A lone man walked through the soaked streets, head down. His coat was dark, and he was almost invisible in the dim light. He was one of the only people out on the dismal day, and his pace was quick, determined. He had somewhere to be. The rain was coming in thick sheets, pouring from steel grey clouds that showed no sign of stopping the torrent.

He made his way down the ally and to a small grate, which he removed and dropped down into the sewer. He wasn’t in there for long, slightly shying way from skittering rats as he he practically landed walking and came to a hidden door, which he expertly opened with the ease of someone who’s done this more than a hundred times.

He stepped out of the wet, smelly sewers and into a significantly dryer unused transport tunnel. The walls of the tunnel were cracked and the rails rusted from disuse, a small stream of rainwater slowly went by in the middle of the tracks. The man avoided it as he walked toward the bend in the tunnel, rounding it swiftly and heading down the next long tunnel, in the direction of a very large and ugly brown rat.

The man didn’t seem worried about this one, and in fact spoke to it as he approached.

“Good morning, Rat.”

The rat snorted, giving a pointed look at the mini stream.

“Don’t tell me a little rain makes it a bad day for you,”

The man teased.

“Although I suppose it’s inconvenient, in more ways than one.”

“Anyway, I got your message. What do you have for me?”

The rat suddenly began to grow, transforming in an instant to a stocky man with a tangled beard, a filthy trench coat with an obscene amount of pockets, and large, grubby boots.

“Yeah, I got somefin fer yeh,”

the man muttered, digging in his pockets. The other man stood patiently, clearly having seen this particular individual’s lack of organization before.

Finally, he removed a dirty, stained piece of paper that had clearly spent a bit in the mouth of a small animal–in this case, most definitely a rat. The man accepted it and unfolded it, glancing at if for a moment before going pale.

“S-she’s not my stepkid, at least not yet,”

The man said with an unidentifiable emotion in his voice–sadness? Anger? Wistfulness? He moved on quickly.

“Anyway, this is really bad news. ‘Anyone who wears a Monitor will be taken in for testing and experimentation’? What are they going to do to them?”

Rat gave a dry, humorless chuckle.

The man’s expression went from worried to nervous.

“What news?”

Rat shrugged.

“I’ll tell yer in a minute, after yer hear the rest about the Monitor thing.”

He handed a significantly cleaner paper to him, his fingers leaving dirty smudges behind. The man looked at it, going even paler. The only word he could manage for a solid minute was a particularly strong swear word, which Rat seemed to enjoy far too much.

“Y-you were right. Anyone who goes in for experimentation isn’t going to make it out alive. They’ll kill them all. It’s genius, actually–take out everyone who they claim is a ‘danger for society’ and make it look like it was for a good cause, founded on the base of getting rid of Magic.”

Rat shrugged.

“More complex terms then I would o’ put it, but yeah. They’ll be gettin’ rid of every suspected Magical they ‘ave, and the real smart Magicals like us are gonna have ter watch it happen, able to do nothin’ at all because it'll get us killed too.”

The man took a forceful breath, the bottom of the paper crumpling under his newly formed fist.

“I hate this. Why can’t they just get along with Magicals?”

He already knew the answer, but Rat supplied it anyway.

“It’s ‘cos they’re ‘fraid o’ us, ‘fraid o’ magic. We could put ‘em outta power with a snap of our fingers, some o’ us could. They’ll lose alla their control an’ they'll have to live with people different from themselves, people who can do impossible things an’ fix alla the problems people have ter go ter the government fer at the moment. We could ruin everythin’ fer them, so they try ter stop us all at the root. An’ fer the most part right now, it’s workin’.”

“Nah, if they did, it’d be all over the news. They don’ even have a name fer ‘im, they just call him prisoner number whatever-’is-number-is.”

The man started, but Rat just laughed harder, transforming into a rat and skittering away. The man smiled after him, but the smile quickly faded as he walked back to the door he came in, each step weighed down by the news he’d received. Things were about to get really bad for anyone with a Monitor. With his mind still reeling from the news he’d received, he stepped back out onto the rainy street and headed in a new direction, toward the small diner where his date was waiting.

Breathing is supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be the one part that comes naturally, the one part that I don’t have to think about any more, but all I can do is to keep thinking and rethinking, thinking and overthinking, and it never stops, not even for a moment. Breathing is supposed to be the part that makes you feel better, that makes you feel at rest when the whole world spins so fast that you can’t keep up, the part that’s supposed to be simple in a world where nothing else is, but then, here I am, trying to keep up, trying to catch my breath and hold on for just a few seconds more at the very least.

I’m staring at myself in the mirror, bits and pieces of who I used to be, all put back together in a shiny version of a past self, all cleaned up to look nice and pretty. But I don’t. Look pretty, that is. There’s all these tattered bits and pieces, far too worn to make a girl’s dream doll, but I’m pieced back together in the most haphazard way to try and create something that somehow might be enough to bring someone joy, though I doubt it ever will. There’s not enough in me to ever bring joy to someone.

In and out. That’s what they tell you to do when you’re stressed. Breathe, keep breathing. Focus on your breathing. It doesn’t work. Not for me, at least, but isn’t that just the same thing, in this case? When they ask you, they want your opinion, not anyone else's. It’s just too bad that my opinion is too mixed up and put together in all these shards with so many pieces missing I can’t even tell where it’s supposed to begin. You can’t have a mural without the color, can’t have a stained glass window where half the spaces are empty. It just doesn’t work like that. So in the same way, no one wants these little bits of me, no one wants the pieces of a girl who can’t quite catch her breath, who is barely even anything at this point except a mess of things that should be but no longer truly are. And what a girl I make, all made up of the gone things already, all made up of what should have been left behind. Someone surely will find the pieces and scoff one day, look at them and think, how stupid can you be to leave these all behind? But bury them
~
Word count: 429 words

OOP I KEEP MEANING TO FIX THAT IT'S BEEN POINTED OUT TO ME LIKE 5 TIMES AND I STILL HAVEN'T–

secret doors are supposed to be secret dearest snowy we can't have random sewer-spelunking JWC/SWC-ers finding it /j /illseewhaticando

also “did he tap it with his cane” Immediately made me picture him as Kaz Brekker sfdjlkfdsjkl *mentally screams about six of crows*

…it smells like a sewer mixed with a filthy subway tunnel do you really want me to go into that :')

I'll see what I can do tht's such a good suggestion you sound like my favorite writing teacher :0

and again I KEEP MEANING TO FIX THER IT'S BEEN POINTED OUT TO ME LIKE 5 TIMES AND I STILL HAVEN'T–

MWAHAHAHAHA YOU HAVE FIGURED IT OUT
Rat is literally Rubeus Hagrid x Mulch Diggums x my imagination and I love him so much for it <333 I have a drawing of him somewhere if you want to see XD

NO!!! /lh he is nice to his friend, giving him one awful piece of news at a time ;D

oh my gosh thank you so much that means a lot <333 I can try to help you if you want a terrible attempt! WAIT I COULD WRITE MY MONTHLY JWC FANFICTION AS ME EXPLAINING TO YOU HOW I DO THIS OMG

would it be as amazing if I told you that was an accident? fjsdjlkdfs /hj /lh

welp thats not what I asked for I want a redo /j

this was so much more than I was expecting thank you so much you're amazing <333

Every breath I take is labored, trying to draw in enough air to help me, save me, deep within me. Because I know the wires are all mixed up, and all I can do is to sit and wait and hope that maybe it'll pass soon. Maybe it'll be over soon.

Inside, all there is is emptiness, that kind of constant waiting for something to come and fill you up and take the feeling away, but that thing never comes, only stays with you. Makes your heart sink, head spin, goes deep into your skin and doesn't ever get out of it. All you can do is to stay there and wonder if this psiral will ever end, if you ever might somehow be able to get out of this cycle, this never-ending cycle.

Nights spent on the cold stone floor, trying to make it seem less difficult, trying to make it through, each day, each night, it getrs harder every time. I want to scream, but my words are all silenced, nothing can be said exceppt the heavy sound of my own breathing, again, again, again, trying to make it through, but it's not working.

Someone, please, help me, I need someone right now. No one ever hears my calls, my cries, my pleas, all they ever hear is the silence that escapes my lips, far too loud for my liking and yet never loud enough. All they see are the pieces, and yet the pieces are less than just a half.

Greetings JWC-ers, SWC-ers, future me, or random people who may have somehow found this thread!

So in this thingy, I'll be reflecting on my first ever session of JWC, which (I can hardly believe it) seems to be coming to an end quite quickly.

As I've previously mentioned, I've never joined JWC before, and it was definitely a lot of fun. Throughout this session, I feel like I've definitely grown as a writer and a person, and I've definitely gotten to know a bunch of awesome people in my cabin during this month of January as well. I'm so glad to have joined this session, and I'm excited to be returning next year! (That is, supposing I have time.)

Featuring: Me (Snowy), @-BookDragon- (Mouse), @cinammcnx (Mabel), @smartypantschlo (Chloe), @PoppyWriter (Poppy), and @–Artsy_Girl– (Luna)

“Attention, attention everyone! Our ship is going down!” Mabel says, and Snowy quickly turns to look around, seeing her fellow shipmates proceeding urgently down the emergency exit to the face of Planet X. She follows, her steps quick against the metal, ringing out in the silent night of space, trying to keep herself from panicking.

She tries to calm herself through a few deep breaths, though they do little to prevent her worry from reaching her face.

“It’s okay,” Chloe says, trying to reassure her. “We’ve practiced this, remember?”

Snowy nods. She knows this. Of course she knows this. But in the tense atmosphere as they progress down the steps, one foot in front of the other, again, again, again, she has to force herself to remember this.

“Planet X,” Mouse whispers, staring out into the dusty surface, the dust swirling around her as she does. “Well. It’s certainly not how I expected to see this planet. You know,” Mouse pauses, “Supplies burning up in the distance and such.”

Snowy snorts at the attempt to make light of the situation, but the snarky remark does its job. She’s nowhere near as nervous anymore, and somehow, Snowy is able to forget about the burning spaceship behind her.

“Let’s get to work, then, right? We’ll need to have a survival plan.” Poppy’s eyes are bright, though shadows creep in from the realization of what it means that they have to have a survival plan.

“Yeah,” Luna says, but she hesitates for a moment before adding, “But first, a toast. To the hope of our survival!”
~
Word count: 263 words

Script

The spotlight is on you as you step onstage,
And you face the roaring crowd below you,
A smile on your painted face to step into this Greek age.
You wait for their signal while standing still, and then the lights dim to blue.

Your teammates stand right beside you, and the leads look out to the dark,
You give your introduction, and then they’ll take the spotlight
As the audience and you will focus on Prometheus’s spark,
Such a contrast to the night.

You remind yourself of all your lines and scenes
And despite your nerves, you’re still grinning.
You stand in front of what you’ve worked for and what comes next, right between,
So when the lights shine once again, you take one last deep breath before beginning.

130 words

Poetry

You find yourself surrounded by stories in the meadow,
The many pretty flowers wilted and turned to dust.
They tell you it has been forgotten, but it’s not gone forever,
And they bestow upon you a great task in trust.

Though it has been lost with generations, and the beauty has faded,
They think you can restore the place to what it once was in the past.
A simple traveler are you, with no large gifts for the valley,
You promise them anyway you will do as they’ve asked.

They tell you of the drought that destroyed it long ago
And their dreams of the place in a better tomorrow
Together with the others, you’ll bring back the meadow,
until it is colorful and blooming, no longer drowning in sorrow.

121 words

Dystopian

You find yourself in a ruin, where everything has crumbled to dust,
with towers and churches in pieces, scattered by heavy gusts.
You look back toward the place from which you came,
then at the note in your hand, with a message but no signed name.
As you enter inside the long-lost city, damp and dark,
you find four figures in an empty room that’s just as stark.
They tell you about their plans to rebuild a civilized city and restore it to its former glory,
to make the ruins into a greater version of what was fabled in all of the stories.

103 words

You’ll know it when you see it. You’ll know when you see them. The right one.

You’ll look at them, and then you’ll be the first one to reach the conclusion. You’ll be the one of them to say, “Oh, that’s the one.” You’ll know, you’ll know, you’ll know, and then you’ll be released from the iron jaws of worry and fear and oppression. And maybe it’s true that the very same things will haunt them, but it’s better them than you.

And like you, they won’t have any idea what will have hit them.

When you find them, you will be free. You will trade their freedom for yours, because you will understand by then that that’s how the world works. You will know far more than you do now, and now will become a very distant, long-forgotten past. The moments that came before will mean nothing to you when you see that they no longer will define your future.

When you find them, you will be brave. You will no longer have to cower in the shadows, because you will have conquered death and life and everything in between. You will be above them and everything else. You will have no more fear.

When you find them, you’ll be strong. You won’t have to look over your shoulder every second or two to check for your safety. You’ll take risks and you’ll beat the odds. And they’ll all wonder at you, but what you won’t tell them is that the reason you are what you are is from leaving a trail of misdeeds. You won’t tell them what it took to get there.

When you find them, you will be powerful. All it will take is one to place the blame on, and then you will be free. And with freedom, there is power. You will no longer be so weak that you are shoved to the bottom and forgotten, not anymore. You’ll no longer be left behind. You’ll be the one on top.

But for now, you’ll wait, because you have none of that yet. You will wait, wait for them to come and for you to put them in their proper place. To exchange their life and freedom and power and strength and bravery to gain your own. And you will do it without a second thought.
~
Word count: 394 words

Snow stepped into the University with his burgundy blazer cleanly pressed. He was there to make an impression. To get the education he deserved.

But he was already far ahead of any of them. They hadn’t seen the real world, but Snow knew it well. The real world was cruel to survivors like him, but he’d beaten the odds. In a world where life and death was determined by a game of chance, he would turn it on his head. And he would be the one to choose who lives and dies.

And Dr. Gaul would be proud of him. Once, he hated the woman, but now, Snow could see clearly that she was the only right one to follow, shaking his head at his past self for not understanding it sooner. Sometimes, he had learned from his time in the districts, with all those uncultured people who knew nothing of true power, brutality is the only path to perfect control.

He would fit right in in the University, if not stand out for his excellence. He would step into the position that had been made for him.

He supposed that, in a sense, Tigris and the Grandma’am were correct in calling him the future president of Panem all those months and years ago. President Ravenstill wouldn’t be fit to lead forever, though it wasn’t to be said that Snow hated the old man. Just that he, of course, would make a far better one. They’d need someone young. Someone who understood what their Capitol needed and could give him that. Someone to control them, because without control, there would be chaos. Control. Chaos. Contract. Three words from an assignment he completed long ago.

Snow shook his head to purge the thoughts from his mind. Here he was, standing in front of the University, the place of his dreams. Here he was, after everything.

And he stepped over the threshold into the white marble building, where his bright future awaited him.

Here, he would win this Games, and the next after that, until they finally understood what he truly was. Where he would, finally, finally, become the one who he had waited all his life to become.

The Victor.
~
Word count: 369 words
~
Note: Okay, for this, I chose The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, which made this really tough. Suzanne Collins is such an incredible writer, and to try to match that? Nearly impossible. I chose the last chapter of the book before the epilogue, and instead of writing an extension, as it would have ruined the way the book flows so seamlessly, I created a mini scene to come right before the epilogue. Evidently and inevitably, I did not do the book justice. I knew that, going into this, I wouldn't be able to. However, I did my best to stay true to Snow's character, someone who, above everything, believes in control, and more so, believes in being in control himself. I don't know if that came through with this, but hopefully it did.

I met you when I was seven.

I was still young then, still none the wiser as to most of the ways of the world. I had not yet learned of the true harshness of the world.

When I met you, we were both hastily trying to make our way to the seats on the bus. We got on at the same stop and left at the same one, and as it turned out, we had the same destination.

When I first got on that bus, I was worried I would be alone, that there would be no one else to sit next to me, or that worse, the person who did would just ignore me. But somehow, because of this unspoken agreement that we created just by looking at each other, we had made ourselves a friendship that would last for years.

I called you my friend when I was eight.

By eight years old, I had been convinced you were my “very best friend in the whole wide world”. By eight, we would spend all our free time together, yet my parents would still call me a solitary child. I was confused when I heard that, because, surely, if I had you, how could I possibly be solitary?

We went everywhere together, and we were never far out of each others’ sight. We knew ourselves and one another better than anyone.

I left you when I was twelve.

I forgot about you, in short. I forgot my friend, and I was all caught up in the rest of life. We were friends, and then we weren’t. We went everywhere together, that didn’t change, of course, but I didn’t pay attention to you, because I was so busy thinking about all the other people and other things that soon, you just became a remnant of my memories.

Without you, I disappeared, and so did you. We became invisible, together, the way we were in the beginning, except that this time, we cared.

I found you again this year, and things have been rocky since then. I’ll be walking in the sunlight, and something will remind you of the friend that I once had. So I’ll look behind me, and you’ll be there, always.

My shadow. My friend.
~
Word count: 378 words

Dear Clara Barton,

Thank you so much for all your work to help others, whether it be soldiers, women, or anything. Thank you for standing up against the injustice of unequal pay in the world of education. You’ve been a huge inspiration to me for a long time because of that, and to get the certifications at just seventeen is an incredible feat.

I also know that you were the first woman to get a substantial clerkship in the U.S. federal government, and that you got paid an amount equal to any man’s. Thank you for pushing onward even when so many people might have tried to take you down for that, and thank you for creating opportunities through your defiance for girls in the future.

Besides that, I know that probably what you’re most famous for is being the founder of the American Red Cross. I wanted to say thank you for not taking “no” from America to join the Red Cross as an answer and for your drive to help. Thank you for persisting and showing us that anything you set your mind to can be done, and thank you for creating an organization that has helped hundreds of thousands — probably millions — in America. And lastly, thank you for your work to heal the soldiers on the battlefield and for not refusing anyone help if they were in need, and for conquering your fears to be there and help.

I know you’ve passed on over a hundred years ago now, so you’ll never read this, but all the same, thank you for all you’ve done.

Snowy
~
Word count: 269 words

Retelling: Prometheus Gives Fire to the Humans

While many gods looked down upon the human race, thinking them to be simply toys meant to serve the purposes the gods drew out for them, Prometheus, a titan and the god of fire, cared for his creation — man — like his own children. Previously given the task of sculpting them out of mud, the titan found his creations to be his friends, though many thought them insignificant in comparison to the magnitude of the gods.

The first few generations of humans loved the gods, as they were originally intended to, and they lived happy lives. But as time passed, they began to deviate from their original purpose and grew angry with the gods, even going so far as to argue with them sometimes.

Zeus, god of thunder and sky, ruler of all gods and humans, became furious at man for their disregard and, being the vengeful god he was, chose to punish them for their disobedience. He would withhold the greatest tool from them, the thing they could use to survive and grow stronger — fire.

However, Prometheus felt sorry for his creations, his human friends, and he disagreed with Zeus’s choice, though he might not admit to it. The humans would need fire to continue to live on Earth — and Zeus’s punishment was a death sentence to them.

“Please, just give them the fire,” Prometheus asked Zeus, practically begging. “They won’t survive to give you the glory you need without it.”

“Nonsense,” Zeus told him dismissively. “Any beings who stray so far from me as to argue with me, the great and all-powerful Zeus, are not deserving of life.”

So Prometheus made the decision: he would give the humans the fire, regardless of what Zeus may think.

Later that day, Prometheus snuck out and stole a bolt of lightning from Zeus and built a fire from it on Earth and bestowed the fire upon his human friends.

“This is the thing we call fire, and you can use it for many things. You can warm yourself by it, and you can cook with it. But you must not tell anyone that you have it,” he told them.

All the humans rejoiced, for they were now saved by Prometheus’s generosity. But when Zeus peered down at them from Mount Olympus, he was appalled by what he saw. Soon, he pieced together that Prometheus had been the one to give the humans fire — directly against his wishes.

“Prometheus!” Zeus called, his voice loud as his thunder. “How dare you disobey me? I have told you that these humans are undeserving of the gift of fire! And you go and give them it anyway? Why, you are no better than them. Foolish mortals. Foolish Prometheus, going against my law.”

But Prometheus could not apologize for what he had done, for he loved the humans far too much. He held firm in his belief that he had done the right thing, and for that, Zeus decided to punish him.

“What punishment shall I give you?” Zeus asked himself, taking his time to ponder the matter before he finally reached a conclusion. “Because you were so eager to give them the fire, you, Prometheus, will become a victim of it as well. You will burn for a century’s time and be exiled from Olympus to live amongst the humans, surrounded closely by your fire. And only once you have learned your lesson shall you ever be able to return.”

And thus, Prometheus stood, far above all the humans, burning, for a full century, until he retreated to his cave-dwelling friends for safety, where he hoped Zeus would not find him.

(605 words)

Original Characters in Historical Times: Operation Crossroads

Day One

When we arrived, they acted like we were their friends instead of the enemies that we should be. They gave us love we didn’t deserve, and we took it, because many of us thought that we did.

I asked one of them her name, though I doubt she understood my English. But I think she understood what I meant.

“Charity,” she said, extending her hand out, a bit tentatively.

“Cassandra,” I replied, taking it.

They didn’t realize why we were here. At least, not yet. They’ll find out soon enough. Tomorrow. We have to tell them at some point.

Day Two

We told them it was “for the good of mankind”. Then we filmed it. Again. And again. And again. Must have been more than eight times before we finally did it, got the perfect cut. Then the rest of them all sat back and laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. Commodore Wyatt and all the rest of them.

I wish I hadn’t come here. I wish I had just stayed off this dreaded island, instead of being the bearer of bad news, the one to betray them. I wish I could have gone back in time and redid it all.

But it’s too late for that now. There’s nothing I can do to go back and change things.

They’ll just always remember us as what we are: the villains.

(236 words)
~
Note: This part is incomplete, as it would be a part of a much longer piece that would probably stretch into a novel. And yes, of course I did Operation Crossroads, or at least the beginnings where the people in the Marshall Islands are told to leave (just in journal entries this time) because it’s pretty much the only thing I know enough to write about, given the amount of research I’ve done for it, asdfghjkl-

Using Sparks from the Past: Retelling the Fairy Tale of Hansel and Gretel

Hansel and Gretel lived in their house near the edge of the woods with their witch of a stepmother and a poor wood-cutting father who did nothing to stand up to his wife’s cruelty.

One day, as the family began to starve, the stepmother asked the father, “Why don’t we just leave the children in the forest to fend for themselves? We’d be much better off without the two extra mouths to feed.” But, of course, as the stepmother, she did not understand the love the father had for his children, and she grew outraged when her husband negated this request and told her that he could not do that to his own children.

“You foolish peasant,” the stepmother cried, for she was hungry too. “It is a necessary sacrifice we must make, or else we will starve ourselves. Better them to die than us, is that not right? Just think, if we don’t leave them, we will all starve. It’s only the logical choice. That way, the two of us, at least, will survive — instead of them.”

The poor wood-cutter could do nothing to deny the truth in the stepmother’s words, although he wished he could. Instead, he ignored her, and they went up to bed, though he tossed and turned all night, only thinking about his children and the dilemma their situation posed.

On the loft in their tiny house, Hansel and Gretel lay next to each other, stock-still, having heard every quiet word of their parents’ argument. Near silently, they began to cry, the two of them in immense fear of what the next day might bring and the thought of being left in the woods with no protection nor help.

“Oh, Hansel, what will we do?” Gretel whispered in Hansel’s ear, careful to be quiet enough that their parents wouldn’t hear.

“We’ll have to be smart,” Hansel responded, trying to comfort his younger sister. “Find a way to survive. But they wouldn’t actually do it, would they? Father wouldn’t let them.”

After Gretel and their parents had long since fallen asleep, Hansel snuck downstairs and collected the last crumbs of bread leftover from dinner. Their stepmother would be horrified if she found out that the children were stealing, but at the same time, if they really were planning to leave them in the forest, there was little to be worried about regarding their home relations.

He put the remains in his pocket and carefully made his way up the ladder to the loft, trying to warm himself against the thin blankets.

Morning came with Hansel and Gretel’s stepmother’s harsh call, telling them to get out of bed and help their father collect wood for the fire, saying they wouldn’t survive winter otherwise.

Both of the children looked at each other in alarm, but they tried not to let it show too much on their faces as they put on their coats and followed their parents out.

“What will we do?” asked Gretel, her small, timid voice filled with dismay. “They’re going to leave us here all alone!”

“I have a plan,” Hansel said, thinking of the crumbs in his pocket.

Their parents took them deep into the woods until they were so far out that surely, they’d never be able to find their way out. The children would simply be wandering around for ages and ages, hoping to make their way back home.

When the children weren’t looking, the stepmother smiled a little to herself, proud of herself for coming up with such a genius plan. But she didn’t know that as the children followed, almost sure of their doom, Hansel was leaving a small trail of breadcrumbs behind, hoping that they wouldn’t see the path he created. It was a small hope, but a powerful one.

Later that evening, as the stepmother and father began to venture farther and farther into the woods, leaving the children behind, Hansel and Gretel began to worry if what was said the previous night would come true this morning. Eventually, they did not come back.

“We’ll wait for another hour before we go back,” Hansel told Gretel.

Gretel looked at him, concerned. “So they aren’t coming back for us, then. How will we find our way home?”

“I’ve left a trail,” Hansel responded, “If we follow it, we’ll find our way back in no time.”

In an hour, the sun had already begun to set, and it became harder to see the crumbs against the dirt of the ground. Worse still, as they tried to follow the crumbs, they realized that they had disappeared, not just with the darkness of evening, but from the birds eating them as well.

“If we keep wandering around,” Hansel said, trying not to show his dismay, “we ought to find our way back home at some point.”

So they continued to walk, long into the night, until the moon shone far above them and the stars had come out. Eventually, they accepted that it would be no good to search in the darkness and curled up on the hard dirt ground close together for warmth.

In the morning, neither of their parents had come back, though Hansel and Gretel both had not expected them to, and they continued to search for the place they called home.

As the sun grew high, the siblings stumbled upon a house in a clearing in the forest, one that they hoped, from a distance, was their own, but upon closer inspection realized was an entirely different house. A house they had never seen before. A house made entirely of…

“It’s candy!” Hansel said joyfully, and he pulled his younger sister along with him to the front of the house. The two of them pried off lollipops and frosting from the side of the gingerbread house and stuffed their faces until they could not eat anymore. Satisfied, they sat by the edge of the house for a long while.

That was when they heard a tapping sound at the window. At first, they thought nothing of it. But then, as it grew more constant and louder, Gretel looked up.

In the glass — well, the glasslike sugar windowpane — they saw an old woman dressed in black.

“Come in, come in!” she told them.

There was something about the woman’s voice that sounded awfully familiar to Gretel, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Either way, both of them were far too cold to think about anything other than this woman’s hospitality, and they eagerly went into her home.

Inside, it was nice and warm — a welcome change from the cold air of the outdoors. Hansel and Gretel hung their coats on candy cane hooks and sat down at the table.

Eagerly, Hansel thanked the woman for her kindness and her invitation into her home and explained their situation. The whole time, Gretel remained quiet, eyeing the woman from the side of her eye. She seemed almost familiar in some way, but she decided that she had just been imagining things. Perhaps it was from some kind of dream. Yes, that must be it.

The woman fed them well and gave them many treats, and they thought it such good fortune that they happened to stumble upon her house. Hansel and Gretel no longer could remember the pains of hunger in their stomach that came from being so poor, and soon, they had almost forgotten everything but their father, who they both missed terribly.

For many days and weeks they stayed at the old woman’s house, though the woman left them each afternoon and didn’t come back until late morning. There, they began to fatten up a good deal from their diet of candy until the woman — who turned out to be a witch — came back one morning and told them, “My, you both look so much better than you did when I first found you! Almost good enough to eat!”

At this remark, Gretel, who found herself very suspicious of the woman, looked at Hansel, but her older brother thought nothing of it. Just another one of those silly old sayings, he thought.

But it wasn’t until the day after until the house began to get hot — much hotter than it was before.

“Children,” the woman crowed, “Don’t you think today is a good day for a feast? I shall be having such a lovely meal today. Candy and candy and candy and candy…And, of course, the star of it. You.”

“Us?” Hansel repeated in disbelief. “Surely you don’t mean that,” he said desperately.

“Oh, yes, I do,” the woman repeated, and it was then that she tapped her face once, twice, three times, and her skin morphed into someone slightly different, the person that Gretel had seen under her all along. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

The woman, who began to shift before their eyes, sounded different. Most definitely sounded familiar, and Hansel began to understand what Gretel had been seeing in the woman the whole time.

The woman who stood before them, who had taken care of them so kindly earlier yet threatened to eat them just now, became a face they knew well. Their stepmother.

“Oh, yes,” she repeated. “Nice and juicy and perfect for my feast. Your father will think such fresh meat is an excellent meal, won’t he? He’ll eat it right up, and he won’t even know a thing!”

The children exchanged horrified glances. What were they to do? The woman — their stepmother — practically had them caged up, and if they ran, they would have nowhere to go before they starved in the woods. For Hansel and Gretel, there would be no escape.

The stepmother picked them both up with her long, bony arms and tossed Hansel into the oven that seemed to be heating up the house a great deal. But just before she could manage to get Gretel in as well, the little girl wriggled free and pulled her brother out. Together, they pushed the wicked old woman into the oven and shut it tight, ignoring her screams and knocking at the real glass.

“What have we done?” Hansel asked, but both of them knew that they only did what needed to be done. There was no other way for them both to survive.

While the wicked old woman burned in the oven, the children ran as fast as they could in the woods, hoping that one day they might once again stumble upon home and find their way back to their father.

(1753 words)

Oral Retelling: Fairy Lights

“Children, do you wish to hear a story?” the woman asked them, and the two children nestled up close to their grandmother and nodded.

“Something about fairies,” the younger of the two girls said.

“Something…magical,” the older added.

And so the old woman began her story.

Once upon a time, there was a land where everything was possible. Dreams became reality, and the line between what was real and what wasn’t became almost entirely unclear.

In this magical land, there was a forest, illuminated only during the night. Many travelers hoped to find out the secret to the brightness of the woods as they passed by, but they never remembered much of anything after they made their way through. They only ever remembered how beautiful it looked.

You see, my grandmother — your great-great grandmother — was one of these many travelers. And she was one of the few of these travelers who remembered what happened. This is the story that she told her daughter, my mother, and the one that my mother told me. So now I will tell you both.

She said that in each hollow of every tree, there was a family of fairies, and they lit up the forest with their beauty and glow. Each fairy, she told me, had wings that flickered as they flicked across the air, and their light grew only brighter with each beat of their fluttering wings. She said it was unbelievable. Unreal.

In the village of fairies, each one had their own shining light and they filled the sky and forests with their beauty, nestled into every hiding place you could ever imagine.

—In the branches, too?

Yes, in the branches, too. Behind leaves, on the forest floor, everywhere. And they can fly, so they can go anywhere they wish.

—I wish I were a fairy. I could fly with them as well.

Maybe you will have the chance to find one one day, darling. Maybe so.

—I hope so.

Eventually, your great-great grandmother made herself at home with the fairies. They cared for each other. My grandmother protected them against the things of the wild, and the fairies fed her with food and gave her a little of their magic.

—Their magic? How did she get their magic? What kind of magic?


She never told me. But I have a box with her magic in it. She meant to give it to me, but I’ve never opened it. I think it would be better suited for you, don’t you think?

—Yes!

The old grandmother stood up and walked slowly to the mantel. She brushed away the dust that had been collecting on the top of an ornate wooden box. A small one, just about the size of her palm.

“Is this it?” the younger one asked.

“Yes, it is. Here is the magic,” the woman responded, smiling.

Together, the girls opened the box and stared at what was inside, and the magic was not only contained by the box, but was all around them.

(505 words)

Regional Differences/Two Versions of a Story: The Star-Stealer

Version One:

The man traveled across desert plains and icy tundra on foot, every night for as long as he could remember. He searched for a place of rest and for hope, but in that time, cities were few, and the only few he reached had no spare space for him. He continued walking onward, even though his feet grew blistered and sore.

Eventually, he stopped at a town on the edge of the sea, where the ocean met the shore. Above him, he could see the bright lights in the sky he’d been using as his directions by night, though he did not remember that they were this spectacular.

He stopped. If there was no home for him elsewhere in the city, he would find his place amongst the stars. So he found a tree with branches stretching far up into the sky and climbed it until he was at the very top.

The stars beat like hearts, breathing life to the dark, inky sky. He stretched up his hand to meet them and feel them, and his fingertips came just barely close enough to close in on one of them.

He took the star and held it close to his chest, not in greed of any kind, perhaps, but just to keep it close and to quell his loneliness. In the daytime, he carried his stars in a sackcloth bag, and every night, he took a new one as a souvenir, a reminder of how far he had come.

And in the wee hours of morning, just before dawn had broken, the traveler would sleep amongst the stars.

Version Two:

In a hustling and bustling city, every person has to compete to earn, but in one long summer of hardly any sales, the merchant grew worried, thinking of the diminishing amounts of money he had left. Each day and each night, it would dwindle, and one day, it would not be enough.

The problem was, all his products were just so ordinary. They were nothing special. Everyone had them. They were bits and pieces of tarnished jewelry, marked up to a higher price in case someone might pay for it — although they never did — and plates with intricate designs — but everyone already had ten of them back home.

To put it simply, with every minute, he grew poorer, and he had begun to lose hope.

It was one night, as he looked up while walking back in the night from another day of unsold things, that he fully took notice of them: the stars. Their beauty was hardly admired on Earth, but if he could find them, take them, make them into something wonderful, why…he’d be the richest man in the country.

So he took a detour to the chapel with the highest spire in the city, and he walked up each and every one of the hundreds of steps until he finally reached the top. From there, he found the stars and cut the strings that kept them tethered to the sky, dropping them into a leather bag. Once he was satisfied with his haul, he rode away back home.

The next day at the market, all the stars sold out, and, as he predicted, he became rich overnight. He would not have to go hungry in the mornings or work long hours, not anymore. He only needed the stars. And the sky to keep providing them.

Stars, it seemed, had far more value than it looked like they did at first glance.

(582 words)

Magical Realism: You and the Birds

The world has turned black and white, colorless and therefore emotionless. And still, somehow, somehow, you remain. You are there, still full of color, even when the world has paled to gray in-betweens of darkness and light.

You and the birds. You’re all that remain the way you used to be.

You’re told it came from the destruction the rest wreaked on the world, but you don’t think that that’s entirely true. You’ve come to understand far better than most that this kind of obliteration comes from the little things, all piled up together. You alone realize that the world of black and white has come from the lies upon lies, secrets upon secrets, until they all became too much and washed over the world in a wave of nothingness.

You can’t understand them, not anymore. You can’t understand the ones that have already gone and turned to the shades of gray instead of remaining the way you are now.

So perhaps it is a thing to do with color, because you and the birds, you understand each other, at least to some extent. It’s like a language you have together, though the words you speak are entirely different from the chirps they make. But still, you know each other far better than you can understand anyone else, at least now, and that’s enough.

Your birds, as you like to call them, are loyal to you, and in turn, you to them. You protect each other, with your words and with your knowledge. You hope that maybe you might be able to one day restore the color to the world and make it what it once was. To bring life and joy back to the world they think is far too broken to do anything with now. It’s impossible, or that’s what the birds tell you, but you hope all the same. And maybe one day, it will be enough. But for now, all you and the birds can do is to wait, together, just you.

(336 words)

What I’m Happy With:
Some people out there who care for people
Activism and standing up for injustice
Charity

Things I want to see change (world):
Less discrimination
People are focused on the good of others instead of financial loss/gain
Unity and peace
Equality and equity

Things I want to see change (self):
Be more forgiving
Learn to love life instead of see the worst in it
Conquer my atelophobia
Be the type of person who people remember for being so incredibly kind
~
Word count: 84 words

Story:

I try to remember what I used to be, that little girl who was none the wiser to the ways of the world, that person who didn’t know how cruel this place could be. That girl is long gone now. I left her in the past when I knew I had to grow up and see things for what they really were.

But still, I miss the innocence that comes from being young, the way I didn’t worry, the freedom I had. If I could go back in time, I’d savor it for a little longer.

I miss the world I used to live in, the one with the people who were just a little kinder, the one where I was just a little kinder. The one where I used to love every moment of life instead of standing here, waiting for things to change. Is it too late to go back to that?

I stare into the shimmering glass, and the person trapped behind it looks back, meeting my eyes without hesitation, and I search for even the slightest hints that the person I used to be isn’t gone forever. And for just a moment, I see her.

Maybe she isn’t so far gone after all.
~
Word count: 207 words

We live in the shadows and in the dark, searching for our paths in the low light, guided only by the stars as we journey onward on foot, hoping that the constellations will point us in the right direction.

We live in the shadows and in the dark, becoming more as the sun goes down, becoming full in the nothingness of a black sky. In its absence, we fill the empty crevices and the spaces left behind where daylight should have been. We become what they are not, and we find ourselves when we are least expecting it.

We live in the shadows and in the dark, and we wither and die as the sun rises. We are short-lived but beautiful creatures, hoping that our own little lives may mean something, do something. We dance in the dust, in the ice, in the rain, but never in the sun. It is our challenge to find it: the end of it. Of what? The darkness. Only when we find the true end of it can we become what we were always meant to be. Only then can we become children of the light instead of—

Shadows and dark. We live in the shadows and the dark, and we hope for an end, hope for something to bring us out of the despair of never seeing the glory coming from the illuminated truth.

We are made of shadows and dark, created from what you least expect. Ashes of inky night. Canvases of our pasts and our futures, put together to show a picture of what we are. In the darkness, we are free and fearless, or at least, that’s what we tell ourselves.

We reside in the shadows and the dark, but we do not live. Not yet.

We will only live when we find our way to the light.
~
Word count: 308 words

They bring the news, carrying your fate in the letter in their hands.

“What is it?” you ask them, and they take a deep breath before beginning. It’s bad news. You can tell from the way that they hold themselves and the way that they won’t quite tell you.

They read from the letter. “It is with our deepest condolences to all those who mentored under her that we bear the news of Dr. Volumnia Gaul’s passing.”

You quickly arrange your face to one acceptable for an apprentice to the previous Head Gamemaker. In reality, you didn’t care much about the woman; she was just another part of your show. Still, you know you must keep up appearances if you want the support of the public. Although you find yourself wondering if you would still manage to keep it, without the woman many, including himself, regard as your mentor. Without Dr. Gaul to endorse him, you would have to make sure that the Snow family remained the top tier by himself.

“Thank you,” you tells them, trying to sound sorrowful about acknowledging the news, though you are, in fact, hardly touched by the so-called tragedy. Knowing that people tend to enjoy being complimented, and those people will find you far more likable should you do so, you threw in an extra one you think is far too lavish for the role they have just played, one that will most certainly please them. “You both must be very brave to bear the news. Me? I hate being the bearer of tragedy. What are your names?”

The two messengers look at you surprised, possibly because they find it strange that someone of your high rank at a young age would not be interested in them, though you have to say, they’d be correct if that was what they were thinking. But they didn’t need to know your disinterest. It is more important to keep up your carefully curated appearance.

They give you their names, and you promise to put in a good word for them. You’ll hold true on that part. Then you go about dismissing them from the Snow-Plinth household kindly, as if you aren’t curious about what this means for you and your career.

It’s only on their way out that they seem to remember who they were speaking to.

“Mr. Snow, we have one more thing to tell you. With the late Dr. Gaul’s position needing to be filled, the rest of the Gamemakers have discussed this matter, and they’ve decided that you would be a good fit for the role. To replace her as Head Gamemaker. Of course, this would be a great responsibility to your country, and though they think you would be perfect for the role, should you decline their invitation, they would be understanding.”

Head Gamemaker? This could mean the beginning of your great ascent.

But instead, all you say is, “Oh, me?” and laugh lightly, like it doesn’t matter to you. “Well, if Panem needs me to answer their call and do my duty to the country…so be it. Where shall I report?”

“Her office, sir. Tomorrow morning at eight.”

You smile at them kindly, thank them once again, and watch as they close the door on their way out.

Today, it is Head Gamemaker. Tomorrow, it’ll be president. They’ll bring the news, and they’ll all know your name.

And they’ll bring the news, carrying your fate in the letter in their hands.
~
Word count: 579 words

Part One: Flower Symbolism

You don’t know this place, at least not very well. You’ve seen it in your mind and read about it in stories, but never much more than that. Never in person.

You walk around in the forest in front of you, wondering where this dusty path may lead. Trees line the edges, and not-quite-yet-bloomed spring flowers in a variety of colors are strewn about the field. Will-be bushes but now-shrubs of white rose plants surround you, their thorns lashing out at you, and you duck to escape their threatening blows. Another reminder that things are not always what they seem to be.

The lilies haven’t quite sprouted yet, but in a few weeks time, once March ends, they will be in full bloom, surrounding you in the strange place you wander in right now.

You have heard stories about this garden, this mysterious place. Stories about people who want to escape, people who, at least, finally did through this place. Perhaps you will be one of them. Maybe you are looking for an escape, but you don’t know for sure. All you know is that you are here now. All you know is what you can see.

A floral scent fills the air, though you find it strange, as you’ve already noticed that the flowers haven’t bloomed yet. They remain untouched by the warming weather, still buds and roots and tiny leaves just poking out from the ground. Most definitely, it is strange.

The trees sway, their branches only barely filling with the green of new leaves. Not the willows, though. They remain in their full beauty, shrouding the weary traveler who comes to rest underneath it.

This time, it’ll be you. You sit underneath it and lean your back against the tree, its emerald-yellow combination of tendrils coming to keep you safe in their arms.

You’ll stay here, you think. Maybe just until the flowers come, until their pretty petals line the grasses and surround you. Maybe just until nothing else feels like it matters.

(339 words)

Part Two: Constellations

The lands had been at war for years, losing soldier after soldier for a war they forgot the purpose of. Night after night of strategy planning and hoping to outlast the other side. Day after day of cries for ends to the violence, but without any change.

And one day, as the fighters on both sides began to dwindle, after so many being lost to a fruitless war, one warrior decided to put an end to it.

She hid and ran during the night, fighting for no one’s side but her own. She helped the wounded and the young, the ones who no longer wanted to participate in the seemingly endless war. She brought them to safety and led them to freedom. They knew her by her works instead of by her name. She became a shadow, a spirit in the darkness who found the lost and revived them.

It took days, weeks, months, years, but eventually, the warrior had saved hundreds. She saved the lives of many, and they called her the brave one. And all of a sudden, the nameless warrior had a name.

Three decades after the beginning of the fighting, the war finally, finally drew to a close, with the end in sight after so much time. There will be peace after this, or so they hope. They longed for the battles to end, for the bloodshed end. They longed to go back to what they knew.

And for the brave one, she only hoped that there would be nothing like it that would ever happen again. She hoped that what she had done would be enough, though during the nights, she often dreamt about all the ones that she had lost, the ones that she couldn’t quite save in time.

Still, they thanked her a thousand times over again for all her work, and when it came upon her final night, as her last exhale passed her lips, she was sent up to live amongst the stars as her own, a sword of hope rather than of despair, known by her new name.

Bellatrix Fortis.

(351 words)

Part Three: Aesthetics
https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/984251455/

Credits:
Wallpaper cave
8Tracks
(Three found on social media sites I won't mention the name of)

Moodboard template from Canva

Part Four: SWC Fanfiction

“What’s this place?” Luna says, looking all around the mysterious garden the SWC portal led to. She’s surprised, because the SWC portals don’t usually lead to places that aren’t the cabin atmospheres.

Surf shrugs. “Could be the Poetry cabin’s description or something. Forgotten Valley. It sounds like the one that’s described, at least,” they say in response to Luna’s question. She, too, is in awe of the place, and she looks around, their fingers trailing on the bark of these never-seen-before trees.

“Ooh,” Snowy says, taking in the sight. “You know, I bet you Recca, Sophia, and Summer are wishing they could be here too. I’ll have to tell them about it.” She pauses for a second, thinking. “You know, once we get back.”

“Well,” CD starts, looking around, “if we get back to the SWC main cabin, that is. You never know where those portals lead to. It’s possible that we’ll never find our way back.”

May laughs. “It’s possible, alright. But we won’t be! We can figure it out together, right?”


Snowy nods. “Yeah! And even if not, I bet this wouldn’t be the best place to be stuck for all of eternity,” she says somewhat playfully, nudging CD slightly.

“Exactly!” Chloe exclaims. “I bet if I was here, I’d have infinite inspiration. I’d probably never face writer’s block again! It’s so peaceful.”

“I mean,” Coco begins, looking around like the beautiful garden is instead a haunted house, “If you were here forever, you’d probably have bigger problems than whether or not you had inspiration. Like whether there’s food. Or what’s in the forest.”

“Bears, maybe,” Luna adds, giggling. “Foxes. Coyotes. Mountain lions. Lots of scary things.”

April rolls her eyes. “Probably not.”

The group walks for a few hours before finally coming to a halt at the weeping willow tree at the edge of the clearing. It’s almost sparkling in the low light of the sun as it begins to set over the hills in the distance.

Snowy sits up sharply. “Look at that!” She points to something far ahead.

The clouds have turned pink with the light of dusk, and the sky is ablaze in orange and yellow hues. The sun has set fire to the once-blue canvas, and the whole valley echoes this change.

“This would make such a good setting for a story,” Snowy comments.

“That’s why I’m writing right now,” April responds, gesturing to the notebook in her hands.

“April, you’re not ignoring us to write, are you?!” Surf jokes.

“To be honest, I would do the same thing. But I left my notebook back in the main cabin. I didn’t think we were actually going to go through the SWC portal.” Chloe sighs.

“Speaking of which, we should probably figure out our plan for getting back to the main cabin,” May jumps in. “Do we want to just wait for an SWC portal to appear, or should we just go and find one ourselves?”

“Let’s find one ourselves! It can be a little adventure, don’t you think?” Coco asks.

“Why don’t we vote?” CD says, and the rest of the group nods in agreement.

“Okay, so everyone who wants to wait for a portal to appear, raise your hand,” Snowy announces, and a couple of people raise their hands. “And what about for finding one ourselves?” Snowy and Coco both raise their hands for this one, along with the rest of the group.

“That settles it, then,” CD says in a very matter-of-fact manner.

“I guess so!” Chloe responds.

“Well, then,” May says, “What are we waiting for? Let’s find an SWC portal!”

(601 words)
~
Thanks so much to everyone who let me put them in this fanfiction!

Quiet —> Voiceless
Protective —> Shatterproof
Fierce —> Relentless
Frigid —> Frosty
Barren —> Desolate
Lonely —> Forsaken

The ice crackles as the girl steps on it, nearly breaking through. It’s just barely strong enough to hold her weight as she carefully puts one foot in front of the other, brushing away the frosty crystals that have settled on the smooth stone-like surface.

The wind inhales and exhales, billowing the girl’s long chestnut hair back behind her with each release of air, sending a shiver down her spine. Here, the wind is almost silent, with no trees in the way to break its path and send it scattering throughout the desolate land. But in spite of this, the wind whispers in her ear and speaks to her, hums a song she doesn’t know.

The wind draws nearer to the girl in hopes of coming to understand her. It dances up next to her, featherlike on the ice, and skates as if it is a real person. But the girl, the girl doesn’t notice. She can’t see the wind, invisible to her human eyes, as it does its best to act as the thing it wishes it could be most. She can’t hear anything but the whispers, and even that she chalks up to the sounds of an arctic wasteland, the lonely cries of animals left behind from their packs.

Eventually, the wind tires, and it finds its way back to the sky, where it will stay. The girl doesn’t notice. The girl thinks in the things that are literal. The numbers, for instance, instead of the flowing words that create imagery. The facts instead of the abstracts. It’s much simpler than to be kept up at night thinking of all the in-betweens, and her same rules apply to the wind.

With the air having stilled without the presence of the wind, the girl is left alone on the ice, hoping that it might be strong enough not to fall out under her weight.

The wind urges her to be brave for a moment, a minute, and forget the worries of the outside world which is now so, so far away. But the girl denies it, the wind, in thoughts of worry and wonder. The ice, she knows, is not shatterproof. It’s one of those breakable things, those things that you don’t quite want to risk for fear of what might happen if you do.

With fallen hopes and a lack of words, the wind retreats to the place it lives. The place where it is lonely. Waiting for the ice to shatter.
~
Word count: 414 words

You’ve been calling out to them for ages,
but either they don’t hear you
or they ignore you.
You try to tell them all the words
that you’ve kept secret underneath
and even when you whisper them right next to them,
they forget,
or so it seems.

They’ll find a way around your calls,
make excuses for the ones
tens
hundreds
they didn’t hear,
act like from there,
it’s all okay,
like it doesn’t matter much to anyone
anymore.

And you’ll go silent,
then pretend
that’s all you ever wanted.
And then they’ll smile and leave you behind.

You watch the world from this clear glass pane,
separated from what’s real.
You become the thing you hate the most,
just an empty shell and nothing more.

Everything above sounds muffled,
like being underwater.
You listen to their voices, almost undetectable,
and imagine that they’re you.

But they won’t be.
Because you’re invisible,
Unlike them.

You tap at the glass,
trying to make yourself heard
in the land above.

But then cracks bloom throughout the transparent thing,
chipping away until you’re so, so near
to the surface.

And I realize that this whole time,
I was just frozen
under layers and layers of unyielding ice.
~
Word count: 204 words

The girl sits at the base of the tree, swaying back and forth with the wind as it whispers in her ear, comforting her and caring for her when she fears the unknown. The leaves of the weeping willow guard her from the hard-hearted and cruel outside world, creating underneath it, a haven for her.

The ground slopes downward slightly from where she sits, rolling into a river where the water flows gently as the edges lap the rocks on the side. The river calls to her, and she looks up from watching the grass being rustled by the wind with its every breath. For a moment, its mellowness almost lures her down to it, but she shakes her head to clear the thought, the foolishness, from her mind, because the river, with its lies to cover up every one of its misdeeds, all of its many betrayals, will not care for her, will not protect her. Not the way the wind does. Not the way the tree does.

As the sun began to dip beyond the hills ahead, so did its harsh rays fade to a soothing alternative, washing the clearing in golden yellow and bathing it in sunlight.

With afternoon giving way to evening, the girl watches the bitter place that she once feared turn to instead a patient forest filled with the many things that would fight against the despair night brings. Dusk, she thinks, is the kindest of the times of day, never bringing with it the shame of morning and midnight.
~
Word count: 256 words