2.11.23 — Shifted everything a post down so I could re-use this thread, haha! I'm going to leave this as a sort of table of contents and update it with links to the main stuff later for easy reference.


SWC July 2023

Dailies

• 02.07.2023
  
• 03.07.2023
  
• 04.07.2023
  
• 13.07.2023
  
• 17.08.2023
  
• 20.07.2023
  

Weeklies

• Weekly 1
  

Writing Competition Entry

• A Silly Little Word
  

Others:

• (08.07.2023) Word War Proof
  
• Critique for @KlM-
  

Other sessions:

• SWC November 2023
  
• SWC March 2024
  

Extras:

• SWC Co-leader App Excerpt (November '23 session)
  
• Mysterious References to Avocados (November '23 Writing Competition Entry, co-written with @Elvin_Wonders)
  
• Thank You Notes (Forever unsent and eternally embarrassing)
  
• SWC Co-leader App Excerpt (March '24 session)
  

Daily 2

Somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind, regurgitate five random words into the comment section. Now, gobble down somebody else's five random words and write 300 words using those delicious words as a prompt to earn 200 points! Sharing the daily you wrote with those scrumptious vomitted words will allow you to slurp up an extra 50 points.

Prompt words: Silence, fog, darkness, wallpaper, crowd (Courtesy of @-crazy_bookworm-!!)

Notes: I'm…not really sure what this is. Also, I overwrote again. Never let it be said that Recca ever fell short of a word count.

Total word count: 411

— ○ ♥ ○ —

There’s something about parties that unsettles me. I’m not sure exactly what. Maybe it’s the crowd, the rush of bodies shoving against you in the near darkness. Maybe it’s the way that all that sound almost turns you deaf. Or maybe I’m just too attached to the feeling of solitude.

Not that it really matters, at this point.

I’m only here today because Beth begged me to come along. “I can’t go alone!” she’d said. “Besides, it’ll be fun!”

Well that definitely turned out to be a big, fat lie. It’s barely been ten minutes and I already want to go home.

Beth’s disappeared somewhere, yelling something about getting a drink. I think we both know that wasn’t her main objective, but there’s not much point in pushing it.

I’m standing against a wall, watching the writhing sea of people in front of me. With the lights flashing every second, I can barely make out people’s faces. I suppose there is a sort of beauty to the anonymity it offers. Still, crowds have never really been my scene.

I scoot along the wall, trying to head toward the door. The striped wallpaper’s peeling off at places. It’s hard to tell what color it really is with the near darkness and the flashing lights.

When I finally manage to stumble outside, I let out a breath of relief, only to suck it back in. There’s already someone sitting on the porch.

He turns and gazes at me for a second. Then he gives me a nod. I nod back at him, a small smile dancing across my face.

I settle in at a reasonable distance beside him, leaning back against the wall with my legs crossed. He doesn’t say anything. I don’t either. We just sit and watch the wisps of fog that are starting to come out in a comfortable silence, broken only by the muffled bass booming from inside.

When the party finally dies down, my phone buzzes from my pocket. It’s probably Beth. I stand up, brushing off my pants. I turn to the stranger. It doesn’t feel right to leave without saying anything, but I’m not sure what to say either. In the end, I settle on:

“Thanks for not turning out to be an axe murderer.”

He laughs softly, a nice sound.

“Right back at you,” he says.

I smile, lingering in our fleeting acquaintance for another moment. Then, I head back inside to drag Beth home.

Daily 3

Let's play a quick game of truth and dare! Ask for a truth or a dare in the main cabin and wait for someone to reply with one. The truth and dares can be of any topic or theme you can come up with. Painting a lasagna is an example of a dare, while asking someone about their darkest fear is an example of a truth! Please make sure that the truth and dares are appropriate. Although this daily is worth no points, it's a fantastic way to connect with other SWC members.

Dare: “write 500 words but you can only use 5 periods” (helpfully supplied by the lovely @wilde-gray!)

Notes: This took me AGES to finish, and in my opinion it turned out crazy and a complete pain to read through but hey, I managed to use 5 periods and not a single more! I was hoping I could finish with less, out of spite, but not today, sadly.

WARNING: In the following piece, I have completely butchered the English Language and absolutely decimated old-timey style writing. It contains brick paragraphs and cringey writing. Jane Austen would probably be disappointed in me, but there's only so much I can do. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Total word count: 595 (Nearly 100 more than required! *gremlin face*)

— ○ ♥ ○ —

‘There is something truly wonderful about writing a letter in the “modern age”, as I’ve taken to calling it; not only does it require thought and consideration on the sender’s behalf, but it also allows the receiver a wonderful amount of time to think out their reply—all while leaving enough room for a delay that is still socially acceptable—but oh! I believe I am only boring you at this point—you must forgive me, of course; you’ve known me long enough to keep track of my idiosyncrasies, and you know how I tend to wander off into tangents like these, but I do hope you will find it in yourself to excuse my ramblings—after all—'

The rest is abruptly cut off by a loud shriek—it might be the girl next door getting a letter from her sweetheart (read: a three-word text that doesn’t even follow proper spelling and grammar rules), it might be some gentle, fair noblewoman nearly faint with the shock of learning that the person dearest to her has been—dare I say such a terrible word? Murdered (translated: the nice lady who gives out cookies just finished the part in her book where her favorite character dies), or it might just be the cat (I don’t think this needs any more explanation)—but whoever it is, they are about to receive the most dreadful shock for interrupting the writer’s letter; truly, great enough to last a lifetime.

The writer flops back in his chair with a grumble, grateful for the lack of people always ready to offer their reprimands and complaints on the “complete lack of decorum!” and the “blatant disregard for the rules of society” and of course, heavens forbid, the “disgrace and dishonour to the family!” the simple, silly action would incite: while there is little that is appealing about being trapped in a completely different century from the one you belong in, one is bound to appreciate the blissful reprieve from the receiving end of three-hour speeches from their mothers, fathers, or other close relatives upbraiding them most dreadfully on how they’re “squandering away their life” and, more concerningly, “the family fortune and reputation!”

The writer lets out a sigh, unable to feel but a little wistful—the time spent in the “modern age” has been lovely, freeing, even, but there’s only so far one can go with a conspicuous lack of regular companionship or weekly tête-à-têtes on the working of fate and the universe at large. Not to say he isn’t grateful for the letters he receives from his friend—they truly do work wonders on his mood, and they are always ever so delightfully engaging—but they still take weeks, nearly months, to arrive, and after having learned about the wonders of texting, the time seems like nearly an age!

‘It is odd how quickly I’ve seemed to accept everything that’s happened,’ the writer thinks. It hasn’t been that long since he seemed to have magically shot off years into the future, but he’s adapted surprisingly well for a reality-distorting event—though most of the credit for that goes to his friend, whose identity still remains largely a mystery, but whose letters, though infrequent, have been invaluable.

Outside, the sky has darkened, and the writer shuffles off to bed with thoughts still swirling around in his mind—mangled feelings, the ever-present confusion that still lingers in the back of his mind and the quiet, nagging sense that perhaps, just perhaps, he was always destined to be a man out of his time.

Daily 4

Pick a “chunk” of your favorite piece of existing media (it can be anything, as long as there's a plotline!) and consider the pacing and flow, how the ideas was connected. With that in mind, choose two of the bi-fi prompts from the comments here and incorporate them into a rewrite of your “chunk” of the original media. Your bizarro fanfiction should be at least 400 words for 400 points! Sharing your creation will earn you an additional 100 points.

Prompts (both provided by the delightful @-WildClan-!!):

• Your protagonist's thoughts become real, spirit-like creatures who embody the thought and whose actions are based solely upon it. They exist until the protagonist forgets the thought or changes their mind. The thought spirits are capable of interacting with the physical world in minor ways, which can both be used by the protagonist to their benefit and backfire on the protagonist.
  
  
• The universe itself is sentient and has a mischievous sense of humor. It takes a particular interest in the character(s), messing around with them, making ironic things happen in response to their actions/words/thoughts (either by manipulating coincidence to ensure they happen, or by straight-up defying physics by making things appear/disappear/move on their own). If you want, you can write from the universe's POV, that'd be cool xD
  

Notes: Went with Howl's Moving Castle for this one because how could I not honor my childhood favorite with my first “official” fanfic <3 It turned out worse than I wanted it to, which is starting to become quite a trend. It's mostly concept-exploring and it's actually slightly incomplete, because it's starting to get really late and I'm running on fumes at this point lol. It's a bit of a shame, because the prompts were both excellent and they actually fit surprisingly well into canon.
Ah well. I did what I could ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Word count: 696

— ○ ♥ ○ —

In the land of Ingary, where things such as seven-league boots and cloaks of invisibility really exist, it is quite a misfortune to be born the eldest of three. Everyone knows you are the one The Universe will set up to fail—and that you are powerless to stop it.

Sophie Hatter was the eldest of three sisters. She knew full well that The Universe would be out to get her—had known it the instant her stepsister Martha was born and suddenly, her thoughts no longer completely belonged to herself. When “Martha-Is-Adorable” popped out and started cooing over her baby sister, followed quickly by shrieks from everyone in the room and a wailing “What-Is-Wrong-With-Me?”, Sophie’s vague notions that magic might not exist after all were completely shattered.

This ought to have made her resent Martha, turn her and Lettie into Ugly Sisters, but Sophie knew better than to let The Universe get the better of her. She’s spent seventeen years learning to keep her thoughts under control. She knows how to keep them safely out of other’s sights, and how to keep them from interacting with the world too much. She’s even started to use them on the hats and make them sell better.

And despite the unfortunate “Like-An-Old-Maid!” incident, and the mild “Lettie-Will-Have-Everyone-Tripping-Over-Themselves-For-Her-Hand” mishap, Sophie has everything under control. She is going to be fine. She will lead a comfortable, if not completely satisfying, life. And nothing else The Universe throws at her will change that.

Meanwhile, The Universe only cackles with glee like a deranged Disney villain and all but hurls the Witch of the Waste right onto Sophie’s doorstep.

— ○ ♦ ○ —

When Sophie wakes up, it takes her a minute to realize that she had not, in fact, fallen asleep trimming hats and only dreamed of being cursed, talking to a fire demon, and leaving home. The sharp cracks from all over her body are testament enough.

Sophie starts to feel “Grief” forming again, and she quickly tamps it down. But then, another Thought comes to her. She dubs it “I’m-Cursed-And-I’m-Old”, and tries to brush it away when she pauses.

‘I’m Cursed And I’m Old,’ she thinks again. She briefly considers the terrible day she’s had, and all the fearsomely mixed feelings it had given her.
“Oh, confound it,” she mutters. And she lets herself loose.

Sophie Hatter has been turned into an old woman by the Witch of the Waste. And she is hugely, enormously angry.

“Sailing into shops and turning people old! Oh, what I won’t do to her!”

A new thought slips out. “The-Witch-Must-Die!”, she furiously dubs it. She rebels against every self-ingrained instinct that urges her to hold the Thought back, and the new Thought Spirit hovers in front of her, does a loop de loop, and zooms away.

Sophie allows the shock to wash over her, quickly followed by an overwhelming giddiness which forms another Thought: “I-Am-Going-To-Do-Whatever-I-Want”.

Sophie Hatter has spent her entire short life trying to keep her thoughts under control. But now that her life’s been shortened by nearly sixty years, if what the fire demon said holds any truth, she is done playing The Universe’s game. She is Going To Do Whatever She Wants.

Meanwhile, The Universe leans back and considers. The three new Thought Spirits are intriguing – very much unlike all of Sophie’s previous ones.
“I-Am-Going-To-Do-Whatever-I-Want” is powerful, and it might cause a few problems, but The Universe thinks Sophie could do with a break, so It lets that one go.

“The-Witch-Must-Die!”, now that one’s dangerous. The Universe’s plans for entertainment are useless without the Witch. But It is really starting to grow quite fond of Sophie, so It simply changes the Thought Spirit to “The-Witch-Must-Have-A-Mildly-Inconvenient-Headache!” and sets it loose to fulfil its purpose again.

“I’m-Cursed-And-I’m-Old” is by far the most delightful one. It will disappear once Sophie forgets it, no doubt. But The Universe isn’t The Universe for nothing. And there’s no way It’s going to pass up a golden opportunity for some drama. So It takes “I’m-Cursed-And-I’m-Old” under It’s wing, keeps the Thought Spirit sentient even when Sophie’s mind isn’t on the thing.

And then, It simply sits back and waits for the perfect opportunities to revive it.

Proof for Word War (08.07.23)

Prompt: ‘We were falling… falling…. falling…’

Word count: 210

Notes: As always, NO idea what this is! Also, slightly edited to change the tenses of two words so that it's grammatically correct, but otherwise it's completely the same as what I originally wrote - all the way down to the word count.

— ○ ♥ ○ —

Suddenly, I’m thrust into another scene. I’m running, and someone’s two paces ahead of me. They’re dragging me along, even though I keep stumbling to my feet. It’s odd, because after a lifetime of running and running and running you learn how to avoid stumbles. The idea is: I’m not supposed to be stumbling. I’m not supposed to be panting. And no-one’s supposed to be two paces ahead of me. It’s always the other way around.

“You’d better hurry up,” the person in front of me wheezes out. “I am NOT losing you too.”

I try and ask what’s happening. I try and make sense of what the hell is going on. But nothing comes out.

It doesn’t matter. The person seems to read my mind. “It’s nothing,” they pant out.

And then they’re urging me to jump, and like an idiot, without thinking, I obey. Why did I obey? Shouldn’t I have questioned that voice? How did I trust them so easily?

The questions fade away. I’m surrounded by our screams (wrong, again. We’re trained to be silent in dangerous situations with unknown variables at play). And then, all I could sense was that we were falling…falling….falling…

I wake up with a jerk, sweating and nervous.The room

Weekly 1

Total word count: 1864 words

Notes: I never want to see anything I've written for this ever again oh my GOD it's all so cringe. I had to re-write half of it from scratch because my original file got deleted and then practically speed-ran the other half. 0/10 experience, do not recommend.

— ○ ♥ ○ —

Part One

Examine your selected silent comic strip (panel) or images. What are the key details that are popping out to you? How are the frames connected? Pay close attention to your comic strip or image, and write 300 words on your literal interpretation of the events going on. You’ve got this!

Comic chosen: The Weight of Words (link to be added soon)

Notes: Um. Yeah.

Word count: 333


The first few panels open on a dark, gloomy and vaguely depressing atmosphere. Our main character is carrying a large book as he sits on a log in front of a bonfire. The light casts his face in harsh and dramatic shadows, emphasizing the gloom. We see him flip through the pages of the book before he plucks one out and holds it near the fire.

The next panel is a closeup of the man’s hand holding the page, which transforms into a different scene. This one’s painted in brighter, more hopeful colors – a sharp juxtaposition against the first few panels. We see the same man hiking up a hill, still carrying his book, though he looks much younger and less weary.

In the next few scenes, we see him kneeling before several presumably wise and learned people who are all giving lengthy speeches. We see him hold out the book and let their words pour into the pages.

At the end of his word-collecting saga, we see him sitting with the book open before him, a content and satisfied expression on his face. He heaves the book up, but he has to resort to carrying on it on his back because it’s gotten so heavy. Even then, it all but brings him to his knees. The literal weight of words has grown too heavy for him to bear.

The last scene in the sequence is one of him sitting with the book in front of him again, only this time, he’s slumping in defeat. The background switches from gray to a warm yellow, probably to emphasize his realization – the burden is too much for him.

We switch back to the present. The man dumps the rest of the pages into the fire, his face once again weary and sorrowful. The last panel depicts the man flying away with the covers of the book strapped to his arms, a carefree expression on his face. He is finally free from the weight of words.

— ○ ♥ ○ —

Part Two

After finishing the workshop, pick a culturally significant dish and write a scene in which one character gives it to another character. Keep in mind that this dish should be significant in a way that emphasises their conversation. Write 400 words for this prompt, either as fanfiction or with your original characters. Have fun!

Notes: Sort of stole my friend's names for the characters, completely destroyed whatever she established on them and then re-wrote it to fit this. Other than that, I have no idea what really happened here.

Word count: 543


I trudge back home dejectedly. I have just had a very terrible Tuesday.

I go through the usual motions – dump my bag in a corner, holler out to my mom that I’m home, change my clothes and try to tame my hair into some semblance of normalcy before giving up. It’s a terrible Tuesday, and I deserve a break.

That’s when I smell something burning in the kitchen.

I rush there, and then slump against the doorway in relief. It’s just Mama burning tomatoes for that special recipe of hers. I never bothered to learn its name.

“Anything wrong?” she asks, looking up from her work.

“Nah. Just thought you were burning the kitchen down,” I say.

She takes a look at me, then raises an eyebrow.

“Fine. I just had a very terrible Tuesday,” I grumble.

She makes a sound of understanding. “Ah, we all have those days. Burnt tomato days,” she says jokingly.

“They’re not all that bad, though,” she says, peeling off the charred skin and mixing the tomato guts with chilies and onions. “You can still make something great out of it.”

She dumps a spoon of the mix with the rest of my lunch and drops a kiss on my head. “Eat up, while it’s still hot.”

Somehow, I already feel much better.

— — —

I trudge back home dejectedly. I have just had a very terrible Tuesday.

I’m about to go through the usual motions – dump my bag in a corner, change my clothes, try and tame my hair into some semblance of normalcy, when I smell something burning.

I rush into the kitchen to find flames billowing out of a frying pan while my roommates scream around, trying to get the fire under control.

I am going to murder them in their sleep. They just made my terrible Tuesday ten times worse.

“What did you guys do?” I screech, dumping a lid on the frying pan. The flames die down instantly.

“Look, I know we probably just made your bad day a lot worse, but I swear we have an explanation—” Ash begins.

That’s when Jules slams open the door. “YOUR BACKUP HAS ARRIVED!” she crows triumphantly, holding out two bags of takeout.

Then she pauses, taking in the scene before her. “Wow. You all look like you need therapy,” she remarks.

I just stand there dumbstruck while Eden rushes to explain.

“We know today was going to be a bad day because of The Incident, and we wanted to make you feel better, so we tried to make that special recipe of your mom’s that you’re always raving about, except it sort of blew up in our faces. But we got backup!”

Jules shoves the bags in my face. “Here! Take a look.”

I pull out the containers inside and cautiously take a sniff. The smell of charred tomatoes hits my nose. Suddenly, I’m a kid again, and I can feel my Mama dropping a kiss onto my head as she hands me my lunch. It feels like it just happened yesterday.

I try and say something, but I’m too overwhelmed. My roommates understand, though and they rush to wrap me in a hug.

Basking in their warmth, I feel like I have my Mama back again.

— ○ ♥ ○ —

Part Three

Write a continued or extended scene from one of the examples in the Motif-tionary (400+ words)

Notes: May Louisa May Alcott have mercy on my soul for all but mangling the masterpiece that is Little Women, ameen.

Word count: 537


“Rather a pleasant year on the whole!” said Meg, smiling at the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.

“I think it’s been a pretty hard one,” observed Amy, watching the light shine on her ring, with thoughtful eyes.

“Why, whatever can you mean, Amy?” said her mother in wonder. “You should consider yourself very lucky!”

“But what for?” she queried. “We’ve all had to give up so much. Jo’s hair, Beth’s health, why we’ve even had to near give up Meg, now that she’s gallivanting around with that Mr. Brooke.”

“Oh Amy, don’t say that!” cried Beth from her perch near their father’s knee. “We should be grateful enough to have father back happy and whole for Christmas – that ought to be enough to make up for all that we’ve had to give up this year.”

“I suppose so,” said Amy reluctantly.

“Oh, she only supposes so,” said Jo teasingly, “which means she doesn’t truly agree. Don’t waste your breath on her Beth, our little Amy is as self-inclined as ever.”

Meg glanced sharply at Jo as Amy’s eyes welled up with tears. “Oh, now look what you’ve done,” she said crossly under her breath. “Did you truly have to go around making her miserable while we were all so happy?”

“I didn’t mean to! You know I’m only joking!” Jo whispered back frantically, her regret clear on her face.

“Oh, come now Jo, don’t be so harsh on the girl,” said their father, reliving Jo from the awkwardness of having to console Amy. “Our little Amy has changed considerably since I last saw her.”

“Oh, do you really think so, Papa?” said Amy, her face brightening instantly with hope.

"Well, I observed that you took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for your mother all the afternoon, gave Meg your place tonight, and have waited on every one with patience and good humor, which proves that you have improved, despite what Jo claims,” he began, looking pointedly at the latter, who could only grin abashedly, thankful that the problem had been averted.

“I also observe that you do not fret much nor look in the glass and have not even mentioned a very pretty ring which you wear; so I conclude you have learned to think of other people more and of yourself less,” he finished with an air of great satisfaction.

Amy looked down at her turquoise ring again, watching it shine brilliantly in the firelight. “Why, I suppose you’re right!” she said in a tone of wonder.

“Don’t mind your sister so much,” their father went on. “You know she only does it to get a rise out of you. Though I must say, I am pleased that she has learned to keep her sharp tongue largely under control.”

Jo blushed at the compliment, caught by surprise, but she laughed anyway. The rest of Christmas passed in a happy blur, but Amy kept glancing back again and again to her turquoise ring. How glad she was to know that she remained vain, selfish Amy no longer! Though she had much farther to go, she had taken the first important steps, and the knowledge alone was enough to keep her happy.

— ○ ♥ ○ —

Part Four

Now that you’ve learned all about symbolism and motifs from our wonderful workshop writers, it’s time to return to the narrative you wrote for part one! (…) Rewrite your original narrative with at least 400 words.

Notes: Any typos and grammatical mistakes are to be ignored. As previously stated, I pretty much speed-ran this part.

Word count: 447

The first few panels open on a dark and gloomy atmosphere. Our main character, who’s sitting in front of a bonfire, looks tired and weary, like he’s been carrying a great burden. He’s sitting on a log in front of a bonfire, the light casting his face in dramatic shadows, emphasizing the gloom. He’s carrying a large book and flipping through the pages. He plucks one out and holds it out to the fire.

The next scene shows a closeup of the man holding the page, which transforms into a different setting – one depicted in brighter colors. It shows our main character hiking up a hill, looking much younger and less weary. The scene is a sharp juxtaposition from the first few panels; it looks much more hopeful and promising.

The next panel shows our protagonist kneeling in front of a wizened old man, who’s giving a long speech; probably something that our main characters feels is invaluable advice. He opens up his book – the same one we see in the first few panels – and lets the man’s words pour into it and fill the pages.
He goes around and does the same with more people. Neither of the three people look exactly the same, but they all have one thing in common: they have a LOT of words to offer.

We then see the main character sitting with his book in front of them with a satisfied expression on his face. Then, we see him try and carry their words along with him, but the weight is too much to bear and, in the end, he is forced to accept that he cannot carry his book of words along with him. In my opinion, this is an allusion to how we tend to try and follow everyone’s advice, but find that we cannot abide by all of it.

We switch back to the present, with the dismal atmosphere, dark colors and harsh lighting again. The man dumps the rest of the remaining pages into the fire. This is probably a symbol of him choosing to reject all the advice he’s been given.

The last panel shows him flying away with the covers of the book strapped to his arms as the words turn into smoke in the background, free from the weight of words. I think this is the artist’s way of conveying that the man has chosen to write his own narrative, based on how he himself has replaced the words in the book.

In conclusion, I think the story is a metaphor for how we shouldn’t take everything others say to heart, and that we can choose to live life by our own rules.

Daily 13

Today, we'll be writing using the Victorian language of flowers and incorporate their meanings in our work (…) Write 400 words using 2-5 flowers for 300 points!

Word count: 557

Notes: I am SO sleepy right now. Do NOT judge. Might come back to this and fix that godawful ending some other time, who knows.

— ○ ♥ ○ —

“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember; and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts…
There’s fennel for you, and columbines; there’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died.”

I frown at the letter. It’s so much shorter than usual, and the last lines come out of nowhere. We haven’t been talking about Shakespeare, or Ophelia, or the brilliance of her final lines before she goes and drowns herself. There’s a conspicuous lack of a two-page analysis in terribly prim and proper language.

It’s odd.

There’s something else in the envelope too. Dried flowers, their fragrance still lingering even when they’re no longer alive.

Someone’s hollering my name down the hallway. I set the envelope aside. I suppose I’ll just have to ask Beth about them later.

But I can’t shrug off the feeling that something’s not quite right with him. And that unsettles me more than anything.

— — —

“Rosemary,” Beth had declared before I could even properly show her the flowers. “That stands for revival.”

“You’re sure?” I’d asked skeptically.

Beth raised an eyebrow. “Are you really questioning my omniscience?”

“…yes.”

She threw a pillow at me. “You’re insufferable. That’s what they meant in the Victorian era, and they meant half a dozen other things as well, so sue me.”

— — —

Rosemary. Revival.
Revival of what?

— — —

He avoids all the questions I ask in my reply with the ease and tact of an eighteenth century noble who’s been trained from birth to make snide, passive-aggressive comments instead of saying things outright.

Which, considering his background, makes sense.

But still. It’s infuriating.

There are two more flowers this time. “Pansies and periwinkles,” according to Beth. “You occupy my thoughts. Friendship. Whatever loverboy here is trying to tell you, it sure as hell is complicated.”

“He’s literally been teleported through time with no explanation. I’m the only person he’s been able to directly and consistently communicate with. And there’s solid proof. What part of this situation do you not find complicated?” I’d retorted.

Beth, bless her eloquence, had nothing else to say.

— — —

The flowers keep on coming. I’m starting to sense a common depressing theme. Rhododendrons. Danger. Asphodel. My regrets will follow you to the grave. Zinnia. Thoughts of absent friends.

And the first flowers. Rosemary. Revival.

Revival of what?

It’s not painting a very pretty picture.

— — —

I still write him letters. Beth sends him her own messages too, though I take care to avoid mentioning her more expletive-filled thoughts. His responses are as jovial as ever — but they’re far more carefully worded and tight-lipped now.

I keep asking him what’s wrong.

He never tells me. Refuses to acknowledge it, even.

I’ve never even truly met him. He’s never even talked with Beth, not directly.

But it feels like losing a friend all the same.

— — —

The answer comes to me out of nowhere.

Rosemary. Revival.
Revival of what once was.

Pansies. You occupy my thoughts.
He's trying to figure out what will happen to our bond when he's gone.

Periwinkles. Friendship.
Periwinkles are for memory too. Remember our friendship.

Rhododendrons. Asphodel. Zinnia.
He’s found a way to go back.

— — —

The letters stop coming soon after that.

DAILY 17

(…) Create any combination of emojis—then, use your creation as a writing prompt. Write at least 300 words to earn 400 points for your cabin.

Emojis used: Goose (though it might've been a swan) and fire

Word count: 368

Notes: Accidentally ripped off the Untitled Goose Game. Whoops, sorry not sorry.
On re-reading this, I think it makes little to no sense at all. Oh well.

— ○ ♥ ○ —

THE YOUNG GOOSE’S GUIDE TO BEING AWESOME

It’s a peaceful morning in the village.

The sun is shining, the crops are watered, the children are fed and happy. Indeed, for the people in the village, life could not possibly get any better.

Lovely, don’t you think?

Of course not.

It’s.
Absolutely.
Disgusting.

Listen up, rookie, because this brochure’s only going to be given to you once.

No matter what you go through in life, no matter what ups and downs and sideways you face, you must always remember one thing. You cannot forget it, not even under pain of death. Doing so would be to destroy the very essence of your being. It defines our way of life. It defines who we are.

It is THE GOOSE WAY (details available on page 2)

Come, child. Join us in the flames of destruction and let them swallow you whole, until they are reflected in your very eyes.
— — —
Garett the Goose is the most renowned goose in all of the village. None of the villagers know what to do with him. No cage can keep him contained, no leash can keep him chained, and no man is safe from his bite.

He struts out of his shed, chest puffed out before him, head lifted proudly. The newer recruits straighten their necks and fluff out their feathers at his very presence, eager for the chance to get even a scrap of his attention.

The second his shadow darkens the gate of the fence, the humans around him start quaking in their boots. Their whispers follow him all throughout the village.

‘The devil’s goose,’ they’ll mutter after him.

‘He bit off a girl’s whole ankle down by the well last week.’

‘Just look at his eyes. See the fire that burns in them.'

Is there any credit to their words? Who knows. When it comes to a goose of Garrett’s reputation, you learn that more often than not, the rumors are true.

Garett hears the whispers and basks in them. He lets them adorn his feathers like hard worn medals as he leads his fellow geese into today’s attack against the village.

The flames rise in his eyes and swallow them whole.

Critique for @KlM-!!

You can find their amazing piece over here: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/7348294/ (Scroll down to daily 7/17 ^^)

Word count: 614 words.
Yes, I went overboard again. Sue me.

— ○ ♥ ○ —

First off, I’m really loving the sort of wonderstruck, fuzzy vibes you get from the first few lines. Like the feeling you get when you see something soft and beautiful. Amazing.

SLIGHT CHANGES YOU CAN ADD TO IMPROVE THE TEXT:
Remember: These are just my suggestions!! Ultimately, what you write is up to you ^^

Sophie sat on top of her house's roof, gazing at the beautiful night sky.

I think you can remove the words ‘her house’ here, because when a character is on the roof, you can usually safely assume that it’s the characters house’s roof. If that makes any sense.

There were also a lot of butterflies too, a lot more than usual.

Maybe remove the word ‘also’, since you’re already using the word ‘too’ and they pretty much mean the same thing. Adding the word ‘more’ helps the sentence sound better in the second half.

Sophie reached out her hand and two butterflies landed on her index finger.

You can remove the words ‘her hand’ if you like, because ‘reached out’ already implies that she’s extending her hand.
(If you do end up changing this, make sure you remember to add a comma after ‘reached out’! Also: I love this scene.)

It could be the wind or a harmless fox

Missed an article here!
(Also, I love the way you mention that it could be ‘a harmless fox’; it really gives you more of an idea of where the character is without saying it outright.)

She then trudged slowly trudged the rough grounds of the forest and came across more and more butterflies, all orange and pretty much the same like the two that landed on her finger earlier.

Accidentally wrote trudged twice ^^
(Side note: Really loving the slow build-up towards the climax here!)

She didn't think much of it, even though there was so much many that it was they were blocking her path.

Since we’re talking about butterflies (countable noun!) here. Also, since we’re talking about multiple butterflies, I’d suggest replacing ‘it was’ with ‘they were’ ^^

She went in the direction where she saw the woman. and There were still more butterflies.

I think this would work better as two separate sentences instead of one run-on sentence.

She finally arrived near the edge of a cliff and at the very edge was a bunch of butterflies forming some sort of a sphere. The butterflies then flew away to reveal the woman. The long dress she was wearing was white and the long hair that went up to her feet was black.

This is the only thing I’m going to be aggressive about: Divide this into three sentences. I’ve underlined the parts. While the last one still worked as one sentence, this one just gets too long.

(I’m starting to realize that was very hypocritical of me, considering the fact that the piece I asked you to critique for me was basically 5 sentences long, but trust me on this one.)

(The rest of the changes are just light suggestions, I promise)

Towards the first half, you write ‘…near the edge of a cliff and at the very edge of the cliff…’

You can remove the one of the ‘edge’s, like the one I striked out, so that it doesn’t repeat ^^

Also: add ‘that’ after ‘long hair’ (marked in bold).

OTHER THOUGHTS:
Your storytelling skills are very good! I’ve mentioned this already, but I feel like saying it again: I really, really LOVE the way you build up the whole story. It’s hard to explain, but it’s like those low bass notes that come up in a movie before you hear the main theme music kick in. You mention that you’re a beginner a lot, honestly, I think you’re wayyy better than that.

One thing I will say: your last line could do with some work. Though the story pays off all the build-up I can’t seem to shut up about, the last line sort of brings it all crashing down. It’s not bad, you just need to add something to it so that your readers still linger on that high feeling. Even a simple, overused sentence like “I’ve been waiting for you.” could make all the difference here.

Also: The vibes. The vibes are immaculate. I am basking in the vibes. They are so good.

I loved Sophie’s little “What is up with all of these butterflies?” grumble! Adorable. Like: yes Sophie, question the wacky (but beautiful) butterflies! You go, girl!

Last suggestion: Add line breaks! Most people will prefer to read several shorter lines over big, chunky paragraphs ^^

Aaaaand I think that’s it! Man, this got way longer than I intended it to be, sorry!

— ○ ♥ ○ —

A Silly Little Word
Writing competition entry
________________


A good chunk of our life goes into following what tradition tells us to do.

Tradition dictates that a story should have a beginning, middle and end. Tradition dictates that dreams are better off abandoned, and that working yourself to the bone to contribute to the economy is far more honorable. Tradition dictates that love is for friends and family and occasionally, things you are fond of; but above all, love is for romance.

Tradition dictates a lot of things.

No matter.

We can choose not to listen.

—○—

One of the first things we’re asked is this:

‘How did you two meet?’

Put the assumptions and implications aside for a while. Freeze the moment. Stop and think:

How did we meet?

Every time someone asks us, we share a glance and laugh.

It truly is such a silly question.

Sometimes, she’ll stick to the simplest version: we met as kids. Sometimes, I’ll go off into a tangent on how memory is an unreliable and fickle thing, hardly worth trusting and therefore not to be called on. Sometimes, she’ll spin an epic tale of how I saved her from a fearsome dragon while rapping out Shakespeare’s sonnets.

None of them are really true, of course.

(Except, perhaps, for the part on Shakespeare’s sonnet.)

—○—

I pad across the kitchen and wrap my arms around her, hooking my chin over her shoulder. She continues focusing on her latest concoction on the stove without saying anything, too used to the action. A little tradition of my own.

Here is one thing I’ll tell you about her: She always smells like strawberries.

In all the years I’ve known her, she’s always used the same soap. So, no matter where she goes, no matter what time of the day, you’ll always find the faint smell of strawberries hanging around her.

It’s not always easy to notice. We don’t go around sniffing people for no reason. Sometimes, even I’ll forget – it’s like the smell’s hardwired into my brain, as familiar as my own.

Almost every morning, even when Bob’s still asleep and I’ve crashed at their place and upended their whole schedule, she’ll be up and showered before me.

And she’ll always smell like strawberries.

A little tradition of her own.

—○—

After the awkward introductions, after we manage to clear up the confusion, we’ll find ourselves stuck in small talk.

We enjoy these interactions far more than most people tend to do. Me, because I enjoy playing with the way conversations flow around different people. Her, because of the drama of it all.

But eventually, the conversation always turns to what we do for a living.

It’s usually fine, of course. I can get through those.

Eventually, though, I’ll freeze up, caught in the middle. A shade of what I once was, not quite used to what I’ve had to become. A lifetime spent chasing a dream, only to have it snatched away at the last second.

She always notices. She’ll steer the conversation away, make our excuses. She’ll get me home as soon as possible, then push me into my pyjamas, armed with a blanket, a tub of ice-cream and a rom-com marathon. Sometimes, Bob might join in too.

It’ll linger in the back of my mind for a few hours, but I’ll eventually move past it, content to bask in her warmth and the happiness of the life we’ve built for ourselves.

—○—

I shudder, sobs wracking through my body.

“It’s not fair,” I manage to choke out. “It’s not fair.”

“Shhh. I know. I know,” she says, rubbing soothing circles into my back.

“I- I’ve worked so hard for this. A-and they just…took that away. Because of something that isn’t even true.”

“I know. I’m sorry, it’s all my fault—”

That manages to make me sober up. “Don’t say that.”

“But if I’d just been more careful—”

I twist to face her, placing my hands on either side of her face, wiping away the tears that have started to form. “Hey. None of this is your fault. I wouldn’t give up your friendship for the world.”

“But this was your dream. You spent your whole life working for this, you gave up everything—”

“Well, maybe it was a terrible dream anyway.”

“It wasn’t. And they’ve got no right to just dismiss you like that.”

I try and argue, but she gives me a Look.

“Fine. But you didn’t do anything wrong either.”

She concedes to that.

We curl into each other, a strange tangle of messy feelings. Tearstained cheeks, crushed dreams, righteous anger.

At the end of the day, I’m just glad to have her with me.

—○—

‘What are you to each other?’

Questions like that come in many shapes. Usually after they find out about the boyfriend.

(Contrary to what his name might suggest, Bob is a wonderfully unique person—one of the few I’ve met without an astonishingly fragile ego and a beautiful capacity to understand people. We’re good friends, he and I. I love him nearly as much as I love her.)

It goes something like this:

Them: ‘My, you two make a lovely pair.’

Her: ‘Oh, I have a boyfriend.’

A pause.

Them: ‘Well, what are you to each other, then?’

That’s not a very easy question to answer. A friend. A sister. A shared soul container, maybe, split in the way you might split a bowl of noodles.

For me, though, it’s easy enough: she’s the girl who always smells like strawberries. Rain or shine, day or night—no matter what happens to us, I know she’ll always smell like strawberries.

—○—

I lean back lazily from my perch on the sofa. “When did we first meet?”

She laughs. Bob chuckles.

“Maybe it was when you saved me from the bullies on the playground,” she says.

“Ah yes. In the middle of the night at that ghost-summoning ritual, I remember now,” I say dryly.

“Aw, you didn’t even mention the part about rapping out Shakespeare’s sonnets!” says Bob in faux disappointment. “You know I love that part, babe.”

They continue bickering, while I just sit back and smile.

And I contemplate.

Freeze the moment. Push aside the implications. Think for a bit.

How did we first meet?

The thing is, when you’ve been a part of each other’s lives for as long as she and I have, things like your first meeting don’t really matter. Stuff like that fades into the background. That’s why it could’ve been at a kindergarten playground, at uni, or even in a parallel universe for all it matters. That's why it's such a silly question

We have each other now. The rest is irrelevant.

—○—

Love is a silly word. It means family. It means friendship. It means romance.

For us? Love means each other. Whatever we have, it’s love—no strings attached.

Our story has no beginning, nor does it have an end.

It simply is.

________________

Word count: 1160 words (Title and author notes not included)

Notes: Whew! That was…something. In true Recca fashion, I have no idea what that was.
Okay, that's a bit of a lie
I was mostly trying to experiment with this vague, slightly sarcastic storytelling style—you'll notice it all over my work for this session—and combine it with a flowery, somewhat symmetrical structure. As for the plot line, I never planned to have one. I think I was aiming to just…explore this sort of non-conventional relationship—something that not quite a romance or a friendship—through little snapshots and commentary.
Did I succeed?
Doubtful. I didn't even think I'd be able to submit this because my internet cut out for two days, which is why it's not as refined or well-edited as I would have liked.
Ah well.
Thank you so much for reading!

Edited to:
- add italics in a spot I'd missed
- fix a small grammar mistake in the author notes (lol).

UPDATE: This ended up winning Best Character Dynamics?!? By the time I'm writing this, it's already been weeks since the results came out but every time I think of it, I still feel so honored. Like, wow.

Daily 20

Choose any constellation or celestial body, then write at least 300 words about how it came to be in the form of a story or a fictional essay.

Notes: Just went with the moon on this one. Also, I might've veered off-topic for most of this, but if you're willing to squint and/or go philosophical on this, it'll still fit the prompt
…I probably should've worked on my English homework instead of this :'D

Word count: 411

— ○ ♥ ○ —

Out in the vast expanse of the great cosmos, there’s a strange, curious little rock.

It circles a curious little planet that’s green and blue, so very unlike most of the others. The planet goes around a bright and beautiful star that has been steadily burning away for the past few millennia on the arm of a galaxy.

(The star, regretfully, is much less remarkable without its companions, but it will continue to be bright and beautiful long after its death, which is admirable in itself.)

But we’ve wandered too far away now. Let’s return to the rock.

It’s not quite round, and not quite smooth, and it’s not quite as bright as it appears to be. (The latter is entirely the star’s work).

It is, quite frankly, very ordinary.

And the planet it goes around? Well, like its star and our little rock, it’s quite unremarkable without its companions. The planet our curious little rock goes around happens to be occupied by a very long list of small creatures, and this long list happens to include a certain race of four-limbed, rather intelligent creatures.

They called themselves humans, and they turned our little rock from something boring and plain to an extraordinary, beautiful and breathtaking creation.

Our rock went through many names in their hands, and it still continues to do so even today. The most widely-agreed on name, though, was ‘moon’.
And so, the moon it was.

The creatures (humans, if you’ll recall) made up so many stories about how their ‘moon’ was created. Many said it was a celestial being, riding a great chariot across the heavens to guide them with her light. Other, less glamorous ones claimed that it was born of a duck’s egg (a duck is another one of the little creatures you’ll find on the planet).

The stories go on and on. You’ll find no shortage of them. They all claim the same thing: their moon is a beautiful creation, shrouded in mourning and mystery, grace and benevolence.

Beautiful and extraordinary.

Which story is true?

All. None. It hardly matters.

If you must know, though, the story is simple enough: it was born of a wandering body when it crashed into the planet, back when it was unformed and its star was still young.

Boring and plain. Utterly ordinary.

But things are only a reflection of the stories told about them, after all. It’s simply a matter of choosing the ones you like best.

SWC Co-Leader App: Writing Excerpt

Notes: Like I mentioned in the project, this is from my writing competition entry for last session. You can find the rest of it in the post above this one ^^

Link to go back to my co-leader app: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/888268730

——————

I pad across the kitchen and wrap my arms around her, hooking my chin over her shoulder. She continues focusing on her latest concoction on the stove without saying anything, far too used to the action. A little tradition of my own.

Here is one thing I’ll tell you about her: She always smells like strawberries.

In all the years I’ve known her, she’s always used the same soap. Somehow, through some sort of arcane magic, she’s always managed to hunt it down. So, no matter where she goes, no matter what time of the day, you’ll always find the faint smell of strawberries hanging around her.

It’s not always easy to notice. We don’t go around sniffing people for no reason. Sometimes, even I’ll forget – it’s like the smell’s hardwired into my brain, as familiar as my own.

Almost every morning, even when Bob’s still asleep and I’ve crashed at their place and upended their whole sleep schedule, she’ll be up and showered before me.

And she’ll always smell like strawberries.

A little tradition of her own.

SWC November 2023

Separation post boop!

Dailies:

• Daily 2 (Letter to future self)
  
• Daily 3 (Fall)
  
• Daily 8 (Past, present and future selves)
  
• Daily 10 (Historical time period with a flower)
  
• Daily 12 (Tongue twister)
  
• Daily 19 (Last line of cabin introduction)
  
• Daily 23 (Unlikely sidekick scenario)
  

Weeklies:

• Weekly 1
  
• Weekly 4
  

Word Wars:

• 08.11.2023
  
• 12.11.2023
  

Writing Competition Entry:

• Mysterious References to Avocados
  Co-written with most darling Elfie (@Elvin_Wonders) <3
  

Daily 2

Welcome to the second daily of this session! Hope you're enjoying discovering what your cabin and storyline look like. In this activity, you'll be writing a letter to your future self. Mention any goals you have for this month, maybe talk about a writing project of yours? Anything you want to include is great We'll be opening these letters near the end of the session. Write 350 words to earn 200 points for your cabin, with a bonus 200 points for sharing proof.

Notes: Rambled a lot, but what's new in that? I have a feeling I'm going to cringe at this later, but I did have the best intentions at heart so future me can suck it :P

Word count: 375 words!

— ♪ —

Dearest Recca,

Things aren’t particularly nice right now, but I hope you’re managing to do better. And if you’re not, that’s alright too. We’re so destined to be cringefail, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised.

By the time you’re reading this, you will have gone through your first session as an SWC co-leader, as well as your PT 2 exams. You’re also going to be a lot closer to your boards and the dumb farewell where they insist on getting the girls to wear sarees. If you’re still the same as me, you’re going to be stressed and frazzled and severely procrastinating on any work you have to do. And semi-spiraling.

I think it’s evident that I’m having a huge stereotypical depressed-emo-teen sort of time going on, but we both know it won’t be long before I bounce back. We always do, after all.

So! Less introspection. Let’s get back to the daily.

I’m not feeling very eloquent right now (if you don’t remember, I still have a lab journal and a portfolio to complete), so I’m just going to put a list of all the things I hope we accomplish this month:

1. The icon creator.
2. An entry for the writing competition, preferably a Sillyland one but anything you’re vaguely proud of is fine.
3. At least one weekly, despite the workload.
4. An entry for a non-SWC competition.
5. 95 up level marks on your exam, but nothing below 90-level because that’s honestly embarrassing.
6. Getting my brother to actually do his SWC stuff.
7. Contributing enough to cabin planning so that you don’t feel wonky about it.
8. Fixing up most of the relationships that you’ve neglected >:(
9. Writing a book review!

There’s a lot more I’d like to tell you, but I think everything would get too personal and tangential; and with a brain like ours, we already deal with that enough. Plus, I still have all that work to get back to.

I think the bottom line is this: things are a little tough for me right now, but I’m hoping they aren’t for us anymore. But even if it isn’t, I know you’ll get through it. We’ll manage <3

Lots of love,
Ze Recca Of Ze Past (OoOooOooOoH)

Daily 3

From rainy days to bookstores, pumpkins to scarecrows, fall is a season of many meanings in literature. Some of the most prominent interpretations of the season's symbolism are of harvest, new beginnings and prosperity, and entirely conversely, of endings, decay, and reclusion. In today’s daily, in 450 words or more, write a scene focusing on character dynamics, and convey them through the atmosphere using fall symbolism.

Notes: Sooooo this is sort of an extra scene from this one piece I wrote a month or so ago that my friend very accurately described as something that “read like a fever dream”. It centered a lot around fall anyway, so I thought why not?. I think I might've missed the point of the daily a little but then again, it's pretty late and I've been in a bit of a slump anyway. These words were hard fought for, I tell you. The ending sucks because I had to speedrun it.

If there are any inaccuracies or inconsistencies about fall, then no, there are not. I've lived exclusively in equatorial regions and I will not be held accountable.

Also, yes, I referred to the season as fall here and autumn in the actual piece. I'm only picky about the word when it suits me. Don't judge.

Word Count: 468 words

— ♪ —

The air is chilly today, and the sky’s a crisp, autumn blue. Always, always back to that beautiful autumn blue.

You pass at least five houses with Christmas decorations up already, which is frankly ridiculous. You’d think people would give their Halloween skeletons and carved pumpkins a little more respect, but no.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. A cool breeze plays with your hair and clothes, and it’s like magic. There’s only one person it could be anyway, and with the bond you share it’s a close enough thing.

There’s a spring in your step as you make your way to the café. They have their Halloween decorations up.

Your day just gets a little more brighter.

— ○ —

“Hello love,” you say, dropping a peck on her hair. She ducks out from below you and grins as you throw yourself on the seat across her. It’s warm and plush and everything a good chair should be like after walking through the chill outside.

“Well, hello to you too,” she says, leaning across the table and resting her chin in her palms. She’s wearing a sweater that’s so oversized it feels almost illegal. No sweater should be allowed to look that comfortable. You’d steal it from her closet tomorrow if it weren’t for the fact that she’s already stolen it from yours first.

“You really have to stop stealing my clothes,” you grumble jokingly.

“But they’re so comfy!” she protests.

You both dissolve into your familiar banter. It’s all inane conversation with stuff like ‘how was your day?’ and ‘you’d better have loaded the dishwasher’ and ‘Deborah from the grocery store was unusually vicious today, it was like she wanted to claw my face off’ and it all feels so wonderfully right.

There’s a tree outside the window, with branches that stretch so far across your field of view. She’d tell you the species and she’d even wager a fairly accurate guess at its age, because she’s smart like that. Its leaves are caught in that careful in-between stage, where they’re not green anymore, but not quite red yet either. They’re warm splashes of orange and yellow, bright as a scribbled sun in crayons.

— ○ —

You’re walking home together, and the wind’s blowing again. It feels sharp and distinctly winter-like, even though it’s not winter yet. You pull her scarf tighter around her neck and throw your arm across her shoulder. There are cobblestones beneath your feet, and the streetlights are just beginning to turn on. You lean into each other, and it feels like something out of a movie.

Her phone rings, and it cuts through your comfortable bubble like a knife. It’s the ringtone from that phone.

A leaf flutters down from overhead, not yellow or green but dying red.

Winter might be early this year.

Daily 8

Notes: Well, that got vaguely depressing. And so much longer than it needed to be. All this self reflection is making me terribly melancholy. I really hope all my writing this session isn't going to be Like This (* ￣︿￣)

Word Count: 572 words

— ♪ —

Three figures stand in a blank room and stare at each other as non-judgementally as possible.

The first is a child, young and wild and free. The narrative consciousness (me) takes a moment to appreciate the Bryan Adams reference before returning to her story.

The second is only slightly older than the first. She’s also writing this as we speak. Isn’t that odd? The human mind is a truly extraordinary thing.

And the last. That one’s hardly even human. It’s a shifting spectre, flashing through different shapes by the second. Sometimes it has long hair, other times its cut short, but a lot of them seem to feature purple highlights. The narrative likes to believe that she’ll manage to get that purple hair dye no matter what. That’s nice. Pleasant.

“Well, this is awkward,” says The Child like a petulant child. Not much of a surprise there. “You’re me, I assume.”

“Mhmm,” says The Teen. “You must be wondering why we’re all gathered here today,” she continues, earning herself a cackle from The Spectre.

“Oh gosh, I really did love my meme-speak,” says The Spectre.

The Child just looks confused. “You’ll understand later,” says the Teen dismissively. So The Child just shrugs and goes back to her book.
“Never really was one for conversation, was I?” The Teen muses. “How did she even manage to sneak that in here?”

“Girlypop, why are you even surprised? Even I do that now!” exclaims The Spectre.

“I still use girlypop unironically?” says The Teen.

“Well, some versions. Like, I’m depressed and broke with no emotional support system, so I don’t even bother.”

“Depressing,” quips The Teen.

“Shut up,” says The Child.

“Give her a break, kid. She’s going through the depressy teen stage you swore off,” chides the Spectre gently.

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, um. I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t really mean for it to happen, it just…did,” says The Teen.

“Oh.”

“I did try not to, though. I wanted to be like you forever, if I’m being honest. Like, yeah, you were bratty and annoying and way more full of yourself than you had any right to be and you were cringey and silly and so, so, stupid. But you were happy. I was happy,” The Teen rambles. It’s far easier to admit these things to yourself.

“That’s alright,” says The Child. “I’m sad a lot too. But I always manage to get over it.”

“That’s the best part about being us!” chimes in The Spectre cheerily. “We always manage to pull through.”

“Really?” The Teen asks. “Do we really make it through?”

The Spectre takes a moment to consider this. “Well, I can’t promise you that. But most of the versions of me you’re seeing seem to have that part of our personality intact, so you must’ve done something good.”

“Oh. Thanks,” says The Teen. “That’s…really nice to hear.”

“Are we done yet?” whines The Child.

“Almost,” promises The Teen. They’re running out of time together anyway. This imagined link can only last so long. “I just wanted to say a few more things. You still love stories. And you’re quite possibly the best part of my life. And things are going to get weird soon, but I promise we’ll get through. Because that’s what we do. Okay?”

The Child nods.

All three figures disappear. The narrative consciousness goes back to finishing her work, which she should’ve been doing all this time.

Proof for Word War (08.11.2023)

Prompt: The last thing I expected was to meet a mango.

Words: 262 words

Notes: Warred against @pixzunami from Fantasy. Had something else to say too, but I've forgotten it now.

— ♪ —

The last thing I expected was to meet a mango. This was, of course, a very grievous error on my part. You can never not expect anything in Sillyland. It goes against the place’s very nature.

That didn’t mean it was still as annoying as ever, though.

“Gosh, what is it this time? Am I forgetting some sort of new law, is that it?”

The mango remained silent and unspeaking.

“What, can’t you talk?”

The mango said nothing in agreement.

“Well gee golly, why are you even here, then?”

The mango gave a silence that seemed to shrug.

This was weird.

This was so, so weird.

Why did I have to end up in a place called Sillyland of all places? And the only time I meet a fruit and assume it’s anthropomorphic like I’m supposed to, it turns out the fruit’s either unable to talk or refuses to.

What even is my life?

Sorry: what even is my death? Since. I’m still technically dead. What are the semantics of this place?

The mango judged me in silence.

“Oh, shut it. It’s not like you’re any better. Why are you even here?”

The mango stared off dramatically into the distance through the fourth wall and looked at the readers like in The Office.

Yes, Sillyland has The Office. Somehow. We don’t work with semantics here.

So I walked off, because I had nothing better to do and I definitely didn’t want to spend an unspecified amount of time talking to a mango that wouldn’t talk
back to me. That’d just be depressing.

Weekly 1

Word count: 1566 words

Notes: Shakespeare forbid I ever speedrun a weekly ever again. I've probably missed so many things oh my gosh. As for the terrible quality and ending lines? We Do Not Speak About It.

— • ♪ • —

Part 1

Write 200 words of character development by taking inspiration from song lyrics.

Song selected: this is me trying (the long pond studio sessions)

Word count: 239 words


There’s a maniac in front of you.

Alright, maybe he’s not a maniac. Maybe he’s just so lonely he’s rattling off his entire life history to the first stranger who might listen. Maybe he’s clinically depressed, which is why he’s doodling aliens onto the condensation from his glass.

“I’ve just been so tired, Delilah. I keep on messing things up. Did you know I told my girlfriend she should’ve been grateful I even remembered her birthday?”

Nope, definitely a maniac. First off: your name isn’t Delilah. Secondly: who even does that?

“I know!” he wails miserably, like he can read your mind. It’s not that unlikely—magic or no, he’s got these ginormous brown eyes that look like they see right through you.

“I should’ve gotten her flowers, at least,” he sighs, resting his head on his arms and looking up vaguely. “Maybe she’d appreciate the fact that I tried, for once. But my boss was going to fire me, and my mom cut contact and…I don’t know. Life’s just so hard sometimes.”

You look at him. His blue shirt’s all rumpled, and his dark hair is sticking out in every direction possible. He has eyebags the size of Jupiter. His pale skin looks ghostly under the lights. It’s like looking at a pitiful child.

“Alright, up you get,” you sigh, walking over to his side of the table and dragging him to his feet. “Let’s get you home.”

— ♪ —

Part 2

In this section, you'll be filling out your very own character sheet - you should ensure you've written at least 100 words in total from your answers to the questions.

Word count: 165 words

Name: Corey

Age: Ambiguous. I’m thinking late twenties. Old enough to have a midlife crisis?

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: Biromantic ace. Why not?

Species: Human

Strengths: Has a knack for self-reflection and can understand when he’s in the wrong. Very earnest. Can either read people’s minds or is just that good at guessing (I’m thinking magical realism, but I’m not completely sure on that point yet). Generally likeable.

Weaknesses: Some form of anger issues, and that can drown out his good qualities. Tunnel visions often. Inferiority complex. Impulsive.

Tendencies: Very eager to please, can go great lengths to do that. Will lash out whenever he’s feeling cornered, which happens more often than he’d like to admit. Tries very hard all the time and refuses to stop.

Relationships: One (now ex) girlfriend, who recently dumped him. One overly demanding boss (Waverly), who sucks but he’s still working for them. One honorary faunt (fun aunt), who’s narrating in the first scene. Her name’s Jenny Lou, and she’s amazing.

— ♪ —

Part 3

Write at least 450 words on three different scenarios (150 for each scenario) with specific character motivations

Total word count: 557 words


Scene 1: Corey, on the morning after Jenny Lou drags him home. Exploring his earnestness and need to Be in Everyone’s Good Books All The Time Or He Will Spontaneously Combust. (189 words)

“Well good morning to you,” you say dryly.

“Good morning,” he says nervously, evidently wishing last night had never happened at all.

“Glad to see you’re up,” you say, a little gentler this time. “You were completely out of it yesterday.”

“I’m really, really sorry about that,” he says in a rush. “You shouldn’t have had to drag me to your house—"

You cut him off before he can finish. “No need to apologize! It was the least I could do. The name’s Jenny Lou,” you say, sticking out your hand so he can shake it. “And you’re Corey.”

“That I am,” he says with a sheepish laugh. “Again, I’m so sorry for being such a mess. I didn’t mean to trauma-dump on you. Or anyone else! It’s not a you-specific thing. I really am grateful that you dragged me to your house even though I could’ve been an axe murderer. Which I’m not! And that probably isn’t very convincing but I just—is there any way I can make it up to you?”

You laugh. “You know what, Corey? I think we’re going to be great friends.”

—

Scene 2: Corey, when Jenny Lou confronts him about his frankly terrible authority figures. Lashing out to deflect and insecurity. (202 words)

“Why do you keep holding out for her anyway? It’s not like she’s doing the same for you!”

Corey turns away. “We’re not having this conversation.”

You grab him by the shoulders. “No, we absolutely are. Look, I get that you still love your mom. But she should’ve been there for you when you needed her help. She should’ve been there when you broke up with Clara. She should’ve been there when your boss was literally working you to death—”

“I’m not a child, Jen,” he says tightly. “She doesn’t need me going to her for every little thing that goes wrong. Besides, I don’t really deserve it, and she has more important things to take care of.”

“What, more important than her own kid?”

“Why does it matter so much anyway?” he roars. “Why do you insist on trying to go around and fix everything? Does it make you feel better about your own pathetic life? Does seeing me get rid of my mom somehow make you feel better about the fact that yours didn’t bother to stick around, is that it?”

Your eyes sting. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

“Well, I just did,” he sneers. And he walks away.

—

Scene 3: Corey, meeting up with his (now ex) girlfriend. Hoping to convey his self-reflection, but also his impulsiveness. People reading skills have been thrown out the window now, sorry to disappoint. (166 words)

“You sure you’ve got this?”

He makes a vague agreeing sound. “Worst-case scenario, she refuses to listen to me, and we both walk away like it never happened.”

“And best-case scenario?”

He hesitates. “She hears me out, and we part ways with lingering hopes of rekindling our relationship.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Alright then. Go shoot your shot, kid.”

“Thanks, Auntie Jen,” he says with a laugh.

He doesn’t come back for the next few hours, so you busy yourself with the rest of your work. Corey was quick to admit he was wrong even before you could start grilling him out for the way he treated Beth, so you’re not too worried about him being insincere. He’s got his heart in the right place—he’d just made some “astronomically bad calls” when it came to his relationship, in his own words.

This was out of the blue, though, and that worries you a little.

But still. He’s grown a lot recently. He can handle it.

— ♪ —

Part 4

Write 500 words expanding one of the previous scenarios into a developed story. Remember to include at least 3 things from your character sheet!

Word count: 606 words

“Well good morning to you,” you say dryly.

“Good morning,” he says nervously, evidently wishing last night had never happened at all.

“Glad to see you’re up,” you say, a little gentler this time. “You were completely out of it yesterday.”

“I’m really, really sorry about that,” he says in a rush. “You shouldn’t have had to drag me to your house—"

You cut him off before he can finish. “No need to apologize! It was the least I could do. The name’s Jenny Lou,” you say, sticking out your hand so he can shake it. “And you’re Corey.”

“That I am,” he says with a sheepish laugh. “Again, I’m so sorry for being such a mess. I didn’t mean to trauma-dump on you. Or anyone else! It’s not a you-specific thing. I really am grateful that you dragged me to your house even though I could’ve been an axe murderer. Which I’m not! And that probably isn’t very convincing but I just—is there any way I can make it up to you?”

You laugh. You can’t help it; this is quite possibly the most hopelessly earnest man you’ve ever met.

“How about you treat me to breakfast, then?” you say, deciding to humor him.

“Okay. Okay, yeah, I can do that,” he agrees, nodding rapidly.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re stuck at a café watching him rapidly devour his pancakes.

Well. For someone who looks like he can’t weigh more than a sack of potatoes, he certainly eats a lot.

“Alright then Corey. Do you have a last name to go with that?” you ask, taking a bite from your own plate.

“Not particularly,” he shrugs. “I prefer to go by just Corey.”

“Alright then, Just Corey. What’s your deal with Beth Rogers?”

He stiffens. “I’d rather not talk about her right now.”

“Come on! The whole town’s been buzzing about it for a while, and you won’t even give me any juicy details?”

“I don’t think there’s any reason I should be explaining what happened there to a complete stranger,” he says icily.

“Really? Even after I let you crash at my place? Even though you could’ve been an axe murderer?”

“Yes,” he snaps, drawing a few heads in your direction. And dear gosh, he really is giving his spoon a run for its money. It’s like he’s actively trying to snap it in half.

“Suit yourself,” you say with a shrug. “It’s not like you were such a terrible boyfriend she had to take a girl’s-only trip to Hawaii to recover.”

“Oh my gosh, did she really do that?” he whispers, clearly horrified.

There’s no way he’s this gullible.

“No,” you concede. “She did go through a pretty terrible time, though. No thanks to you.”

“I know,” he groans, burying his face in his hands. “I—it was pretty much my fault. I tried so hard to keep it together but…I don’t know. I wasn’t in the right place at the time, and I shouldn’t have tried to start a relationship with her. I really did like her! And I messed it all up. I always mess things up with people eventually,” he finishes sadly.

Darn it. That got unexpectedly depressing.

“Well,” you say. “You haven’t messed things up with me yet.”

He give you a small smile. “Thanks, Jenny Lou. I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

“And I’m sorry for pushing, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, I think I needed that. It helped, to talk about it.”

“Always happy to be of service!” you say cheerily. “You know, Corey, I think we’re going to be great friends, you and I.”

Daily 10

You'll be writing 550 words for 400 points (with a bonus of 200 for sharing proof) about a historical time period of your choice, featuring a specific flower as an important part of the tale.

Notes: I really did want this to be a little more original, but ah well. Never speedrun a daily, folks!
Dandelions stand for hope and perseverance and exactly what you'd expect a dandelion to stand for, so I tried going with that.

Word count: 665 words

— ♪ —

He remembers running across the meadow with his sister.

Why were they running? He still can’t quite recall. It might’ve been a game, but then again it could’ve just as easily been her showing him her latest animal spot. He does remember her urging him along, teasing him for how slow he was.

He remembers the dress she was wearing. It was yellow, with stripes and a neat little bow. Ma had tied it—no one else could’ve done it that neatly. He remembers the blue sky with its puffy white clouds, and the lush green of the meadow.

“Look, look!” she’d squealed, abruptly coming to a stop.

She was pointing at a cluster of flowers, but calling them that would’ve been a stretch. Really, they were hardly more than glorified weeds. But they stood there bright and proud all the same.

“Dandelions,” she’d said in a whisper.

She’d plucked one up and held it out for him to see, her eyes twinkling.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” he’d asked with a child’s skepticism.

“You make a wish, silly,” she’d giggled. “Like this, see?”

He remembers how she’d closed her eyes and scrunched up her face in concentration. Then, she’d blown on the flower, scattering its seeds to the wind.

“What did you wish for?” he’d whispered in awe.

“You can’t tell anyone what you wish for! Then it’ll never come true!” she’d scoffed with all the wisdom she’d gained from being two years older than him. “Here,” she’d said, plucking up another and offering it to him. “You give it a try.”

So he did. He’d closed his eyes and scrunched up his face like he’d seen her do, then blew on the flower, wishing as hard as he could.

He doesn’t remember what he wished for. He doesn’t remember what happened after the meadow.

The last thing he remembers from his childhood is the rocky dirt digging into his skin, and crawling to his knees only to find the world had been engulfed in flames.

— — —

He’s a soldier now, out on the field. The war had stretched out for long enough for him to grow up to be old enough to be drafted and trained into a fairly competent warrior.

Still, it’s unsurprising when he finds that he’s been shot before he can make his way out of the trenches.

So here he is now, face down on a battlefield with mud smeared all over him. Pain shoots through his body, and he’s more than content to lie down and give up entirely.

He’s had a good run of it, hasn’t he? He’s lived a good life, despite everything. He doesn’t have any paramours waiting for him back home. His friends will shoulder the grief, and then move on. And come to think of it, he doesn’t have many regrets either.

He won’t live to see the war end, but he accepts that easily. It’s something you do early on, to save yourself from the loss.

He won’t get to attend Pam’s wedding, but he knows she’ll understand, however begrudgingly.

He didn’t get to tell his sister all the reasons he’s grateful for her, but he’s sure she knows already.

He’ll get to see his Ma soon.

And yet…

“The sky,” he thinks wildly. “I don’t want to die without seeing the sky again.”

Somehow, he manages to find the strength to push himself off the ground, just a little. He turns his head to the side, before his arms give out. He lies there, panting. He can just barely see a few streaks of blue. That’s enough.

And there’s a dandelion.

He groans. He can’t give up now.

There’s another man rolling him onto his back and slapping him awake.

He thinks of the meadow, the wish. He thinks of Pam, who’d kill him all over again for not attending her wedding. He thinks of his sister and his friends and—

And he gets up, staggering back to life.

Proof for Word War (12.11.2023)

Prompt: “All my life, I longed for it to come true. Now, it finally has."

Word count: 275 words

Notes: Warred against @pixzunami, yet again! This is the silliest thing I've written in a while, and I love that.

— ♪ —

“All my life, I longed for it to come true. Now, it finally has.“

“Literally what are you talking about? It’s been five minutes since I left you why are you monologuing?”

“The gods have been kind tonight, sister dearest. They have looked upon me favorably and they have been very, very kind.”

“Kid, this is starting to get freaky. Could you get off the table?”

“At last, I have become triumphant. No longer will I be cowed into place, no longer will I submit to your authority. I am greater than you ever will be.”

“Cool. Can we finish the movie, now?

“Of course not. For I have achieved the ultimate goal, I have achieved what most men die for.”

“Oh really? Do tell.”

“I HAVE SEIZED THE LAST COOKIE!”

“YOU DID NOT—”

“Why would I lie? I have no reason to make up paltry excuses like you.”

“Gosh, could you please quit it with the Victorian English now?”

“Never! I shall continue to speak as the distinguished and dignified member of society that I am. No longer will I speak the coarse tongue of a peasant such as yourself.”

“Oh my GOSH just go to sleep.”

“Not until I have savored every last crumb of the cookie.”

“Jeez, hurry up with it will you?

“No no, I shall take my sweet time and relish every bite while you watch, unable to do anything and forever frozen in your dismay and OH MY GOSH GET OFF GET OFF—"

“Had enough? Can we finally finish the movie?

“Yes! Yes, I swear now please get off you’re literally suffocating me—”

“Serves you right.”