.

Something passes through his vision – there’s a face and it meets his eyes. But then it’s gone – or he’s gone?
- - -
The face is beside him.
But now it has a body too. Robed in a thin blue nightgown, a flimsy shield that she holds around her that falls above her knees.
And the eyes, they turn like sunflowers towards the sun, blooming tracking their energy as it moves across the sky.
Her skin is mapped with little red lines that net her body, roughly stitched together like an overused doll in the hands of a child – worrying at it’s edges and teasing the stuffing free as they fret. – in some places the skin parts a little,and she’s leaving colour on the floor.
“ren” a name- his name?

her eyes turn down, and now she's spilling something - maybe' it's rain? he can't help but notice that her eyes have clouded with the overcast half-light before a storm.

the image is washed away, and it's black again.

- - -
He wakes up – really – for the first time.

{and I didn't get to finish this on time unfourtantly - I'd still though I share it just as a record}

daily #17
used bunny + wood. the premise behind this story was of a toy who was left behind during a disaster-type situation, but had an awareness of the outside world.

Discarded on the floor, wood with planes an edges that have been smoothed to soft corners by the worrying hands of children – fingers grasping at it’s edges until they melt, a figurine. On the twisted floorboards, it looks out of place, a carved wooden rabbit with gentle eyes and lacquered coat. One edge lays broken, an ear that has been snapped as voices raised and wood wasn’t shared.

It frets now, as splinters work themselves away from the edges of its coat, as slipping between the paws mildew weaves itself a net. As the tail, which under the peering eyes was tugged and pulled, bends against it’s joint.

Its maker was not the sentimental type, throwing the toy to be prodded and whittled by eager hands as it joined the band of other wooden creatures. The frog, the fox; their edges drew near and abraded as they tumbled into the box at the end of play.

Remember.

The fox was crushed beneath the feet of the children as they fled, the blast strong enough to shake their frames and falter their claps on the animal they held.

The frog had fallen from the box as it tipped, gone unnoticed by the children as they stood still, holding their breath. Water had leaked between the panels from the hole in the roof, despite his likness being a creature of water, his little wooden frame buckled and molded.

The rabbit was held by a girl, dark eyes and dark hair, she had slipped him in her pocket to take him home. As soon as the fabric covered his ears he fell from her mind, as she grasped at the colouring pencils. When she ran, he tumbled from the pocked to the floor. Lodged between chair legs he watched them flee.

Now the roof is gone, the colouring pens have spilled their ink and bled dry, stains running down the floorboards that have themselves, twisted and worn. His coat is pocked by holes of rain and soft divots where insects made their nests.

Finally, the past detangles itself from his fur, and leaves with little protest.

daily for the 24th: this is so rushed adfghj

she can speak to ghosts, but it's them who really do all the work.

Ren has always had a passion for sculpting, little models fashioned, bunnies and frogs and foxes that spring from the muddy clay and sit cluttering upon every plane of space. There's always been whispers, hidding in the corners and, springing from the walls. But they became something more, faces, stories, people, then they became models. subjects for her figurines. ensnared with rough strokes and chisels, they were caught with little faces painted in anguish greif sorrow, Skin pulled taught over open mouths, stuck in a cry.

then one day, all the figurines are gone.

The Sun is Chained

The night rises, sore and battered. Sunlight peels from the moon as it’s dredged and docked in the sky. The sun falls over the horizon, strings of light that held it snapping. Dusk seeps in over the mountains, stealing stars to fix upon the sky and clasping the winds and warm air of evening that it loses hold of in the mountains.

The partitions bear no adornments, peals of worried paint parting from the walls as the moon slips in, casting light on the planes of Asadi’s face. He lays upon the rickety iron bed, draped across it, with knees to his chin, its frame mirroring his. Thin and wiry, hard skeletons that have been used too often, skin marred and marked. There’s knotted flesh that has bunched and gathered around scars - bruised by the fingers of other children, where play or food sends their hands grabbing, raking against one other and leaving purple patches.

Through the window, warm air blows and the night steals through the window like a thief, come to take away his rickety breath.

He shifts, and now he’s facing away. There’s a gentle cough that is stifled.





Asadi sways beside me, fingers picking listlessly at the little rabbit with worried seams.
The coverings of the windows have blown open, whisked by the evening air – and even in the nightly chill, his cheeks burn with fever, breath catching in his flimsy lungs. Iron scrapes against iron as the door is opened.

The face of northern snow with lines driven by a plough stands in the doorway. A match is passed through his fingers. Flare cupped in the cradle of darkness. Though he housed and fed and clothed us the little stream of morality he paraded has run dry, so has the money.

“Asadi's sick. He needs more food.”

“There are many parentless children in Kabul, only so many orphanages.”

“He's wasting away! God, please.”

His eyes don’t even falter as he delivers his verdict. “I’m sorry, Hajira.”

He leaves, and the door is left ajar, darkness pooling quietly at the threshold
Only when the light ceases to burn do my eyes falter, and leak.

——————————————————————-

I tug against his spider-thin limbs, He rolls over, eyes pinched with sleep

“Wake up Asadi, we’re leaving.”








A group of children emerge from the school building, huddled tightly and strung together by an invisible thread. The chorus rises as bodies are jostled against each other.

The walls, eaten away by silver make it seem as if the machines were hungry. They’re crumbling and laid bare - stripped like a carcass in the sun that slump atop each other.

Despite the beaten heart of Kabul falling around him, Asadi looks so happy. His face, flushed, flashes in and out between the other boys. A ball is threaded through the group, passed between feet.

It was the whistle first, the rattle through the sky that warns the children to hide, take cover. Then the blast.

The pack splinters and fragments, little legs pumping as they run towards whoever is waiting. Smiles and reckless courage abandoned like an unfavoured toy cast aside.

Asadi's fingers feel faux and clammy as he twines them with my own, head pressed against palm.

Eyes turn upwards, attention caught like sunflowers as the morning perches in the sky. They twist and turn, and pick through the red of the afternoon horizon for fire, for smoke.

Somewhere torrent has rained itself down in fiery shards, rivulets of ashes driving their way through white peeling plaster. Here, the stray rocket had lost our scent and gone falling after some other children.

If only the spire sticking up from the church hadn’t shown, it would have been indistinguishable from any other block. I grab Asadi’s hand and we’re running towards the smoking street of our house.

Hajira

“We can’t, please.”
Asadi's voice catches in the worn notch of his throat. It breaks as it bobs in his mouth. I hesitate.

His arms stretch from his frame, outwards like a flower turning the petals towards the morning sun. Bones abrade against the skin, pulling like canvas over a tight wooden frame.



The fractured boy with the faded yellow toy car at his feet, upturned and missing a door as it’s pulled about by the thick fingers of joyless children.

“I’m not hungry. I’m happy here”
So many lies whispered here paper the rooms.
The plaster walls crack and crumble. Somewhere, underneath the roof, other children breathe reused air through rickety lungs.

“Pack only what you need. I’m sorry, Asadi. We leave tonight.”

Asadi

we slip through the window, and she runs her hands along the notches in the frame. So do I, feeling the scars we’ve left on the wood, and the little wooden pockmarks where fingers have picked at the wood before us.

This wasn’t our home, really. So why does it feel like I was parting from a net that snared me, like ripping a band-aid away. It hurt, a little.

We fall into the pocket of darkness and run along the avenues and into the night.








In the hollowed out patch of ground, scorched earth and blacked buildings hulls, we huddle together. Asadi rests gently against my ribcage.

We don’t notice as a man slips between the stones his shadows falling like a bird of prey. Asadi, like a mouse caught off guard, is startled, and I feel his heart rattle through the thin stretches of skin. His eyes run the length of our bodies, assessing the frames of poorly built models. Toys with flimsy joints and imperfect surfaces.

His hand is placed on my shoulder, touching the little red openings that have split into my skin , congealed but pulled apart again by searching fingernails. The cracks threaten to burst at each movement of the limbs of dry limbs. Paper-thin skin tearing away at his touch.

He asks us if we have parents, we respond with no.

And without protest, we are bundled and led, like sheep to the slaughter block. I hadn’t noticed the uniform. Asadi trails behind, lost and stumbling but connected through our fingertips. He never lets them go.

We’re deposited in by a drooping façade. Where the shadows fall, they cast the little peeking building in tones of black, sitting atop each other are crumbling layers that have been worn, and tired eyes of windows that buckle in their frames. It has chiselled itself barely enough space to sprout between its neighbours.

Weeds twist and bend, falling under the baking sun, strangling up between sidewalks and choking on the dust.

The sun sags as it is suspended just above the horizon, threads of light bowing and faltering. Summer air whisks through the thin streets and is caught in the open windows filled with peering faces. The wind is hot and dry, and carrying dusk on its shoulders.

Voices are raised and strung up between the streets, muted cries slosh gently through the alleyways and lap at the door.

Asadi clutches me and somewhere, the bow strings snap and the sun falls.








Asadi trails behind, his footsteps falling softly, and thin limbs striking out into the dark as we glide through the night.

Where the land falls away to desert, and the moon is suspended by thin puppeteers' wires, pulling it this way and that as it traverses the sky. Higher still, little stars are fixed upon constellations and scattered loosely, rolling trails of light across the sky

The road bites at our feet, skin snagged and worried apart. As it grates against the uneven rocks stacked upon each other, tumbling away as they are trodden upon.

Then the mountains, bruised ink stains bleed into sky black blue midnight. We run along the road edges, every rock and stone digging gashes in our feet. Every truck rattles along the long roads with tenuous light shining thin threads in the darkness.

Our hearts beat in tandem, stuttering but tumbling forwards. We need to get across the border, the invisible line that draws so many distinctions and can cut away the bindings that chain and shackle our wrists to the ground.

We run because, if we can’t be smuggled on the truck to Pakistan, then come morning, our bodies will lay against the road edge, bitter cold a thief that steals the flutter of beating hearts and throws them away on the wind.



I can see the truck we will take now, the picture blurs and slips sideways. I can hear Hajira, but it’s muted.




They tell us that they can only take one.

Asadi clutches my limbs, tightly holding himself against me. I can feel the bones of his frame jut out against his thin nightclothes.

His eyes are dulled bronze. A little of him has been snagged and caught on the nails of the windowsill which jutted out, and he looks … less. He is falling against me now, little limbs slackening. I prop him up.

Freedom was paraded from whisper to whisper, riding on the back of please and promises. But always left high on the shelf and out of reach of the prying fingers of children. Perhaps it was only ever a fleeting childish wish that wasn’t quite dislodged.

“Take Asadi.”

They grab him by the arms, and his eyes snap open, limbs stretching back towards the strip of road.

Asadi

We board. it's dark, and every sway and rattle reverberates through our bones. Skin pressed against skin, and the shaking breaths on reused air. Cries of other younger children are pushed around the shadows.

I swallow the fear, through a gap in the back doors of the truck, I can make out a star.

Asadi

it’s so cold, then its baking hot. The sun’s fingers prising open the slats and beating against bone, and the nights freezing limbs in place. The murmurings of other occupants rise - groans that permeate through the empty car.
Straggled, sickly, the air smells of infection and broken bodies. Thin limbs and open wounds that are badly dressed.

God, it's so cold.


And the glare, it’s so bright when the truck doors open. Our eyes which haven’t seen light for days are blurry and wounded, the sun is too bright. But there are shapes that obscure it, black figures of shadow.
The dust billows up, and I clutch the wall.

We stumble out of the truck, limbs flailing, fall on the ground, bright orange sands and rocks digging into our palms, leaving little cuts. The sky is so cerulean blue, clouds strung loosely between the mountains. There's a thin stream of liquid falling from my eyes. I blink, they’re blurry.

Thank God.

Hajira..

Asadi

Once, I asked after a girl with short brown hair and fiery eyes and a soft voice. Did she go back to the orphanage?
It went up in flames
Was she captured by Talib guards?
No one had heard.

As years grew old I believed that you were simply a brief beat of a life I struggled to remember.

And now I’m writing a letter that will never be read.

I can count the number of times I remember you smile, I can call upon every worn and smoothed recollection until the details that were caved upon it have retreated into the copper heart of the memory.

I wished you had the chance to shine.

You can’t find the sun in a locked room.

Asadi.




1976 words

a/n feel free to skip/skim - not included in word count.

I was inspired to write this piece after reading “a thousand splendid suns” and “the kite runner”, which are historical fictions of the same setting.
These books were instrumental in widening my perspective into other areas of the world in conflict that I hadn't previously had any insight into. These are beautiful novels which, if you're interested in historical fiction, are very captivating.

all the depth of the conflict and emotional and physical impact of the occupation of Afghanistan couldn't be fully captured in a 2000 word story, and it was definitely a challenge to represent this as accurately as possible inside the wordcount - I'd definitely recommend doing additional reading if you're interested in this topic. ^^

Thank you to everyone who helped in the process of this story, it's been quite a process, specifically zai @polarbear_17 for providing me with last-minute feedback and reassurances <3

critique for lunalu <33

When nightfall comes to present its cloak of darkness, the world obliges. The sky is not cruel, and graces them with miniature gems to decorate the abyss above. Still, their light is dulled, as if gloom is weighing upon them.

There’s a faint ticking noise in the distance, startling the otherwise silent graveyard. It’s imperceptible to most, but it thrums from the stone. When the sun comes to sweep the darkness away, it always lingers in shadows. The ticking does too — it counts for him. Every heartbeat wasted, every regret upon soul sorrowed.

At the center of it all, sits him. He sits in the midst of rocking back and forth with the winds, quill and parchment in hand. His eyes are a horde of stars, gleaming with unsung melodies.

Hand enclosed around his inkstained instrument, he makes his first stroke.

I love the setting of the scene here - the descriptive language is very rich and defines a definite mood for the piece. I think that it's intentionally somewhat vague - but if that wasn't the case then perhaps you could elaborate a bit more on the place and time that the event is taking place? It is mentioned, but in a roundabout sort of way because of the prose - I'm guilty of this too don't worry! But I'm assuming that this is a stylistic choice <3

We’ve had quite the long run, haven’t we?

Time wears all resilience thin. I know you’re exhausted, that you’re ready to become one with the pool of darkness that you’ve built, but I promise: there is still some light left within you, Horologium.

Again - I love your writing style, however, it's a little vague. It's unclear as to who this letter is initially addressing and what relationship they have with the character mentioned in the initial speil. Is he writing a letter to a friend, himself? while this latter becomes evident, it could be clarified earlier in the piece. This may also be a stylistic choice, so disregard if that's the case ^^

As ink falls upon the page with unmatched resolve, words unfold that have been repressed for an infinity beyond what ticks could ever measure. This is the story that has waited far too long to unshed; it has gutted him from the inside out.

For a brief moment, the thrum from the gravestones grows in its magnitude. His fearful spirit returns to face him, a scolding for breaking routine. The ticking speeds up, it pounds against the array, it’s unbearable—

(You won’t win, he tells himself. I will.)

—

The darkness is a facade for us to drown in. The tides beg us to wade in every day, and when we finally cave, we’re swept into an everlasting current. We cope by creating shadows of our very own, darkness within our control born to fend off the unyielding fear of what we cannot.

It’s been years of solitude – years without them, and it’s torn us to bits. Why ever did you dive head-first into the ocean without those who had been there from the very start?

I love the internal conflict occurring here - the struggle of your character is something that you've brought out very well throughout the piece with your language choices. To strengthen this, I think that introducing the scenario at the beginning ( the war) would make it easier to appreciate the emotions of the character and understand his struggle. Also the extended metaphor here is lovely <3

When he finishes, he signs his name with a flourish of finality. Upon sealing it in a well-worn envelope, he pockets the letter, taking great care to ensure it remains unscathed.

Next, he acquires a spade and begins to dig. It’s practically as tall as him, and nearly topples him over as he picks it up for the first time. He falls into a rhythm of lacing into the soil, which soon numbs into routine committed a hundred times over. The ticking finally begins to quiet in his mind, content in the repetitive action. By the time he’s finished, a golden globe begins to peek out from the horizon.

—

Here we are, away from light’s purity. We’ve chosen to live in limbo, to drown in condemnation; draining our internal luminescence with the hope to reforge who we are in the name of self-sacrifice. But where has it gotten us, if nowhere but self-destruction? We remain shackled to the ground in a solitude that increases in volume every day, detached from the sources of light that once encased our soul in gentle hands.

The light too, has a facade of its own – sweeps us into its open arms and soothes our loathing by drowning out the noises which we cannot bear. It seeps through the chinks in our armor and melts it down entirely, helping us to feel as though we deserve that kind of incandescent, invulnerable peace.

We knew that we didn’t.

You've done a great job with creating the perception of a character whose experience is clearly harrowing. The portrayal of the character as tired and resigned and numbed to the extremities of the realities around him is very convincing. ^^

I also love the metaphors in the letter section of this segment, however I feel as if some of the meaning is lost in using multiple of them in succession. Perhaps consider using fewer metaphors/allusions and mix it up a bit with some direct explanation to the reader.

He plants the spade headfirst into the dirt with finality as the sun arises to return its warmth to the world. Overlooking this graveyard, his very own creation, he sees the countless headstones huddled close together, practically brothers in arms.

There were never any bodies to bury, only emotions. Explanations that could only be given in their articulation through written form, that couldn’t possibly be conveyed aloud to their recipients.

—

Our justification for this self-vilifying is fallacy. Missteps where we stumbled, misspoken words that couldn’t be taken back, mistakes that couldn’t be undone all stacked on top of one another, building walls that soon forged into a monster of our own creation. We put ourselves into that windowless cell, rejecting the interconnected web of stars and souls that waited outside for us. To maintain their purity, we believed that the source of darkness had to be taken out of the equation entirely.

There was no hope to fix what lied within – so we drained away from the light, allowed to be swept completely away in the torrents instead, where misery would plague none but us.

I love the return of the ocean/river/torrents symbolism - it definitely ties the sections together. Again more of what i mentioned in the previous sections, the language and descriptions are very rich however it would be helpful to include some sections which explicitly stated what was meant. ^^

Horologium lay down in the unmarked grave, eyes arced towards the stars for the first time in millenia. He places the envelope on his chest, letting it bask with him in the moonlight before covering it with his open palms.

From the trenches, his last glimpses were of his home; far more welcoming than he had made it out to be.

this is the first section where it really becomes clear that the writer and recipient of the letter are the same. It potentially could have been made clear earlier but it also works as an element of anticipation, where we are waiting until the recipient is revealed - either work so it's not really an issue.

but what I need you to understand is that while both sides bear their facades, they are still ultimately still real – and disappearing into one or the other does not make you any less so. In truth, they aren’t sides; they are a balance, for one would not exist without the other. And to live with illumination means not to forget the darkness, like drowning in shadow does – but rather to never forget its power, and live alongside it.

We are made of the luminescence that pierces the darkness, and concede to that truth is your pivotal growth.

It is time to return home, Horologium. In wallows of sorrow, we’ve attempted to make amends. Burying our regrets in the graveyard, apologizing to the wrongs we inflated and the rights we ignored. To the souls that believed in us, that just still might – but only if you finally let it all drift in the currents. You must bring yourself to emerge from the pool of darkness you’ve shrouded yourself in.

Unclench your hands. It is time to allow yourself to be held in the arms of starlight.

-
I love the first sentence of this particularly, but the whole paragraph is very insightful ^^. I think often that we build up narratives around one side or another of a conflict, and justify what we are doing by making the opponent seem less real or human.

—

When midnight’s cloak drapes the night once more, the moon rises a bit lighter. The sky gleams a bit brighter.

If one looks close, with an open heart and a wide eye, one can see a formation of stars with renewed luminance. Horologium is a swinging pendulum caught in time; not struggling to come to an end, but rather one that reaps the beauty of never reaching it.

Down below, in a graveyard of empty coffins and envelopes of regret, there remains one uncemented.

In the constellations above, his hands glow with renewal and fulfillment as he embraces those from his past.

When he takes a joyous moment to pause, to listen, he realizes—

—the sky has finally fallen silent.

I love the almost circular nature of the story, we're back where we started with the reference to the night's cloak. The ending is well written and fits well into the story as he comes to the epiphany within the letter.

overall thoughts:

You're descriptive language and symbolism are very strong throughout this piece, your control of the language is beautiful. A little more clarity at the beginning of the piece would have improved the overall experience - but it still worked well as it! <3 this was an impactful narrative and the concept was very interesting - great job luna!

thank you's <3

@opheliio { lio}
Lio! <3 I'm so grateful that I had a chance to lead with you again - throughout my time in SWC you've been such an inspiration and wonderful friend, and it's been lovely to reunite once more for this session <33 I'm always in awe of your canva prowess and your amazing google sheets which are honestly so helpful and I have no idea how you do it, and I can testify for your music taste (phoebe and boygenius <33). You are so amazing, wonderful, cool, and many more adjectives to describe your greatness - thank you so much for leading with me <33

lit-fi lunch pals:

@wilde-grey { alex }
alex <3 not only were you the largest contributor to lit-fi's words this session ( woah :00 ), and the first to solve each of the riddles, but you became a literal writing machine during cabins wars. Thank you for all your contributions to lit-fi this session and it's been wonderful to have you with us <3


@Laureldrop {hazel}
thank you for being another one of our riddle-completers and for your activity during cabin wars <3 You were one of the more active campers this session and your participation was much appreciated

@-eloquence {el}
el! <3 It's been wonderful to have you in my cabin for yet another session - I can't believe that it's been over a year since real-fi </3 March of 2022 I was utterly nervous for my first time leading, and I was so grateful to have someone who supported me. I'm so glad to have had you back for this session, and thank you for all you've done <33

@Piper_Camps { piper }
This session has been one of reunition, and I'm so glad to have had you in my cabin once more. Between you and lio, we almost repeated the last-july-team this session. Thank you for being a wonderful friend and I hope you had a lovely time in lit-fi <3

@-vanillamochabear- {juli}
Juli!! It's been wonderful to be in a cabin with you once more - November 2022 was a fun session, and I'm so glad to have had you co-leading with me then. It's been great to have you this session and I hope to see you around in the future <3

Co-leader recs from my brief reconnaissance ^^

If you're looking for a co-leader with prior experience, I've listed a few below:

https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/893031629/ @puffyfish
Bee's cabin atmosphere aimed to “Connect with campers” and his answers are fairly detailed

https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/893215517/ @ koolkatz38 {edit: indigo has just accepted a co-leader offer}

https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/889206025/ @Froggola
Sarah's cabin atmosphere aimed for a “safe and welcome space with friendly competition”

and If you're alright with an inexperienced co-leader, I'd recommend clem - She's been a previous camper of mine and her answers throughout her application are authentic and display her personality ^^

https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/889187930/