‣ hello there! congratulations on finding this. i'm river, and this is my writing thread for the november ‘23 session of scratch writing camp. while you can read anything you find in here, i’d prefer that you not critique unless specifically asked to. this session, i'm leading alongside the wonderful skye and the equally wonderful jasper in the dystopian mirrorverse! i believe that's all the intro you need—welcome!

[ dailies ]

11.01 ♦ introduction daily [ 1010 words ]
11.02 ♦ letter to your future self daily [ 376 words ]
11.03 ♦ the mood of fall daily [ 1264 words ]
11.04 ♦ constellation backstory daily [ 515 words ]
11.07 ♦ showing exposition through dialogue bi-daily [ 620 words ]
11.08 ♦ conversation through time daily [ 493 words ]
11.12 ♦ tongue twister daily [ 575 words ]
11.13 ♦ writing with a prompt daily [ 374 words ]
11.19 ♦ figurative language bi-daily [ 771 words ]
11.21 ♦ cabin aesthetics + atmospheres daily [ 432 words ]

[ weeklies ]

11.02—11.09 ♦ characters weekly [ 1614 words ]
11.09—11.16 ♦ humour weekly [ 1504 words ]
11.16—11.24 ♦ culture and conlang weekly [ 0000 words ]

[ dystopian mirrorverse challenges ]

[ word wars ]

11.05 ♦ word war with skye [ 315 words ]

[ other writing ]

11.10 ♦ cabin wars ~ violet and elyse [ 1586 words ]
11.10 ♦ cabin wars ~ aurora borealis [ 1173 words ]
11.21 ♦ critique for moonlit [ 447 words ]

‣ welcome back to my favorite season—swceason! this is my first daily of the session, in which i was asked to introduce myself as a children's board game. i chose to use monopoly, a perennial favorite.
‣ i will, of course, be attempting to introduce myself in 1000 words—there may be a few rambles!
‣ i think that's all i have to say about this first daily of the session—enjoy!

you reach into the cupboard and pull out the box.
it's a bit banged up—you've played this game many times—but each time, you get better and better. opening the box, you carefully arrange its contents; three decks of cards, one “hosts”, deep purple cards with a shimmery quality to them that makes you think of a hologram, one “ghosts, those with a slightly more pearlescent feel, but stunning all the same” and one “cabins”. now these are varied, thirty or so cards that are as much unlike each other as possible. some go in sets—the poetry grove, the poetry wilds, etc., but others are completely different; you see a card labelled “non-fiction”, covered in dinosaurs, and a card called “steampunk,” decorated with gears that are painted so well, they look almost real.
setting the cards aside, you dig into the box one more time and are rewarded with a pair of six-sided dice and a few old tokens. examining them, you choose the book, then toss the dice to see who will be first to go amongst you and your fourteen competitiors.
you roll an eleven, the second-highest number. on your first roll, however, you don't roll nearly as high. instead, you roll a six and find yourself on Celestial Poetry Grove. Sounds interesting, you think, flipping over the card…

hello there! i'm river, as you probably know, she/her, and this will be my fourth swc session. this session, i'm leading the dystopian cabin with skye and jasper. in previous swcs, i've been in the celestial poetry grove, the mystery express, and the fantasy wishing well—which, as you've likely already noticed, are going to show up throughout the game.
i've been writing seriously for almost two years, but i've been a teller of stories for many more. my deep dive into writing coincides with my first swc session, and i hope to continue writing even when i am no longer a part of this lovely community. to me, writing is not just words on a page—although that's something amazing, seeing letters form words and sentences and knowing that's something you've created—but storytelling, a way to express creativity, sometimes a source of consternation, but more often than not, a way to have fun. after all, that's what led me here in the first place!
the fourteen other players take their turns, and you sigh in fatigue. if only they could hurry up a bit, then you wouldn't have to wait an hour (it feels like that, anyway) to roll again. finally, you gain control of the dice.
you toss the dice, one after the other, and find that you've made it to the next side of the board. you scoop up this second card, which is a shade of deep maroon, a beautifully illustrated set of train tracks running from one side to the other. Mystery Express, it reads.
you're pretty sure you'd buy this property, but you flip over the card to make sure…

of course, writing is my first and foremost way to tell stories, but writing, as everyone knows, is irrevocably intertwined with reading; they're like two sides of the same coin. thus, to love writing is to love reading, so i must pause on the game for a bit and give you a more-than-brief rant about each of my favorite books. settle in, everyone!
we've got to start this section with the lunar chronicles by marissa meyer. while it is not my favorite book per se, it's the one that converted me to dystopian novels, so i could hardly fail to include it. i love everything about this series—the concept of the lunars and all of the celestial things sprinkled throughout, the science-fiction and fantasy elements incorporated, the fusion of countries and cultures in the “earthen union”, even the throwaway things, such as the fact that there is a “space race to neptune”, everything! the best part of this series is the fairytale element—each book retells a different fairytale, and while the backbone of the story is there, it's been woven so well into the novel that it feels like a real “aha” moment when i've discovered a hidden reference—believe me, there are quite a few of them!
six of crows, crooked kingdom, and by extension the entire grishaverse are probably up there for my favorite book. the found family aspect of everything, the captivating world, the grisha magic system, and of course all the cons, tricks, and plots are just a few of the epic things about this series! my favorite character in the books would probably have to be either zoya or inej—inej is just so determined, zoya is so powerful, and even though they change greatly over the course of their stories, neither of them becomes something new. perhaps they still have a long way to go, and that's okay! i love that about both of them, but it's especially exemplified in zoya (spoiler! turn back now!) at the end of the current series, she's ruling a kingdom, but she hasn't lost that mean-girl sharpness, and that's okay. i've also got to make a note of the worldbuilding—the different countries are so fascinating, and draw the fine line between being inspired by and copying real-life countries. the magic system is also great, especially with how there is a safe haven for the grisha in ravka.
anna-marie mclemore's when the moon was ours is also perfectly lovely. i've reread it several times, and i love it more and more each time—the prose is absolutely beautiful, and though it is most definitely purple, it doesn't feel overdone royal purple at all—more like a lovely, delicate lavender, that paints a beautiful picture of the setting characters, which are, by the way, fascinating and just a tiny bit magical—four girls who seem to move and breathe as a simple force, a boy who hangs painted moons in the trees, a girl with flowers growing from her wrist; they're all absolutely epic.

‣ this is a bit new to me—the letter-to-your-future-self daily. while i've done this activity before, i've never done it in swc, and certainly not over a timeframe as short as a month; previously, i did the activity over the span of the school year; so i'm excited to see how and if i change in a month's time! enjoy <3

dear river,
it's your second day of the november session of swc, and you're beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed. you knew there was responsibility, but you didn't quite realize how much.
it seems hard, but i know you'll get through it. by the first week of session, you'll have found your groove, you'll be leading with confidence if not ease, and most importantly, you'll be fulfilling the four aims of dystopian: taking care of yourself, finding community, improving your writing, and friendly competition. you'll love some dailies and love others…less, but what'll be important is that you tried.
have you entered the writing competition? if you have, it was may have been a last minute entry, as i, your friend from the past, haven't even started thinking about a possible entry. i wish you well in completing it, and i know that even if you don't write a winning entry, you'll still be alright, because you tried.
there will be two sets of cabin wars, and i wish you the best of writers and worst of betrayals (that meaning none), future river. you'll stay up past eleven, happily writing your heart out, but the satisfaction, the chaos, the fluctuating points that await you on the other side of those twenty-four hours—those will be worth it, won't they? just promise me you'll use your outlined strategy of setting alarms for the shield times and get as much sleep as you can, alright?
you're reading this now, waiting for the rankings. the storyline has been completed, or has it? i like to think that it will be completed over the session, that our little band of writers will complete every challenge assigned to them and that this nightmare will be escaped. because at the end of the session, it will be a nightmare no longer—hopefully, dystopian is a place for community instead.
if you're still writing your dailies in the mornings before school, still fitting in weekly parts between homework and practice, i commend you, because you can still handle your schedule. but if you miss one—or two—or a few—that's all right; what matters is that you tried.
i'll leave it there, river from the future. good luck with the results!
—river

‣ i am so excited for this daily—the feeling of fall is something that i've always loved, but i don't get many chances to express it in my writing, as i tend to write more dystopian things! so this is an exploration of sorts, but it also feels familiar—coziness always does, doesn't it?
‣ the piece i wrote is not based on real experiences; i was looking of things that decayed quickly, similarly to leaves, but were lovely while they lasted, and came up with middle school friendships ;)
‣ note: the word count at the top does not reflect what you see below—i misinterpreted the daily, but still counted what i'd written beforehand. the count for the below piece is 635 words.
‣ alright, enough of my rambles. enjoy!


october 13
10:56
violet throws a look—quick, darted, furtive. there's no crime in going to the water fountain; there is in taking detours along the way.
violet slips a note into ely—elle's locker. written on a leaf, like they used to. black loopy cursive squeezed in between splashes of bright paint.

october 13
05:20
everything is dark.
the sky, black streaked with navy; the ground, jade so deep it's practically onyx, the house, a house-shaped void painted blackest black; it's all darkness.
and then—light.
it's a a flicker of flashlight through linen curtains, blankets puddled around a cross-legged figure. pen moving furiously, they scratch letter after letter onto crumpled sheets of paper. minutes while away until—
“violet!”
in a click, the world is dark again.

october 13
12:17
brushes, shoves, accidental pushes; elle navigates them all, the captain of the seas she was in their stories. arriving at the locker, she balances a stack of books with one hand and reaches out with the other.
three spins of a dial, and the locker clicks open. the green-painted door swings, revealing an interior of books and an old puffy jacket. and a flash of color, like splotches of paint.
elle reads the note. written on a leaf, like they used to.
elyse—i'm ready.
elyse. that's who she used to be.
she flips over the note. on the back, a date and time. standing on her tiptoes, she tosses the note out the window. it becomes one with all the other flaming, glowing leaves—burning like their friendship; stunning, not sustainable.

october 14
18:44
“you came,” violet says, her voice too harsh against the soft swirls of leaves that frame elle's face. she was prettier, taller, but violet gave her the key to her door.
elle slammed the door on violet, but she doesn't like thinking about that part.
“yeah,” elle says slowly. “what are you ready for?”
violet leans against a birch. it's a secluded grove—in the middle of a public park, sure, but hidden, the kind of place you have to know to look for.
once upon a time, they knew.
“i'm ready to talk,” she says.
“about what?” elle's voice is sharp. practiced sharp. the sharp that knows how to survive.
violet throws her head back, messy hair catching on a leaf. she yanks it out with a crack. “i want you to remember.”

october 14
18:46
“remember…”
that one word, and then it clicks.
summers in forests and winters in blankets, autumns spent curled into balls, flipping pages faster and faster as they raced to get to the “good parts”. apple cider, and the revelation that it would always be better than hot chocolate.
games of book trivia, kahoot!, telephone. for a moment, she misses that life.
and then it hits her: the best game two years ago; or so they thought at the time.
elyse neglected it, they said.
elyse didn't care about it, they said.
elyse would have a trial, they said.
elyse couldn't plead the fifth, they said.
“are you done with this?”
elle said yes.

october 14
18:47
“i remember everything.” elle's voice is cold as fall nights, acute as the points of maple leaves, harsh as rough tree bark.
“we were friends once,” violet says, and beneath her calm there is the wistfulness of a girl who lost her best friend. “do you remember?”
a wind kicks up, ruffling their hair and the branches. pulling leaves off trees, coaxing them into little storms and gusts. leaves twirl around elle, a reminder of what they used to be, a heroine and her shadow.
“i remember why i had to leave,” elle replies.
for a moment, there is silence.
elle turns, leaves crunching under her feet.
and
she
doesn't
look
back.

november 03
07:34
they moved on.
elle looks out her window, curtains shifting in the breeze.
in a blink, the last leaf falls.

‣ the first weekly is about characters—always one of my favorite things to develop after worldbuilding {plot is a very distant third!}
‣ i've done a character weekly in swc before, but it was a good two years ago in the poetry grove, so hopefully i've improved since then
‣ there will be individual notes in the sections depending on how motivated i am {edit speed-running does not include author's notes, who knew}—enjoy, fellow writer!

‣ part one: character inspiration
[ word count: 381 words ]

for this part i got “new romantics (taylor's version)” from 1989 (taylor's version).
and every day is like a battle / but every night with us is like a dream

fatigue.
it defines their days, as constant as satchels crammed with work and eyes bruised from lack of sleep. hazel reaches for a touch of concealer—she's forbidden from makeup, but without it her mother would surely have exacted tighter measures to stop hazel from pulling all-nighters again.
quickly, she swings her satchel over her shoulder, bends to tie her shoes, and her busy hands still in the memory of late-night phone calls.
they're easy, she's discovered from weeks with only 30 hours of sleep. easy when one-in-the-morning nights are with celeste, a peace that comes from talking about everything and nothing at once. and yet, there's a routine they know, familiar despite the fact that it happens at midnight.

“you're still awake,” hazel's more-than-best-friend whispered, their phones a lifeline.
“you called me,” hazel said, refusing to acknowledge it.
“are you so sure? perhaps you pull out your phone so often, calling me is just a habit,” celeste yawned.
“i wish you were wrong,” hazel replied, and the smartphone went silent as they remembered who they were, what they were in this world that was, to fall into cliché, so close, yet so far.
“i do too, zel. if there was a magic wand—a fairytale, a spell, hidden in the trunk of the hazel tree—”
hazel laughed, golden eyes widening. there was something so safe in laughing with celeste. something no one can take.
“go on,” she said, returning to the routine. “tell me your dream.”
“once, there were two girls…”

“and so,” celeste yawned, “that's how it ends.”
“it ends,” hazel echoed, smiling, “with hazel trees growing all over the greek islands?”
“i don't appreciate your skeptism, hazel. and actually—” there was a pause there, hazel imagined celeste checking her clock “—the story ends with sunrise.”
“isn't there a quote you like about that, celeste?”
"there is, come to think of it. natalie lloyd's a snicker of magic—how the main character's mother says she doesn't like people riding off into the sunset; she'd rather wait and see the sunrise waiting for her.“
”that's a nice sentiment,“ hazel said quietly.
she, eventually, broke the silence with the thing they both know well. ”if only it were true."

hazel ended the call and swung herself out of the blankets. time for the daily battle.

‣ part two: character sheets
[ word count: 175 words ]

name: hazel covenly
pronouns: she/her
species: human; does have slight supernatural ability with plants; can make them grow slightly faster and use them for healing
physical appearance: used to be short but now average, wavy dark hair with money pieces, startling eyes that are gold in certain lights
strengths: aforementioned plant manipulation, fairly intelligent, determined
weaknesses: notorious insomnia, not great with deadlines / finish lines in general; this is often the cause of the insomnia, slightly tactless
tendencies: deflects personal questions if they hit too close to home, has a habit of ruining celeste's fantasy with realism, falls into routine quite a bit with people she knows well, twirls hair around finger as a nervous habit
personality: introverted, slightly perfectionistic, pretty quiet when she's with strangers, intelligent, cynical
hobbies / skills: talented gardener w/ supernatural abilities; her parents know about these and encourage them, likes watercolor and gouache painting, tries and fails to play guitar every couple of months
relationships: okay relationships with her parents but still closeted with them, celeste is self-described as a more-than-best-friend, has a few other friends at school but isn't very close with them

‣ part three: scenarios
[ word count: 552 words ]

♦ celeste is telling stories again; hazel eventually can't control her frustration
“do you ever think about running?”
“from…”
celeste sighs, her eyes upturned as they always are when she's in one of her dreamy moods. “anything. everything. just—going somewhere else, escaping.”
“with no regard to material cares, of course.”
“n—hazel, just imagine it. with your plants and my drawings, we could go anywhere.”
“sure, except for the fact that we'd have to pay for food and lodging.”
“zel, can't you just—”
“it's not going to happen,” hazel says, and she regrets-but-doesn't, because the words are true, aren't they? celeste's fantasy will get them nowhere. speculation, yes, but the dream of running is impossible.
“i know, but could you at least pretend?”
“i'm pretending that this hasn't offended you, then.”
“was that an apology?”
“do you want it to be?”
celeste smiles. “no. it's part of the routine, isn't it?”
hazel smiles as well. finally, a return to the familiar. she'd rather be here, in this moment, even if it's less than perfect. she knows it'll continue, it won't change, and that's enough.
“part of the routine.”

♦ hazel is practising healing with plants
a curve of her hands, a flick of her fingers, and the sprout pushes its way out of the soil, just as gracefully as the movements of her lead hand, her left.
her right hand follows, an echo of the first, and just as surely, a few leaves emerge from the stem, which spirals higher, almost the height of hazel's palm.
“hello,” she murmurs, brushing a leaf in greeting. a futile gesture, for sure, but one that is comforting; the cycle of growing, greeting, cutting, healing.
speaking of cutting…
a sharp slash of right over left and a few leaves fall, green against dark dirt.
this, hazel thinks, is ephemeral. beautiful, but ephemeral.
a lyrical word, and one she finds herself using all too often to describe celeste and her attitude towards life. beautiful, but temporary. there will be a heartbreak sooner or later.
celeste, hazel thinks, though she's not there to hear it, if you carry on like this, something will break you. someday. better it be me.
hazel looks down at the leaves, uses them to smooth away a paper cut on her palm. if only her wounds could be healed so easily.
trust me, celeste, she says to the empty air. i know.

♦ hazel is trying to map out her sleep schedule with celeste and failing
“so, if i go to sleep at 1 am…”
“ah, but you wouldn't. why torture yourself unnecessarily?”
“maybe i have to work, or practise, or stare at the ceiling and torture myself with questions about life! not everything is sunshine and rainbows, you know.”
celeste gives an uncharacteristically bitter laugh, causing hazel's flinch. they've joked about this for years; hazel's sleeping and celeste's fantasies; it should be second nature to her now.
“that doesn't change the fact that 1 am isn't going to work. how about 11?”
“11? that was my bedtime in preschool.”
“i'm sure your parents knew,” celeste yawns.
“you cannot lecture me about my sleep schedule and yawn at the same time,” hazel says as flatly as she can, which isn't very flatly, as she's broken into a fit of giggles.
“sure i can,” celeste says, and for a moment, her easy-going manner disappears. hazel treasures and dreads these glimpses, reminders that they are pieces that fit into a whole.

‣ part four: expanding upon scenarios
[ word count: 506 words ]

expanding on scenario two
her phone begins to buzz, and hazel pauses, lets go of the plant and pads over to examine the phone. she barely uses it, and her parents have blocked all games, because hazel doesn't need additional sources of procrastination to have to speed-run deadlines.
with a sigh, she sees it's a video-call request, from her mom. the reason why she doesn't just use instant messaging is a mystery.
pressing the little green button, hazel holds the phone to her ear. there's silence for a few moments, then—
“hazel, dear, celeste is 5 minutes away. could you come down?”
“mmm,” hazel says, stalling for time. she looks at her phone, and right on cue, a text shows up from two minutes ago: in the car! eta 5 mins.
“i can see the text too,” hazel points out. it's addressed to both her and mum.
“yes, yes,” her mum says distractedly. “well, come down, won't you?”
hazel leaves their garden, keeping the leaves she cut off of her sprouted plant, and makes her way downstairs. they own two apartments on different floors, and some technician installed a bookshelf-ladder combination so that they could travel between floors. it's a nice concept, but often an inconvenient one.
“is she here yet? can you see?”
mum gives hazel a queer look. “no, of course i can't see. we're on the fourth floor, hazel. stop twisting your hair, now. it's bad enough you've got that beauty stuff in it.” the dye in her hair is slightly faded, but any sort of hair product or cosmetics is near taboo in their home.
eventually, the doorbell rings, a would-be pleasant set of chimes that has a wrong note, right in the middle of the melody. it makes celeste sigh a little every time she hears it; she says it means the doorbell is suffering from sadness.
hazel's brushed away the fantasies for years, and celeste has reinvented them for the same span of time.
“hello, celeste!” mum takes celeste's coat and hat, lets her wipe her sneakers on the doormat, and steps out of the way to allow her into the apartment.
“so, hazel, have you drafted your part of the report?”
“most of it,” hazel hedges, keen not to let her mum overhear yet another hazel-procrastinated-on-an-assignment conversation. “would you like to go up to my room?”
celeste understands the formality. “yes, let's, then?”
“when you say most of it,” celeste sighs, “do you mean 70%? 60%”
hazel sighs. “45% is good for me, celeste.”
“i wish i was your teacher, so that i could reprimand you.”
“i'll turn it in,” hazel argues. “perfect score.”
“and you'll stay up until 1 am if you have to! i want a perfect score too! but i'm not going to work myself like this.”
“i'm not asking you to,” hazel says quietly.
“i don't—i know. it's just—can't you change?”
hazel avoids celeste's eyes. “you know me, celeste.”
“i do.”
she blows out a long breath, mostly to stall inevitable facts. “i prefer the routine.”

‣ the constellations daily! always a favorite of mine; if you couldn't tell by my username i'm very into stars and all things celestial.
‣ i'm using lyra, the harp constellation—i pretty much scrolled through go-astronomy.com until i found something i was interested in writing about. apparently this constellation evokes the myth of orpheus and eurydice, which is a tale i've always loved. while this is by no means the next hadestown, i tried to put my own spin on the myth. enjoy!
{tw: de@th of a loved one}

‣ and, bienvenue to my first word war of the session!
‣ i chose to use this prompt: “all my life i longed for it to come true. now it finally has.” enjoy!

“all my life i longed for it to come true. now it finally has.”
at last, the wish upon a star i made many a year ago has come true. my mango garden, despite being in the midst of the freezing east coast, has flourished with a passion beyond all possible gardens. i wake up, toss the blankets off of my bed, and watch the delicious fruits shiver in the cool wintery air.
they are delicious, to be sure—oranges and yellows, gently speckled in a manner remeniscent of spray paint, each one heavy and plump and sure to be delicious. i toss on a coat, for it is cold outside, run downstairs, slip shoes onto my feet, and race outside, remembering only then that i am not wearing any socks, and the frosty grasses and leaves nip at my feet.
whatever. i'm on a mission, now!
i race—it seems so long that i run, but i race all the way to the garden and promptly crash into the fence; i would not normally be felled by such a thing, but the combined early morning heedlessness and my extreme excitement causes me to collapse in a little pile on the frosty grass. pulling myself up, i grab the handle of the gated door and reassure myself that all of these small trials and tribulations will surely lead to the perfect mango. happily, i push my way through the garden, whispers of soft green leaves brushing me as i make my way around. finally, at the very back, saving the best for last, i find the mango trees; four perfect specimens overflowing with lovely fruit. i grab one and, without washing it or anything, take a bite, hopeful to find the sweet juice inside.
alas, i am left with nothing but the sour taste of plastic. spitting out the not-mango, i check another, and another. [ time ends ]

‣ it's the first bidaily of the session! i wanted to do this yesterday but scheduling happened
‣ i've chosen to use a character from my weekly, celeste; i find it terribly tedious to go and invent new characters for every daily so i might reuse these ones a bit. enjoy!

swish. the motion of the shuttle through the tunnel of warp. a muffled thump as the beater hits the beginning of the weft. swish. thump. it's a cycle so mindless her mind can wander anywhere.
celeste is not here. she is in the stars, among clouds and moons and passing comets, trails of fire brushing her cheeks as they zigzag past. the heat tempers the icy cold of space. for a moment, celeste could be anywhere.
“that's beautiful.”
the words rouse her from her daydream, but rather than hazel's being a harsh, but realistic release, like when she finishes the very last chapter, this is a bucket of ice water, poured over dream-sparks before they can find kindling, become beautiful, unstoppable, flame.
celeste shakes her head, as if to clear the fantasy-cobwebs that have accumulated.
“thank you,” she says.
the figure nods, and as celeste looks up from her work she sees a familiar face; it's lexie, madison lin's younger sister.
“it's celesta, right? from you-know-what” she whispers, careful not to let another know of their “after-school class”.
“celeste. lexington or madison?” she asks, and remembers at the flash of anger that lexie hates her full name.
“lexie. can i touch this?” she asks motioning to the softer areas of thread.
“i suppose so, just don't break anything,” celeste replies, and lexie brushes over the softness.
“do you want to make something?” celeste doesn't want to sound belligerent, but she's not quite sure why lexie has ventured to the art centre, of all places.
lexie taps one sneakered foot against a stool. “maddie thought it would be a good idea to come visit. for an all-round education.”
“i see.” she doesn't, not really, but she needs to say something, to keep anchored here and not drift off to cloudland.
lexie nods, but doesn't speak for a while.
“do you want t—um, i like your sneakers.” she's never glanced at them, but the slip needed to be covered. with zel, it's so easy to be sucked into routine.
“thank you,” lexie says, with a slightly smug look at celeste's ugly-sneaker-clad feet.
she wanders around a bit, but there's not much to see that can't be seen from their spot in a corner.
“are you making something in particular?” lexie asks, and celeste thanks her for making conversation.
“it's a hanging.”
“and…that is…”
“something you hang. on a wall.”
“no offense—” celeste braces herself, she hates this phrase.

“no offense, but why do you never know the answers in class?”
“no offense, but why is your hair always a mess? you're so pretty.”
“no offense, but what are you doing with hazel covenly as your best friend?”
the last one always hits the hardest.

“no offense, but why are you putting in all this effort—” she gestures to the laser-thin threads, each careful swish of the shuttle “—when it's not even going to be anything?”
“anything…”
“like a scarf. or mittens. or gloves. or—or an adorable beanie. you have all this work, why not make something out of it?”
“this is something.”
“yeah, but it's just—”
“it's hard work. it's soft and gentle and shimmery. and more than that, it's beautiful. there's so much—'scope for imagination', as they say.”
lexie considers her, her and madison's assessment of celeste as compared to hazel shifting and clicking into a new comparison.
“i see.”
it's the same kind celeste gave lexie earlier, but she doesn't want to fault the other girl for it.
lexie glances up at the clock.
“next period is starting. we should go.”
celeste casts a mournful glance at the hanging, that is soft and gentle and shimmery.
“thanks so much for reminding me.”

‣ no notes b/c i'm speedrunning—enjoy!


“how did i get here?” young river asked curiously, her hands covered in food coloring.
“why am i here?” asked an older river, aqua glasses resting on her face.
“when can i leave?” asked a river older still, staring at her phone as though she had somewhere to be.
or maybe she was reading. you never can tell, can you?
“you're me,” observed young river, and the older two laughed together, sharing the joke of old age.
“yes, we're you,” older river said patiently.
"how am i you? or maybe this is all in my imagination. but this is an experiment you'll never forget!“ and with that, the youngest of the three was lost in a cloud of maniacal laughter. eventually, she calmed and began making food-coloring handprints all over the place.
”well, we've lost her,“ the grade school river said sadly.
”don't worry, she'll come back soon enough.“
the other river shuddered at the thought of a young her; she's spent enough time with her younger relatives to know how unique small children are.
”you're really from the future?“
”i'm in my twenties,“ the other said, but didn't give more clarification than that.
”can i ask you all my questions?“
”if you must,“ the oldest river drawled.
”do i get into college? do i get straight a's? do i ever—“
”well, that's an interesting question,“ the older river said cheerfully.
”how do you mean?“
”well, what happens to me is determined by what you do. so what you should really be asking is what happened to me before this meeting, and make your choices accordingly.
“why can't you just tell me what to do and what not to do?”
“it's different for each person—or iteration of me, i suppose,” the other said with a maddening superiority.
“at least you're not—”
the young river skipped back, hands outstretched as though hoping to paint on her older selves instead of a canvas.
“delighted to have you back,” present river said with all the irony she can muster. unfortunately, such things are wasted on preschoolers.
“i'm delighted to have me back too!” this was a happy little shout, and neither of them will break her bubble.
“i have advice,” older river announces, and the two others swing on her hopefully.
“tell. me. everything i need to know about life and—”
“what can i buy with tooth fairy money and do bookstores take quarters—”
“no and no.”
"then what are you saying!“ the little one screeched.
the other two rivers looked at each other anxiously; both could spot their previous temper tantrums.
”avoid lemon meringue pie,“ the last said. it was the first thing that popped into her head.
”is that from the british bake-off?“
both of the rivers shuddered. ”hey, i wonder if covid is still a thing,“ present river said.
”hmm, good question.“
the rivers look fondly upon the ticking clock. ”guess she'll have to find out."

elyse's side of things:
violet could still remember the time she'd first met elyse, how it felt as though she was a fairy, someone from another planet, someone who should definitely not associate with a lowly earthling like violet.
they had met on a patch of grassy, messy, meadow, tall wheatlike stalks brushing violet's arms and legs, her parents losing her in the sea of grasses. she had run through, feeling wild and untouchable, like some true fairy queen, titania from a midsummer night's dream (though of course, she didn't yet know who that was.) she had raced through, feeling unstoppable, until she found a blank spot. a nest of sorts in the meadow, crushed grasses muffled with a soft, but grayed blanket.
and a girl, sitting there and smiling at her, who was surely not someone from that universe.
then the girl shrugged and returned to the novel open beside her. violet knew that they were meant to be, best friends, keeping the knowledge of leaves and plants and grasses firmly between each other. she had smiled and laughed and asked about elyse's book. a few words, and they were off in that secret land of imagination, known only to children and those who know the way.

“do you remember?”
yes, elyse remembered. their games when it was just the two of them; best-and-only-friends, writing secret messages on leaves or escaping from the industrial lawnmowers, it had always been those two against the world. of course, elyse had other friends, she always had, but they came first for each other. they always had.
elyse remembered the too-hot cups of apple cider that always burned her tongue, the delicate taste of the madeleines they'd attempted to bake once. (covered in honey they were delectable; without any sweetening they were tasteless as rocks.)
elyse remembered middle school, and all of violet's fears—elyse would leave, run off, stop being her best-and-only-friend.
as it turned out, she wasn't the one who shattered their bond.

it would be violet who found a crowd in sixth and encouraged elyse to join, violet who took charge of deciding what they'd do each recess. and violet, always violet, who reassured elyse she'd be her best-and-only-friend, forever and ever. and it had been violet who encouraged her to believe in their myths and stories, who had said that make-believe could be real if you let it be so. it had been violet who transformed elyse, holding on to her while pushing her away.
their games, their tricks—foolish then and foolish now, but important to them, so important. important to all of the friends, excepting elyse. elyse who was different, outcast, but above all violet's friend. violet who was her best-and-only-friend. elyse remembered that until the memory stung too much to even hold. she pushed it away the way she'd been pushed away.

there had been a trial. a formal one, as formal as a few sixth graders can get, a gavel of a pencil case and testimonies of their friends. a declaration that elyse had betrayed them—how, exactly, she didn't know.
all she knew, all she could recall from that day was violet's angry demand, a quick-spoken question, her eyes glaring into elyse as she had never been glared into her before.
“are you still my best-and-only-friend?”
the ‘yes’ stammered out had not been confident, certainly not, but she'd meant it, just like they all meant what they said. it was the interpretations, the understanding, that broke their bond.
violet nodded, and though elyse was the prettier one, the more popular one, the noticed one, she could feel violet's particular power then, a leader even of the outcasts still a leader. “then you'll understand,” she said, and told the rest of them that the trial was to go on.

leaving was not something she planned, not something they wanted, not something either of them expected. just a change in lab partners, in seating arrangements, in the way she did her hair, and that was it. elyse had moved on.
she hadn't forgotten violet, her kind words, the books always carried with her, the choppy dark hair that looked as though it had been cut with safety scissors.
but more importantly, she hadn't forgotten how a best-and-only-friend could no longer be so, how she could be reforged into something new because of a group of girls with their books and their stories. how she could go from being violet's favorite to no one's, and eventually, to the entire school's.

walking out on violet hurt her, but more importantly, it told violet she remembered. all of them remembered, and though it might be something they chose to ignore and twist and knit into the story-quilts of their lives, it was there. it was theirs, in a way that nothing else was. elyse and violet. violet and elyse. the two of them, best-and-only-friends against the world.
until the world became violet, then just as quickly elyse, and they were on different paths, sewing different quilts, nothing more than a patch in each other's stories. something you could come out of saying you were glad it was over, but that you were all the better for it.
elyse picked up the fallen leaf. not the leaf, the one with violet's note, but just a leaf, one blown into violet's hair that fluttered out on the last day of autumn. she would keep it not as a memory, but a reminder of all those ones, the ones stored away by both of them. of grassy meadows and apple cider and undersweetened madeleines—all of this, she knew, could be squished into one leaf.
black loopy cursive squeezed in between splotches of bright paint. elyse inhales, exhales, takes a seat at the ever-so-tidy desk. closing her eyes, she lifts her pen and begins to write.

“violet, you'll never get this letter. but while you're here, i have a few things to tell you, that you'll never know but that i cannot forget. if you still remember…”


violet's side of things:

“please, please understand that i didn't mean it, elyse. none of us meant it. we were angry! we were rash! can you grudge us for that, for having too little judgement to understand that we were hurting you, exiling you.
even that trial—elyse, please, i never thought it would break us! you were my best and only friend, elyse. don't you understand, it was for the greater good?”

she pauses, knowing that the rehearsed apology is no good. elyse will not accept such a cobbled together, scrapped and rewritten, apology. the year she spent apart from violet, the year without violet, has made her cold and hard, and she will not see a looseleaf paper apology, violets glued into the corners, as worthy of her attention.
or will she? violet doesn't even know anymore. the leaves swirl outside, but she pays them no attention, knowing it's merely the fan they forgot to take down after halloween. she doesn't really care about the leaves; they've mirrored her mood before, but it's alright. she doesn't need a bunch of swirling leaves to tell her she's angry.

yes, violet is angry—at this whole mess. at herself, for betraying and apologising to her former best and only friend. at her friends, who are still her friends, who accept her just as she is, but who pushed her, in one way or another, to hold that trial. the memories threathen, but she refuses them. she is violet, and although she might still be climbing the ladder of middle school, she is smart and strong and quietly powerful. elyse—sorry, elle—cannot break her.

“i always wondered why you changed your nickname. i called you elyse, we all did, and we thought it was a perfectly stunning name, fit for queens and kings. don't you think so, too? but elle is the person you are now. vi is the person i am now. we changed. we moved on. except me, elle. i haven't moved on. i just—i need you to tell me why. why did you do it? did you know, did you know, did you know you were leaving us? did you see it like that? i just want you to explain, elle. please.”

she's lying. without even speaking a word to another violet is lying, because she doesn't need to ask elle why she left. she knows. elle knows. they all know and violet is still in denial about it, crying softly in this perfectly purple room as she rehearses an apology she'll never get to give. elle left because of the trial, because of everything, because they pushed her away. she shattered the fall meeting and violet is still asking for an answer she will not have.

“an explanation,” violet whispers to the choppy-haired, petite girl in the mirror. “i know what happened. i know why and when and how. but what i don't know, elle, is what you were thinking that day—week—month. that's what i don't know and what i want to figure out. so for my sake, elle. please.”

the leaves continue to swirl, and suddenly, violet hates them for how lovely they are, how they echo the bright colors spilling out of elle's pencil case, the reds and oranges and pinks of highlighters and pens. vi knew this language until elle took it from her. violet grabs a leaf from the window with steel in her eyes. she is vi now. and at some point or another, violet will have to move on.

‣ a quick apology for the lack of author's notes during cabin wars—i'm on a deadline, okay! and with that, enjoy <3

have you ever wondered where the aurora borealis comes from?

it means northern lights, of course. aurora lights, and borealis northern. which begs the question, dear listener, are there southern lights? eastern lights? western lights? of course there are not, just the northern ones. the most famous, the most stunning, the least upsetting. (superlatives are useless as there's nothing to compare to, but they sound lovely nonetheless).

i can tell you, dear listener. one spends an awful lot of time just sitting in the stars, listening to them plan for earth's birthday party and wondering if venus will ever get her spin on straight. closing your eyes and wishing you had not been given this honor, which is you suppose honorable, but also incredibly boring. to be immortalised in the stars? you end up with quite a lot of free time on your hands and many stories to tell.

perhaps, if you listen, i will give you one. put away that useless bit of chemical-filled metal you hold. the stories of stars cannot be documented in human technology. we roam free and we roam eternal.
don't look at me like that, dear listener. it is impossible to be promoted to be an eternal constellation and not harbor a bit of egotism. it's natural. just you try it—oh, wait, you weren't granted that honor.
forgive me. on with the story.

the aurora borealis, despite what you've heard, did not begin with a girl called aurora.
i know! you cry, silent but angry, furious at this tale with its unorthodox beginning. you wonder, if such a thing begins this way, how will it end? you are right to wonder, but for now, cease your jabbering and listen to the tale, dear listener.
the aurora borealis begins with a siren.

she wasn't a mermaid, she was a siren. i care nothing for mortal storybooks; mermaids live around the equator and cannot survive a trip up to colder ocean waters. argue later, listen now. the siren was not called aurora, she was called arista, and the root of the matter is not really her.

oh, she was perfect, i can tell you that. by no means royalty, but stunning anyway. garlands of woven seaweed in her hair, because she could not afford any of the lovely gems she gathered as her job. the perfect bride, but sirens are not meant to be brides. they are meant to sing, and unfortunately for otherwise perfect arista, no one dared venture to the north. you know that, don't you? no one would ever venture up to those cold ocean waters, just in search of a myth.

so instead of letting humans come to arista, she came to them, dear listener. you can see her—in east, south, and west, her tail splashing out of stellar waves ever couple of centuries but for the most part skimming below the surface. she travelled all over, until finally she met a human, and began to know them as a friend. not a bride, but a friend, whom you share stories with.

the friend, now, was named aurora. you triumph, call out your pride, tell me you know this story and everything that comes with it. quiet, dear listener. you have not yet heard the full tale.
aurora was an artist, the kind that was painted with water and spilled mortal refreshments and drew pictures in the sand. she needed to draw, that much i know, but to paint was a true luxury, not afforded to her. she saved up bristles, strand by infuriating strand, and wished for the day where she could bind every bristle to a scrap of wood and finally craft a paintbrush.

arista could not stay long. sirens cannot, you know—they are nomads, loving and leaving with the tides. any pearls she collected, any gems she gifted, would cast too much suspicion upon aurora to ever be considered. instead, arista left a last parting gift—a lock of messy dark hair, silky and wet from seawater.

aurora wanted to honor this gift. you would too, wouldn't you? she bound the bristles to a brush and found herself an old set of pigment, determined to paint herself a last portrait of arista before the tides washed away her memories of her friend forever. they do do that, you know. fickle, angry creatures, serving no one but themselves. this is not, however, a rant about how the tides are governed, dear listener. luna, stars shine upon her, has much to deal with already. this is a tale of aurora.

aurora, who bound the hair to that brush and began to paint arista as she had never painted before, the locks of hair waving in the wind on the piece of old board she'd found, the pale face taking a blush when its cheeks were painted over one too many times. this was a real portrait, but for aurora, dangerous and brave, it was not enough. cutting herself off, that would have been, but the half-life granted by the portrait was just enough of a reminder to spur her into action. for two long years, she sold pictures, one after the other, found herself a boat, and went to sea.

aurora searched everywhere, as fairies often do. but she was no fairy, not immortal being, and though a gallant prince might have swayed such enchanted hearts, true friendship is so often forgotten in fairytales, regarded as a second to the waking of the princess from her slumber. aurora sailed to the south, to the west, and the east, her bones becoming old and frail, and still she could not find the young siren who had given her that gift, so many years ago.

i did tell you, you know, that no one would be foolish enough to enter the freezing lands of borealis. well, aurora was that foolish, rememberance driving her on, and eventually the cold became too much. she had only a few last swipes of her brush left, a feeble message, left in the colors of arista's tail and painted, green, aqua, and purple in the sky, a glowing sign that would, hopefully, tell arista that her friend had never stopped looking.

and then aurora faded, her magic paintbrush remaining on the boat, but not for long. eventually, luna who rules the stars and tides, stars shine upon her, collected the paintbrush and set an acolyte to painting forever, a message for arista and aurora, who were gifted with true friendship, dear listener.

i have often wondered what became of arista. her tail shimmered to the south, the east, and the west, but she never made it back home, to the north. she would never, will ever see the beautiful colors, green, aqua, and purple, that shimmer in the sky as a reminder. dear listener, you'd best have listened, because she is to be remembered. remember aurora, and arista, and the gallant prince who always gets saved. and remember first and foremost—aurora never stopped looking. neither should you.

‣ national tongue twister day! i used sophie's tongue twister “cinnamon has no synonym”. enjoy!

“cinnamon has no synonym,” anise wailed in despondency.
“that's got a ring to it, hasn't it?” rosemary replied, considerably more jubilantly than anise had. “cinnamon has no synonym. cinnonym has no synonim. cinnamon has no synamin. i mean, cinnamon has no…”
“i don't care if it has a ring to it,” anise grumbled. “the point is that cinnamon has no synonym and so i can't use it as an example for my english assignment.”
rose bent around anise and examined her computer, which was full of a list of common literary devices and terms. anise was scrolling through them and providing examples for each one, but some examples were decidedly more inventive than others.
“well,” rosemary said briskly. “you don't necessarily need to use spices for each one. you just have to have a theme for them. also, some of these examples are completely, totally wrong. it's a simile that uses like or as, not a metaphor, and you spelled simile with an extra i.”
she tapped the computer screen twice, eliciting shocked gasps from anise. “that screen is so shiny and clean—”
“so are my hands,” rose informed her.
“—so shiny and clean, and you just tapped it with your oily, tea-y human hands—”
“you literally have oily tea-y human hands too, anise.”
“yes, well, i don't go smearing them over other people's computers.”
“i didn't smear—why are we talking about this when i'm supposed to be helping you with your english assignment?”
“oh, i don't know,” anise said smugly, “except that someone dirtied my computer screen and i felt i had to speak up and say something, after all, it is a very pertinent issue.
”so you can't find synonyms and don't know the difference between a simile and a metaphor, and then you just toss a word like pertinent into your everyday speech? i will never understand you.“
”no one does,“ paris commented, sliding down the banisters and hitting the floor without a sound. ”have you ever wondered why i don't help my little sister with her english assignments?“
”no, i don't need to wonder,“ anise replied grumpily.
”neither do i!“ paris said cheerfully. ”it's because—“
”my elder sibling takes academic integrity and plagarism far too seriously?“
”i was going to say it's because i have far more work than you, but ça marche aussi,“ paris replied innocently.
rosemary shuddered. ”this is why i take latin.“
”latin's a dead language,“ paris said with a shrug.
”yeah, well, i don't just drop latin phrases into my everyday conversation.“
”how are those two things related to each other? really, rose, you consider yourself adept at english.“
anise slammed her hands down on the table. ”neither of you are helping me! this assignment is due in three hours and you're seriously debating the merits of different languages to study in school? what is—“
”what is this, jeopardy?“
anise groaned. ”help me out for once, okay?“
paris bent to study the laptop as well. ”what's the problem again?“
”the problem is that cinnamon has no synonym, and anise is theming her english homework around spices,“ rosemary replied.
”cinnamon has no synonym,“ echoed paris. ”got a ring to it, doesn't that?“
”paris,“ anise begged.
”okay, okay. the answer is simple. just put cinnamon in the metaphor section and find a synonym for, uh, aromatic.“
paris left in a flutter of denim.
anise did as paris had said. ”hey, what's a synonym for aromatic?“
”use google," rosemary replied.

‣ i mean i wrote the in-cabin intro, so i could easily think of places where it might go, but for the sake of this daily i made it more open-ended :0 {love how the author's notes are getting into more and more of a mess each time} enjoy!

“no, this is far worse than a nightmare.”
elle leans on the side of the staircase. “explain.”
"it's obvious, isn't it? we're going to have to sit here for hours, just listening to some lady drone on about how the dictionary is a changing landscape and that is what makes english a healthy language and how all of us should write dictionaries in our free time.“ aurora threw herself against the arm of the staircase, groaning theatrically.
”why've you memorised it all, then? going to actually pay attention?“
”no, of course not,“ jenna replied. ”they just repeated it so many times, it stuck in my brain.“
elle doesn't question this; jenna is and has many things, but an extraordinary memory is among them. she's told elle that there's no such thing as a photographic memory, but if there is, jenna's is one.
”yeah, but what makes this worse than a nightmare?“
jenna shrugs as though it's obvious. ”it's actually happening, duh!“
elle stares at her. ”nightmares feel like they're actually happening, genius. you always, what, have nightmares and think to yourself, ‘oh, this nightmare isn’t actually happening, i'll be fine.' no! you do not!“
jenna rolls her eyes. ”i didn't mean like that,“ she grumbles.
”then what do you mean?“ elle asks, the note of laughter to her voice telling jenna they're all in good fun.
”i mean,“ jenna says patiently, ”we've been dreading this assembly for ages. you don't dread nightmares, they just come.“
elle throws up her hands in exasperation. ”that is absolutely not what you said ten seconds ago and you know it.“
”how do you know it was ten seconds ago? do you have a flawless internal clock?“
”that's not the point!“ elle shouts furiously.
”yeah, well, it's still true,“ jenna replies.
they make their way up the stairs, elle groaning at each one.
”we need escalators,“ she comments.
”yeah. let's petition the principal's office or something. i am not physically capable of this.“
finally, they reach the assembly hall and flop into their seats. the chatter, as always, is cacophonous—as the speaker comes to the podium, it settles. she opens her mouth, and then—”
elle wakes up.
she laughs. “well, that wasn't exactly a nightmare…”

‣ i will write an author's note soon :0 enjoy!

‣ part one: humourous skits
[ word count: 370 words ]

VIOLET (tiredly): do you ever feel—
LUNA (singing): like a plastic bag?
VIOLET (glaring at LUNA in annoyance): no, like there's just a day where you don't have anything to say? like you're not tired, exactly, you've just spent all of your words and don't really feel like finding some more?
LUNA (thoughtfully, staring out window for a few minutes): yes, of course. there are two remedies to such a corundum.
VIOLET (deadpan): that's a gem.
LUNA: really? i never thought i could come up with inspirational quotes worthy of Instagram.
VIOLET: no, I mean—
LUNA: as I was saying, vi, there are two solutions to your corundum.
VIOLET (tired): still a gem—
LUNA: let me talk. you could either drink so much hot apple cider that you can't concentrate on anything else but the heat of the drink—mmm, fall vibes!—or you could put in the effort and actually find some new words!
VIOLET: hey, who just slammed the door?
VIOLET and LUNA look over to see MADELYN, carrying an open computer and a stack of notebooks. she wears a scared expression and seems to be just balancing the computer over the mountain of notebooks she has.
MADELYN (running up to them): everyone, i have a disasterous announcement!
LUNA (concerned, glancing around to see if MADELYN's volume has attracted any attention): what happened?
MADELYN (dramatically): my word document didn't save!
VIOLET: oh no, you've lost all of your words! when is the paragraph due? (a beat) don't worry, i've lost my words as well.
LUNA: but you said—
VIOLET (concerned): it is a paragraph, right?
MADELYN (close to hysteria): it's an essay! and it's due next period!
LUNA: it'll be alright. just use this handy button over here. command-z, look!
MADELYN (glancing down at the computer to find that all of her precious work has reappeared): oh my gosh, thank you so much! you're a gem. what would i do without you?
VIOLET and LUNA burst into laughter.
MADELYN (off their laughter): why, what did i say?
VIOLET (spirits considerably lifted): never mind.

‣ part two: humourous skits
[ word count: 271 words ]

written to the tune of “all you had to do was stay (taylor's version)” by taylor swift—written from madelyn's perspective as she tries to get her essay tp save :0

computers like you always they try to disobey
and people like me wanna believe you when you say you've saved
each key pressed, the more changes made, it's a sign i can't go back
all i know is that it should've worked, when your screen faded to black

hey, all you had to do was save
keys clicking under my hands, mmm,
why'd you have to go and crash on me when i pressed all the right things

hey, now you say it's all fine
you'll never have my trust again
well, it could've been easy,
all you had to do was save

all you had to do was (save)
all you had to do was (save)
all you had to do was (save)
all you had to do was (save)

see me now, clicking like mad
trying to write with what i had
computers like you, always claim
it was fine the entire time
but people like me, we know you didn't
save one line

let me remind you
this was what you wanted
you deleted it
all i wanted was my essay
but not like this

hey, all you had to do was save
keys clicking under my hands, mmm,
why'd you have to go and crash on me when i pressed all the right things

hey, now you say it's all fine
you'll never have my trust again
well, it could've been easy,
all you had to do was save

all you had to do was (save)
all you had to do was (save)
all you had to do was (save)
all you had to do was (save)

‣ part three: swc fanfiction
[ word count: 863 words ]

river comes running up, her arms full of pencils sharpened to dangerous points and a real cannon, complete with pencil sharpeners to fire at the enemy. she carries, too, a pile of computers, which she hands out to everyone in the mirrorverse at the moment. the campers stop working, heads whipping towards her in attention. today is cabin wars, and it is absolutely essential that no one get distracted.
“attention, citizens of the mirrorverse!” river cries. “today is cabin wars, though i'm sure many of you know this. please try your best to help out the mirrorverse, and if you can help it, only attack enemies, hostile neutrals, and backstabbers. good luck!”
river runs off again—she's busy, but a few other campers gather the pencil sharpeners and pencils, ready to war with other cabins. dystopian shall prevail!
the mirrors reflect the first attack, from a citizen of folklore. the campers read the message—dystopian would have to write 4000 words in the next 9 hours.
no matter. they are built for this. the dystopian campers grab the pencils and some scrap paper; for others, it was the computers; and they get to work.

a few hours later, river stumbles back into the mirrorverse, pushing aside the fog to find the campers. most of them have vanished, but a few, vi among them, are still writing.
“vi,” river says smiling, “vi, you can probably stop writing now. you've written so much—i can probably finish off this war, we've only got a thousand words to go on it.”
vi shrugs. “i've warred all of our enemies, hostile neutrals, and folklore, since they gave us this war.” she yawns, and fades into the fog, where the mirrorverse spirits her off to the world of non-swc.
river sits down at the computer and begins to type. the keys clack happily, and she's racked up a good 200 words when another pencil sharpener flies into the cabin, landing with a burst of terrifying fog.
not that the new war scares her, but it's clearly meant to be scary. the off-centre nature of it, the way its pieces don't quite fit together—it reminds river of being in a particularly shattered section of the mirrorverse, where she's flanked on all sides by different mirrors, not-quite-rivers lining the walls. the only other thing she can compare the particular effect of the sharpener to…is a funhouse. and with that realization, river knows exactly who to war in revenge.

abandoning her two wars to sprint away, river manages the twisting path out of the mirrorverse and races through the starr-y main cabin, stopping to grab a bow on the way. the horrorian funhouse lies in the distance. the main cabin is built in such an odd way—it's like the pillar at the center of a fifteen-cabin carousel, and the carousel spots change when the rankings do.
river rifles through her pockets and finally finds a mirrored arrow, then retrieves the bow she found from the main cabin and fires. the arrow flies overhead and lands right in its target; through the first o in horror. satisfied, river returns to the mirrorverse, which has a shimmery, plastic-y shield around it, showing that the three-hour shield time has begun.

finally, the day is close to over. river has fired a few more mirrored arrows, as has vi. the campers of the mirrorverse have fought bravely, but there is one more war to complete, a full 4500 words to write.
river writes and writes, and finally she's got a good 1500 words written. she proudly stands to input them into their chart of how many words left to complete, but as she glances once more for the exact word count, she sees the horror of horrors: the screen is completely blank, just a little cursor blinking in and out as it waits for her to write.
river clicks the word count function. no dice. “0 words,” she reads aloud. “how can that be possible?”
the computer is the only explanation. the computer hasn't saved all of her hard, hard work, and look what happens now! they won't complete the war, they'll lose all the points, dystopian will—not—prevail.
"all you had to do was save!“ river cries at her computer.
vi comes over. ”what's happening, river?“ she asks.
”my evil computer didn't save,“ river sighs. ”i'll have to write another 1500 words and input that into the chart before that erases too.“
”have you tried command-z?“ vi offers. ”that might work.“
river presses command-z on the keyboard. happily, the words spring to life.
”thank you so much, vi!“
”no problem,“ vi says cheerfully.
”i'm going to get writing, then,“ river continues. ”we've got a war to write!
as they finish that last war, the mirrorverse shouts in union, “war complete!”
it is midnight, and fireworks go off to signal the end of cabin wars in every single cabin. river dives for the mirrorverse's box of fireworks, but it's too late—they fly towards the foggy ceiling and erupt in circles of sparks, breaking a few more mirrors along the way.
“oh, well,” river sighs. “at least we completed the war!”

‣ i love figurative language—the way words can twist and intersect, spinning out threads and yarns that become a fully knitted tale…i'll stop now, but hopefully you get the idea! this part of writing claims a special place in my heart <33 enjoy the bi-daily!

the willow is everything but static.
large, solid boughs droop into slimmer branches that fall into thin rivulets of twigs—or in winter, as is now, icicles. emelyn wanders through the paths, watching the little fragments of light that refract from the icicles shimmer and dance on the ground.
she inhales, exhales, enjoying the crispness of the winter air. it's calm; winter has always seemed that way to her, where the whole wide world is frozen over, all little upsets stopped until spring.
and yet—the willow quivers, the icicles swaying in tandem, a gentle clink from the branches.
emelyn closes her eyes and moves on.

astara reaches down, and with a twitch of her fingers, casts snow upon the world.
it is just the thing they need, the dusting of white to overtake everything, block it all out, so when the snow melts, in delicate, gradual steps, the world will unfreeze in more ways than one, and come to terms with what had been lost.
the explosions, the destruction, astara will not let the world forget. how they burst in the sky like insane fireworks, how they shattered everything astara had built.
nor can she freeze the seas and oceans, but she can provide closure.
a time for the world to grieve, before astara brings spring and lets the world do the work of righting itself again.

emelyn has always wondered what the leaders were thinking.
she brushes her bare fingers along a trio of icicles, enjoying the glassy sheen, and reflects.
did they know, at that push of a button, that they could doom this world?
did they know, at that push of a button, that they would not live to see the aftermath?
did they know, at that push of a button, that everyone would thank them for the apocalypse?
there is another, though, that they can thank for their second chance. the freezing of the whole world was not incidental; astara, deity of spring, was giving them a chance to become a phoenix.
or maybe she wanted to preserve what little of the world she had left.
either way, emelyn sighed, she had to be grateful.
how could one not be grateful? the world sparkled, the ground crunched satisfyingly under her feet, and those icicles were mirrors, giving emelyn a glimpse into what another life might look like.
besides, she reflected darkly, there wasn't much else to be grateful for.

astara watches the survivors return, grieve, keep going. there is everything that they have done, and everything they have to do, and yet, she watches them carve out spots of solitude, take their need for rest as not a duty but a challenge. these are not people of weak heart. they are determined to survive.
how can she not respect that? she, who governs the seasons, and twitches the puppet-strings, but has only a puppet's idea of power over the most dangerous creatures in that world. they, who have destroyed—well, almost everything. they who manage to right themselves again.
there will be good that comes out of this.
astara, deity of the seasons, controller of weather, is sure of it.
if she isn't sure, than who can be?

emelyn keeps going, carving out her delicate path through the icicle-laden willows.
there is no real point to it, she knows that. not when there are scarves and blankets to knit at home, and hot drinks to prepare so no one freezes, and a couple of younglings to watch over—but emelyn needs this piece of solitude, and she won't just use it; she'll take her calm if she needs to.
emelyn rounds a hairpin turn and brushes another. not a tree, which would surely have snow dripping into her hair, and not a frozen-over haystack, or tractor, or whatever else is on a farm, but another person.
the person smiles, introduces themself as skylar.
“and you're emelyn, aren't you?”
“i—yes. how did you know?”
“i saw you around, before.”
before, emelyn thinks. how can this world be after?
“i just wanted to go walking,” skylar says, the words cautious as emelyn was to venture out in the snow.
“i know,” emelyn says, and she means it. “so did i.”
skylar takes in the beauty of this path—the willows dripping with ice like candles with wax, enough of it to turn everything to crystal.
“i'm angry at the deities sometimes,” emelyn admits. “but then you see this, and you think—”
she's not quite sure how to finish the sentence; it's almost rhetorical, but not.
skylar seems to understand.

from above, astara smiles.

‣ this is inspired by the fantasy cabin's how to train your dragon theme—enjoy!

the wind whistles through arielle's hair.
it whistles, she decides, not whispers or swooshes or anything of the sort. no, it whistles, like a call—no, a command.
why is she bothering about this, arielle wonders. why is she dithering so about the wind, of all things, when arielle could be—
dragons.
there's no grammar to it, but arielle has found stream-of-consciousness to be terribly lacking in grammar, and anyway, she has no time. not when a beautiful vermillion dragon soars overhead, casting a shadow that darkens arielle's bright hair to a passable auburn, and she is enchanted.
by the islands and their lovely maps, by the autumn shades of the trees, by the real-life dragons that soar about—everything. she is staying, arielle knows.
there are just about ten thousand logistical things to be sorted out, and arielle does care. she isn't callous. the emewrights have much to be discussed, many things that arielle could help with. she cares about all of that—truly, she does.
but for the islands, the castle, the dragons? arielle cares more.
this is the x on those treasure maps she's heard about. this, here, is arielle's treasure.

mapmaking, arielle finds, is a terribly tedious occupation.
to be sure, it's a lovely one—the thing one finds in a fairytale, ink sketching out whole other worlds on a piece of swiftly-yellowing parchment. it's futile, though. here sit another seventeen people, copying out their maps, trying to find the cursed metaphorical x that will lead them to treasure.
no, arielle corrects, i cannot think of this as a fairytale, not when there is an actual fairytale playing out right there, right outside these obnoxiously high—are they trying to make me feel small?—workshops, and anyway, i don't need them to live in a fairytale, i live in a castle—
her not-gift with stream-of-consciousness is not getting better.
and the dragons soar again, and ink spills across arielle's parchment in thick, staining blots.
well, then, arielle resolves, this is a fairytale? doesn't seem like much of one.
she finishes the continent on another piece of parchment, and that's when it clicks, the pieces fit together. the puzzles are solved.
this isn't a fairytale—it's an adventure. arielle's. red hair streaming, she upsets the ink bottle once more and rushes out of the room.

arielle soars through the sky, red hair streaming behind her.
the dragon's scales, the tree's leaves, arielle's tresses—
they're all connected, just like those beautiful little islands in that beautiful little map.
well, then, arielle's found the x.

you are in the place a thousand mirrors,

i'm not sure if you missed a few words here, but this doesn't quite make sense to me. also, in the next section, you say that there are a “million fragments” of yourself, which doesn't quite add up to me? perhaps you could make both numbers the same or find another way to show how many mirrors there are.

They may be parts of you, a plethora of people you could be, personas you could take as your own – but they are parts of you.

i really love the wordplay here—it's one of the things that you have to read a few times, but it does eventually just click! the alliteration is also reflective like the mirrors.

. . . fault, yes you . . . . . . see the truth. . .

in the previous section of whisperings, the fragments are less closely related—these whisperings seem to be more in unison and just repeating, whereas the other ones are more scattered. from the rest of the piece, i feel like the more scattered section is more in keeping with what you're creating. you could probably reword it to be more jumbled while still conveying the message in that section. that way, it would echo the previous part about the different people, and less of a unified chorus.

you would find a way to control your power.

this story doesn't seem like the sort to have much backstory, but as a reader i am intrigued by this “power” the character has and how it relates to the setting, which clearly has some magic about it. even a few words would help clarify the character and how they feel guilty about not controlling their powers.

shadows of your bones

this is a very pretty and apt echo of the “shadow of a heart” above!

in general, i'd say that the repetition is something done very well in this piece. it not only gives us a glimpse into the character's mindset, it also shows the reader how endless the setting is and just how many mirrors there are. this is definitely something you should keep in mind when editing + for future writing!

They, you know, will be worthy, where you were not The one you deemed worthy.

in most of the writing until this point, the character is focused mostly on their failure, the truth, and the different selves—the idea of worthiness only comes into play here. it is very important; from what i can tell, the character is remaking themself in attempt to be worthy, so weaving the idea of worthiness into the above section or alternatively, expanding on the different selves of the character, might feel more in keeping with the rest of the tale.

in conclusion, i definitely enjoyed this piece. of course, there are a few edits, but it was done really well—i loved the repetition w/ the alliteration and the same phrasing, and the “whisper” sections definitely helped to give clarity on what the character felt. even though the ending is a cliffhanger, it doesn't feel very much like that—it feels like another beginning, and i think that's what you were trying to achieve.

thank you for letting me critique this <33

‣ i want to let it be known that i am not speedrunning this—i started the first part several days in advance and am just now working on the second three parts while i wait for my partner to respond xD enjoy! {fine, i'm kinda speedrunnning this}

‣ part one: conversation in conlang
[ word count: 116 words ]
will update soon!

‣ part two: proverbs
[ word count: 354 words ]

the phrase i'm using is estrãlae sxae liikae, or “stars always shine”. it's meant to be reassuring, a comfort, but it can turn out to be quite the opposite and have a cynical connotation.
it's influenced by the fact that my culture lives in houses that are relatively open to the sky, meaning that they can always see the stars and that's where it came from. on a good day, the phrase means “some things never change”, on a bad day, it means something akin to “leopards don't change their spots”.

“again,” sxiara says, leaning against the column of the pavilion for support. pluora watches her, seeming slightly uncertain.
“again,” the other girl echoes, and there's fatigue in the words.
“again,” sxiara says, frustrated that pluora isn't getting it, “again, meaning that for the fifth time this month, i can't study because i have to take astronomy seminar.” she glares at the stars, no doubt the source of the trouble, and murmurs a few words they probably disapprove of her for even using, but sxiara is past caring about what the estrãlaii aparexa, the star-spirits think of her anymore.
hence, the hoped for ditching of her astronomy seminar.
“you know it's not going to happen,” pluora says tiredly, “atarïi will make sure you go at all costs.”
“you don't have to use her formal name. you're practically family.”
“it's polite,” pluora replied primly, lacing her fingers tightly and drawing her feet closer together, as though to show she was a good girl at heart.
“well,” sxiara said tiredly, “ditching one's astronomy seminar isn't, and i need your help with that.”
"my advice is to give up and grin and bear it. estrãlae sxae liikae, sxi. the thing is going to happen, and you're going to go, whether or not you have free will.
“so then,” sxi says briskly, “we find a way to make it rain.”
pluora raised an eyebrow. “so, not a drizzle to help the flowers grow?”
"rain. thunderstorm. astrikxa if we have to.“
the other girl drew back in horror. ”you want to use lightning? you're star-crossed, sxi. all-atoms mad.“
”that is the most horrific expression i've ever heard.“
”you haven't made a point.“ pluora says patiently, and sxi hates her for that.
”i was getting to that,“ sxiara sighs, kicking the column again. ”it would be safe lightning. no one would be hurt.“
”the fact that it's astrikxa tells me otherwise.“
”well, just fog then. anything, really, to block out the stars.
“you know that's not going to work.”
sxi glares at the sky, an expanse of blue that is perfectly, infuriatingly free from clouds.
"estrãlae sxae liikae." stars always shine.

‣ part three: common catchphrases
[ word count: 000 words ]

♦ sxiara
“quie astrikxa!” that's lightning, ie. that's brilliant / brilliant idea, like a bolt of lightning
“comae” commonly used, like, filler word
“muo sxeikae plorïit, fiz…” literally translates to “i wish i could believe you, but…” used to express doubt + almost proverb-like

robin, sun, starr, luna, moonlit, and moss—
you're the hosts, the pillars of swc. thank you so much for everything you did this swceason—it wasn't just november, but september and spilling through december as well, because i know that your work will continue until after the session ends. you got the dailies and weeklies running, you organised all the activities (critiquaire! word wars! writing competition!) and perhaps most importantly in this session, you helped the entire camp adapt when the forums shut off for quick periods of time, most notably for an entire week, thanksgiving onwards. i truly can't thank you enough for what you do for this little online writing camp.
(also, loving the session theme!)
from,
river

moonlit, alia, moss—
thanks so much for coordinating all of the dailies and weeklies this session, we couldn't have done it without you! the activities are the essence of swc; without them, we'd just be a younger version of nanowrimo; so the dailies and weeklies really do have a big impact and you definitely helped out with that! even though you delegated some of the daily-writing responsibilities this session, the system still must have taken quite some thought and planning, so i commend you for that. it's an excellent system and it definitely worked. also, credits to you for adapting when the forums went down!
from,
river

cj & alia,
congrats on a successful adventure island! i didn't interact with your cabin very much this session, but it looked amazing; i loved the pfps and overall aesthetics especially! purple and emerald are not colours that spring to mind when i think of adventure, but they definitely worked, and there was an epic feel to the adventure cabin. i'd love to get to know you both better :)
from,
river

yume, sarah, and soph,
fairy tales was so cool this session! it'd been a couple sessions since we had a fairy tales cabin and you all definitely captured the spirit—it felt so magical this session, well done! i love your colour palette and overall theme; the idea of the academy is super cool :0 i didn't interact with fairy tales very much this session, and i'd love to remedy that in the future. you all definitely helped make nov. ‘23 an amazing session.
from,
river

moonlit, summer, sun,
well. i wouldn’t say our rivalry with fantasy was epic per se, but it was definitely quite something—thank you for letting me war you three times during cabin wars and returning with wars of your own! i think you were half of my cabin wars motivation, so thanks for that. cabin wars aside, fantasy was so cool this session—i loved your medieval aesthetic, as is probably evidenced by the daily i wrote about it, and i'll always hold a place in my heart for dragons. (that being said, i haven't watched httyd—after this session, i'll work on that!) congrats on your high placing throughout the session! i'm awfully impressed (200k+ words, how?) good luck with results :)
from,
river

soki, alex, and bee,
folklore seemed so lovely this session. i admit i didn't interact with it much, but i did enjoy how delightfully turquoise your cabin was—it was definitely a source of cheer! the theme you chose was also amazing. it's not something i immediately think of when i think of folklore, but it's definitely appropriate and you completely pulled off the voyaging feel. i wish you luck on completing your voyage!
from,
river


stingray, sophia, and nat,
horrorian siblings! it's been a pleasure being your siblings this session. i feel that we had similar-but-different themes; with you all a funhouse and us a mirrorverse, we've got enough reflections to last a thousand years! the cabin is definitely scary, so well done with that. even though you're currently last place, rankings are not the only measure of success and i think you definitely had that success. i'd love to get to know you all better in sessions to come!
from,
river

veni, pepper, and september,
congrats on a completely and utterly lovely illu-fi this session! your cabin was so perfect and picturesque, especially with all the mushroom themed things, including the lovely names for your word count group! you were also on top of cabin paraphernelia—profile pictures, signatures, etc., which dystopian was sadly unable to accomplish, so well done to you for that! i also loved the idea of word of the day and might adopt it next session, if i can remember to change the announcements every day! good luck results, i'd love to converse with you while waiting for them!
from,
river

elfie, clem, and fae,
wow. lit-fi was completely incredible. the colours, the intro story, the theme—it all felt like a love letter to words, and that's really what writing is about, isn't it? anyways, lit-fi felt super cool, and i would have loved to be a camper in your cabin, even if you weren't so high up the leaderboard. you all did a lovely job leading—i've been in your cabins before, and they were epic :) i wish you excellent luck with results, you deserve it!
from,
river

finley, clev, and mabel,
i've got to start off this note by congratulating you on being front-runners all the way through camp! the final rankings may be a teensy bit disappointing *cough* fantasy *cough* but you've still achieved lovely things and i'm very impressed with your level of dedication. the theme was also very cool, and so appropriate for the mystery cabin; an old, possibly dangerous mansion; why wouldn't it have a mystery tied up with its other threads of tales? it was lovely warring you in cabin wars, and i appreciate your wars in return, although i'm not quite sure they were about camraderie, hehe. see you next session!
from,
river

rockie & em,
well, it's lovely to see you again…or is it? there are three ocean / shipwreck themed cabins this session, but you all definitely have your own flair, and despite being your enemies, i can appreciate that! well done with leading your cabin. i love that your theme includes polynesian islands—greco-roman myths can sometimes overshadow everything else, so that aspect was super cool.
from,
river

gigi & nix,
well done with the cabin that will not win! that's a mouthful, hehe. i didn't interact with you very much this session, but i thought your theme of cooking was super cute and it fit with tctwnw's mission, for sure; i for one have always found cooking to be very relaxing. i hope to get to know you both better in future sessions :)
from,
river

niko & dawn,
it's the real-fi greenhouse! real-fi is one of those very classic genres, and i appreciate the greenhouse theme, it did remind me to go outside and touch some trampled-on grass every once in a while, and take a break from writing! you all did a lovely job leading your cabin, and it was excellent being your allies. till next session!
from,
river

mouse, ris, and celina,
hey, siblings! it's been a pleasure being your siblings this session; we had exactly the sort of semi-traitorous, cabin-warring, mirror-shattering relationship you would expect from swc! i loved your theme this session; to me, dystopian has always seemed like a cross between science fiction and fantasy, but there was a definitely science-y aspect to your theme! you all are such cool people and i look forwards to seeing you and getting to know you better in sessions to come. good luck with results!
from,
river

alana, recca, and indigo,
it's the script misfits! had an excellent time warring and being warred by you this session. we may never have the legacy of faux-tasy again, but i quite enjoyed the mini-rivalry this session. i also enjoyed your theme; in my experience theatre kids can be a bit odd, but we're also wonderful (now that i look back, that describes all of swc). your colours were so bright and delightful, they really did cheer me up the few times i visited your cabin!
from,
river

luka, willow, and red,
congrats on the intricate, complicated, epic steampunk this session! the animation in your thumbnail really encapsulates the cabin (forgive me, i had to say that). you've also done a great job leading your cabin, and you've done quite well in the rankings. i didn't visit your cabin this session, but i'd love to get to know you better in march and sessions to come!
from,
river

to the campers of dystopian:
it really has been amazing being in your cabin this session! you wrote well, helped us to third place, where we are now, and most importantly, (i hope) had loads of fun while doing it! if we don't end up escaping the mirrorverse, i can't think of a better group of people to get stranded with :D even if i don't write you a personalised thank you note, please know that i am thankful you were in my cabin this month, we all made dystopian what it is in some way :)
from,
river

wild,
thank you, thank you, for writing so many words during cabin wars this session! there are other things to thank you for—how much you participated, how you kept a positive spirit, but really the first and foremost thing is cabin wars because you and mokshitha saved us from certain loss several times. you're also cheerful and upbeat, it's always nice interacting with you it's been lovely being in your cabin and i hope to see you again around swc!
from,
river

mokshitha,
thanks so much for being in dystopian this session! you did so well with the storyline and reaching your word goal, congrats on doing that twice! you also saved us several times in cabin wars, we couldn't have done it without you. i hope to see you and get to know you better in future sessions!
from,
river

crim & vi,
you two are clearly the most dynamic duo of dystopian (so much alliteration there). you helped out in cabin wars, and you've been super consistent with weeklies and dailies—i wish i could be that steady about updating! whether you're walking into mirrors or starting your own empires, i wish you luck in future endeavors and hope to see you around swc more!
from,
river

skye,
it's been epic leading alongside you this session! from the moment i saw your application, i loved it, and i haven't regretted choosing you—even if you weren't as active as you hoped to be, every word counted, and you helped out loads with cabin planning. you're also such a lovely, upbeat person and i'd love to talk to you more in the future.
from,
river

jasper,
leading with you this session has been seriously epic! the three of us made a great team, and i loved every second of cabin planning, even when the forums went down at the most inconvenient times. i've loved getting to know you and your fixations this session, and i hope to continue to do that in sessions to come <3
from,
river

and finally, to anyone in the galaxswc this session:
everyone who contributed to swc this session (which is pretty much everyone seeing this) deserves a thank you—while i can't write one for all of you, you were definitely counted! whether i was having wild conversations in the main cabin about spotify wrapped and the absence of forums or infuriated over an influx of cabin wars, this session has really been the best yet. i might say this every session until the end of my swc'ing, but it'll be true every time, because they just keep getting better and better! if you participated, even once or twice, added words or completed just one daily, you're officially a part of this community, and i hope you continue to be so. happy swceason, everyone—and here's to a fast countdown to results!