November 2nd Daily

Greetings, future Snowy!

I'm writing this letter for the second daily of SWC. This month, I'd really like to improve my writing in a whole bunch of ways — I'd like to be able to write setting more vividly instead of using cliches to describe it, and I'd also like to improve my characters to make them a bit more well-rounded, as I usually have a tendency to make them rather one-sided instead of more multi-faceted, and as an aspiring novelist, good, properly-developed characters are crucial to making a book interesting to an audience. Because this is my first session of NaNoWriMo, it'd be amazing to reach that goal of 50,000 words in a month and would definitely boost my confidence (so, *ahem*, future Snowy, no pressure at all-), and would show me that if I work hard at it, I can finish a first draft of a novel in a month, since keeping up motivation and continuing to write instead of dropping a novel is a struggle with which I tend to have a lot of trouble. This month, I've got a bunch of different projects I'd like to complete, the most important to me being getting at least a good chunk of my novel — The Volume of Everything Unspoken (title as of now) — done. Beyond that, I'd love to get back into poetry, as writing good poetry has definitely been another issue as of late, since I've gotten further into the realm of short stories now and am having a hard time finding my way back to my original genre. Anyway, as I've got a bunch of writing contest entries due soon, I sincerely hope that you have managed to get those knocked out, because otherwise, you've got a LOT of work to do next month. Besides that, I hope you've entered in the SWC writing contest with a short story or poem that you're really proud of, and just remember that regardless of where you place, you're an awesome person and it was brave of you to go for that in the first place.

Your past self,
Snowy
(Script Misfits for the win!)
~
355 words total

Part 1: Character Inspiration
Song: Safe & Sound by Taylor Swift (because I'm a Hunger Games fan, so I just had to choose this one-)
Verse: First verse

Cassandra holds her hand out to the little girl she swore on her life to protect. Bending down to her level so that she can look the small child in the eye, she says, “What's your name, darling?”

The little girl's response is so quiet it's hardly audible. “May.”

“May?” Cassandra repeats. “That's a pretty name. Well, May, I'll take care of you, sweetheart. I won't let anyone hurt you. I promise”

May nods, though still somewhat unassured, but Cassandra raises her fingers up to wipe away the trail left by a falling tear, her long, dark hair shielding the crying girl's face from any person who may happen to pass by. She holds out her hand to May, who hesitates before taking it, but her fingers quickly close fast around it, holding on tight. Cassandra gives the small girl a sad smile, one that tries to hide the pain of loss that throbs behind it.

“Come on,” she says, regaining her composure as a soldier instead of the young girl she is beneath all the layers of armor and ferocity. Her chestnut brown eyes find the vivid blue ones of the child, and Cassandra's own fill with tears for May, who has lost everything at such a young age. At the girl who she would protect, just like how she was ordered to,“We're going home now.”

Part 2: Character Sheet

Name: Cassandra
Pronouns: she/her
Species: Human
Appearance: Dark brown (almost black) long hair, straight hair, light brown eyes, scar along the left side of her face following her jawline
Birthdate: November 13th
Age: 16
Strengths: Empathetic, kind, brave, good actor, determined, caring
Weaknesses: Burns out very easily, can be kind to the wrong people, sometimes can lose sight of her goal in the light of other things, not very good at expressing herself, can be impulsive at times
Tendencies: As a very good actor, Cassandra can lie easily, which she often does about her emotions to either a) not worry people, or b) because of her own internal conflict about believing it's not always okay for her to feel emotion, given her history as a soldier. Because of her kindness and empathy, she is excellent at relating to people, but this also causes her to burn out quickly and can make her naïve at times — or blind her by her care for someone. Additionally, she often is wary of her environment, causing her to look behind her at odd moments for no apparent reason.

Part 3: Character Motivations

Scene One: The Fire
In which Cassandra tries to mend her shattering facade as she runs into the flames to save her family

Cassandra stares into the rising smoke, wondering if maybe she can somehow see the faces of her family there. If not for the flames, there would be no light to juxtapose the darkness.

She runs back into the fire, though there are yells which tell her not to, but she doesn't listen to them. All she can hear is the pounding of her own blood in her head as she finds her way through the maze of falling debris and ashes. They quiet as her thoughts get louder.

As her feet pound against the ground, as the flames lick her legs and causes angry welts as she runs, she knows the desperate effort to save them is futile. They, of course, will be lost to the oranges and reds which killed so many others.

Cassandra coughs, weakly, trying to get ahold of herself. She can't lose focus now. Not when the people she loves are this close to death. It's selfish to stop now, after all they have sacrificed for her to live. And now their lives will be wasted, trying to give her a longer one. Oh, the irony of it.

When they come to drag her away in heavy suits to keep out the fire, she screams at them, thrashing as they bring her away from the burning building.

“What were you thinking, stupid girl? You have to leave them!”

She struggles against them again, but it's hopeless. Frozen tears find their way down her cheeks, and her eyes close as they let go of her. She rocks back and forth, back and forth, letting them overcome her until she knows nothing else.

Scene Two: The Scar
In which Cassandra finds herself blinded by her own kindness

It's a mission. Keep your eyes on the mission. Cassandra repeats those words to herself as she does her best not to let her emotions get the best of her. This is a mission. Don't lose sight of what you came here to do.

The boy. She was supposed to come her to befriend him, betray him, assassinate him. That is her job. Only, it turned out that perhaps he's more than the threat they made him out to be. He's just a player, just a pawn in this whole game.

The girl. A soldier, trained to react in an instant, yet with a weakness for kindness and a stroke of naïveté. She should have seen it coming.

His smile so contrasts the one he wore earlier. This one is deadly, malicious. Nothing at all like the shy, sweet one he wore earlier. The one that made her think, Maybe he isn't as bad as they think he is. But now, she pays the price for that kind of thinking. The wound bleeds as the dagger splits her skin, red hot blood that makes her eyes tear.

And the whole time, all she can think is, I was supposed to have the upper hand.

Scene Three: The Soldier
In which Cassandra begins to understand who she really is…and what she will do for others

It's quiet in the office, where Cassandra stands tall and with her shoulders rolled back. She signs a paper. One word: her name. This is all there's left to do. This one last promise she has to make, one last sacrifice. For them. It always comes back to them, doesn't it?

The woman at the desk smiles at her, a gesture much too warm for a place like this. Soon, she will be living in a soldier's quarters, learning to shoot a target from a hundred feet away. If all goes well, that is.

“What brings you here?” the woman asks her, scanning Cassandra's face quickly. “You look a little young for this place, don't you think?”

She lets her hair cover her face slightly as she gives a small half-smile. “I had to. So many people out there who can't fend for themselves. They need people to look after them. It's a war, after all.”

Memories flood her again, and she blinks them back before they turn to tears streaming down her face. A light chuckle, one that she doesn't entirely mean. Another mask put on, pretending she isn't scared at all.

Darling, you can don a mask a thousand times over, but are you really who you say you are?

Part 4: Extended Scene
Expanding Scene Two: The Scar

Her first solo mission. The words rippled through her mind as Cassandra takes three consecutive steps toward the place that would become her home for the mission. She would put on the mask of a person who she isn't, live another lie, another game. But that's no problem for her. She's only worn one exactly like that every day of her life. Doing it every day gets tiring, but she refuses to let that stop her. It's time to put this bleeding war to an end, finally. And if one betrayal, one more false face, one more empty promise will get her there…well, so be it. She'd do it a thousand times over if it meant she'd never lose someone again.

The boy is a threat. That's what they told her. But they haven't met him. Maybe under that, he's not so bad after all. That's just wishful thinking. You're duty-bound, remember?

She leaves her weapons behind in this mission, because sending a signal of war won't do anything to neutralize him if he won't trust her. She's smart enough to know that, at least.

Her fingers comb the scraggly pieces of hair refusing to find their way into her messy ponytail. They're like snakes in dark brown creeping down her shoulders, taking over her, stealing her.

Maybe, Cassandra thinks as she sees him and plasters a porcelain smile onto her face, I won't have to kill him after all. Maybe we can negotiate a peace some other way. He's not the person they say he is. He's kinder than that. They just don't see it. No. She can't let this happen. There's only one way to make this work: to be absolutely, completely, and utterly focused on the goal and nothing in between. Emotions are messy, and they only get in the way. They tear at her facade, and they make her something other than the invincible soldier she's sworn to be. She's going to kill him, just as was planned. It's the only way. It's the only way to end this perpetual cycle.

He welcomes her inside as an ally, as a friend. Oh, if only it were that easy. In better times, perhaps, she would be one of those. But she knew what she signed up for when she said this was a commitment she would make.

She wields her kindness as a weapon to him, and laughter is her sweet relief. But they're both playing a game with one another, and only one can win.

When she's sure she's gained his trust, she waits until he's at his weakest. Cassandra is filled with regrets she does her best to swallow back as she gains the control she's meant to have, steal his secrets and then silence him. It's for the best, she reasons with herself, but all the while, there's a nagging thought in the back of her mind that asks, Are you even sure of that anymore?

It's a mission. Keep your eyes on the mission. Cassandra repeats those words to herself as she does her best not to let her emotions get the best of her. This is a mission. Don't lose sight of what you came here to do. She's soldier, trained to react in an instant, yet with a weakness for kindness and a stroke of naïveté. She should have seen it coming. But things always hit you when you least expect them to, don't they?

When he looks at her, it's different. The smile he wears is a stark contrast with his earlier one. This one is deadly, malicious. Nothing at all like the shy, sweet one he wore earlier. But now, she pays the price for the kindness she showed him at first.

It's her turn to make a move, but she hesitates, and in that one moment, he steers the boat back on the course he wants it to be. It happens in a fraction of a second as the wound bleeds against the dagger. It's then that she finally realizes who he is. An enemy. He was always an enemy, just playing her and outdoing her at her own game.

And now? She will carry the mark forever.

November 6th Daily

She doesn't notice as I fall into step behind her, the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground matching the cadences of her own. Step. Step. Step. I follow her as she moves fluidly through the hallway.

“Alana?” I say finally, and it echoes throughout the room. Alana? Alana? Alana?

She turns toward me, her eyes scanning my face. For what? To see if I'm the person who she thinks I am? Obviously, I am. My appearance has remained as unchanged as always, as does hers. She looks exactly the way I remember her. Pearl white teeth and a crooked smile, mousy, untamed hair. And yet, it's been years. Years since we last met.

She squints at me, as if she can't quite believe it's true. “Sophie?”

“Yeah,” is all I can think to say, though I want the conversation — if you can even call it that — to keep going. I don't want this to end. “So. It's been a little while.”

She snorts, and her laughter sounds the same as always as she returns her gaze to the direction she's walking in. “I guess you could say that.”

Even though I wish I didn't see it, I watch the hurt flash across her face. But it's only there for a second before it's gone again. Because that's who she is. “Yeah,” I say again, but that's not what I want to say. I want the apologies to rush out of my mouth, but, of course, it's too late for “sorry”s and stupid regrets, because they'll never change anything. It's much too late for second chances anyway. And besides, Alana's never been the forgiving type.

“Where've you been all this time?” I know her well enough to figure out in a second that the carelessness in her voice is just an act. But I don't question it, because neither of us wants to bring up the past we share.

“You can drop the act. It's okay. I know I messed up.”

The snort-laughter again. "Royally. Did you ever think about someone but you for just a second, huh, Sophie? Because you said you would be there forever. I hope you remember that, at least. After everything else you've forgotten. Can you even tell me my middle name? Or is that no longer important either?“

Of course I can. ”It's Claire. How could I forget that?“

”Well, it seems like you've forgotten a lot of things.“

I'm silent for a moment. If only I had said something there and then, maybe then we wouldn't be in this situation right now. ”I'm sorry,“ I tell her, but it's hopeless as it is. There's no going back, after what I did.

”You'd better be.“ Alana's eyes jump to me for a moment before fixing back in front of her, angry and lonely. It's a long time before she says anything else, and I debate leaving, but she talks again, this time her voice much more tired than anything else. ”Do you know how many times you lied to me? You kept a lot of secrets.“

I shrink into myself as the words burn themselves into my skin. They're true, though, and that's what makes them hurt. ”I know.“

And this time I leave before I can make anything worse again. Before I mess this up like last time.

”Goodbye, Alana," I whisper, but I'm already gone.
~
Word count: 567 words

Word War with @pixzunami

All my life, I've longed for it to come true. And now? It finally has.

I sit on the floor, my tired legs aching and aching and aching. Rain drips from the top of the window, slowly sliding down the pane until it hits the wood of the sill. It's beautiful, but all I can do is to think of how much it looks like it's crying from the clouds.

I used to think it was perfect to be free. My one goal in life. The only thing I ever wanted. I thought, how wonderful it would be to become a bird. How spectacular, to fly so high above everything else and let everything else fade to dust around you. I thought, wouldn't it be wonderful to be among them, soaring in the sky, not a care in the world, just living with the wind in your feathers as you spread your wings toward flight?

But as it turns out, those wings come with a price. You have to go through fire and ice to earn them, and only if you can somehow, beyond all odds, manage to get through that without the pain of death, you might still have a chance. Not many, I realize, survive it.

The breeze blows the leaves on the trees, back and forth, back and forth. They sway as the air rushes past them, a couple of them unable to hold on for any longer and eventually falling. Falling looks like it could be easier, at least for that second where it feels like flying.

It occurs to me that maybe right now, I am the one falling. Suspended in the air like-

(end of word war, 279 words)

-a snowflake before it hits the ground. Falling, it seems, is practically synonymous with freedom. You have to fall in order to be free,
~
Word count: 303 words

Moses sat, spending much time pondering over the remarkably important question: whether his toes may, indeed, be classified as roses, or at least scientifically. There were many aspects of this crucially significant issue, such as if it was, in fact, possible for a toe, feeling quite the same as skin, to be a rose. He supposed that it was possible for there to be a rose in such a color, but as he stared at them, he became more and more distraught over the prospect of his toes being roses, or the issue that may occur if his toes were not roses. Ah, the question of the century. He did suppose that, at the very least, they may be some kind of flower or botanical wonder, but he did not yet understand which one. Thus, upon much deliberation, he thought the extraordinarily pressing matter required him to contact a true botanist to solve the ever-nagging issue of what his toes truly were. Were they roses? Or were they — he shuddered at the thought — violets, or even — and at this thought he nearly vomited — irises? Either way, he would know soon enough, once his friend Tom the botanist was able to discern what they were after all.

Moses picked up hood phone and dialed the number, his fingers — or perhaps they could be called leaves? — tapping against the cool glass of the screen. The black numbers flashed white as he did, and Tom's voice soon filled his ear, which had the speaker pressed to it.

“Tom,” he said, very matter-of-factly, “I need your help. I have a problem, and it requires you to come over right now. Please, Tom, this is important.”

Tom, of course, being the very worried and caring friend that he was, hung up and rushed over, telling his friend Moses that he would be there in just five minutes. “Where are you, Moses?” he asked as he literally jumped into the car, his phone sandwiched between his shoulder and his ear to keep it from falling to the floor.

“221B Baker Street,” Moses replied instantaneously.

Tom began to grow more and more concerned with every passing second, and as he drove, he even nearly ran a few red lights, despite being such a cautious person in the first place. But he had to help his friend, who he was very scared for indeed. Perhaps he was in a kind of life-threatening danger? But surely his job as a botanist and a florist wouldn't make him the most qualified for the job of rescuing Moses, wouldn't it? Surely there would be others much more suited to the task.

“Moses? Are you there?” he cried out upon arrival. Tom's head shook from side to side as he scanned the area for his friend. He rang the doorbell, once, twice, three times, but there was no answer. “Moses!”

Moses, who had been lost in the key thoughts of whether or not his toes were, in fact, roses, didn't hear him the first time his friend asked him where he was, only the second time, where Tom had been near shouting. “I'm over here, Tom!”

Tom ran up to the place where he heard Moses's voice coming from, and he came as quickly as he possibly could. “Moses? There you are! I've been looking all over.” He glanced at his friend, checking to see if he was injured or in distress, but Moses only met his gaze with a worried look as he stared into the eyes of his friend.

“Tom,” he said, starting off slowly and nervously, “I think that my toes may be roses.”

Tom, who had been expecting something much graver burst out laughing, to which Moses grew even more angry.

“Tom, I told you, it's serious! Stop laughing, please.” Moses looked down at his bare toes in despair, then looked at the rosebushes beside him, then finally at his shoes, halfway across the lawn, ten feet away from one another.

“Well,” Tom mused, trying to do his friend the favor of giving him the benefit of the doubt, even though he knew that surely, the idea was absolutely and utterly ridiculous, “I suppose it could be possible that your toes are roses. But let's take a logical look at this, shall we?”

Moses nodded, relieved that he was at least being taken seriously then. “Let's.”

“You see, Moses, roses have a tendency to have thorns, and those thorns can be rather large, too. Have you seen any thorns on your toes?” he asked, though he knew the answer before he even gave his friend to respond. “And they have petals. They have big, red petals. Or sometimes pink or orange or yellow. What color are your toes? And do they have petals too?”

Moses pondered this for a second before answering. “Well,” he said, “I guess not. My toes don't seem to have petals, or thorns, for that matter.”

“Then it's settled. Your toes aren't roses, Moses. I'm sorry to disappoint you.” Tom could barely even contain the laughter that had begun to shake his body so violently he could hardly breathe.

“Perhaps not.” Moses looked extremely distraught for a moment, accompanied with a side of utterly confused. “So…my toes, then. They aren't a flower of any kind?”

“No,” Tom said, who could still hardly bear to look at his friend without laughing. “They aren't.”

“Hmm,” Moses said. “Well, that is indeed a shame. But, Tom, I was told that my toes were roses. Or rather, perhaps it's more accurate to say that I supposed that myself, then asked around. People seemed to think my toes were roses. Isn't that strange, Tom? Why would they lie to me?”

Tom didn't voice the truth, which was that his friend was entirely stupid and gullible, but merely patted him on the back. “Oh, Moses,” he said. “Perhaps one day you will understand.”

He nodded solemnly, evidently disheartened. “I suppose I did know that my toes aren't roses.”
~
Word count: 1,000 words
~
The tongue twister was one that I saw in this magazine/whatever from decades ago, and it's “Moses supposes his toeses are roses, but Moses supposes erroneously. For Moses knowses his toeses aren't roses as Moses supposes them to be.”

“So…Are you in?”

I hesitate before responding. It's a big request, one that may or may not be possible, even. Or safe. There's a lot weighing on it, and if we were to get caught? I can only imagine the trouble we'd be in then.

But if it works? If all goes exactly as is to plan, it will be perfect. We'll finally find our way out of this endless maze. We'll be free again, free to fly like birds in the crisp air of spring.

Then there's the possibility of the punishment. If they were to find out what we were doing, that we were the ones behind the letters, supposing I took their request. We could be expelled. Made public examples. They would all see the traitorous behavior we've done. And there would be whispers, too. Whispers of the people who failed, who were caught and jailed, freedom stolen in a blink of an eye. It would be that easy for them to do it. Trace the handwriting, find the documents.

Letters, they said. Letters for freedom. Letters to bring us to the place we were before. It could work, though. It's still possible, even with all the risk there is to do it.

And then there are the other kinds of whispers to think about. The kind that make the people wonder, “What if I did that too?” And those whispers could carry a movement, a movement between the people, a movement which would spread far and wide in a short time, like fire burning a forest of dry leaves and branches. Things like this are the ones which catch fire easily. We could do it. It's still possible.

It's risky, and it will probably never work. But it's that tiny, tiny chance I'm still holding out for. Even if it's a one in a hundred that it'll work, anything is better than the way we've got it now. An unlikely chance is, after all, still a possibility. And that's the thing I'm' holding out for.

So I meet their eyes with equal fire and passion and tell them, “I'm in.”
~
Word count: 354 words

Dear Daily Team,

I, as well as many other people in Scratch Writing Camp (SWC) have seen that you have decided to go on strike with posting the dailies without citing any particular rationale. For this reason, I am writing to convince you of why you must continue to supply us with dailies.

There are many ways in which dailies are greatly appreciated amongst the campers, such as them being good ways to increase our word counts, build writing habits, earn points for our cabin, and allow people to bond. Firstly, these dailies provide great resources to writers who are lacking in either the motivation or the inspiration to write something, as they allow people to be free with their words and use them to write something, regardless of the quality of the writing itself, for writing's sake. This allows us to at the very least increase our own word counts for the month, letting us strive for our goals set before camp, and they also give us opportunities to let the words come when we're feeling stuck. While many may be silly, and although they may not always be used to create something larger, oftentimes writers will simply need a place to begin when they are facing an exceptionally difficult to overcome bout of writers' block, giving us a chance to write something to get into the writing mood as well, showing how they not only just increase the word counts for our cabin and ourselves, but also can help with writing other things. We can also use pieces of our dailies, such as a metaphor one might have written that they enjoyed, which can be another source of inspiration as well.

The dailies are also greatly helpful to the cabins and the competition of SWC, as much of the camp is based around friendly competition to reach our own goals. Without the points received from dailies, we would be eliminating one of the largest sources of points for our cabins, and thus, it would also eliminate much of the competition. Because of this, we request you continue with the dailies, or else much of the fun may be taken from the camp, causing fewer members to actually participate.

Lastly, the dailies are also incredible ways to bond with other writers, as we can use them to find similarities in our writing styles and connect over things that made us laugh, making SWC not only the competitive place we know it to be, but also a place where friendship and understanding other writers in the camp is encouraged. This will allow people to find their own “writing groups” and can introduce people to users who they may not have interacted with before, making lasting relationships between campers.

Due to the extraordinary significance of the dailies, I, as well as the other campers, request and strongly suggest that you bring back the dailies as soon as possible.

Signed,
Snowy
(on behalf of all SWC campers)
~
Word count: 495 words

Emmie's always been quiet. The words used to come easily around the people she cared about, slower around the people she didn't know. But ever since her sister, Charlie, the only person she could be herself around, drowned, she's been silent. Now, filled with words she can't speak, her only escape is in the sentences she writes herself, pain bled onto a page for no one else to see. It's the only way for her to make it through each day, though she's finding it harder.

The whole time, she's trying to keep in all her crazy and rein in her monsters, but she's becoming more and more convinced she's going insane. And how can you keep your sense of right and wrong with all that?

When Emmie and Cora become partners for a science project, Cora begins to show Emmie what it's like to live instead of survive, trying to bring her back from the edge slowly. But how can you live when your head's underwater?
~
Word count: 167 words

Prim waits at home for her sister, Katniss to come back from her latest hunting escapade with fresh food. Her stomach growls loudly, but she pretends like she isn't hungry as she sits neatly at the table, her hands folded. Beside her, Prim's mother prepares medicinal herbs, and Prim watches her hands work as she places the last of the dried-up plants carefully into the tiny jars.

There's a knock at the door, and Prim's mother nods, giving her permission to check who it is. It's a household rule that she has to check with her mother first, supposing a Peacekeeper were to find her at the door. The door creaks open as she turns the knob and pulls it, and a snowy-faced person appears, but not for long.

“Katniss!” Prim's mother exclaims as the lights go out and they stumble around, trying to find their way around the house to help her in but failing. "You have to stop doing that! We can't see when you do that!“

Prim manages to find Katniss's hand and pull her into the warmth of the house — where the fire has grown entirely dark due to Katniss's entry. Katniss sets the game bag down on the dusty wooden floor roughly, and it thuds as it lands.

”Sorry,“ Katniss says gruffly, but it doesn't sound like she really is all that sorry. ”I can't help it.“

”What, do you just walk around in the dark all the time?“ Prim asks, half-laughing.

”Yes.“ When Katniss responds, though, she's entirely serious. ”Because some people just can't find a way to keep the lights on in here. I don't know what it is with all of you.“

”What's with us?“ Prim says playfully, putting her hands on her hips even though it's still dark, but she's smiling all the same. ”Are you trying to blame it on us right now?“ She nudges her sister with her elbow.

”Yeah, whatever. Just turn on the lights now, would you? I'm cold and I can't find the fire."
~
Word count: 338 words

The little girl has always been a thief. Finding tiny trinkets that glint in the sunlight and putting them into her pocket, where they tingle against her hand as a smile blooms across her face, but she keeps it concealed, because a smiling girl in a dusty world? Surely that would be a cause for attention.

This time, she holds the tiny golden key close to her chest, to her heart, like it is as precious as diamonds themselves. Diamonds would be everything for her. And the life they would bring? Oh, how she longed for it…

The little girl's features are smudged with the dirt and coal dust that settles over the village, drifting down in the same way as snow, only darker and less well-meaning. The ashes fall into the ground and blanket the city in a layer of gray until it becomes all that is known. This key is her lifeline, and it will go with the other precious things in her box.

The child reaches under her bed with the moth-eaten comforter and pulls out a small wooden box. It's nothing much, really. Simple, lacking any carvings that may make a similar model ornate. It's a box for a child's things.

Her fingers find the clasp and she pushes it open, revealing a cluttered mess of the objects she's collected over the past year. The key joins them in the bed of shiny blue velvet.

“Annora,” her mother calls, the voice sweet as honey, and the little girl turns sharply at the sound of her name. “Come here, darling.”

The little girl closes the box and shoves it into the darkness again, where it will remain and be buried like the secrets she keeps. Her mother would not want to know she is a thief. No mother prays for her daughter to end up one.

“Coming,” the little girl says, and in her long, flowy white dress, she is a dove, fabric swishing with every step. Or a ghost, walking the halls as she looks for treasures to bring back to her stash. Her hair flows behind her in a sea of pale yellow, and the ribbon of her sash is left untied.

As the girl grows up, the things she steals become less of small trinkets and more of things that may be useful. Pocketing a small knife to keep in her sleeve, just in case she ever runs into danger too great to overcome. No longer does she steal the trivial things, like the peppermints or socks she used to steal in the past.

This time, she grabs a lantern off the rack, looking back and forth to make sure that no one will notice that it's gone. She lights it with a stolen match and takes the lamp to light her path.

Outside, it's cold, and the snow falls onto her shoulders and coat. Snowflakes on her nose, warming against her skin. The small fire burning inside of the glass is flickers, as if it's coming in and out of reality.

The girl wears a face of smoke, one that's passive and you can't see through. Her mittens, worn down from ages of wearing them, are illuminated from the lamp she holds in them, and she trudges across the icy ground in boots barely keeping together.
~
Word count: 553 words

The mirror shatters in my palm, though I do nothing to destroy the glass. A million pieces fall musically onto the hard tile ground, tinkling as they hit the floor. They open cuts on my feet which bleed a strange navy blue yet silvery color — the shade of midnight. I can do nothing but watch as the shards reach the floor.

Then the fog comes, rolling over my toes and pulling me into it, like a wild dream gone wrong. I look over my shoulder, hoping to find someone to tell me that it isn't real, something to grasp onto as a marker that I'm not entirely losing my sanity. But there's nothing. Nothing but the fog to keep me grounded, and that's not exactly the most helpful things either right now.

“Hello?” I ask into the open air, but there's no one to respond to my words. It's only the silence that answers with the whisper of a breeze flooding my ears as I try to find a signal of something that can tell me what's going on. But I am alone. Utterly and entirely alone.

The shattered glass crunches beneath my feet as I walk, and it surely fragments even further, but I can no longer feel the pain, although my legs throb with every step. The darkness overcomes, and the nightmares creep in with the shadows. They invade slowly, quietly, like a hunter stalking its prey. Hiding in the wait until the perfect moment, where it will pounce and make the killing bite.

Out here in the open, I'm so vulnerable. I can't help but to make backward glances every couple of seconds out of the fear that someone might step out from the sidelines of the nightmare and pull me into a cage where there's no escape.

“Hello?” I say again, and it only echoes in the open world where tall, jagged spires jut up into the sky like fangs of a tiger. There's only an echo as my answer. “Is anybody there?”

Silence is the nightmare of shattered dreams and hopes. It only takes three seconds to kill the possibilities. And just one more to silence me.

Oh, I realize. It's a world of shadows.
~
Word count: 370 words

Hello there, good people! Might I be able to interest you in buying a totally useful mudskipper keychain? Why should you want it? you may be asking me. Well, I'm here to answer all your questions about it!

So what is this mudskipper keychain? It's a handmade figurine of the greatest amphibious fish in existence, which is absolutely necessary to add to your collection! While you may be asking about why on Earth you would buy a mudskipper keychain that nowhere near does the creature justice — which is a completely understandable thought process, this keychain is the only model of them that comes even close to interpreting their wondrous mudskipperiness. Not only this, but their eyes are able to go into its head — just like a real mudskipper's! — with the press of a button on its belly, which contributes to the real and fun element of this extremely convenient keychain. It can hold your keys and you can show off to your friends with it! Mudskippers are becoming trendier and trendier this year, so why not indulge yourself before the Christmas season and take advantage of our excellent prices before they increase? Buy one for yourself, or get a pack of ten for you and your friends and family. They make excellent gifts! Get them online at mudskipperkeychains.veryreallink for the low, low price of $1.99 a piece!
~
Word count: 227 words

Part One: Creating Conlangs with @Amethyst-animation

Amethyst: Ce-Snowy jeroh, wu ki ce-pako? Ce-pako do layi ce-ch'kton. Hey Snowy, did you hear about the fire? The fire spread over the whole town.

Snowy: Ce! Oq, v'lok wu-en. Yun qui'v'n? Buc'li av'il? Hey! No, I didn't. What happened? Are people okay?

Amethyst: Ce-av'il… Iq, ce'pako lei slo p'kton, oq av'il. zil eki pac yhi va. The people… Yes, the fire only burnt houses, no people. The weather is getting hotter every day.

Snowy: A'oq! Sar-aq, ayu'la ce-av'il buc'li. V'lok choe'llya klak ty-lop ub'k. Va'dyuc ce'pako ch'hula? Oh, no! Well, at least the people are okay. I hope they'll get help. When did the fire start?

Amethyst: Sar'eki. Ce-av'ilen kush'r. Ma zen'li av'ilon p'kton. Snowy, oq-li pho'eki kas? Midnight. Everyone was asleep. It's a miracle no one was burnt. Snowy, didn't you see the smoke this morning?

Snowy: Ch'n cl'ik, v'lok cl'ik v'lok plo-quek. Qlo'n v'lok wu-en ci'vl yhu'kha wh'kli nhy'll v'lop. Come to think of it, I think I might have. But I didn't realize until you told me about it.

Amethyst: Pho'li, ci kah eyn kir puturh! Shri e'fe bai'ko. la'oq, e'fe uhe po'ko. la'shri shro'ko. On a lighter note, I bought one cute dog. It loves eating cooked meat. But, it also eats vegetables. It hates raw meat.

Snowy: W'lok-en klo'ko! Valo'nlo, ci linx'li cato-pas. Ci vo'cke eyn kir cato. Ta bai'lop to'q cha'e, to'q ta ockw'm xhi'li shri ko, po'ko to'q shro'ko. Ci'lhi mha'lo gloq ta Sugar. Yun'kopf wu-en puturh gloq? Yun puturh zha'lang-po? That's so cool! Personally, I prefer cats. I have a cute cat. He is white and fluffy, and he only likes to eat meat, raw or cooked. My mom named him Sugar. What's your dog named? What does it look like?

Amethyst: Ta mha'lo “Koko”, English mha'lo. Mur, lai shrin, ta'e ba'l spek't. Ta kun'te flai, zen twa'ki, kai z'we lia poh. Ta swer, yerr'ki bah jah li'ka twali'ka. Laifa li'ka tawli'ka, ta shriya'to. Ce xi'l we. His name is Koko, English name. Light, bright brown, with white spots. He likes to chase birds, because it's fun, and he thinks it'll be an extra lunch. He's a very silly dog, and he always barks at the people going by. When the mail person comes by, he goes crazy. I feel bad for the person.

Snowy: Koko pi'alo mha'lo! Ci cl'ik ta ci'yla xhi'li eyn kir puturh. Wh'lin, yun ki xhi'li dhop'ko? Ci hu'lwo fl'qa yhi ci wu-en zh'ko ki yhi qhi'alin. Qon'k whi'n, ol eink'l, bhi'po ci zh'ko yhi fow'k fl'nk yhi ki-en qu'nu SWC. Koko's a sweet name! I think he sounds like a very cute dog. Anyway, what do you like to do? I just realized that I don't actually know you that well. Besides writing, of course, since I know that from the fact that you're in SWC.

Amethyst: Ci ze'lo haku piano, te'chka YouTube. Hi'la hockey. Ci dualo hi'la Hockey. zen'twa sho'kar lo, chi'fa qan'to. Ci yarsk'lo ro'twen zer zen'twa! Ci sh'ka twai'se, oq'li ki bhay'kah. Jeroh z'wak sh'wo? I like to play piano, and watch YouTube. I also love playing hockey. I started playing hockey about fifteen weeks ago, and I'm starting to have a lot of fun. I even scored my first proper goal in an actual match a week ago! I was meant to defend but I never listen haha. Do you play any sports?

Snowy: Tun'q, w'lok-en klo'ko vk'oh! H'ano flon'q ki! Ci haku piano, aklu. Toq an'ha flon'q sh'wo, ci xhi'li ski, qlo'n ki buk'eyi dhop'ko fl'qa whi'pt ci zh'uk, yha'wei tasne eyn rwa'la kho'na, qlo'n ki hi'la soccer! Wow, that's really cool! Good for you! I play piano too. And as for sports, I love to ski, but you can't do that where I live because it's a tropical country, but I also play soccer!

Amethyst: Tch'ka tasne ci lai't, hala zemb'li. Ci ya'ru sanpa'r hala cri'xio qat'i. Qat'i vre'k “Color me Wasted”, shri tw'ai zel pi'k. Ce bo'q fr'i pali ya'q yask? Bo'q shri yaro ji'a, twes lia'p owa zen dro? Ci bo'q 3. I also live in a somewhat tropical country, it's very hot. I recently finished a very good book! It's called “Color me Wasted” and is very moving. Have you read any books lately? What are they called, and what are they about? I have 3 other books to read, haha

Snowy: Ooh, flin'q tasne psik'lo! Ci'lik ch'kilah thlin'aq ar-as tal'iq! Ce tl'k kas'nc? Ci awha ski'lna th'na alk bo'q thdlis-na. Ci-oile chr'ki lkian “The Agathas”, aksi'la shn'iq, ail'iwn xhli'op theilas tja'lak bo'q ci (ca)shka s'il “The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes”, sj'alia kinskil “The Hunger Games”. Ci'oile aihna “Hunger Games” shnal'k, suyi kali'q fji'lia chi'cl sho'qla. Ooh, fellow tropical country person! That sounds like an interesting title. What's it about? I'm always looking for my next great book recommendation. I'm currently reading The Agathas, which is a mystery, but the most recent amazing book I've (re)read is probably The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, which is the prequel to The Hunger Games. I'm a huge Hunger Games fan, so my love for it is unsurprising.

Amethyst: Ce v'ak! Ce pi'ta Hunger Games. Yu'vker twai q'i pia zen'da. Ch'ka uq'a pia zen'w the'ia, qaw bo'q z'lk qio, po t'chak yav'i lai'tr zen'a, pia z'ek qai cna'v. Ce wea' “The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes” a yiq, ci zen't wa'k piay qa naz't? Me too! I love the Hunger Games series. I have watched the first two movies, but I haven't watched the last one because even the book was quite hard to read, so the movie must be very difficult. I heard The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes is awesome, would you say it's the best out of the series?

Snowy: Gli'k, ahne-la. I'kli alk'oq cl'iqk dli'ck ph'loq, toq ce'lin kwa'liq v'lic inkredible sl'ck thomb'qun. Honestly, maybe. There's just so many parallels, and it's so incredibly well thought out.
~
Word count (Snowy, minus translations): 217 words

Part Two: Common Cultural Phrases
There are so many common phrases across all of my cultures, and they're just so unique and different from one another. However, I've decided to go with an English phrase because I've lived in the US for the longest, and there's less of a language barrier preventing me from fully understanding it. Anyway, the phrase I'm going to be talking about is “break the ice”. “Break the ice” means to get to know someone and to remove the awkwardness that there is between strangers in a first meeting (sometimes people will say an activity to get to know people is an “icebreaker”, which is basically along the same line of thought). This idiom was first recorded in the 17th century when Samuel Butler, an English novelist, when he wrote the phrase in his satirical poem, Hudibras, in the year of 1678. However, in the 18th century, when ice-breaking ships designed specially for breaking the ice (literally) to explore the polar regions of the Earth, likely popularizing the saying and making it much more commonplace. Now, people use the phrase as a synonym for “ease the tension” or “get the ball rolling” to communicate that they are trying to make a more comfortable environment for people. In a more metaphorical sense, if we think about the awkwardness between strangers when they first meet as “ice”, to break that would be to break the awkwardness or tension, thus making it a more comfortable place. This saying is often used for things such as games to help people get to know each other and other settings where people may need to get to know someone quickly, and there are several examples of ways you might break the ice. For instance, you could break the ice by telling a joke to get people laughing, or you could ask about one's hobbies or sharing stories. The idiom is simply a way of characterizing something we've done for ages — introduce ourselves and begin making relationships!
~
Word count: 329 words

Part Three: Brainstorming Phrases in Your Conlang
Ava: R'kuk j'lok ce'lin ol einkl ce ho'alen (if you know what I mean), ce'lin a'flek niq falas ce (you know me too well), ce a'flek niq falas ce'lin (I know you too well), r'kuk ce'lin flo'qwa ansh'ki ch'alih (if you catch my drift), cli'quen ce'lin ci? (you get it?) lich chi'lan pisk'vi eni ca kla'ran (like shooting fish in a barrel), fli'ckk bli'nq chi'yn ohi-n'q ihy (the game's not over yet), dhop'ko du'illk ci'la toq ce'lin no'q on'ka dhop'ko ghi'la (do it right the first time and you won't have to do it again), yhu'llin thri'wk ali'p toh ce'ha (just play along with me), chi'lian ahihte'n thoi'lnk dhop'ko-ten (easier said than done), ce ho'alen, ci'la no'q lich ci'la na no'q vh'inka (I mean, it's not like it's not true), ghi'wha ci'la ce'lin tho ehnia'liq (give it your all), jija ce'lin ruhn'a? (are you sure?), dhop'ko no'q nhu'qali ci'lano fa thi to ch'v th'kha, tine… (don't take this to be truth, but…), thihinn'a qiji jifa fhia thalin t'galak fhinla phalni (going on a wild goose chase), yhu'llin thihin'qi na ci'la fhi arwhq t'kono ce'inka hinlla ov'nak to (just getting it out of my system)

“Paper Wings” | A Short Story

The girl’s fingers move deftly, creasing the paper, folding and unfolding. A little bird begins to emerge from the colorful sheet, taking flight from the stone.

Fold. Unfold. She builds a chain of paper birds, stringing them together until the few become an entire flock. Fold. Unfold. Delicate creatures with their gossamer wings.

The girl pulls another sheet of paper from the stack and molds it into a bird in less than a minute, hooking it to the growing chain. There. Perfect.

The breeze takes hold of her hair and blows it back. The sea air is salty on her lips, and it carries a whisper, a song, a word. It echoes in her ear, and a trace of a smile plays on her lips as it draws the corners of her mouth upward ever so slightly.

People watch the girl on the beach, who is so strange, so odd to spend day after day without fail folding the little birds.

“Why do you always make the birds?” a little boy asks her one time while picking up one of the intricate creatures. “Don’t you have enough of them already?”

The girl looks up to meet his bright blue eyes and shakes her head slightly. “Oh, no. Not yet.” She pauses for a second, hesitant about continuing, but the boy is so curious, waiting for more, for an answer. “Do you know what the cranes mean, darling?”

The boy shakes his head. He only sees the pretty birds with their paper wings, not the meaning they have.

“There’s a legend I’ve heard. That if you fold a thousand paper cranes, you’ll be granted one wish. So if you give them to someone who’s sick, they can get better.” The girl presses her lips together, doing her best to staunch the tears that pool in her eyes.

“Oh,” the boy says. He touches her arm lightly, so soft it’s like the flutter of a moth’s wings. “Are you sick?”

The girl folds another two cranes, and the boy thinks she didn’t hear him, but her answer comes with a sigh. “No. Not me.” She doesn’t say that there’s someone else she’s making these cranes for.

“Can you teach me?” he says, sitting down beside the girl, legs dangling off the wall of rocks and cement above the water. “I could help you.”

Fold. Unfold. “Okay.”

The girl watches him carefully as she hands him a piece of her precious paper. She shows him the folds for it, and it takes him a few tries before he gets it. A few times, the delicate paper is creased in the wrong places and is irretrievable, but the girl tries not to mind the wastefulness, even if it stabs her heart to think that someone could handle it so carelessly. But eventually, though, he begins to get it right, and though he’s not nearly as skilled in the art of folding as she is, the little boy still does it.

After a couple of times, he hands her a near-perfect crane with only one of its wings a slight bit lopsided, but his wide, crooked-teeth smile makes up for all of its flaws.

“For you,” he says, placing the tiny crane onto her open hand.

It’s not for me, she thinks, because the person she’s making them for needs them far more than she does. But instead, she tells him, “Thank you.”

Until sunset sets the sky afire in a blazing orange, they sit, folding crane upon crane until they fill the line she brought, billowing in the breeze, fluttering in the wind like banners welcoming someone home.

The light begins to fade and the stars come out, and when they do, the boy’s mother calls his name, telling him they must go home. He clips the rest of his creations to the girl’s line and tells her he will help her again tomorrow, and she nods as a ghost of a smile pulls the edges of her mouth upward.

She makes the birds until far past nightfall, the whole time the string of paper birds dancing to the starlight. The cement holding the stone wall together is rough, but she’s used to its unceasing pressing into her skin. Folding. Unfolding. Until her fingers are numb from the motion, repeated over and over. When the next line is complete, she pulls it down and curls it into the box where fifty more of the same rest. And finally, she lets her hands, sore from the repetition and creasing, still at her sides as the frothy waves crashing against the beige-colored sand lull her gently to sleep, where she will stay comforted in its caring arms until morning comes once more.
***
The boy comes again after the birdsong has filled the air, and they fold together in near-silence for a while before the boy breaks it with his curiosity.

“Why do you make the cranes?” he asks, and his bright eyes search the girl’s ones, which are young yet bear the weight of trials known to those older. Not even a woman yet, not quite. Still a girl. Just a girl who has seen far too much.

“I told you, darling. They’re for the wishes,” the girl says simply, and she trains her eyes on the cranes she makes. She can sense the question the boy is asking disguised underneath what he says, but she avoids it to the best of her ability. Too sad. Too hard to answer. It breaks her heart every time she has to think about it.

It’s a long time before either of them says anything else, just folding and unfolding in silence. Fold. Unfold. The girl waits for news, whether it’s for better or for worse. She startles every time she feels her pocket buzz, but there’s nothing else that’s been said. No news doesn’t always mean good news.

Fold. Unfold. Three days of nothing. Only the cranes, which now are in need of a larger box. She counts the birds on the strings. Four hundred and twenty three. Still not enough.

With the boy’s help, they make more cranes than before, and while his are flawed with creases in the wrong places, they show the love he puts into them to create them for her.

Four days of nothing, just folding and unfolding, unfolding and folding. The two of them in silence until a story spills from the girl’s lips.

“When I was your age,” she says, her voice quiet against the rushing wind that ruffles the hairs by her ear, “I used to sing. Do you sing?”

The boy shakes his head, no, and his hands keep busy as he makes the motion. He’s gotten better at it since he learned, the motions much more automatic instead of done with much thought. “My sister does, though. She likes to sing.”

The girl nods, but it’s partially absent-minded. “That’s nice. I have a sister too. Emiko. We’re twins.” Then the girl goes back to her silence because she was rambling and she said too much. Folding. Unfolding. Stringing pretty birds to their chains and packing them away.

Five days of nothing. The boy comes every day, and they fold together. Crane after crane after crane. Nine hundred and eighty eight paper cranes. They’re so close. So close.

But it’s on the sixth day that the call comes, and with it, every hope diminishes. The boy comes and folds with her, but her fingers will not cooperate and like she’s taught them to. They still, and that’s when the tears come, when it overcomes her. They spill from her eyes and fall onto the paper she holds loosely in her hands. She doesn’t try to save it when the wind pulls it from her grasp and it flies into the air before landing in the sea.

“Why are you crying?” he asks her, confused. She was only folding the cranes as always.

“Do you remember what I said about the wishes?” the girl says as she wipes her tears away, swallowing afterward. “About how they can make someone better?”

The little boy nods slightly. “But you said you weren’t sick.” The sentence is more of a question than a statement, and finally, the girl answers it.

“I’m not. But it was for my sister. The one I told you about.” The girl draws in a deep, shuddering breath, and her fingers finally fall to her sides, pressing into the gravel for some anchor in this world of stormy seas. “She was sick. Too sick.” Her lip quivers, and she can barely choke out the next words. “So she died. I just found out.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” The girl counts the strings of cranes once more. Nine hundred and ninety one. She was so close. So close. But not quite there. Maybe if she had folded more, a little faster, her sister would still be here. “You can go now, if you want to. There’s no use for the cranes now, anyway.”

The boy looks back and nods, and then he leaves the girl to grieve alone.

The ocean doesn’t hear her cries, but it still comforts her with its rhythmic beats as the waves come up against shore.

All these days, all these wasted days. The paper cranes couldn’t do anything to save her sister. They’re useless after all these hours.

This time, she does not fold long into the night, kept company by the rustle of paper. This time she is alone, staring off into the silence of the sea.

***

“I have something for you.”

The boy’s voice pulls the girl from her mourning, and she turns sharply toward him, doing all she can to disguise the fresh tears in her eyes.

Tentatively, he draws out a short string of paper birds, just like the ones she taught him to make, only a little more lopsided than her masterful pieces. Nine birds. To complete the thousand for the last healing wish she never got to make. “I finished them for you. Because you couldn’t make them.”

“Thank you.” The girl’s eyes pool again as he hands it to her proudly, but she hesitates while opening her box of cranes. The overflowing chest of origami is no longer of any use to her, not after Emiko has already gone. These cranes cannot heal her in her state. So she latches the box again, still holding the boy’s gift to her. “But she doesn’t need them anymore.”

His face falls, but the girl manages a weak smile at him, carefully removing the birds from the line of string the boy had put them on. “I think there are other people who need the wishes more than her now.”
***
Even between the two of them, it takes a while to loosen all the cranes from their line, but then they’re finally done. One thousand paper cranes, just like how the legend said. Only this time, they wouldn’t be for just one person.

They climb the hundreds of steps until they are above the whole city, where they can see everything beneath them, just tiny little dots scattered around until they meet the ocean.

They stand by the edge of the building, their hands full of cranes, and the girl fights to stay strong this time. “Ready?” she says, forcing her lip not to quiver, making herself meet the boy’s gaze.

He nods. “Are you sure?” he asks her.

“Yes.”

Together, they scatter the cranes into the air, letting them fall gracefully as if they are real birds. And the tiny creatures’ paper wings carry them far and wide as they soar until they meet the next person, who will pass them on, creating a chain of hope. And maybe one day they will come back to her.

Because wishes aren’t meant for one. They’re meant for many.
~
Word count: 1,975 words

I shudder as the gigantic translucent screen that hovers over the crowd suddenly beeps loudly, and the numbers on it change from “11:54” to “11:55”.

My own heart is beating rapidly and I want to cry too, but I pressure myself to be brave. I know the Panel is watching us right now, and maybe this is what they will see. My face standing out of the mass of faces, unwilling to show my suffering in these last moments. Because throughout my whole life enduring their oppression, I have never backed down.

Their plans to destroy the population have been lingering around for decades but never been executed. It’s like they were waiting for the perfect time…

The realization has dawned upon all of us. It’s 11:55, almost 11:56. Five minutes until the end of the world.

Another loud beep arouses yet another moment of sobbing and despair. It’s too much for me to take. I grit my teeth to stop myself from crying. I can just imagine the Panel looking at us through the cameras hidden who-knows-where, merely annoyed by our bothersome human noises.

I don’t know the whole story, but I do know the aftermath. Those groundbreaking discoveries have led to the complete, inevitable destruction of humanity.

I ignore the next beeping, but the sadness of the crowd tugs violently at my heart. Only three more minutes. My parents are weeping and looking at my sister and I with grief-stricken eyes.

I hit my head with a fist to distract myself. Yet the memories keep clinging on.

When Julianna whispers to me fearfully, “I’m scared, Cali,” I don’t know how to respond. I want to tell her I’m scared to, but I don’t want the Panel to catch sight of my vulnerability. Instead, I bend down and give her a hug.

When I look back up into her teary eyes, I murmur, “I’m here for you, Julie.” She gives me a small nod.

“We love you too,” Dad’s voice is croaky, yet his eyes show such strong meaning. And with that all of us break down into tears again, sobbing into each others’ shoulders and holding on so tight. I will never let go, not even until the end when what we all know is going to happen occurs. I love them so much.

There’s no beep. All I hear is a deafening “BOOM!” and we’re gone.

The girl was known for her love for flowers, for her ability to ink any kind onto a page until it looked almost like a photograph on paper. She liked them for their meanings, she said, how they could communicate without words. She loved how they could show something she didn't say in a drawing from pens and feathered tips dipped in that shiny liquid as the bloomed across the page.

Day after day, she would create the images of them with their pretty petals, and she would title them underneath. Eventually, they became her way of communicating, and she lost the words altogether.The drawings she worked so hard to sketch became her solace after the words dried up. Then there was nothing to say anymore, and she drew the hidden messages disguised in their beauty.

A card fluttered down to the floor. A branch of delicate orange flowers with their spiky petals. Butterfly weed, she called them, in her black calligraphy beneath the drawing. A nurse picked it up, returning it to her desk. She, of course, knew the girl well enough to understand that her way of words was in the messages left by the flowers.

“I'm not going to let you die,” the nurse told her. “Don't leave us yet. You're going to do great things, you hear me?”

The girl shook her head, pointing to the flower. She'd been gone a long time already, sick for years. In and out of the hospital, never knowing whether it would be a good or a bad day. Let me go, was her plea, drawn onto the card. Let me go.

“Not going to happen,” her nurse told her.

Though she was not any kind of artist, the nurse painted a flower hanging downward, sprouted up from the ice, just barely surviving in the wintertime. A miracle, one would call it.

“For you,” she said, giving the piece to the sick girl. A snowdrop. The girl would know what it meant. Hope, hope of healing, hope of growth even in the hard times. Beauty coming from hardship.

The girl smiled, sketching another flower of her own, a thank-you to the nurse who promised her that she would not die, even if it was a promise she couldn't make with certainty. Thank you for all your troubles, it told her.

They exchanged flower notes for weeks, and the girl had her first real conversation with someone in ages. But as the days went on, she could draw less and less, and the flowers she made became less complex, nothing like her usual intricate work.

Don't die on me, the nurse would tell her, every time she thought about what it might be like to let go. Don't die on me.

But the note came all the same, a drawing of a white chrysanthemum, with more layers and petals than any flower she'd done in ages. When the nurse took it into her hands, she feared she knew the meaning of it before she even checked. This was the last one. To let go, to finally let go after all this time.

Those promises had been meaningless, after all. They could not do anything to stop the inevitable. I'm not going to let you die. Those fierce words were nothing against the force of nature. They could not do anything to stop what was already set in place.

Later, she was the one to lay the white chrysanthemums on the wooden box. Plain. Simple. Nothing special, really. Only that it contained her, where she would rest forever. The flowers were only the final goodbye.
~
Word count: 603 words

Hi there, I’m Snowy! I’m an avid reader and writer, and for this first daily of JWC, I’ll be talking about my New Year’s resolutions.

So, starting off with number one: I don’t know if this is a resolution, but not if a goal. By the end of 2024, I’d love to have at least one published piece that’s published beyond just the online realm, such as in a literary magazine or a collection of short stories I self publish. This is a long-term goal that I’ve had for two years, and it’ll finally wrap up this year. I think it would really help me to get my portfolio for writing started, which will likely really help me in later years of high school and college, and it’ll help me to break into the industry.

I’d also like to join every SWC session this year, ideally trying to become a (co)leader for most of them. I love SWC because it helps me to get to know people through our passions, and it helps me to grow as a writer as well. Plus, I’d love to join NaNoWriMo again this year (and complete it!), because it really helped me to crank out at least a good bit of my novel.

Another goal I’ve got is to finish the first draft of my novel (my current main project), and possibly even the second. I’ve rarely gotten past the point of first draft, so actually getting there with a project that I’m serious about would be great to do for once. This novel is one that’s really special to me, and I’ve had quite a bit of fun with it so far. That is, when motivation doesn’t fail me.

So, aside from just writing goals, I’ve also got a lot of other goals for this year. Firstly, I’d like to just become a better person overall. I want to become the kind of person who is just known for being really nice and caring for people no matter what. I can be quite impatient with people sometimes, and if I could change that about myself in the new year, I’d love to. Or at least improve it. Mainly, I just want to be known for being a good person who loves people (not necessarily their company, as I’m an introvert, but just cares about them) no matter what.

As another goal, and this will be the last one I put here before wrapping it up, I’d like to get better at handling imperfection and other kinds of feedback and criticism. I’m fairly sure I’m atelophobic, and it’s something that tends to affect me almost daily. Someone will say something to me that they didn’t necessarily mean harshly, and it’ll just sound like “Be better. Why aren’t you perfect already?” in my head, but something I’d like to do this year is to conquer that, at least a little bit. I want to stop getting so upset when a grade I get isn’t quite perfect. To stop feeling angry and defensive and like I’m not good enough because someone gives me a compliment and then a word of suggestion.

So in short, my goals (or resolutions, I guess) for this year are just to become a better person and a better writer.
~
Word count: 552 words

When I think of Planet X, I think about what we usually see in planets. I imagine it to be dusty with a surface of mixing reds and blues and purples (mostly based on the thumbnail), and I’d say the weather would be quite dry as, in my mind, it has a lot of dust storms. It would probably be covered in sand, or something like that, with long dunes that don’t seem to end and not very many sources of water. Of course, because of the fire that just happened, there’s also going to be a lot of destruction on the planet, so any life, whether plant or animal, has likely burned down and not survived, save for a few otherworldly and very hardy plants that have managed to hold their own against the fire. From the surface of Planet X, the skies would look red, like how Earth’s skies do at night when the air is polluted. In the nighttime, they would become a purplish color once, similar to the ground. I’d also guess that it’s a relatively large planet, so it has multiple moons that orbit it at different paces, causing it to look like night multiple times a day, though the sky remains red during the daytime. When you look out at the sky, it’s hard to see too many stars (once again, lots of dust), unless it’s a very clear night. There are some tunnels in the ground as well, but they’re scarce and hard to find. And, of course, because of our crash landing, there’s a plain that’s littered with still-smoking bits of our spacecraft scattered around.
~
Word count: 273 words

A failed experiment is never useless, Lyra. There’s always information to be gained. Sometimes you just have to search for it.

Of course failed experiments are worth something, she knew that better than anyone. It was in her blood by now, raised to follow a code she could rattle off by heart at this point.

Her mother made a point to teach her to be the scientist she was, to follow in her footsteps as a continuation of her legacy. People always liked to know that the next generation would continue their parents’ craft. They believed that, by association, you automatically became a natural at it.

Lyra hissed as the frothy purple liquid in the vial bubbled up again and quickly settled to stone. Another mistake. She would have to start over again.

Not true, her mother’s voice whispered in her ear. Negatives are instructive in their own way.

She started over again, measuring things once, twice, three times, just to be sure.

Number Two: Whatever it is, make a note of it. You’ll always need it later.

She jotted down the numbers, amounts, results, changes, just to be she’s. Following the advice she’d been given since young.

If her mother were here, there would most certainly have been another comment about her process, something she should have fixed, but what did it matter, when her mother was already gone? There’s would be no more words from her quieted lips. Everything else has been silenced, and now it was just her in the lab that her mother promised her would be the both of theirs.

Number Three: Our work is dangerous, Lyra. One small difference, even just the tiniest one, clicks set everything off. You have to be careful.

The human mind, she had been taught, was an extraordinarily fragile thing. She’d been shielded from the things that were “unnatural”, according to her mother. It didn’t take much time for her to realize what the word was used as a euphemism for. A slightly more subtle way of saying “the less glamorous parts of our research”. But now that she was older, on her own, she couldn’t be kept away from the results of her own failures.

But this time, her work wouldn’t be a failure. Not again. It couldn’t be. They needed her to deliver, and she would. They needed her to prove her worth, and she would. She would prove it a thousand times over again.

She gathered her materials from the lab. You try, you test, you fail, you try again. But this was her last chance. It had to work, had to end up the way she intended it to.

Time was running out, and she couldn’t risk being replaced if her solution didn’t work. No one knew the role and the dangers the way she knew them.

It would have to be perfect this time.
~
Word count: 539 words

Ada's dress swished ever so slightly as she walked around the mansion, inspecting the tapestries and the marble on the tabletops. The room was a combination of whites and gold, and perfectly suited to her taste, if she would say so herself.

“Ada.” Upon hearing her name, Ada turned to face the one who had spoken, who was standing beside her as she tried to make sense of the artwork hanging just slightly above her head.

“Lady Beatrice.” Ada gave a taut smile when she replied, one that almost seemed painful to someone watching. She pressed her lips together into a remarkably fine line. Any more than that would seem as though she was disgusted by the presence of this woman, and she needed to continue the facade. It was painfully obvious she had her own opinions about people, but people had a tendency to prefer not to know when it was them she was forming a particularly controversial opinion of.

The woman, Beatrice, stood up straight, taller than Ada was, and in a ruffled, periwinkle blue dress. Her nose was slightly upturned, permanently. It made her look like she had smelled something rather…unpleasant, even when she was smiling. Though, of course, Ada made a point not to make it known to the general public. Lady Beatrice was a high-standing figure, and should the remark find its way back to her, there would surely be repercussions for Ada. She would have no problem at all with shaming Ada for what she said, for relationships between them had always been rocky at best.

“And what might bring you here?” Lady Beatrice asked her, her voice icy and austere, but covered with a layer of sweetness to disguise it.

“I was invited. As you were.” Pause. Lady Beatrice’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the words, like she didn’t quite believe her. “I have connections,” she explained.

“I’m sure you do,” Lady Beatrice responded coolly, but there was something about the tone that unsettled Ada. A hidden meaning that implied something other.

Still, Ada held her head high, if only to match Lady Beatrice’s gaze, before she walked away. “I do hope your evening will be quite…excellent.”
~
Word count: 365 words