( for finn )

first of all, i'll be honest, i was slightly surprised and also excited when the piece was a script. it really brought me back to those days of me trying to write scripts that might or might not be extremely cringe and consisting of fairy mermaids? (in past yume's defence, i was about 7. i've gotten a lot better throughout the years). anyways, back to the critique. i think you really got it with the snake metaphors, especially the part about the snake eating its tail and then it getting used again with the ‘don’t bite off your tail' part that attempts to interject the previous comparison by ronan. i think for the part you said you're not sure what to put there, it seems natural that oliver would just keep standing there, perhaps in thought, waiting for ronan to continue speaking. for “no I really messed up this time. I’m so scared.” the i'm so scared part seems unnecessary and slightly childish, i would suggest it to be replaced with something else. it sounds a little off when you say it out loud, this is a play, try to keep it natural. i like how the story progresses, from the part about them recollecting on past memories to a sudden shift in the atmosphere when zoe tells ronan she's submitted the recording to a competition that could potentially get them signed, then towards the end the plot thickens- a big secret is revealed and it leaves the reader on a cliffhanger, leading them to want to know more about how the story continues. overall, it's a great script, i won't be judging any of the grammatical errors but you did spell signed ‘sighed’ in zoe's line after oliver says “woah what?”. the way you worded everything made ronan and oliver's relationship realistic as that's exactly how i picture two guys who <3 each other interacting and speaking. it shows they do care for one another, even if the other is having a breakdown of sorts. next steps for moving on, if you're continuing the script, i think in later scenes you could have them talk and explain a little bit more on what happened towards the end of the current part. it feels slightly awkward to just end it right there, although you could keep it that way if you would like, leaving readers (or viewers) thinking. i hope this helps!

the end is just because I was getting close to the word limit for critiquaires. The real piece is gonna be about 3000 words

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Synopsis

A bright sunny morning was given to Marticon City. The Sun smiling brightly, radiating the land below. A perfect day for a trip. Marbles thought as he and his friend Weren managed their way into the amusement park. Well, it's more of Weren's idea of doing this. The place was crowded, especially because of the sunny weather. People huddled together like sardines, and being so close together, was something Marbles had despised for so long. “Marbles, look! It's the highlight of this amusement park - The Horror Haul!” Weren announced in a booming voice, pointing to the giant, horrifying roller coaster. Marbles had his stomach tied into a knot, “Err…” The looks on the riders' faces after the ride made Marbles buckle his knees in cringe. “I'd rather go back and complete my assignments, I've much to do-” "Nah, just try and relax, Marbles. I promise, it'll be fun~“ Without waiting for a reply, Weren grabbed Marbles by the arm and dragged him to the entrance.

”Weren, you've forgotten about my fear of heights." Was what Marbles managed out when Weren forced Marbles to the seat. The ride was taking off, but Marbles wasn't ready yet. He hadn't took deep breaths; he hadn't ask Weren to hold his hand for support; he hadn't prepare for whatever horrors that were awaited. Hiss. The ride took off. Marbles shut his eyes tight, not wanting to see anything scary from the haunted tunnel and how high they were from the ground. Good, can't see anything. Nothing to be afraid of. Or that was what he thought. One moment, there was laughter, and the next, was a scream that pierced Marbles' ears. Nothing could've prepared anyone from hearing the horrors as a loud sound hit the ground. Thud.

“Wh-What was that?”
“What's going on?”
“What happened?”

Peering through the gaps through his eyes, Marbles saw what had happened, and it shook him. At once, the questions asked all became who instead of what.
Because someone fell from the roller coaster.

A girl. Marbles' age. Dead on the ground. Her eyes are empty, but they looked like they were weeping. Something clicked in him. The murderer is on this roller coaster. And sure enough, something else happened. Bang. Gunshot, ringing through everyone's ears, as deafening as the scream. Marbles whipped around. It must've been the girl's boyfriend. But something was wrong with him, aside from the fact he was holding a knife and a gun. His face was covered entirely in some spots. When the roller coaster turned around, Marbles saw his face in the sunlight. Blisters. But they were not normal ones. Purple blisters. And he saw it. His eyes were mad, no longer human. A monster. A disfigured body.

More screams. More gunshots. The roller coaster halted. People were running away from the attraction. But they didn't. Some were killed ruthlessly by the murderer, while others fell to the ground. Weren came to one of them, “”Hey! Are you oka-" Swish. The knife grazed his face. Marbles stared at the person in horror. Purple blisters all over his face; mad eyes; disfigured body. It's an infection. “Weren, run!” The two of them ran away, occasionally blocked by screams and a falling person, unknown if they are dead or infected. Panic spread across the park like wildfire, without any escape. Something caught his attention. Marbles saw a young girl crying out.H he approached her cautiously, “Hey, are you looking for your mom?” The girl looked frightened but nodded. Marbles smiled, trying to reassure the young girl, “It's alright. C'mon. I'll help you find your mothe-” Bang. The gunshot hit Marbles before he could realize. The next he knew, the girl was lying down on the ground. Dead. “”N-No…" Lives, gone; people, screaming; chaos, everywhere. It happened so fast, too fast for anyone to react. Marbles snapped back to his sense when he heard an explosion ringing out once again in his ear. Boom.

Marbles struggled to open his eyes, under the bright sunlight he saw a girl carrying him. His stomach was filled with butterflies seeing her. “Luna?” There was no mistaking his friend, even through her unusually bright clothing. Her bright purple hairpin was visible through the blur in his eyes. Luna turned towards him at the mention of her name, “Marbles! You're awake! But we have to find-” “Luna, there are no other survivors. Let's go.” Marbles stood up, something about his knees giving away told him he had been unconscious for a while. “How long was I out?” Luna simply replied, “A whole day, but we must go back to the school. The disease may come back.” Agreeing with Luna, they left immediately. “Wait, is Weren okay?” His answer was greeted with an arm over his shoulder, “I am, my- I mean, Marbles.” Luna smiled, “Let's go. We don't have much time.”

811 words

Daily - 801 words
Another add-on to another daily I did, about World War II
A tear silently runs down the side of my face, as her piercing blue eyes stare at mine. Her dainty golden curls flutter in a gentle breeze as she withdraws a little handkerchief from her patched pockets.
“Hey, don’t cry,” she says gently as she dabs my face through the fence of the ghetto. She presses her napkin into my hands, blinking at me shyly. “I made this for you.”
“What about you?” I try to deflect. It is very lovely, but I know she doesn’t have much access to luxuries like these inside those dark walls.
She shakes her head, smiling at me. “You’ll need it. Besides, Elke and I often sew together. I’ll just make another one. The guards can’t complain - they think we’re sewing Stars of David on everyone's sweaters.” She glances at me strangely, her cheeks a little pink. “This was the first one I sewed by myself.”
The fabric itself is rough and somewhat uncomfortable; evidently a cutout from a discarded dress. But the care and compassion woven into each thread positively radiates outwards. Carefully threaded ambrosias dance at the side. Although not a masterpiece in accuracy, she has obviously worked very hard on each individual flower. The little yellow petals curl outwards, and I can almost see them dancing in a cheerful garden, the way flowers often were before this dratted war.
She looks at me shyly. Then, words flow out of her like a rushing river. “I love you.”
Words have the power to change lives. These are the words that I have been hoping and fearing to hear.
“Really? W-What about Ernst?” I’m afraid she’s teasing me - every time those lovely blue eyes look at mine, it’s like she understands me better than I know myself. She might know my affection for her to be more than friendly, but I don’t know whether it’s mutual.
She doesn’t say anything, but glances pointedly at a distant figure. A soldier, someone who has contributed to the poisoning of our country.
Numb shock spreads through my body. “He didn’t-”
She inclines her head sadly. Ernst joined them?! Why?! “He didn’t bat an eye when he found out I was Jewish. He was too fascinated by the idea of our nation winning the war this time. He was part of a squad who took my family here.”
The breeze suddenly paces into a wind, and then transforms into a gale. A few sticks and grasses smack into our faces. An oleander speeds by as well, but catches between the bars of the fence, right between her and I. We glance at each other. I want to stay with her for just a second longer, but it’s too dangerous. It’s nearly midnight.
“I love you, too,” I say softly, my upturned face fond. She leans in for a cheeky kiss, but footsteps clatter behind her. The wholesome moment tears into panic as I dive under the nearby tree. A harsh voice shouts.
“What are you doing so close to the fence, in the bloody middle of the night?!” yells the gravelly voice of a man. I hear her breathing accelerate, and I clench my handkerchief in my hand. You can’t do anything. You can’t do anything.
Heavens, why am I always so useless?! Why am I always a bystander?!
Not for long. I am going to help save the prisoners.
I can almost see her rosy cheeks paling. “Sir- I wasn’t feeling well. I needed to come out for a stroll.”
“You’re past curfew!” he roars.
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t want to be sick in the apartment, i-it’s cramped enough in there already-”
Suddenly, the man chuckles. “Do we have another one of those whiners? You should be grateful we even let you see each other, that we don’t raise our guns for fun on your lot. Then again, you’ll be shipped off to a place that does that soon.”
“W-What?”
“If you don’t get back into your dwelling within ten seconds-”
Dirt flies through the fence as she scrambles as fast as she can. I’ve heard horrifying stories from her of what the soldiers do to disobedient prisoners. My heart is beating so fast, I can almost hear it. She’s getting moved to what- where?!
Eventually, the gruff grunting of the soldier fades into the distance as he moves to the other side of the ghetto. I creep up to the fence, and patiently wait. After a few minutes, a curtain is tentatively pulled to the sight and a person looks at me, a person with golden curls.
On one hand is the decoy Star of David, which will be pivotal in the plan. In the other is a snowdrop.
Time to get liberation.

surprise ;D

My writing Comp entry( 722 words):
A small note: this was part 2 of the 4th weekly:

The Clock is Ticking!
“Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock, the clock is ticking,” said a voice behind me, and when I turned back, I was greeted with a punch on my face. Wait! Let me start from the beginning. I am Dulquer Leroy, a renowned detective in Paris. My mom is from India and named me Dulquer, which means warrior, and Leroy is my surname from my dad. One day, I was taking a stroll in one of the best gardens in Paris when I was interrupted by a phone call, which turned my life upside down. The call was from my best friend, which was odd as he never calls during this time of the day. I lifted up the call, and then a deep voice belonging to a police officer spoke up: “You're best friend, Andrew Garnier, has been arrested for murder.” I was beyond shocked because Andrew was a kind fellow, and he wouldn't even hurt a fly. How come he can do a murder? I replied, “Officer, Can I re-investigate this case?” The officer replied, “Okay, you can investigate this case again; after all, you are a renowned detective.” Without wasting another minute, I gathered up all the necessary things for the investigation and set the course for my new venture. When I reached the police station, I was devastated to see my childhood best friend locked up in jail. I swore to myself that I would get him out of this mess. The officer gave me his report and said, “You have 48 hours to prove that he is innocent”( indicating that the trial was in 48 hours), and I studied it very carefully and realized that all the evidence pointed towards Andrew.
I went to the crime scene and examined each and every detail carefully, hoping to find a clue. Voila! I found it! There was a strand of hair that was blonde. I took it to the lab for testing. After a while, the reports were in, and here is what the report stated: The hair strand belonged to the victim, Mr. Harris Rueben, and the hair strand had a blood stain on it that was dried so was not visible, and the blood stain belonged to Andrew. I asked the doctor to run the test again, and he was pretty sure it belonged to Andrew. I did the only thing that came to mind at that time: I sped off in my car to the jail, only to find Andrew laughing like a madman. I hid behind the wall so that he couldn't spot me.
I heard him confess, “Poor Dulquer, he is so naïve. Now, I think he might have found enough evidence to send me back to jail, so it is time to finish him.” I accidentally dropped a vase near me. The crash was ringing in my ears, and so did Andrew's, as he immediately
That brings us to the start of the story, so there I was hearing that mad laughter of Andrew behind me, and with only an hour to put him back in jail or else in the hearing they will present false evidence and get bail.
I did the one thing that my ex-girlfriend(a kung fu master) taught me: a high kick. I did my best high kick on Andrew, and he went flying and ended up on a broken table with his body covered with that horrible red liquid. I heard police sirens indicating that when I was in my hiding spot, I called them and recorded everything. I felt devastated to hand over my best friend to the police, but before that, I asked him, “Why?” and he answered with a smirk, “This is all your fault; you made me kill him. This isn't over,” which continued with a horrible laugh.
Well, this is all in the past, and it has been 3 years since this all happened, but I still can't uncover why I was the reason for the murder of Harris Rueben. I went to sleep, still thinking about Andrew. I was in deep sleep when I heard a Andrew's laugh which was followed by , “Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock. You have 24 hours to protect your life.” A chill ran down my spine, and a thought came into my mind: “What if Andrew is back to get revenge on me?”

Part 1 (i've finished the full weekly but can't post anymore because apparently inappropriate language?

Goth-fi

A tall girl pressed her forehead on the dirty sticks of metal that separated her from freedom. She was kneeling on the stone floor, which absorbed every sound. Her heart beat slowly against her ribs. Her skin stretched out painfully over her collarbones. The clanking of metal forced her to lift her head, her neck straining with the exertion, her face still pressed against the bars. Two shapes, in dark clothes, were lifting a slender little form, the chains that had imprisoned her had been cut from the wall, still attached to the innocent wearer. They dragged on the floor, pulling her limp wrists down with them. The girl dropped her head again, the dirt from the bars leaving long streaks on her already grimy forehead, hopelessness weighing her movements. Suddenly, she heard a squeak. Without the energy to turn her head, she waited as a tiny form appeared in her peripheral vision. A tiny furry form, life in a lifeless place. With a sudden burst of energy, she stretched a single arm out and grabbed the mouse and stared at it as it scrabbled and clawed at her hand, squeaking desperately. This is what all the prisoners ate. It was the only option.

205 words


Spy-fi

“What’s wrong,” said a cool male voice near my ear. I jumped, my heart skipping in double time and turned towards the voice. Then I remembered that it was my earpiece. Blushing and looking around hoping no one had noticed, I raised my hand and jumped again, trying to cover the slip and pretend that I had simply been inventing a new style of dancing. “What on earth are you doing?” Said the voice again. I managed to cover my surprise this time. I stopped dancing and tapped my wrist twice to transmit the signal. “Nothing,” my voice echoed back into my ears. “Stop doing nothing then, get to the job!” I winced and tapped my wrist again. “I was waiting for the suitcase.” My voice echoed back to me again, sounding sharper and angrier than before, suddenly my voice echoed again quietly in the background, like a side note. “For you to shut up, that is.” I froze. I’d never get any job again, I’d be an unemployed person with an intensive education for the rest of my life, how could I still transmit the wrong thought? I’d been training for months with the device to prevent any slip ups! He was quiet for a few moments. I was toast.

206 words(yes ik i’m a minimalist..)

Robinsonade

I rolled over on the soft towel and my hand hit cool grainy sand, I pulled my hand back. As I took my next breath, sand fluttered around my nose and, coughing, I opened my eyes blearily. I was met with a strange white fabric draped over wood poles. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, expecting to see a white ceiling appear, and that I was still dreaming. Nope, the canopy was still there. A strange pit formed in my stomach. “Where am I?” I said out loud, my voice sounding groggy, even to my own ears. The sun shone through the fabric cheerily, high in the sky. Suddenly I heard a loud crack. I looked around, my neck stiff from sleeping on just a towel. There was a tiny speaker sitting behind my head. Another crack, then a voice came through the speaker. “Helloooo,” said a cheerful voice. “You have been selected for a government testing program! You will stay on this island for the next 3 months. This program is to test the surviving ability of the general population in case of any apocalypse in the next 100 years. There is a manual next to your feet. That has some information on how to survive! Unfortunately if you are unable to pass this test, you will still have to stay here for the next few months. Your parents and family members have been informed about this. After this recording is finished, there will be no human contact. Good luck!

235 words


Bangsian

I raised my head and opened my eyes, expecting to see a hospital room. Instead, I saw a green forest. I turned my head, hoping I was simply hallucinating. The forest flickered for a moment and I saw a group of people in white coats huddled around a hospital bed. I recognised my wrinkled face in the bed and then at the beeping heartbeat monitor. I looked down at myself. I saw nothing. I was gone. I tried to raise my hand, but I couldn’t, I could only look wherever I willed. Suddenly the scene vanished and the forest appeared again. A flicker of pain suddenly appeared in my foot. I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe I was simply hallucinating, I couldn’t feel pain without a body. I looked down at my feet. They were furry. I was lying down on the forest floor, and for some reason my feet were furry. Panic filled my chest. I tried to stand but I had four feet and couldn’t balance myself. I slipped sideways and finally noticed a huge cat laying down beside me. She bent forward and licked my head. My furry head. I tried to say something, but couldn’t. She licked my head again. Peace filled my belly, erasing the worry, and I leaned forward, almost by instinct. My memories from my past life vanished without a trace and suddenly I was a kitten, had been a kitten and would grow up to be a cat.

247 words

Furry Sleuth
A dark furry form appeared behind a sheet, a faint whisper was heard. “Where is the gold?” “I don’t know,” There came a smaller form behind the larger one, smaller and rather tailesss. “We need to get it” mumbled the taller figure, heading forwards. They padded forwards. Pots suddenly clanged. “Oh no” whispered the smaller figure, “are you okay?” said the taller, rather annoyed. “We’re supposed to be returning stuff, not breaking stuff!” he continued. “I hope nobody heard.” “I know,” echoed the smaller rather guiltily. They continued walking until a brown furry head and pointy ears were seen beyond the curtain, “We’d better return the gold, or I’m not a dog!” The smallest said fiercely, recovering from his trip. “I’m not a dog,” said the taller, ‘inclusivity, remember?” They continued walking, past the living room, then towards the dining room. “Where are we?” The smaller said worriedly, wagging his tail to get the dust out of it. “I don’t think gold will be sitting on the dining room table-” “We’re heading towards the bedroom, I studied the floor plan before,” said the larger, even more annoyed, “and you need to be much more quiet! I hope nobody hears us or they’ll call animal control!” The smaller shook in his furry paws. “Oh no, I hope they don’t do that!! After a few seconds, they came to a large staircase. Without a word, they continued up the stairs, their paws hiting the wooden floor. A large room greeted their noses as they left the hallway. They both stuck their heads in. “I think this is it.” “I think so too.” Echoed the smaller. (abrupt ending alert)

320 words

silverlynx- wrote:

bangsian // a little boy dies when he is 7 years old because of the Plague and meets all of his dead family, who hate him and curse his family forever
actually little boy dies because of the plaque and becomes a ghost, tries to talk to his family but can't so he runs away to be met by ghosts everywhere he goes, and he hates them

eliott no longer felt so bad. he woke up peaceful, happy, breathing easy. immediately, he muttered a prayer of thanks, to the saints and the angels who smiled fortune upon him. it was all his parents, siblings, extended family had been praying for weeks. for weeks, eliott had thought only of spring, running with his friends in the meadow and stealing pie from the cranky neighbor’s open window. and, somehow, the prayers and wishes brought him through. his recovery tasted better than he ever thought it would.
a smile spread across his face, simply joyful, without the hint of mischief from before. gratefulness filled his heart, his hands, and he simply had to tell everyone. praise be, he survived! by the will of all good in the world, he was alive!
jumping out of bed, his parents’ bed, which had been given up to him for recovery, a sacrifice now paid off, eliott was a tangle of energy. no one else was present in the tiny room, no one else had witnessed the miracle, but he could share the good news. he could be a prophet, anyone could be, and he was a survivor. he raced down the stairs, tripping over his own feet and his own excitement.
at the sound of sobbing in the main room, he abruptly stopped. then turned the corner, stood in the doorway. his mother, on the floor, weeping. his father and grandparents, huddled around her. none of his siblings were there, but an unfamiliar child watched from a chair in the corner and another stranger, a woman, stood by the hearth. she frowned when she saw eliott.
why was no one telling his mother the happy news? oh, right, none of them knew yet! with energy renewed at the sight of her so distraught, he surged into the room.
“look, mama, i’m alright!” he started, dropping at her side. “see, i’m all better! the saints made me better!”
he looked into her eyes, expecting overwhelming joy. expecting love. there was only darkness. and worse.
she looked right past him.
“mama?” she was sobbing still, and his own eyes turned to tears as he looked around. no one, not his pa nor grandmama nor grandy nor grandfather, none saw him. “mama, pa, please! i’m right here!”
it was so wrong, so wrong, he was all healed, but something had gone wrong in his healing. the saints had put him back together poorly, but that couldn’t be possible!
“oh, little eliott.” he swirled at the sound of his name. the strange woman stepped towards him, grief mixing with welcome in her eyes. she looked like his mother, a younger yet wiser version of her. “my little starlight. burned too bright, for your mother. your poor mother…”
“grandma?” she nodded, and pulled him into her arms.
“everything will be alright, now. i promise.”

Weekly 4 - Obscure Genres, 2400 words
Each part is exactly 300 words long, except for the first, which is 600

You’re standing in a ballroom, surrounded by people, and you have no idea you got there.
Someone is standing next to you. At least, you think it’s a person. You can’t really tell. Their outline is blurred and vague, and there’s something wrong with their face. Mostly the fact that they don’t exactly have one.
The notion isn’t disturbing, although you feel like it should be, for some reason. You shake the shadowy thought away and take their outstretched arm, letting them lead you into the dance, focusing your eyes on the one thing that’s crisp and real. It’s an enormous red rose, perfect and pristine except for the scarlet fluid flowing from the center like a miniature fountain. It leaves sticky red trails on your partner’s outfit, along with the scent of dried flowers laced with honey, and you avert your eyes. The rose isn’t frightening, no…but you don’t exactly want to look at it anymore. You concentrate on the dance instead, your feet finding patterns you didn’t even know you knew. Faceless couples whirl by as you lose yourself in the dance, but all too soon the nagging fear that something is not right here is back. You stop and try to remember how long you’ve been dancing, but you don’t know. You shiver and pull away slightly, opening your mouth to voice your concerns, but all that happens is more of that sticky rose-liquid leaking out.
Thankfully, your partner seems to understand, and guides you over to the refreshment table. You select a fancy chocolate and bite into it. The outer shell is dark and bitter as midnight, but the filling is sickly-sweet, and when you look at it more closely you realize it’s yet more of the rose-fluid. It slips from your hand and lands on the floor, and your partner bends to pick it up. You notice that they’ve begun melting around the edges, just like the rose they’re wearing.
You wave the chocolate away. You’re not hungry anymore. More roses are growing, out of floor, over the faceless couples, dripping and dripping and dripping…
You touch a hand to your face and wonder if you, too, have begun to dissolve into rose remains.
Your partner raises a half-melted arm in the air and waves, and the air ripples around you like water. “There’s no better place to see your reflection than the Hall of Mirrors,” they say, responding to your unspoken thoughts. The scene shifts and changes, and suddenly you’re standing in a room made entirely of glass. It’s clouded over with condensation, but when you wipe it away you see that your face, too, is blank, and the melting roses are trailing over you like a climbing vine. You turn to your partner, but they’re already gone, dissolved into sticky fluid, and the scent of dead roses is overwhelming. You open your mouth to scream–
It’s daylight. Only a dream. You laugh in relief and spring out of bed. The scent of pancakes hangs in the air, and you follow it to the kitchen, where your dad is making pancakes. He turns to you, and there’s something odd about his face. It takes you a moment to realize he doesn’t have one. There are stacks of pancakes everywhere–heaped on the counter, the table, the floor, even one stuffed into his pajama pocket. He slides you a plate and pours maple syrup over the stack, so much that it overflows and begins dripping down the table. You poke at the soaked pancakes.
From somewhere, you catch the faint scent of dead flowers and honey.

+++

You wake with a smile on your face. You always do. You’re just so happy to be alive! Life is perfect!
You bounce out of bed, patting the sheets as they automatically make themselves. The blinds flutter open, and you sigh in contentment as morning sunshine streams through the windows. You quickly make a list of all the things you’re thankful for:
. No school, because all the information you need is automatically downloaded to your brain.
. No chores, because robots do everything that needs doing.
. No problems. We have computers for that!
Grinning, you throw open your bedroom door and run to the kitchen, flipping the switch. No one else in your family is up yet, so you have the Meal Machine all to yourself. You place your favorite breakfast order–fluffy pancakes with a drizzle of syrup, hash browns, scrambled eggs, and crisp bacon, with orange juice on the side. It dings when it’s done, and you sigh as you inhale the warm steam. Despite the fact that it’s all synthesized, you doubt anyone could tell the difference between this and organic food. Not that you have a point of comparison. You dig in, savoring the different flavors and textures. Of course, some foods come with an odd aftertaste–especially pizza and chocolate–but as long as you drink plenty of water it’s hardly noticeable.
Barking disturbs you from your musing, and you hastily gulp down the last bite of breakfast and turn to face your dog, or rather, your robot that looks like a dog. MechPets are all the rage–adorable, lifelike pets that don’t eat or make messes. They’re also obedient, and best of all, the latest models even have holo-projectors, so you can access the net anytime, anywhere. You cuddle with your robo-dog and smile. Is anything better than this?

+++

You stare out over the water. The ocean is beautiful and serene, the sand like crisp white sugar, the plants so vivid and alluring that it looks like something out of a book, or a painting, but this is very, very real, and right now you wish you were anywhere but here. It’s only a matter of time before you’re claimed by the island, only a matter of time before you disappear from history. Dumped on a desert island. What a silly, cliche way to die. What’s worse is that you actually might. The sea, while beautiful, is filled with carnivorous jumping sharks that like to spring unexpectedly from the waves to gobble their prey. The luscious shore hides sand lion dens–horrific creatures that look like a cross between a lion and a cockroach. While tiny, they have a bad habit of eating their prey alive. The plants aren’t safe either–half of them are carnivorous as well, and the other half are poisonous. The only thing you can be sure about eating here are the fish, and you’re getting pretty sick of that. Plus, fishing is nearly impossible with those annoying sharks always lurking in the shallows.
The sky is just as dangerous as anywhere else on this cursed island. It never rains, but it hails every night, enormous blocks of ice. The smallest are as big around as your fist. The largest–well, you never stick around to see, because if you did, the best that could happen is a nasty knock on the head.
You pick up a seashell and turn it over in your hand. It’s a pretty pink color, and the inside is a gorgeous, shimmering opal-like color. If only you had someone to share it with. But you’re alone out here, for who knows how long.

+++

You crouch in the corridor, breathing slowly. Moving slowly, so as not to attract attention, you tap the plain gold earring dangling from your ear. Except it’s not an earring, but an extremely high-tech transmitter device.
Your guide’s voice fills your head.
“Are you in position? Good. Now, the device we’re looking for should be somewhere around here. It’s your job to infiltrate the area by posing as a technician. We’ve bypassed security clearances, but you might have to get creative sometimes. Are you ready?”
You tap the earpiece again, signaling that yes, you are. Then it’s time to go into action. Standing, you walk towards the door at the end of the corridor. Everything behind you looks like a normal pizza place, and they do a good job of posing as one. But the place you were just crouching in the only place in the corridor that the security camera on the wall can’t see, because of a malfunction in the way it swivels. Which is, by the way, a cleverly placed bug, coded by yours truly.
No pizza place has security cameras in the hallways. At least, not ordinary ones.
And as you step up to the door and see the retina scanner, you know that this is most definitely not an ordinary one.
The scanner, predictably, scans your eyeball before chiming softly, and you can hear the click as the door unlocks.
Bingo. Part 1 done, only eight billion left to go.
Striding forward, you pretend to fiddle with your watch, checking the time. In reality, you’re turning on the video camera and recorder. Anything it records will automatically be uploaded to the data storage at HQ, so even if something happens to you, the information won’t be lost.
You take a deep, calming breath. It’s showtime.

+++

Detective Merry C. leafed through the folder in front of her, whiskers twitching. Finally, she sat down and met her client’s eyes.
“So…you’re telling me that your human gave you one last treat than last week.”
The dog nodded tearfully. “S-she always gave me o-one when I was good b-b-but I was g-good while she was gone and s-she d-didn’t give m-me a t-treat…”
Merry was tempted to hit him over the head with the folder, but she restrained herself. She was a professional.
“Have you considered the possibility that perhaps your human didn’t know about your goodness because she wasn’t there?”
The dog’s eyes brightened. “Oh! Oh, I see, I see!” He yapped happily. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I guess she’s not trying to give me away, after all.” Still barking joyfully, he skipped away, leaving Merry to stamp the (empty) folder as RESOLVED.
This was nice and all, but when was she going to get a real job?
Sighing, she slumped down in her seat, toying with her whiskers. She didn’t even notice when the newcomer came in.
A thick yellow folder landed in front of her startled gaze, and she looked up to meet the eyes of a well-dressed fox.
He gave her a sly smile.
“Looking for a big one? This could be your day.”
“How did you find me?” Merry asked, but she was already opening the folder, scanning the info.
ESCAPED JEWELRY THIEF, MILLIONS STOLEN, the headlines screamed.
And below…
A picture of her latest client.
Her heart leaped into her throat, and she stood up. “He was just here, I’m sure of it! Posing as a client.”
The fox dragged a paw down his face. “Very clever of him. Think you’re up for the task?”
She grinned. “I know I am.”

+++

Dear Pen Pal,
I’m not even sure why I’m writing this. My mom thought it would be nice to set up a penpal for me, but what would I even put in here? A list of all the reasons I want to go back home? Why would you even care? You’ve never met me before.
I’m so homesick, and there’s no way I can go back and I just want my old life again. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to “explore new possibilities.” Is it too much to ask to stay behind on my old planet? Now we’re halfway across the galaxy, lightyears away from everything and everyone I’ve ever known and loved. It’s just not fair.
But again. We’ve never met, and probably never will. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I don’t know why anyone thought this would be a good idea.
Maybe you don’t want a penpal anymore than I do. Maybe your mom forced you to do this too. Maybe you’ll read this and wonder why you had to get me, out of all the penpals out there–the only one in the universe who jumps right into things by ranting about everything that’s wrong in her life. Maybe you’ll wonder why you couldn’t at least get someone who would write about happy things–sunshine and butterflies and kittens. Or, you know, their planet’s equivalent of those.
Too bad, because I guess we’re stuck with each other, and I know I sound like a jerk, but I can’t write about happy things right now. I don’t have anything happy to write about.
I don’t know what else to put here. Maybe I should have explained more in the beginning.
But maybe, just maybe, you’ll understand. You’ll know.
Anything’s possible, right?
Yours,
Ruby Dayz

+++

The austere white courtroom was in turmoil. Men and women in suits, jury and judge, defense and offense–all were in agreement for once, and that was that a terrible crime had been committed.
The sound of a gavel cut through the noise, silencing the chatter.
“Guilty.”
It was so quiet the silence felt tangible.
“We of the court do find the accused guilty of…stealing His Most Royal Majesty’s Royal Pancakes,” the judge continued. “Does the accused have anything to say?”
The accused in question looked very much like a criminal. A man, perhaps in his early thirties, with roguish blue eyes and tousled brown hair. A lopsided grin only added to his rakish appearance, as did the uneven stubble on his chin. Never was there someone who looked more like the kind of person who would steal His Majesty’s Most Esteemed and Royal Breakfast, though the pancakes–ah, that was going a bit too far, even for such a one as himself.
He cleared his throat, and everyone in the room flinched violently, shuddering away from him before realizing that he did not mean to kill them all in their sleep. The tension only grew as he began speaking.
“It is true, I did steal and eat them. However.” He paused for a lengthy moment, and the court leaned forward, hanging on his every word. What would he say next?
“I don’t regret what I did one bit,” the criminal concluded, a devious grin stretching across his face.
Pandemonium erupted in the room. Screams, shouts, accusations.
The gavel thumped again. “Order! Order! This man is guilty and sentenced to death.”
The criminal said nothing more, but as he was led out of the room he waggled his fingers cheekily.
“Au revoir. Or should I say…see you soon?”
Then he was gone.

The Gossamer-witch
swc writing competition entry november 2023
1999 words
———☽♢☾ ———

In the world of threads, a monster lurks.
There are whispers in the forest towns, of an invisible girl with ragged clothing and fingers grown long into claws. They say she prowls between the Gossamer-world’s strings, preying on unsuspecting enchanters, draining the overlapping world’s magic like a parasite. They say she does not eat or drink, her only sustenance the magic she’s absorbed from the Gossamer-world — but she cannot use it, cannot unravel the magic threads, cannot free herself from her thinly-veiled prison. She is filled with pent-up power and pent-up anger. She is dangerous.
Don’t go off the path, parents warn their children. Never go into the woods alone.
And to the rare few with magic, the rare few called the Unravellers, who can see the Gossamer-world and manipulate its threads: Don’t talk to the Gossamer-witch, or she will eat you whole. Don’t talk to the Gossamer-witch, and if she asks you to use your magic — run.
What they don’t know: the witch’s name is Evelin.
This is her story.

———☽♢☾ ———

The Gossamer-witch stalked between the trees, pushing her way forward through the dense web of threads with practised ease. Her plan echoed in her head, a second heartbeat, urging her on. Not long now.
Evelin was searching, hunting for someone — a girl. The girl who had trapped her in the Gossamer-world long ago. Her heart still ached from her old friend’s betrayal — and Evelin was determined to show her that pain, make her suffer like she’d suffered.
But despite searching every town in the forest for the girl who had betrayed her, decade after decade passed, and still Evelin found nothing. Eventually, she found she no longer cared whether she got her vengeance or not. The loneliness and monotony of the Gossamer-world weighed down upon Evelin until all she cared about, all she needed, was escape.
Evelin was jolted from her thoughts as she crested the hill and saw the town spread out beneath her. It was so painfully familiar that she gasped — and the memories flooded back to her in a rush.

Summer, many decades before. Back when being an Unraveller was a death sentence, and Evelin was only a child hiding her magic, trying to survive.
The day it all started.
Evelin was sitting by the lake, toes dipped in the glimmering water. She was squinting at the light, practising looking through the tangible world to the one beyond — the Gossamer. She played with the threads, focusing on a string of Gossamer and, with her mind, unravelled it into a thin spiral — making the water ripple with unseen currents, making leaves fall from the trees and float in the air.
She didn’t hear the footsteps on pine needles, didn’t see the other little girl until she sat down beside her.
Evelin jolted in fright. “How much of that did you see?” she asked, her voice a strained whisper.
“A little,” the girl replied.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Evelin hissed. “No one at the orphanage, especially not the adults. They’ll take me away. They’ll—”
“I won’t tell.” The girl smiled. “I think it’s beautiful. Show me more.”
Evelin shook her head. “Maybe later. Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m new at the orphanage,” the girl told her. “My name’s Ivy.”
“I’m Evelin.”
“Evey and Ivy,” Ivy grinned. “We match.”

Seated on the hill above the town, Evelin watched.
It was the same town she had grown up in, she was sure. She recognised the orphanage. The market square. The lake.
Stars were beginning to paint the sky, and people were flocking to the night market, their chatter and laughter flooding through the streets. Giggling children ran between market stalls, smoke coiled from chimneys, the lake beside the town shimmered in the starlight — and Evelin remembered all she’d lost.
It was all so familiar, yet Evelin had changed so much.
She longed for the simplicity of the life she once had, the innocent girl she used to be. A wave of suppressed loneliness overwhelmed her, and a single tear leaked from the corner of her eye—
She wiped her face, roughly. Focus on the plan. She stood up and strode down the hill into the town below.
She hadn’t gone far before she sensed it — a disturbance in the Gossamer threads. A slight twitching, tugging Evelin forward.
A small, triumphant smile played across her cracked lips.
She’d found an Unraveller — she’d found her prey.

Summer passed, leaves fell, the days grew shorter and colder. Evelin and Ivy were at the lake again, although this time it was frozen. They lay on blankets and stared up at the cloudy sky, picking frosted grass with cold fingers and warm hearts.
“We should run away,” Ivy suggested, suddenly.
“How?” Evelin turned to face her best friend. “We’re just kids. We can’t—”
“We’ll go from town to town until we reach the city,” Ivy said. “The laws are changing in the city. They’re legalising Unravelling. You won’t have to hide your magic anymore.”
“I’ll be free,” Evelin whispered, taking Ivy’s hand.
And together, they came up with a plan.

Evelin followed the disturbance in the Gossamer, all the way to the lake.
A little girl was playing with threads. Making the water ripple. Making leaves fall from the trees.
Evelin stood at the edge of the forest, frozen.
The little girl turned around. “Hello. What’s your name?”
“Evelin,” Evelin whispered.
“I’m Olivia. Evey and Livi — we match, sort of.” The girl offered Evelin a gap-toothed smile.
Evelin smiled back, teeth glinting in the moonlight. This girl was the first Unraveller that hadn’t run away at the sight of her — and an Unraveller was the only thing that could free Evelin. All she’d need to do was steal Olivia’s magic and force her to take Evelin’s place in the Gossamer.
Evelin shuddered, involuntarily. Could she do that to a child?
She gritted her teeth. She had to; she’d prepared for this. She couldn’t spend any more years trapped here. The Gossamer-world wasn’t meant for mortals — the magic Evelin had consumed was beginning to grow into something else inside her. It was going to destroy her, she knew. This could be her last chance to escape.
“What made you this way?” Olivia asked.
“No-one’s ever asked me that before,” Evelin told her.
“I’m asking you.”
So Evelin began to tell her story — and before she knew it, she was already halfway through.

Winter slowly bled into spring, and the girls finalised their escape plan, dreaming of their future that finally seemed hopeful. Until one night, in the cramped orphanage dormitories, when Evelin woke to someone shaking her.
“Ivy? It’s the middle of the night.” Evelin groaned.
“I read the newspaper,” Ivy whispered urgently.
“In the middle of the night?”
“It doesn’t matter. It didn’t work.” Tears stained Ivy’s cheeks. “The king was overthrown. Unravellers are illegal again.”
Evelin was speechless.
“We can still go to the city,” Ivy said hurriedly. “Me and you. I found this old book, and it talked about how an Unraveller can cut the thread that tethers their magic to themselves. You can be normal. We can still escape.”
“What if I don’t want—”
“Trust me. I have another plan.” Ivy smiled, and her teeth glinted in the candlelight.

The next day, Evelin returned to the lake.
Olivia was already there. “Tell me more,” she pleaded. “Of the story. I want to know how it ends.”
“It doesn’t have a happy ending,” Evelin warned.
Olivia frowned. She took Evelin’s hand, her fingers oddly warm.
She’s only a child. How can I trap her in my place?
If you don’t, you might never escape, the desperate part of Evelin’s mind whispered to her.
“How do you feel about being an Unraveller?” she asked, trying to make her voice light.
“I love it,” Olivia said, eyes lighting up. “When I’m all grown up, I’m going to use my magic to help people. To heal them, like a doctor!”
Evelin scoffed. “You can’t do that. Magic only destroys.”
If I hurt this child, I really will be a monster, like they all say.
She pushed the thought aside, and finished telling her story.

It was snowing the night of Evelin and Ivy’s escape, winter’s last grasp at freedom before spring swallowed it whole.
It wasn’t hard to sneak out of the orphanage and into the moonlit forest. They stood under the trees, their few possessions piled in their arms.
Evelin plucked the thread that connected her magic to her out from the mess of glimmering strings.
“Should I cut it now, or—”
Ivy pushed in front of her. She waved her hand in a sharp motion, and —
The threat cut.
Evelin’s magic poured out of her in a dark, sticky rush, black staining the white snow. Ivy fell to her knees, and the magic swirled around her, swirled into her.
“You’re an Unrallever?” Evelin gasped. Then reality dawned on her — Ivy had lied to her, all this time, and now Ivy had stolen her magic.
“I’m so sorry,” Ivy sobbed. “I wish I could run away with you.”
And then Evelin’s only friend turned away and darted into the forest.
Evelin took off after her, running through the threads she could no longer use, Gossamer snagging on her clothes, but Ivy was gone, and—
Something felt terribly wrong.
Evelin put her hand against a tree, and her shimmering, almost translucent fingers melted straight through the bark.
Her heart thumped faster, panic setting in — she wasn’t observing the Gossamer-world from the real world, she was in it herself. And she was trapped.
She started to run, again. In the direction Ivy had gone. She needed answers, she needed revenge, she needed escape.
She didn’t look back.

Evelin returned to the lake, one last time.
It was raining. Fat droplets fell from the trees into the lake, speckling the water. Olivia hadn’t shown up yet, and Evelin was beginning to worry that she wouldn’t come at all — she didn’t have any more story to tell, after all.
But soon enough, Olivia appeared skipping up the path, calling a greeting. She skidded to a halt in front of Evelin, her hair wet and bedraggled, a huge grin painted across her freckled face.
Evelin couldn’t do this. She couldn’t take this child’s magic, leave her trapped in the Gossamer, condemn her to the life she’d suffered through.
She knew what she had to do.
“I’m going to show you something, so look carefully,” Evelin began. “Can you see the three strings connected to you? One connects you to real life, the other to the Gossamer, and the third to your magic.”
Olivia nodded.
“Can you see mine, too?” Evelin asked. “I only have one. The one that connects me to the Gossamer. I want you to cut it for me, so I’m not trapped anymore. All the pent-up power I’ve gained from living in the Gossamer will all go to you, and you can use it to help people. Promise me, Olivia. Promise me you’ll use it for good.”
“But then you’ll have no strings left,” Olivia said, eyes full of fear. “Won’t you die?”
“Trust me, Olivia. Cut the thread.”
Olivia stood her ground. “Promise me you won’t die.”
“I promise,” Evelin lied.
And, to her surprise, Olivia didn’t protest. She raised her arm in an arc —
Snap.
The thread was sliced clean in half.
All of Evelin’s pent-up power flooded out of her in a blinding, golden rush — a new magic, not of destruction, but creation. Instead of falling to the ground, Evelin staggered forwards, her solid feet on the ground.
She was free, bound by no worlds — and alive.
A disbelieving laugh bubbled from her lips, and Olivia looked up at her in awe. The golden magic shimmered in the air all around them, making the rain warm, glowing.
“I knew you would get your happy ending,” Olivia whispered, triumphantly.

And together, the little girl and the witch ran into the forest, ran towards home.

———☽♢☾ ———

tysm to sun and zai for critiquing <33

daily 11/30/23: a fond farewell, 562 words

This session was so much fun, and definitely merits a thank-you note.
First, to all the cabin leaders and co-leaders:
Thank you for making sure this all ran so smoothly. This session was especially challenging because of the forums problems, but you managed to find ways to work around it and make sure the campers were able to do what they needed. The dailies were fun, the weeklies expanded our writing horizons, and of course we can't forget the beloved tridaily <3 You guys rock, and if I could I would mail you all 10000 mangoes instantly.
Second, to Real-Fi:
I'm so glad I was able to experience being in this cabin. Everyone was so friendly and I love the aesthetic ajfhnjkg I'm so sad that the session is over and there will be no more carnivorous plant jokes Dawn and Niko, you two were amazing leaders and I would totally opt to be in your cabin(s) again. Abbie, we don't know each other very well, but you did a stunning job of organizing the first in-cabin task story. Cactus, Luna, and El, nice job completing the word search! Y'all are awesome. To everyone else in my cabin who I'm probably forgetting: to quote the Hobbit, “I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve,” but you were all amazing and I'm so glad we got to do this together.
(by the way I really really hope that doesn't mean you think I dont' like you, everyone in real-fi is super duper cool because real-fi is the best cabin /lh)
Third, to Mouse:
Congrats, you get a whole section entirely to yourself! Now, again, we don't know each other very well, but anyone willing to donate her hair to the daily team is a friend of mine. Sorry for stealing your mangoes (buuut you did steal ours right back so maybe not that sorry /j) and I promise that I will never…NOT steal your mangoes bahaha but in all seriousness you were pretty cool and it was nice talking to you
Even if you did steal the mangoes akfhahg
Fourth, to Illu-Fi:
Greetings, lovely siblings! I hope you guys had fun too, and thanks for being our very awesome sibling-allies. It was fun chatting with you guys about plant routines and mushroom villages lol. I also love love love your aesthetic and I hope you guys get second place <3
(but not first because I'm saving that for real-fi /hj)
Fifth, to Vi and Crim (why did my brain want to write Vim and Cri–i need help):
Your writing is super stunning and you guys were such an inspiration during the session. It was cool getting to talk to you guys on your individual profiles, and even cooler to learn that one of my biggest inspos on scratch was into SWC as well. Best wishes for Dystopian!
(sorry about the short note lol my motivation is quickly vanishing-)
Uh I can't think of anyone else–oh wait yes I can, thanks Poppy for selling me the Mango Launcher 3000 or whatever it was. I promise to put it to good use…NOT attacking folklore
Ok that's it, see you guys around the Big House, and I can't wait until March!

Ivy / IvyCreations
IVY IVY IVY IVY IVY ahhhh hiiii I’m pretty sure we grew closer in the last few months (being friends I mean) and you’re so cool! dystopian was so cool this session ahhhhh

Mouse / MouseLoverr

MOUSE MOUSE MOUSE MOUSE MOUSE!!!!! eeek hiiii i so wish you could come visit me </3 or i could go visit you but it’s okay!! IT’S SO COOL THAT BELLA’S GOING TO VISIT YOU AND THE MANGO MAYHEM IDEA IS SO COOL AND AWESOME ALKJFDKLDJDK

risss / Eeveedonut
RIS RIS RIS AHH! i’ve still been freaking about us meeting irl like that was sooo unexpected. God must’ve brought us together for a reason and I can’t wait to find out that reason I still remember that day where I first met you last year <3 you are such an amazing friend and I’m just so happy!! you’re very kind and sweet and amazing

alex / hamilchaos
ALEX <333 you’re such a cool friend!! maybe we’ll get to be in a cabin together someday and I think it’s so so /so/ cool that you became fluent in english!! like that’s so amazing?? love ya <3

Poppy / PoppyWriter

POPPY POPPY POPPY AHH <33 hiii!! you’re a very amazing friend, and I love talking to you! i so hope we’ll get to be in the same cabin someday :0

bella / Bxlla_Cxmps
and last but not least, BELLAAA you’re amazing and I love having you as a friend <33 oh my goodness i can’t believe that you’ll probably meet mouse irl like that’s so cool :0 and maybe if one of you meets ris or something (very small chance that i’ll come to where mouse is ;- but if we did that’d be so cool!! <33

to everyone else - i probably missed a lot of you but my motivation just went plop and i delayed writing these for almost 9 days i’m sorry everyone sobbb but yeah to those who I missed here ya go and then everyone else, thanks for giving your part to swc! whether you were the really active leader, or the inactive camper (you still did your part by joining! don’t feel bad about yourself <33) to the first-timer all of you were amazing and thanks for giving your part!

my leaders

hiii horror was such a cool concept, I loved it a lot! I’m sorry that i kinda lost motivation halfway through the session :c but I loved it and it was an awesome session because of you guys <33

hosts

how. are. you. guys. always. so. cool. LIKE OH MY GOODNESS THIS SESSION WAS AMAZING AND WOULDN’T BE AMAZING WITHOUT ALL OF YOU - I loved how you guys worked together as a team and all of you helped make this session amazing <33

motivation went plop sob

{story removed by moderators. Please follow the Community Guidelines when posting}

part i
cli-fi
Journal entry of Alastor Smith, 25/11/2036
There’s something wrong with our society, chipping away on its deep, stable roots. I can see it on the news, I can feel it with my fellow citizens, I see it in my job. Strange how we thought we had everything figured out. Yet, climate change is… well, it’s happening. It’s happening much quicker than we anticipated.
Journal entry of Alastor Smith, 8/3/2037
It’s happening so much quicker. Oh God.
The forest fires? You know, the ones in Australia?
Yeah. They are now spreading around the world. The world has warmed up enough so that there are now forest-devastating fires everywhere. The sea level has risen enough to drown many low-land coastal cities.
Journal entry of Alastor Smith, 31/2/2038
Our research facility was taken by fire. Our research facility.
Oh, did I not mention? They’re not forest fires anymore. Almost 30% of urban areas have burned down.
The fires are also, obviously, taking trees with them. This decreases the amount of oxygen in the atmosphere, and, as they are getting burned down, more carbon dioxide is getting released into the atmosphere. This makes this into a sort of cycle, where… apologies, dear reader, (and I hope someone will read this - I hope we deal with this and this journal gets saved for history) but I will have to use programming terms to explain this. This makes it into a sort of “while (these conditions are true)” cycle, where the variable of oxygen gets decreased every time it runs, which causes, in turn, the variable of temperature to increase and the conditions become, well, truer.
Some people have died of heatstroke. No, really. The heat was too much for them.
Journal entry of Alastor Smith, 15/8/40
I’ve lost my job. I’ve lost my house. Hell, I’ve lost my city.
The world is, mostly, a wasteland.
I am hungry. Very hungry. However, I’m accustomed to hunger. At this point, everyone is.
I haven’t eaten in… what, five days?
Good thing that I should be getting close to a source of food soon enough. The dump I’m writing out of is one of the dumps that has communities living in them.
I think I see a corpse in the distance.
Update: The corpse is rotten. It’s disgusting; not good for eating. Besides, human corpses usually have very little meat on them.
God, the world is such a mess. I almost hope that a flood takes us, so the world can be reborn anew.
Journal entry of Alastor Smith, 5/3/2043
I shouldn’t have hoped. Oh God, I should not have hoped. It’s approaching fast. Oh God, it’s approaching so fas

the gothic horror or the novel lyric hunt
It took a while for Draven to wake up, because his bed was so comfortable and warm and he really didn't want to leave it. Strange, because his bed usually wasn't comfortable, it was hard and cheap and…
Suddenly, he wasn’t sleepy anymore. This wasn't his bed.
Oh God, this wasn't his house.
His house did not have a chandelier hanging above the king-size bed, or a king-size bed, either. Neither did it have large, antique windows, dark wallpaper, or that high of a ceiling.
Where was he?
Last thing Draven remembered was stumbling through the dark, feeling light and dizzy, someone making idle chatter. He likely walked into someone's house and fell asleep there, thinking it was his.
That's when the headache hit him. God, how drunk was he?
Wincing, Draven got up and walked out of the room. This was a really expensive room, wasn’t it? Even the chandelier must've cost hundreds.
He noticed that the room was on the first floor - makes sense, his drunk self wouldn’t be able to go upstairs. He also noticed that not only was the room too expensive, but the whole house was - he was in a mansion.
Another thing Draven noticed was that he was alone. Also, the front door - double doors; nearing being gates instead of doors - was ajar.
Similar to a haunted house, no?
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Draven jumped slightly. Welp. He supposed he wasn’t alone, after all.
A butler stood behind him, smiling pleasantly (‘Of course there was a butler in this house, why wouldn’t there be?’).
“Oh, hello. Apologies for the, erm, intrusion,” Draven said awkwardly.
“Intrusion? Whatever do you mean? The house is yours, after all.”
“…huh.” Maybe the old man mistook him for someone?
“Ah, right. I forgot. Apologies, you really do look a lot like your cousin.” Cousin? Draven was so confused, he missed the way the butler’s face hardened. “Mr Williams,” the butler began, and Draven’s blood ran cold - that was his name, “I believe you should meet your family.”
“My… family?”
“That’s right,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Who do you think lead you here?”
Someone came up from behind him. God, did he accidentally find his way to a nuthouse, or…
That train of thought was cut short when he saw who it was.
It was himself.
Holding a knife.
“This house… it’s your inheritance,” his cousin, Draven guessed, explained. “And I can’t let you have it.”
Draven just stared at him. “Mate… what did I even do to you?”
The cousin shrugged. “Exist.”

The headline never made the papers. No one cared for the poor Draven Williams. The police were paid a hefty sum to not care, and there weren’t much of anyone who knew him well enough to protest.

utopian
The date was 28th December, 2031, and Alastor Smith was working. When is he not? He had a crisis to prevent, after all. Okay, yeah, he was just an intern in the Uranus Institute, but he was still providing much-needed insight into the work of the full-time employees (or he liked to think so, anyway).
It was pretty great that they had everything else worked out. Over the past ten years, social inequality slowly - but surely - came to a stop. World hunger was solved, and corrupt governments were mostly eliminated. Society employed the help of AI to computerise various tasks yet it never overstepped the line, after which it would begin to replace humanity. (Art was to the other side of that line. Science research - or the part of it that would take ages to sort through archives and browsers to get - was not. Alastor was infinitely grateful for the latter. As for the former - apparently, AI art was something that people tried to implement back in the early 20s, but the companies who were making them got dragged down by many lawsuits as well as actual artists, so the idea never really took off.)
They had around fifty years to stop the only thing that was wrong - climate change. However, with all of the tools they had at their fingertips, Alastor was sure that they could fix it in time.

surrealism
The fog whispers as I walk through it. I can only make out separate words, like ‘cheese’ and ‘cycle’ and ‘wine’. I think it might be talking to the trees, in hopes that they will grow cheese and wine. Silly thought, really. Trees can’t grow cheese and wine if they’re not in the mood, and they’re certainly not in the mood right now - it’s too early in the morning for that.
Soon enough, I make my way over to my favourite bush.
“‘Morning,” I mumble. In response, it rustles a bit. I pick up one of its fruits and break a picnic blanket out of it - the grass is too dewy to sit on otherwise.
“Sorry to bother you, Paul, but my mum sent me out to get some milk. Would you mind-”
It produces a milky-white fruit that I gladly take. In return, I water it.
“So, uh, how have you been?” I ask the bush.
We talk for a while about everything and nothing at all while the trees and the fog around us chime in at random points. For example, one of the trees, Stacy, informs me that the other forest keeper - Sander, around my age, also works here as a part-time job - has been talking about me a bit more than he's meant to.
Soon after, I have to leave as my shift’s over. I say my goodbyes and get up.

cash register
There's someone covered in blood, buying a packet of crisps.
“Hey.” They have their face covered. Their mask also has a built-in voice changer.
“Morning.” I can't be asked to care. “Will you be looking to buy that?”
“Oh, yeah, it's for my friend.” They give me the money, perfectly counted. That's a pleasant surprise.
“Mind if I try a grape?” they ask, gesturing to the grapes that are on the counter, next to the cash register.
“As long as you don't get blood on it, I don't care if you lit the store on fire with me in it.”
“Christ’s sake, mate, who hurt you?”
“No one, I'm just really tired.” And after a pause, “whose blood is that? Out of curiosity.”
“Well. It's mine. And… someone else's.”
“…Ah.” Maybe I should, in fact, be afraid.
“Here’s a tip.” They put quite a generous amount in the tip jar. Nevermind, then.
“Did the person deserve this, at least?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
I look at them dubiously. After all, I’ve no idea what they count as ‘deserved it’.
“He held my little sister hostage.” They say it with unsettling casualness.
“…Oh.”
And, after a pause, I add, “And you didn’t think to change out of your bloodied clothes?”
“My sister really wanted that crisp packet. Also, that’s what the mask is for. Anyways, I won’t hold up the line any more than I already have. See you.”
So, they leave.
This will be a fun story to tell.

bangsian
<Author’s Note: These characters are not dead in canon {credit goes to Chonny Jash for creating said canon}. They are, however, dead in my AU, which centres around them being dead and how their mutual friend {somewhat} attempts to deal with it. Also, Mind and Apollo are the same person who uses he/it pronouns; Heart, Juno and Artemis are the same person and use he/they; Atlas and Soul are likewise and use he/they/it. CWs for mention of one of the characters combusting.>

Apollo wakes up in an unfamiliar place.
Well, of course it is unfamiliar. He is not in any way familiar with a white void. He thinks he can remember a black void from his, Heart and Soul's creation, but this was not it.
And then a guitar falls on him.
He'd scream if his throat wasn't injured. His voice modulator - though he supposes it's less of a modulator and more of a speaker - helpfully outputs a spike of static, which is close enough.
Once the initial pain subsides, Mind evaluates the situation. The guitar seems to have come from nowhere. That means someone summoned it - a common occurrence in the headspace. However, for that to happen, someone else should be in the room - if this even counts as a room - along with him.
Apollo is not alone.
He sits up and inspects the guitar.
It actually looks quite familiar. In fact, it exactly matches the appearance of a guitar that Juno used to own.
Juno, who disappeared screaming, enveloped in brilliant white light.
That's how Mind went, too, isn't it? In hopes of truly breaking the loops and to get Heart back.
And then, in the distance, (Where did it go?)
[You.]
They turn their head towards his voice. Mind notices they're still blindfolded - have the injuries carried over to wherever they are now? Strange that it's only the eyes; when he and Soul found Heart's body in the tall grass outside their house, it wasn't just the eyes, but their whole body that was singed and-
After a moment, (Please don't tell me you're real.)
[I don't know.] Its voice is filled with static. It thinks it might feel its eyes sting. In the past year, that has been a much more common occurrence that it'd like to admit. [Are you?]
Apollo gets up and runs towards him. The embrace that follows is likely the longest he's ever given and/or received. He's pleased to report that Artemis doesn't suddenly fade away, or dissipate into dust in its arms.
(I thought you said you'd be happy with me gone,) Heart says once the embrace is over, a bit apprehensively.
[I was wrong, obviously. And I thought we'd moved past… everything.] A pause. [Anyway.] Best get on with it, no? [I've come to take you back. The, ahem, the Soul misses you.] That's a gross understatement. Apollo and Atlas have spent the better part of the year being overcome by grief and guilt, and the other trying to figure out how to get him back.
(You don't get it, do you, Sunshine?) he says, pity lining their voice. Mind flinches at the nickname - and the pity, of course. They haven't called each other anything other than their names and insults for months. He supposes Artemis might've missed him, too. Though his reaction to its appearance somewhat speaks for itself. (You're dead.)
Oh.
Oh God.

paranormal
<Author’s Note: Credit to the Magnus Archives for existing>

Statement of Emily Williams, regarding her late second cousin, Draven Williams. Original statement given 21/08/2016. Statement begins.
My uncle is named August Williams, and when he was my age, his aunt passed away. His cousin wound up dead so he inherited her money.
I think I’m seeing that cousin now. I don’t think he likes me very much.
He appeared when I first moved into the house. Draven looked just like my uncle, apparently. When I saw him, I assumed that it was, in fact, my uncle, but he shaved or something. I tried interacting with him (you know, to get my monthly allowance and the like). The others present simply gave me strange looks. Draven gave me a bit of a strange look as well - surprise which soon changed into pure resentment.
Then he began showing up in my bedroom. I think he tried communicating with me - he left messages on the walls, old recorded tapes with words that you can barely make out - before eventually giving up. None of the messages were pleasant. However, some were pleas for help; for justice.
Well, one was pleasant. Alright, not pleasant but at least it wasn't malicious. He was trying to help me, I think. One time, he wrote in my notebook, “You should run if you value your life”. It might've been a threat, though. You can never know, can you? Not really.

part ii
There haven't been any customers in the past half-an-hour. This isn't that uncommon - this is a bookstore, after all - but usually, on a weekend, we do get at least a few customers at most times. There is a bit of a commotion outside, though. I decide to open the curtains to see what’s going on. I really hope it’s not a-
Ah, but it is.
I was going to say that superhero/villain fights sometimes end in collateral damage, so I really hope it’s not one, but I suppose I jinxed it.
It’s some random superhero - not one of the more popular ones, which means I have no idea who they are; I don’t really keep up with the newcomers, can’t really be bothered these days - fighting a random supervillain. I can see a crowd of people watching from a safe distance. Idiots. They likely have a death wish. (There’s never a safe distance with a superhero fight.) A lot of shopkeepers have also made a temporary barrier around their shops using their powers. Some, who don't have powers or whose powers can't build barriers, have lowered expensive property protection gear or the DIY, lower-quality versions thereof.
The superhero has some sort of plant manipulation power - they keep trying to wrap the villain in one of their vine thingies. The villain, though, has some messed-up version of pyrokinesis - they can seemingly only heat things up. It looks like they can only set things on fire that are easily burnable - like the hero’s vines - otherwise they would’ve set the hero on fire ages ago.
I’d follow the rest of the street’s shopkeepers’ practice and use my papyrokinesis to at least try and protect the bookshop from any damage that may befall unto it, but a) I don’t want to mess up the books, b) paper also, unfortunately, burns easily. (I don't have any property protection, either. Unless my manager's insurance counts.)
You know, I don’t really get why exactly people become superheroes or villains. Yeah, sure, you get glory with becoming a hero, and money with becoming a villain, but is it all really worth it? If you're a villain, you're generally hated and also hunted by superheroes. And what kind of levels of arrogance - or, come to think of it, insecurity - would you need to have to trade your freedom for being liked? Isn't the hero committee really controlling over its members? Besides, many heroes aren’t even liked that much. The more famous ones almost exclusively patrol the richer neighbourhoods. The hero that’s engaged in a fight right now is obviously one of the younger upstarts. We get those quite a lot - ones that aren't that experienced, so they get to test their abilities out on a low-stakes playing field: a neighbourhood that no-one cares about - except for the petty thieves, like the villain probably is, and the residents.
I watch the fight without much interest, other than the silent prayers I am currently making that the fight comes nowhere near my shop.
Just as I think that maybe, the bookstore will remain unscathed, the villain rips one of the hero's vines out of their hands and sets it on fire, effectively making a fire lash, and begins whipping it towards the hero, causing them to edge backwards. Towards my shop.
Letting out a frustrated groan, I decide that I’ve jinxed that, too.
Genuinely. This villain could've pushed the newcomer towards one of the protected shops, or better yet, towards nothing at all, but instead they led them towards one of the few unprotected shops on the street. I make a rude gesture at them from the window of my shop. I'm too tired right now to deal with this, but here we are.
The hero and villain are talking to each other. It looks a bit like they're arguing; I can't see the hero's face but with every word they say, the villain looks more and more annoyed. I can't really make anything else out. I can't be asked to try, either. Instead, I use the stack of paper on my desk and make them into two giant hands which I manipulate to get the rebuilding materials from the cupboard on the second floor.
When the heavy materials are halfway downstairs and my head is already hurting from the strain, the two <censor>s finish their heart-to-heart and move away from the shop.
My eye twitches.

WEEKLY 4

PART 1: Lesser-Known Genres

Utopian
This is the story of a world. A world, of course, has many stories, told in as many different ways as there are minds to perceive them. They constantly shift and adapt as the world itself spins, and this constant change is the life force that keeps it going, to spin another day, to tell another story. In its grandeur, it is perfection.
This world had already seen billions of years pass, had given rise to species after species, all of them fighting, surging, howling just for the chance to tell their own stories upon that earth. The profusion of life streaming by had often repeated history’s patterns again and again, yet always slightly different.
At the beginning of this story, the turtles had a deep connection to it all. They could sense the shifting powers of nature, the life forces that resided at the core of every organism. They had millions of years of experience, and had just about seen it all, every pattern’s endless reiteration.
The wolves controlled large amounts of territory. The apex predators, they amassed large, complex societies and spread across the world, building ever-bigger Packs and telling ever-grander tales. They fought among themselves but always came back stronger.
And the lynxes dwelled in the frozen forests of the north, with their own cultures and traditions. Honor and skill were their values, and they would defend their independence and individuality to the death, if it came to that.
There were others, too, countless more that all claimed a niche in this world. The fish, the lizards, the smaller mammals, the insects- All but the birds. For they had disappeared long ago, and not even the turtles cound say where they went. The others lived in perfect balance for many, many generations.
Until a new species showed up.

Furry Sleuth
Wolves were social creatures, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t handle herself perfectly well on her own. After all, Chaos had… let’s just say “other connections.” She was an oddity among her own kind, even before she realized why- her inherited ability to shapeshift left her with pieces and parts of other types of minds. Horse and snake and roach, she had taken all sorts of forms. But that wasn’t all.
Unbeknownst to any other wolf, she would steal away to the distant lake, where the Chervil turtle population dwelled. There, she met with one turtle in particular- she called her ‘Chervil,’ as the turtles had no individual names- and shared the secrets of the universe together.
Curiously, the universe seemed to respond to her sometimes. It was not always in the form of directly spoken words, though she occasionally heard those voices too, but often in the form of events happening at uncannily convienent times, as if karma was always on her side.
That’s why, when she discovered a strange winged animal while on a hunt, she assumed it was put in her path by the world’s conscious decision. But what was she meant to do with it?
Her fellow wolves discovered- and preyed upon- more and more of these creatures, but no one recognized what they were. It was a mystery. She resolved to study them- and find out their secrets herself.

Melodrama
Thorn wasn’t the bravest, but he had always done what had to. When the forest had caught fire, he had faced the flames to help evacuate the helpless eggs. When Breeze had gone missing, he had participated in the search, and when those efforts were fruitless, he had moved on. When wolves attacked the colony, he had fought the beasts as well as he could, and he managed to escape with his life. He was not unfamiliar with danger.
But this time was different. This wasn’t the natural disaster of a wildfire, or the mindless hunting of a predator. This time, the shazarxi had no one but themselves to blame. This time, the threat came from within the colony, not outside of it.
Swift, the former leader, had been killed by a wolf, and Ash and Shade were locked in furious combat over who would be the next leader. In their competition, everyone was forced to pick sides.
He didn’t like it, but he had to do what was right.
“Don’t leave,” Holly had begged, looking so desperate, so fragile. “Not when our hatchlings aren’t even fledged!”
Thorn knew Ash was watching them, the angry gaze of his red eyes glaring down from his throne on the highest ledge in the canyon.
“I’m sorry,” Thorn apologized to his mate. He hated to leave her behind. “But I have to do this.”

Paranormal
Comet was old enough to remember Silver’s visit to the ocean colony. Silver had been searching for his father, Thorn, but he had brought with him an even greater treasure- Feather.
Feather had died before Silver was born.
No one else could see her, but Silver wasn’t crazy. He had just had a near brush with death, and come back with a stronger connection to the places where the afterlife met the living world.
Comet didn’t think Silver comprehended the significance of this. If there was one way to interact with ghosts, there might be others! He was still young, not even fledged, at the time, but he resolved himself in that moment to dedicate his life to studying ghosts. Feather was a good start, but what about the others? There were plenty of dead shazarxi that could potentially be brought back.
Death wasn’t inevitable; it was a problem that could be fixed! Rain and Wave and conquered the ocean with their raft, and Wander and Ruby and fixed Ruby’s broken wing with leaves and sticks, allowing her to glide again. There was no obstacle that couldn’t be overcome with a little bit of inventiveness.
And, in Comet’s opinion, there was no obstacle that shouldn’t be broken through. He was happy to be the inventor.

Cli-fi
The new species was invasive. Chervil knew that much by now. From what Chaos had told her, they had shown up practically overnight, and no one knew what they were.
It was a shame the wolves had stopped preying on them after the one big attack. But they claimed that the population was too small, and needed it to expand before they could hunt further. Otherwise, they’d risk making them extinct and losing their newfound delicacy.
Chervil understood this and couldn’t fault them for it. In their place, wouldn’t her species do the same? Normally, she’d have agreed with their decision- in fact, she had given similar advice to other species a thousand times over.
However, this new species was different, and in a dangerous way. Chaos had explained the intelligence of the “shazarxi,” as she called them, and how they had violent tendencies rivalled only by the wolves’ own. Plus, they had a strange way of messing up the world around them. They would tear apart plants and move stones to create structures, seemingly not caring about any harmful effects this had. Besides, like other invasive species, they were eating native plants, crowding out other animals that depended on the same food source.
Worst of all, they had seemingly begun to bring the afterlife into this world. Ghosts drained the energy from the environment around them- bringing them to this world would upset the balnce more than everything else combined. If something wasn’t done soon, it could mean a whole new mass extinction.
Perhaps it was Chaos’s influence on her, but Chervil wanted to do something about it. Turtles were not meant to take action, but if not her, then who? She had already accepted the name ‘Chervil’ as referring to her individually- such a strange thought for a turtle!- and now it seemed like she would approach this problem in a non-turtle-like way, too.
Well, maybe that’s what the world needed from her…

Surrealism
Teardrop wasn’t really themself anymore. Ash had plummeted from the heights, his shadows consuming him as Shade took the lead, and he had taken Teardrop’s heart with him.
In the rubble of Parsnip’s great finale, he had ridden the wave of the collapse, finally skidding to a stop at the edge of the water.
There, the reptiles of the lake rose to meet him, a new curiosity that had wandered into their reality. Their eyes were dark and wet and deep, and he could feel himself drawn into them. They exuded a sense of water, smoothing her jagged edges and softening the spikes within her mind.
Teardrop was folded over and over, spiraling inward, into an endless pattern and the wings of time, pecking out a rhythm of tck-tck-tck as they chipped holes into the bark of the trees.
One dark seed of the earth swam up to them day after day, caressing him with the energy of the thoughts, wearing away the past and replacing them with itself, until the turtle’s calmness had eaten into her brain.
Until she was no longer the one in control, and the turtle turned her claws upon her own kind.
Until they had their own fall to take.

Bangsian
Parsnip was laughing, prepared to face the end in the same way he always had- with humor, energy, and the voices in his head. The second end, that is. He had already died once. Once was enough, in his opinion. It had been cool, but a lot of work. Not really worth it. Yet, here he was anyway, on the brink of his second finale.
The birds had returned to the world, bringing Chervil’s attack to a complete halt. It turned out they had been the ones behind the creation of the shazarxi all along, as well as the predecessors to the current writers of the universe- a team which Parsnip was happy to consider himself a part of, alongside Wild and Chaos and, interestingly enough, Chervil. But Wild, the lead writer, was giving up control now. They had tasked Parsnip with ending it, with wrapping up the storyline.
Except it wouldn’t be a final end, would it? Even without Wild, Parsnip and the others could still work together, still invent their own stories and let them play out in the world. Maybe the people from Wild’s other world wouldn’t be able to read the stories anymore, but that was okay. They had this one, which had turned out rather well, if Parsnip did say so himself.
For a moment, Parsnip considered everything that had happened. Had all loose ends been tied up? Yes, he was pretty sure they had.
So, with a ghostly whisper, Parsnip grinned and said, “The end.”

Baba Yaga in Space

Believe it or not, getting to space is the easy part. For our ancestors, those ancient beings who insisted on a “space race” before their technology was remotely advanced enough, this would be quite the surprise. But we have figured out the proper fuel ratios and we possess the necessary wisdom not to launch a rocket on live broadcast in unforeseen weather conditions. So now that is the easy part.
The hard part is making it past Mars.
I remember when I first heard about it. A house—an old-fashioned cottage with chicken legs, of all things—orbiting the Sun just beyond the red planet. Which was just the first weird thing.
You’d expect a house in orbit to, well, orbit. You’d expect not to see it again until it completed a giant circle around the Sun. And, just like those first manned missions to the Asteroid Belt, you’d be wrong. No matter where they went, no matter how quickly, the house always seemed to be there already.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. I know the first expeditions thought it too. This is a house with chicken legs, this is familiar. We all know this story. I won’t say her name, I ask that you not either, but yes, the story is familiar.
So some genius decided to send his son up there, past Mars, alone except for a rather flimsy radio receiver. I don’t remember his name. Let’s call him Ivan, for the fun of it. Look, no one was out there then. Today, with the Mars experiments and the outposts on the Belt, it could have been any of us to see it first. Some people think it had to be a kid. I’m not so sure about that.
Ivan was not an astronaut in the traditional sense. His dad wasn’t either. Neither really knew what they were doing, but the house didn’t fight it. The records suggest it welcomed him, actually. Just reached out and plucked him from space while he was floating there. Thank God we retrieved the body, or else we’d never know what came next.
I’d like you to think of everything you know about Ba— her— and forget it for a moment. Imagine you’re a young boy, you’ve never heard the stories, you’re in the clutches of a chicken-footed house in space, and you’re about to be let in the front door.
And, once inside, you see it’s larger than it seemed from the outside. Or smaller? You can’t quite tell. That is no matter, because, stretching from corner to corner, is her. Her scratchy voice, her cackle, and you feel both welcome and incredibly unsettled.
She tells you, little boy, that she can smell the blood of Russians. Preposterous, you’re not Russian, and you’re millions of miles from Russia. She tells you, with a gesture to the large oven behind her, that she’ll give you a favor if you clean it out for her. She’s just an old woman, trying to make a little bread, trying to favor her house and her hearth, but she’s too big to fit inside, and you’re the perfect size.
This is familiar to you, even if the other bits aren’t. Stories like this one fit into more than one culture.
So you trick the old witch; you ask her to show you how to clean the oven and you shove her in. You make it out, gleeful and giddy and knowing your father will be proud. But your spaceship is gone, the house disappears, and you are all alone. No one for millions of miles.
It was gruesome, Ivan’s death. There was no doubt who was to blame. But the data collected from his corpse (recovered millions of miles from his ship) was invaluable. His encounter was the first, and far from the last.
It’s now widely accepted that a run-in with her will end poorly only if you are alone, an adult, or, most terribly, both. She won’t try to trick adults, as she does children, only throw them to the cold of space. Most manned expeditions these days hire a team like mine, with child operatives and a folklore expert. And our work is important; when passing through the Asteroid Belt, her house is inescapable. No matter where on the orbit you enter, it will be there. If two ships enter from different places at the same time, two houses appear as well. It’s impossible to forget, impossible to erase those reaching arms, scrub that creeping dread from your mind, try as we might.
I don’t fear the house, only the witch inside. I suggest you learn to do the same.
It does make me wonder, though. Where did all of those ancient tales come from? Why were they so accurate, yet so far off? But it’s not my job to answer, I’m only here to get us all past the Belt. Past that haunting presence.

an excerpt from Loveliness Itself

Atlas’ fifth time in Promise, she still had no idea what its name meant. Patron curse whoever called it that.
A thought tickled at the back of her head. She refused to give it the light of day.
Her mind was mostly refused thoughts, at the moment. Considerations better left unconsidered, ideas too terrible to even flirt with flirting with. She had never enjoyed flirting. File that one away with the others, too. Soon she would run out of topics of thought, and be forced to resort to counting the lanterns and the stars.
She hated this city. That she could think about. Inconsistency, that was its promise. Every visit, a new, more unruly festival. Atlas would know, the Reli were quite possibly the most creative celebrators on the Plains.
Or maybe she was just in a bad mood. No, that could not be it. Atlas Ward, to her birth and duty, was perfectly reasonable. She had never suffered a bad mood, she never would.
Without her traveling party, the dancing hall seemed empty. Atlas’ previous three visits in Promise had featured trips to this very hall, though it was more that Inya and Whim dragged her here. Tonight, her feet carried her here out of habit. She supposed. Patron forbid she seek out enjoyment on her own terms.
A waste of a journey. No. This was how it was meant to be. Atlas had run away. She had no duty nor any agenda to carry out. That flavor on her lips was freedom. She reached for her glass and her hand brushed the arm of a neighbor.
She flinched, anticipating the reaction. They always capitulated, even if they claimed not to keep the faith. Superstition superseded religion, logic. But there was nothing, no reaction.
Touch, her touch, was nothing of note, here. Atlas reminded herself, again and again. She felt she should remember. She had always been so trapped when others saw her as more than she was. And now she was free of that. Just took some getting used to.
Someone bumped into her from behind, and the general jostling of her current location led her to seek a new one. She ducked into the shadows, hoping her light blues were well enough disguised by the dark and by her cloak.
The thought, the image of her huddled by the wall of a darkened dancing house, made her laugh. Cry. She was hopeless. This was no grand escape. She could hardly remember who she was or where she was, let alone what she was pretending. What a terrible lie.
Wards were good for one thing. Protecting. Who was she protecting here?
“Do I know you?” Someone else had joined her in the shadows. The voice was unfamiliar, but when she turned she instantly recognized those awful blue eyes. She hadn’t seen him in years. The reunion was not a happy one.
“I do know you,” he said, deep voice taking on a distinctive whine. “Princess Atlas. Ward, was it? Of Bulwark?”
“Yes.” The Wards didn’t produce royalty, they took on no titles, but any respect he might show her, she would take.
“Yaan the First of his Name,” Yaan the First of his Name said in introduction. North Bastion presumed so much with their conventions. “We met—oh, we met here! That council was called in Promise. When was that—four years ago? Oh, you were tiny then. So afraid to touch anyone. Ha! Imagine. You look much better now. Less corpsey. And your paint—are the Wards allowing that now? Would make quite the scandal, otherwise.”
She nodded, thoughts going to her next planned destination. Before dawn, she could charter a carriage. Get out of town before word got to Bulwark.
“Such interesting garbs you’re wearing these days—the holy guards? What a nuisance! You can’t have joined them, being tied up as you are. So what is this mission of yours? No, I’m sure it is quite secret. You mustn’t tell me. But you must! Only a peek, I promise. You won’t hear a peep out of me, promise. Ha! Like the city. No. But you must dance with me. You were such a wonderful dancing partner, when we last met.”
He talked without taking breaths. His face had all the attraction of a dying horse. He offered her his hand. There was no “No.” to be uttered. Atlas was well and truly cornered. She took his hand. She did not flinch.
Yaan tugged her into the light, head already turned away. On his leash, Atlas stepped to the dance floor. Some band played from the mezzanine. She glanced at them. Regret. If she knew how to play, an escape would be simple. If she knew how to sing, she could make the excuses now. Her partner was still babbling on, as he placed one hand on her back and squeezed the other in code.
Too many years had passed since she last danced. Even so, she slipped into it easily. Moving in tandem with the instrument, giving up to the song, easy as ever, even with an opposite as mediocre as Yaan. His words dropped into a dull buzz; she was grateful his voice had deepened so much, it could easily blend into the bass of the music.
“Excuse me.” A new, higher, clear voice broke through her spiraling. “Might I request a dance with this fine lady?” The speaker was dressed in dirtied finery; she had been traveling without the usual protections afforded to someone of her class. Yet she was splendid all the same; she was viciously beautiful. Dark coils crowned her head. Eyes half way between mountain brown and deep midnight blue; impossible eyes, eyes that refused whatever humans conceived as impossible. Her masque was sparing yet pleasing—a hint of rouge on her checks, five, seven-pointed white stars shining upon her forehead. Atlas had seen this woman before.
Yaan hummed with interest, eyes dropping to his side. He bowed to Atlas as she nodded, then backed to the shadows. Her eyes followed him, suspecting his attention would not soon retreat.
Her new companion cleared her throat. She jumped, but took her gloved hand. She wanted to ask—no. Religion was an inappropriate topic of conversation.
“Rogue,” Atlas said, giving an obviously fake name intended to deter questioning.
“Ah. Then we are alike in spirit,” the other said. They stood still, hands touching through the glove. “I find I’m often called Flor.”

Churro's Dailies #24 (i think lol)
https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/931353980

part of the 4th weekly is here too ^^

critique for @Stormclaw1875, apologies for being so late! thanksgiving and forums crashing happened :')
anyways, moving on to the critique (267 words)

I really like the way you used the symbolism of the rose, roses are my favorite flower and I use them in writing all the time. Some of the writing did a feel a bit formal and stinted, an easy way to remedy that is to cut out any unnecessary words or phrases, or replace them with more informal variants. For example, saying “tears threatened to spill, and she failed to blink them back,” instead of saying “to no avail.” However, you can use more formal words and phrases with great impact sometimes, so just use your best judgement as to when they'll work in your story without sticking out too much. When we read, our brains become accustomed to seeing certain words, and so they kind of become “invisible,” or background noise, but when you stick more unfamiliar words in, our brain “highlights” them, because they don't look like they belong. It's just something to keep in mind.
Moving on, I like how you portrayed the relationship between Rose and Paul. It feels really real and vivid, and the ending is both heartbreaking and very well written. I absolutely adore the way you used the rose in this part, and how it faded when Paul died, and then using the point of view of the British soldier to “show” Paul's death instead of “tell” it. Showing instead of telling is a valuable part of storytelling, and I love the way you pulled it off.
That about wraps up my critique! Again, sorry for being so late, but I hope this helped at least a little lol