DAILIES 1-15

daily 1 (N/A):
hi!! im matty (404: gender not found. but you can use he/him for the time being!!) im the number one saw fan and i also really like disventure camp (as you can tell from the pfp). i am a huge music/film nerd so feel free to talk to me about those!!! i specialize in writing weird little guys so if you like those YOURE IN LUCK!!!

daily 2 (278/250):
Callum stepped out of the tent, adjusting his jacket. All of his good clothes had been lost for good when his duffel bag was thrown into the fire (a case that he was still set on finding the perpetrator of), so Forrest had generously loaned him some of his own attire. As he exited, he heard a voice that never failed to worsen his day.

“Hey, Cal,” the voice, who he identified as Seb, called. “How's it going?” Callum huffed, initially trying to simply ignore him, although the other persisted, following suit.

“What do you want?” Callum asked harshly, rolling his eyes. “I'm not in the mood for your schemes right now.”

“I'm not scheming!” Seb gasped with feigned offense. “I just wanted to say, you actually look good today.”

Callum did not know how to respond to this. He wouldn't say he was flustered, per se. He was simply caught off guard. Regardless, he didn't have the words to reply.

Seb smirked, chuckling mischievously. “What's the matter, prison boy? Did I leave you speechless?”

“No, I'm just shocked that you'd have the audacity to say that,” he scoffed. “Oh, and for the record, I have never been to prison.”

“Whatever you say, prison boy.”

Callum sped up, needing some sort of excuse to get out of the situation. He hated Seb, he truly did. The other was his opposition, his enemy by nature. That's what the system decided of them. Yet, he still found himself lifted by his words, in a sort of love-induced high.

But how could it be love-induced if he was not in love? Perhaps there was more to himself than he even realized.

daily 3 (100+115+115+100=430/400):
FAIRY TALES:
Did you hear the tale of the land where mushrooms coat the floor?
They spread and claim what's theirs, they've lived ages before
The forest has a special sort of magic that remains unseen
Through time and time again, there must be something from beneath
And it does seem enchanting, in a glorious way
Through blood covered roses
Spellbinding moments
Everything in here has battled for their claim
So wait till the morning
Read from the scrolls and
Let the magic take you away
O fairy tales, rejoice on this grand day
O fairy tales, rejoice on this grand day

MYTH:
O mythology, do you reckon with the Gods?
Gear up for battle, and fight for what you love
Join us and sing your timeless songs
And when you wake up, watch the morning doves
If life was built on fallen ground
This city would be gone
If lightning chants your battle cries
Then, hark, heroes, march on
And so the prophecies will fall
And under starlit skies
The moon reprises
Lunar timelines
Come forth and step into the fog
Withstand the labyrinth
That reckons with
A tragic hero
Do it for the gold and the glory
The stars will write in allegories
The Gods are here to tell your story
Mythology will tell your story

HI-FI:
A renaissance
A rebirth
A melody
And a curse
Breathe, traveler, and bask in this city's golden age
Leave punishers, come forth as daylight finds its place
Look through the glass, for now there are no wrong ideas
Surrender your past, look forth, and join our mythopoeia
In terms of time, we know no bounds
From ancient lives, to future grounds
Innovation is only ever intertwined
From our ancestors, to our later lives
Enlighten us, become enlightened
Share your thoughts, now, don't be frightened
Your possibilities have brightened
The fruits of labor become ripened
Through millennia, one thing rings true
Hi-Fi is the place for you
A renaissance
A rebirth
A melody
And a curse

UTOPIAN:
When you wish upon a star
The countryside hears from afar
The world chants back in a reprise
It coalesces in the skies
Time itself is written in the dust
For life is fueled by wanderlust
And wanderers will look to you
For every star is its own muse
Could it be, that in this galaxy, everything is perfect?
A utopia that defies preconceived notions?
Do constellations feel the stars shift?
Will time restart in one smooth motion?
Worry not, my dear friend
Our souls reside until the end
The skies contain our love's defense
Through love, through life, Utopian.

daily 4 (376/300):
For lack of a better word, I was stranded. Traditionally, you could say I wasn't, considering I was in far from deserted territory, but somehow this felt close enough.

When you get your license, they tell you who to call if your car breaks down. Ironically, though, they never tell you what to do if you can't access your phone, considering those things have a tendency to die.

So there I was, freezing in the December breeze on some arbitrary suburban dirt road. I had no way of contacting anybody, and regardless, I had no courage to own up to my faults.

I was starting to see why my parents had always insisted on bringing a jacket, even if I was only going to be outside from the time it took me to get from my car to the pharmacy. It was miserable. What did a girl have to do to get her antidepressants?

Evidently too much. I stepped out of my car, which had wiped away its last breath of life far too long ago, showing no sign of coming back to life. I brushed a strand of hair from my eyes, reluctantly resolving to suck it up and do something about it, despite the subzero temperature.

I quickly began to lose track of time, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Realistically, it would only take fifteen minutes to haul myself back to my house, but that proved easier said than done when underdressed. I was far too sniffly, my cheeks were probably flushed beyond recognition, and what little feeling I had in my ears was a sharp, stinging pain. In other words, I was miserable.

I heaved a sigh of relief as my neighborhood faded into my line of sight, and I sped up, despite the fact that with every increasing step my body ached more and more.

I gripped the doorknob with frozen hands that wouldn't seem to bend with the ease I was hoping, throwing the door open and immediately sentencing myself to the couch, deciding I deserved a hell of a break after that. I could worry about my car later. In the end, at least I made it.

I would be a fantastic contestant on Survivor.

daily 5 (N/A):
mental health day <33

daily 6 (339/250):
a journal. several pages have been ripped out. only 4 remain fully intact.

august 25 2022 —
today was a rollercoaster. full of ups and downs, i guess. only a couple days into university and im already a bit overwhelmed. but that's normal, right? i hope i can adjust soon enough. it feels like im on edge all day, but that'll pass soon enough. otherwise, im not sure how much longer ill last, haha. on the plus side, i met this french transfer student, noel. he's really nice, it sucks that he's gonna be leaving at the end of the semester. i hope we talk more - i want to get to know him better. it's probably better where he's from than this dumpster fire of a country, haha.
— helene diaz

11 janvier 2023 —
ça fait une semaine (since) je me suis enfuie en france avec noel. je ne suis pas (fluente?), mais j'essaie. je ne l'ai dit à personne où je suis, mais je ne pense pas qu'ils (care). noel m'a dit que je devrais (keep) un journal pour pratiquer. c'est difficil (à?) comprendre ce que disent (most) des gens, mais j'espère pouvoir mieux parler (soon). souhaite-moi bonne chance, d'accord?
— helene diaz

27 juillet 2023 —
je pense que j'assimile bien - je parle mieux français, au moins. noël m'a enseigné beaucoup de choses sur la vie en france et la langue. je me sens plus confortable que j'ai jamais aux états-unis. je sais qu'on est jeune, mais j'ai réfléchi à une vie avec lui. il est parfait. je pense que je peux enfin respirer.
— hélène diaz

december 25 2023 —
i am my own person i will not change for anyone else
i am my own person i will not change for anyone else
i am my own person i will not change for anyone else
i am my own person i will not change for anyone else
i am my own person i will not change for anyone else
— h̶é̶l̶è̶n̶e̶ helene diaz

daily 7 (N/A):
alas, there is
no real daily
for me to
report here today
(3 word stories)

daily 8 (286/200):
dear fiona apple,

whatever would i do without you? you only have four albums, yet they each touch my heart. you stand for everything a female role model should be - confident and independent, yet kind and compassionate. someone who speaks out against hatred and injustice the way you do is somebody who i would like to be, and the way you express it through your brilliant lyricism and music is nothing short of beautiful.

you have been through so much, but you've always beautifully turned them into opportunities to fight for what's right. even from birth, you've struggled with ocd, which i greatly admire your resolve for. while i do not have ocd myself, as somebody who suffers from another mental health disorder, i can empathize with the struggle it brings to daily life and greatly commend how much you've been able to do despite the hardships.

not only that, but you have done so much for women and the feminism movement. even from the start of your career, you've dealt with objectification and criticism for only being a woman. it seemed the world was against you, and yet you persevered, fighting for beautiful causes. and while this problem is unfortunately far from being gone, your advocation has inspired generations of young activists, including myself, to step up for equality. additionally, in 2012, when you were arrested, you did not hesitate to call out the flaws of the police system and how they mistreated you - something incredibly brave and worthy of admiration.

i will always respect you and i will always love you. your music has made so much of who i am today, and i owe it all to your expertise.

eternal gratitude,
mat <3

daily 9 (N/A):
“eek i profusely apologize i will be available for war after i sbower” - matty, march 2024 cabin war #1

daily 10 (N/A):
(sorry! gurtle ate the daily!) (aka critiquaire day)

daily 11 (N/A):
mental health day 2 <333

daily 12 (98):
Hollowbrook, Nebraska is a perfect, close-knit town, and Tessa and Phoebe are happy to be the newest addition to it. They've picked out a lovely farmhouse, moving to the countryside to start their new life together. Instantly, they're charmed by the welcoming community and bountiful harvests. They find themselves quickly getting involved with the annual harvest festival — an event that's defined the small town for generations. Of course, all good things come with a price, and the two learn that their town's success might be fueled by something else, something far more sinister — and deadly — than it seemed.

daily 13 (N/A):
got injured and could not perform the daily :-(

WEEKLY 1

total word count: 3197/1200

myth: crossover (507/200):
The Garden of the Earth is a little known marvel. Most expect the rulers of the gods to be in charge of the state of the world and its wellbeing, although it is far from that. In truth, it runs on the health of this garden, tended to by the gods of agriculture and fertility across pantheons. While the gods check on it on their own time, it is a joint effort to preserve the beauty and health of this garden, and consequently, the planet.

This particular day, Demeter was tending to the garden with Danu. The Greek goddess was trimming a couple of shrubs, meticulously preserving the beauty of the plants. The Irish goddess, on the other hand, was checking on the soil, ensuring there was a proper amount of moisture and nutrients. There was not much dialogue for a while as they worked together, while Demeter hummed a quiet melody.

That is, until the younger goddess Morana arrived, her long, silver hair adorned with a crown of thorns. She walked with reserve next to the two other goddesses.

“Morana,” Demeter addressed, looking up from her work, “it's a pleasure to see you. Where is Mokosh?” she asked, referring to the Slavic goddess of women, the harvest, and Mother Earth.

“She is speaking with my sister, Jarila,” Morana responded, soft-spoken. “She asked me to visit The Garden of the Earth and assist in tending to the flowers.”

“I see,” Demeter whispered. Morana, while being the Goddess of agriculture, was also in charge of the cold, frost, and death. While she would never admit to it and meant no active harm, Demeter was put a bit on edge by the arrival of such a goddess in a place as sacred as The Garden. Danu's voice snapped Demeter out of her thoughts.

“Morana, the rose—” the Irish goddess cried out, although by the time she spoke, it was too late. Morana flinched, lifting her foot up and realizing she had stepped on a flower. The rose had wilted, its vibrant red reduced to a grey, ashy colour as its petals tore off.

Demeter gasped. Through eternity, not one single plant had ever died in The Garden. And admittedly, she was unaware of what might happen with such a death. With regret, she realized that she might have been correct about the danger of having Morana in The Garden.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Morana murmured anxiously, lowering herself to her knees in front of the now deceased rose. Dani exchanged an uncertain look with Demeter, before turning back to watch the younger goddess close her eyes.

In a beautiful turn of events, the rose began to recollect itself as Morana whispered to it, growing to a height that surpassed that of its original. Somehow, in the process, the rose had become healthier in the end, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

“No worries,” Morana said warmly. “Through death comes new life. Just as every winter brings the death of the Earth, spring will regrow. It always always does.”

myth: genre swap (770/200):
“Still nothing,” Apollo lamented. “It's as if I've been stripped of my godliness. I can't do anything.”

“Lower your voice,” Hera hissed, lightly slapping him across the face. “You're going to get us both killed.”

She grimaced, striking a match, finally illuminating the room, at least to a dim extent. It was bright enough for the two of them to see, but not bright enough to attract… whatever it was that was out for them. Hera rummaged through a drawer, looking for some sort of weapon to fight back. She was never one to back down from a fight, to let herself be hunted. Apollo stood behind restlessly, hands in his pockets.

That is, until Hera heard a yelp. Before turning around, she already knew what had happened, but she did so anyways. She sighed as she saw the former god on the floor, already dead. She knelt down beside him, plucking out the golden arrow that had pierced his heart. A dreadfully precise attack. But, in that regard, there was nobody as proficient in archery as Apollo and her twin. And seeing as Apollo was dead, that only left…

“Artemis,” she grumbled out loud, snapping her gaze to the doorway, where the shot had come from. To her dismay, however, there was nobody under the frame, although the door was open, which it certainly wasn't before the murder.

Finally, however, she saw Artemis approach, seemingly bewildered by the sight of her deceased brother. Hera stood up, bristling with rage, as the hunter goddess opened her mouth to speak.

Alas, she never had the chance to announce those words, as a stone-sharp silver blade impaled her from behind. Artemis slid down, collapsing at the feet of the true killer. The figure emerged from the shadows, revealing itself to Hera.

“Poseidon,” she murmured, “I might have known it would be you.” This was a lie. She had no clue.

“Hera,” he replied. “It seems we've reached the final act.”

“It seems we have,” Hera said coldly. Poseidon slowly stepped towards her, and her hands fished into her pocket to grasp at the shotgun she had found in the drawer. “So what's your motive? I suspect you have one.”

“Easy. I got rid of those who inconvenience me. Aphrodite, Dionysus, Demeter, Hermes, and Hephaestus. Athena, Ares, and Zeus put up a fight, but I got rid of them too. Then Apollo and Artemis, and finally you. Don't you see?” Poseidon said, cackling sardonically. He clutched at his head, grinning like a madman. “With the eleven other Olympians gone, I get to rule. No more obstacles.”

“I always knew you'd be this vain and power-hungry,” she muttered. As Poseidon backed her into a corner, she drew out her gun, preparing to shoot. Unfortunately, before she could pull the trigger, the water god struck it out of her hands with the blade of his sword. “How'd you do it, Poseidon? How did you render the immortals mortal?”

Poseidon clicked his tongue. “Another easy question. Ten points for Hera!” he said, earning an unamused glare. “Went digging for an ancient relic. Turns out the rumours are true, deep under Mount Olympus lay an artifact that, once activated, took away the immortality of the gods. So, without further ado. Any last words? I hate to draw this out.”

Hera was silent. Poseidon smirked, wiping the golden ichor off of his blade and raising it above her head. Just as he was about to strike her with it, a gunshot was heard, and he slumped down.

Hera's eyes darted towards the door at Hestia holding a shotgun, sweating profusely. She kicked Poseidon out of the way, approaching her.

“Oh gods, I actually did it,” Hestia said somewhat sheepishly.

“What did I say? I knew you could,” another voice spoke, as Hades emerged from behind her.

“Hestia. Hades. What a surprise,” Hera said, with actual sincerity for once in her life.

“No problem. We heard about what was happening,” Hades responded, giving finger guns to Hera. Hestia put the gun back in her pocket. “We figured if the other gods were mortal, Poseidon probably was too.”

“They always forget about us non-Olympians. Guess that worked out, yeah?” Hestia said, unsure of whether to be happy or sad about how things turned out. Perhaps bittersweet was the right word.

“I figured,” Hera remarked. Hades and Hestia began to exit; the three of them would figure out how to go on from there.

Hera looked back once more, striking yet another match and dropping it in the room, before closing the door. This story didn't need to have a sequel.

hi-fi: original character in historical times (460/200):
Thomas Finch enjoyed the outdoors. Not because nature was “God's gift,” as Papa would always tell him, but because it gave him a chance to be free. It gave him a chance to breathe.

He liked working on the farm, a lot more than Rose seemed to. Thom was seventeen, and had no plans on going to university. Not only was he happy working in the fields, but he knew that tuition was, especially now, a hefty price to pay. He wasn't going to pretend he knew much about economics, but he understood that the stock market had crashed and the financial state of the country was in ruins. He also understood that his parents weren't too happy about his older brother, Tucker, wanting to head off to college to become a lawyer.

Of course, even on the farm, conditions were not the best at the time. The recent droughts had made the soil brittle and arid, and his family was having trouble maintaining the health of their crops. A lot has already died, and he was doing the best in his power to keep the rest alive. After all, he had to be useful to the family in some way, right?

“Thom,” he heard. At the mention of his voice, he turned towards the door to his house, where Rose was sitting. “Supper is soon. Come inside in a few minutes.”

Thom nodded, looking back down at the field. There was no doubt about it; the crops were withering, and so, it seemed, was his spirit. He looked up to see his younger sister return inside. He lay among the the greyed greenery, spending a few moments in silence to absorb his surroundings. He closed his eyes, praying for some sort of miracle to rise from the ground, to heal his woes. To heal the country.

He opened his eyes a few moments later to a significantly darkened sky. He frowned, confused, as barely any time had passed. Regardless, he stood up and brushed the dirt off his clothes.

He turned around sharply as a particularly harsh wind attacked him from behind. It had been windy, but not to such a drastic level. He squinted, bracing his eyes from the intensity of the wind.

Then came the dust, perhaps just as sudden as the wind had come. Clouds of debris rushed towards him without warning. Soon, his eyes began to water and burn, and he could no longer tell where he was in relation to his house. It was impossible to navigate himself as the hazy winds battered him. He attempted to block his eyes from the dust with his hands, but it was of course futile.

He coughed one final time until, eventually, he felt himself black out.

hi-fi: what if? (385/200):
“And it seems, that winning the electorial vote, we have Karl Marx IV elected as our president for his second term,” the new reporter drones on the TV. “As a matter of fact, we have him on call with us right now. Marx, how are you feeling?”

“Yes, well, it's certainly something that I—”

Lacey turned the television off, tired of all the politics talk. She realized that yes, the elections were a big deal, but she quite frankly was sick and tired of the constant buzz surrounding it, like a dull headache that would never seem to go away.

She picked up her book: Animal Farm by Georgia Orwell. She sighed, staring at the blank document on her laptop. Yes, the whole thing was a metaphor for capitalism, she got that. But once she tried writing anything down, it seemed as if the ideas fled her mind. Apparently she just really did not want to be writing it.

Lacey looked up as she heard footsteps, finding her older sister, Stephanie. Perfect. Stephanie was a senior, and she most likely had the exact same assignment two years ago when she was in Lacey's shoes.

“Steph,” she called out, snapping her sister's attention back to her. “Did you have to write an essay about Animal Farm? I'm literally so stuck.”

“Oh, man, I hated that assignment,” Stephanie responded, rushing to her sister's side. “I just sort of gave some historical context to when it was written and all that. It worked out well enough for me.”

“Okay, okay,” Lacey said, deep in thought. “You know what would be really funny? If you told me what to talk about.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” her sister replied. “So it was written during World War 2. As you probably know, we were communists and the USSR were capitalists, so we kinda hated each other. The book was written as a sort of satire discussing capitalism and how while the free market seems beneficial to individuals, it actually oppresses everyone and pretty much nobody wins. This was before the Cold War and the Gold Scare and the Space Race, but still a pretty good commentary.”

Lacey nodded along, typing notes follow up on later. “Okay, thanks. That helped a lot, honestly, as brief as it was.”

“Hey,” Steph grinned. “Any time.”

fairy tale: retelling (548/200):
The mother cat looked lovingly beside her, at the fruits of her labour (quite literally). There were three of her kittens, nestled together, brought into the beautiful world.

Wait, three? She gave birth to four. She quickly stood up, exhausted as she was, her motherly instincts taking over. And there he was, behind her, the fourth kitten. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh, you gave me quite the fright,” she breathed, looking at the young one. “I almost had a heart attack.”

“Mama,” one of her other kittens called in disgust, somehow able to speak and walk already. “What is that? I do not find it attractive. It's quite ugly.”

“Quiet, now,” she scolded, lashing her tail out behind her. “That's a very rude thing to say.” But deep down, she felt the same contempt and resentment towards the ugly kitten that her other children had. How could she ever love something of such little aesthetic appeal?

“Why is it so… wide,” criticized another one of the kittens. This time, the mother cat made no effort to stop the verbal attacks, instead drifting off to sleep, exhausted from her work as her kittens chatted away.

Many months had passed, and the ugly kitten had been ridiculed far too many times. His tolerance for the abuse had been broken, completely shattered. He could not take it anymore, and he would not take it anymore.

So he set out, looking for a place to live, far away from his home den. His gaze settled on an old barn, warm with a fire and plenty of food for the animals to eat from. He walked closer.

“And who are you?” challenged a sheepdog. “To step into our barn as if it is your own is a terribly rude thing to do.”

“Get out,” a sheep sneered, perhaps marking the one time in history a sheep got along with a sheepdog. “You are not welcome.”

“Get the memo,” growled the sheepdog, chasing the poor, ugly cat out of the barn.

Many more months of wandering had passed, and yet he had never found a permanent place to settle. Nobody was welcoming, nobody was friendly. He was miserable.

One day, he found his eyes resting on a beautiful tiger and her own children. He stared in awe, envying their fierce nature and their beautiful stripes. He wished that he, too, could be might and powerful. That he could be something.

He walked towards them, realizing that it was better to spend his last moments with creatures such as the tigers that, although predatory and willing to kill him, were majestic in their own right. Creatures that represented who he wanted to be.

To his amazement, however, the mother tiger did not shoo him away in the way he had been rejected so many times before.

“Are you lost, little one?” she questioned. “You are free to spend your time with us. I have been looking for another tiger to quench my heartbreak after I lost my youngest. It seems you are a gift sent from the universe.”

Surprised, the ugly cat took a look in a nearby puddle, noticing similar stripes on his own face. He was a tiger, and he had finally found his own.

Life could not have been better.

folklore: oral retelling (527/200):
Sofia grimaced, striking the rocks again with more intensity. The group watched in anticipation as a couple sparks transfered to the kindling, holding their breath until it finally caught ablaze, creating their long overdue fire.

Collectively, everyone seemed to light up with the ignition of the fire. Adrienne high fived Sofia, and Nadia joined them in a group hug. Even Clara and River, who were usually at each other's throats, exchanged an ecstatic glance. Starting up a fire after so many days stranded without it happened to have that effect on people.

A half hour or so later, everyone was preparing dinner, in a much better mood than practically any of the previous nights. Adrienne prepared a few birds they had caught on the island, roasting them over the fire.

“This is going to take a bit,” she said, hunched over the fire. Sofia nodded, taking a seat on a log next to the others.

“We should pass the time, somehow,” Nadia suggested, resting her chin on her hands. “What's a campfire without telling stories, anyways?”

“River,” Clara called, turning to the younger man next to her. “Your parents were weird. They probably have some weird stories you can tell.”

Nadia suppressed a giggle, and River scoffed. “I'm going to ignore the insult, but yes, they do have their share of stories.”

Adrienne looked over, still holding a skewered bird over the fire. River began his tale.

“Okay, so… in every forest, there is a center. That's obvious, isn't it? Well, the center of every forest has a tree, and that tree serves somewhat as a portal, one that connects the land of the living and that of the dead. When everyone dies, their soul is attached to some piece of nature, one representative of the life they've led and their relative morality. Legend says that if you locate this center tree — you'll know from the spiritual pull — and sit down under it, you can meditate in an enhanced state. By harnessing the energy of the nature and spirits around you, the tree's path will lead you to a lucky item, your own spiritual charm of sorts. Again, you're gonna feel that spiritual pull, so you can tell exactly where this item will be. By taking that item, it is like you are taking the soul of that person with you. In that case, it serves almost like a guardian angel — it protects, it heals, and it watches over you,” he said, recounting the story. At this point, everyone was invested. Perhaps it wasn't a traditional story, not one meant to captivate audiences, but it was interesting to hear River speak with that much passion and expertise. Besides, it was a fun concept, even if not traditional. “Of course, I don't believe in any of that. But it's nice to think about.”

“Dude,” Clara said, playfully punching him in the shoulder, “that's probably the most profound thing you've ever said.”

“Yeah,” Adrienne nodded, finally done roasting the birds, preparing to serve the group. “Your parents are awesome.”

“They're alright, I guess,” River murmured, looking down. For a few moments, he clutched the acorn hanging around his neck.

DAILIES 22-31

daily 22 (it's been a while oops) (258/250)
adrienne begrudgingly stared out at the scene before her. the beach, the oceanside that she had once loved so much had the life taken out of it. with the decay of her emotional state came the decay of the environment. the summer was no longer bright.

she looked at the darkening sky, rather ironic for the occasion. she watched the clouds sulk, ever solemn. she always found it particularly strange that clouds were so hated. with clouds, the sun was shrouded. with clouds came rain. but the clouds provide shade and the clouds provide life. perhaps, they too, were sad, but was that a reason to resent them? could you hate a spirit for the aspects it cannot control? it was never their choice to suffer, and yet their suffering is prolonged by all who despise them.

she stepped on the sand, wincing. even as the sun was covered, its presence lingered, keeping the sand warm. the sand, in turn, burned with anger, burned with passion. each grain was bitter, lashing out in retaliation, and adrienne swore she could feel each individual shard stab the soles of her feet. but why was the sand angry? what wrong had been done to the sand? perhaps it was tired of being stepped on. perhaps it was tired of being under the sun's control. perhaps it was tired of the waves constantly washing over it, drowning it in its distaste. or perhaps it was just that, angry with the world.

there was a lot to be angry with in the world.

fanfic entry (1363 words)

will i be forgiven?

Yutaka Seto was arguably doomed from the beginning.

He was a joker, not a fighter. Sure, his words were sharp, but he lacked any of that finesse in physical or combative situations; hence, he was crouched behind a bush, engulfed in the white clouds of dust from the dried dirt he was crawling through.

Perhaps it was then, watching Yumiko Kusaka and Yukiko Kitano standing on the observation deck, preaching peace through a megaphone, that he realized he had to make a choice. He could continue hiding in the shrubbery, only to be picked off and killed not much later, or he could join them in their attempt to stop the game and bring everyone together.

This choice was a matter of life and death, although he did not know which choice corresponded to what. He figured he had to take his chances.

He rose from the ground, slowly and cautiously, brushing off the layers of crumbling dirt from his formerly black uniform. He wasn't particularly close with Yumiko or Yukiko, and the two of them typically kept to each other, inextricably intertwined, despite the fact that they were, on surface level, polar opposites. But even though he was an outsider, the two of them welcomed him into their campaign with open arms as he carefully made his way over to them.

“Thank God you're not here to attack us,” Yukiko murmured, extending one hand down for him to pull himself onto the tall platform. “I didn't think this would work, honestly.”

“Everyone! Join us if you don't want to fight! We can end this program!” Yumiko continued announcing over her device as Yutaka finally found his footing on the wooden terrace, briefly flinching as a splinter embedded itself in his skin.

Yumiko, the taller girl, turned to say something to their new recruit just as he brought his knee up to stand, consequently brushing against her foot and causing her to lose her balance. A cloud of dirt sprayed from where she fell, and the megaphone she held dislodged itself from her hand and fell on the platform with a clatter.

Yumiko and Yukiko were inseparable in the same way water and flour were inseparable in dough: no matter how hard one tried, they would remain together. Likewise, Yukiko couldn't bear to leave her closest friend in such a position on the ground, especially if she could be hurt, so she instantly hopped down as if there was some sort of a magnetic pull between the two of them.

“Don't worry, I got this. Y'know, Yumiko, I didn't realize you were the type to fall for me,” Yutaka joked with a grin, crouching down to pick up the megaphone and continue their work, earning a chuckle from the girl on the arena ground, who, despite having fallen a good few feet, seemed generally okay and in good spirits.

Yukiko's eyes trailed up to rest on the boy on the deck, standing back up. She understood now why he was always campy, pining for the spotlight: because he was built for the stage. As he rose on the platform, instead of looking ghastly in the shadows as he initially had, his figure, enveloped in white dust and backlit by the rays of sunlight, bore a somewhat angelic aura. For a moment, he was divine.

Then came the rattling of a machine gun.

The two of them could barely see the damage — only a general splash of red — but they could hear the damage cut through the air, loud and clear. Yutaka's body fell from the observation deck, landing next to Yukiko, who screamed.

Yumiko scrambled up, face contorted in horror. Yukiko tried to scream again, but she quickly found she could not. She felt as if she was being strangled by an invisible noose, preventing her from breathing or making any noise.

Eventually, however, the breath escaped her throat with a sob. She rushed over to Yutaka's limp form and rolled it over, hoping for any brief sign of life, but he truly was in death's grasp. The spirits had claimed him.

She mustered the courage to let her gaze drift to his face, which was still shaped in a faint grin, although his eyes were vacant. She figured it was a fitting death for a class clown such as him — to have his final words be comedic and to have his life end with a smile, no matter how twisted and ironic it seemed in retrospect. Yukiko reached her trembling hands towards his face, manually closing his eyes as a final tribute, a final form of respect.

“Go,” she heard a voice beside her hiss.

Then, she felt Yumiko's hand grab her wrist, ripping her from the body and yanking her through the shrubbery of the island. It took her a hot moment to process what was happening before she began to cooperate, running full force on her legs as she realized the problem: Yutaka's killer would arrive in the clearing at any moment, and, had they not acted as fast as they did, would have killed the two of them as well.

Yumiko felt her ankle give out in their frantic escapade, undoubtedly damaged from her earlier fall. She crashed onto the dry ground, bringing Yukiko down with her, as their hands had been intertwined. The two of them tumbled top speed down the slope, and the taller girl sensed areas of her skin being scraped raw by the jagged rocks on the hill, the same thing, no doubt, happening to Yukiko.

The two girls finally reached the bottom of the incline, breathing heavily, battered and bruised. Yumiko looked up at her friend, noticing that the other girl's hair was much more disheveled than her own. That made sense, as her hair was longer and had more of an opportunity to be messed up by the fall. Maybe it was a bit redundant of her to point out, but she needed to recognize even the smallest details in such a time, just to ground herself in reality.

“Do you think we're in the clear?” Yukiko huffed, wiping her eyes despite her dirty and grass-stained hands. Even through her slightly torn clothes, messy hair, and dirt-speckled figure, Yumiko thought she looked glamorous. Perhaps that was just her trying to find the beauty in what was, evidently, a traumatic moment.

“I think?” Yumiko responded shakily, trying to convince herself as well. She swallowed hard, becoming uncomfortably aware of how much pain her body was in. “I don't think they'd have a reason to chase us this far.”

“Okay, okay,” the shorter girl murmured. Then, without warning, she pulled Yumiko in for a hug.

They stayed like this for a few moments, taking a moment to process what they'd been through and relish the fact that, despite everything, they were still alive. They survived, even at Yutaka's expense.

Yumiko knew she would have to avenge that.

As they pulled out of the hug, the taller girl watched as her friend lowered her head, closing her eyes. She stayed silently, breathing deeply and heavily, in a stark contrast to Yumiko, who was still panting from their escape, despite being on the softball team and running as a hobby. Yumiko looked up at the sky, eyes shining in the sunlight, then back down at Yukiko's still form.

“What are you doing?” she asked quietly.

“Praying,” Yukiko whispered under her breath, keeping her eyes closed. For only a split second, this confused Yumiko. While it was true they met at the Halo Church through their parents, both of them had stated on multiple occasions their disconnection to their religion. It simply wasn't something they believed in.

But then, it hit her. What better time was there to make an attempt to connect with faith? Would she ever even have another chance to do so? Even if she still didn't believe in a higher power, which she suspected the same of Yukiko, there was still a certain comfort in meditating as such, in taking the time to reflect and realizing how far they had come.

Yumiko bowed her head as well, and joined her in their final prayer.

main comp entry (1462 words)

lament of those lost

Evie's gaze lingered on the photo framed on the mantle.

Her vision worsened by the day, but even she could tell that the black and white picture was fuzzy, typical of such relics of the past. Yet there it was, one of the last reminders of her dearest Patrick, his face encapsulated and immortalized in such a small frame.

As subpar as the physical quality was, she could picture his face as clear as day, a sharp contrast to the rest of her fading memories. She could picture his short, curly hair, his square jawline, and his amiable yet tired eyes.

But most of all, she envisioned his smile. It was toothy and genuine, and not even the framed photograph could do it justice. No picture could capture the way he grinned when Evie walked into the room, the way his face and eyes lit up.

She also remembered the day he left.

That day, all the way back in 1965, Patrick had received a letter in the post. She watched intently as he skimmed the message, tension in his eyes. Halfway through, his face dropped, overcome with a sort of insurmountable sorrow. He had been drafted.

But they were young and full of aspiration, full of reassurance that the loose strands would tie together, and the war would die, and they would gaily reunite, ready to live how they deserved. Then, after a fervent and cordial farewell, they embraced, and he had gone his own way.

She never saw him again.

Evie, since then, rarely went outside unless necessary. She pined for a reunion, any sign that he was unharmed. Any sign of him at all. Yet there she waited, lonesome and melancholic, grasping for empty signals. Despite this, she was not a widow.

She was not a widow because Patrick was not dead. There had never been any notice that he was deceased; there had never been a recovered body. That meant he must have been alive, and she clutched onto this theory with her life. To rip it out of her mind would be to rip her heart out of her chest.

Erratic, the kids described her as. Eccentric on a good day. Either way, she had a reputation. Tales were woven among the youth, tales of the malevolent, reclusive, and delusional old woman who lived in the cottage near the forested area of town. From the outside, she understood why she was regarded as such. She rarely appeared to the public, and her house was battered and overgrown, troubled by years of Evie's indifference to it. She had no family left to defend her image.

She did not quite care what anyone thought of her, other than her missing lover.

It had been almost 60 years since Patrick left, and while she was ashamed to admit she could not quite recall the exact date, what with her withering memory, she knew it had been early March. This, a memorial was in order. A sort of ritual to honor him, as well as a prayer to welcome him home. She knew he'd have to come back at some point.

She lit a candle, allowing its familiar cinnamon scent to waft through the house, adorning the air with something that felt homey, something that felt secure. She remembered their wedding day, when Patrick's mother gifted a similar candle to her. She accepted the gift with grace, and lit it in their house once the guests had cleared out. Then, the two of them, hands intertwined and eyes shining with love, slow danced for a while. Patrick's mother was no longer around, but she insisted on using a similar fragrance whenever she could, in honor not only him, but to honor his entire family, the family that had accepted her into their life with grace and treated her as their own blood.

Evie sighed as the candle filled the air, illuminating her face and the picture she had longingly been staring at for a while, memories of their time together flooding her mind. Even something the slightest bit physical, something the slightest bit grounded in reality, was enough to stimulate her memory in a way that she typically struggled with. It was both despairing and hopeful, a bittersweet reminder of the days gone by, the good times past, and the longing she still felt for something to turn out better.

She set up his old record player, blowing off the sheet of dust laying on top of it, a humbling display of its antiquity. She pulled out Grant Green's Idle Moments from his old vinyl collection, its jacket worn out and yellowed from old age. Patrick had always loved music, and jazz seemed to have a special place in his heart. While Evie was never the biggest listener of music, she occasionally sat alone, eyes closed and breathing silent, listening to his old records for the sake of his memory. She placed the disc on the turntable, set the needle on it, and turned the record player on.

She dragged her feet to the middle of the room, took a deep breath to ready herself, and began to dance. At the age of 82, it did not come easily. As she moved, her body ached and her bones ached, but most of all her heart ached, and to her that was enough to keep going, to push through. In some way, she was reviving his memory. She was revitalizing the hope she had for him to come back. She stepped forward, to the side, and back, feeling the rhythm of the music and imagining Patrick there in her arms. In a way, he seemed to be there with her, whether it somehow was a spirit or just her imagination, another symptom of what others thought of as delusions, but she saw as pure, unbridled hope. She opened her eyes.

She frowned; the photo of Patrick had fallen on the mantle.

She paused her soulful dance, making her way to the fallen frame to straighten it. She sighed. Perhaps it was time to stop regardless, she was in pain. She would need to tone down her activity, as she could sense the grating and debilitating effect it had on her. But the remembrance was far from over.

The red couch in her living room was positioned next to a miniature nightstand, with a few cedar drawers. In one was an old, relatively light book. She took it out before sitting down on the furniture with a grunt of relief, although the pain did not fade away entirely.

She opened it, studying its intricately written letters, crafted in precise cursive, although she could no longer read the content. She didn't need to; she knew what was kept in this book. It was the letters sent to her from Patrick in the camp, dated to almost every day over the course of slightly more than a month. Then, they abruptly stopped. She always reckoned he was busy with the military, despite the fact he never wanted to be there in the first place. Otherwise, why would he ever stop? His writing was full of love and his gaze, before his departure, was full of love. He was in love with her, so he would never give up on her.

One component of the writings, however, was bolded and clear to even her weary eyes. As the heading of every letter, he wrote in thick, legible letters “Dear Evelyn Grant,” a firm but gentle use of her full name. The last word, specifically, brought warmth to her heart but mist to her eyes. “Grant.” Once married, Evie had taken Patrick's surname, and to this day, she was legally Evelyn Grant. It served as a reminder of the connection they shared, their intertwined fates. Additionally, it was a part of him that she kept with her for life. A way to keep him immortal in her name. A way to perfectly preserve the world the way it was when they were young.

She pictured Patrick arriving at the door, all these years later. He would arrive with a bouquet of flowers and apologize for being in service for so long, but she wouldn't care, only grateful that he had finally been able to return. Then, the two of them would embrace for a long while and cry together, only in contentment rather than sorrow, because Patrick had always been sensitive and not afraid of his feelings, despite being a man in the sixties. And in her mind, they were still young, and they were still fine because they had a whole life ahead of them to live together, the proper way, no longer separated. They could live perfectly.

Evie closed the book of letters and wailed.