⋅ hello there! congratulations on finding this. i'm river, and this is my writing thread for the march ‘24 session of scratch writing camp. while you can read anything you find in here, i’d prefer that you not critique unless specifically asked to. this session, i'm co-leading alongside the wonderful em and the equally wonderful willow in the tragedy woods! i believe that's all the intro you need—welcome!

[ dailies ]

⍋ 03.01.24 ⋅ introduction challenge ⋅ 514 words
⍋ 03.02.24 ⋅ compliments ⋅ 442 words
⍋ 03.03.24 ⋅ anthems ⋅ 264 words
⍋ 03.04.24 ⋅ roll a die ⋅ 449 words
⍋ 03.13.24 ⋅ quotes ⋅ 301 words
⍋ 03.14.24 ⋅ 3.1415926535897932384626 ⋅ 945 words
⍋ 03.20.24 ⋅ villains ⋅ 441 words
⍋ 03.21.24 ⋅ passion ⋅ 203 words
⍋ 03.24.24 ⋅ hobbit holes ⋅ 569 words
⍋ 03.25.24 ⋅ holi ⋅ 621 words
⍋ 03.27.24 ⋅ google translate ⋅ 463 words

[ weeklies ]

⍋ 03.04.24 — 03.10.24 ⋅ legends ⋅ 2485 words
⍋ 03.11.24 — 03.17.24 ⋅ swclassics ⋅ 1839 words
⍋ 03.18.24 — 03.24.24 ⋅ mystery ⋅ 1450 words
⍋ 03.25.24 — 03.31.24 ⋅ memorieswc ⋅ 3892 words

[ other writing ]

⍋ 03.05.24 ⋅ wicked fanfiction ⋅ 195 words
⍋ 03.31.24 ⋅ forget me not ~ writing competition entry ⋅ 1584 words

‣ first daily of the session—attempting the 1k intro challenge! here goes :0

hey there! i'm river, your friendly logophile, ravenclaw, and musical enthusiast. this is my fifth (whoa) session of swc, and my third on the leading team—it's crazy how time flies, isn't it? this session, i've been snatched by the tragedy woods…or have i? we shall see (psst. tragedy campers! you'll learn more soon enough)

this session, i have two main goals: firstly, to be more consistent in dailies and weeklies, and secondly, not to let swc overpower my whole life. this month, for the first time, i have exams just before spring break, and while i do so enjoy swc, i want to be able to balance studying with this online writing camp i've grown to love. last session, i had a bit of overwhelm early on, and while i mastered it, i anticipate the same thing this session—so i'm determined to balance things, instead of forcing myself to complete and be everything.

now that we've mastered that, on to my past sessions! as previously mentioned, this is my fifth session of swc. my very first, i was in the poetry grove—i remember little about that time, except a) a lot of gold b) an epic rivalry with non-fi and c) we won first. i was then in the mystery express a year later—that time, i really fell in love with the swc community. i've done every march and november (i have to irl in july) session since, including co-leading for my first time in the fantasy wishing well and last session, i led the dystopian mirrorverse with skye and jasper. and now i'm here! i've explored a variety of genres, but i still have quite some cabingo to go, especially as the cabins continue to change. my current hope is simply to finish fifteen different cabin genres—i'm one third of the way there!

i was instructed to write about my favorite authors, so here goes. i've got to start with leigh bardugo, who wrote one of my favorite series of all time, six of crows. while i could probably endlessly rant about this series, i'll stick with the highlights: inej is definitely my favorite character! she's so brave and independent, i want to be just like her. wylan is a close second though :) the world of the grishaverse, more than anything else, particularly amazes me. it's so detailed and intricate, and the magic system is the perfect blend of magic and science…just like in my other favorite book, written by my other favorite author, roshani chokshi! the gilded wolves, set in belle époque paris, is a place where art and science blur, filled with some of the most beautiful writing i've ever read! that is probably my favorite thing about how roshani chokshi writes—her worlds are full of detail and life and color and magic. a few of my other favourite books are when the moon was ours and scythe.

of course, reading and writing are two sides of a coin. my writing journey, unsurprisingly, started properly with swc. i'd written a couple stories before, but nothing too long or elaborate, and ( ran out of time! oops )

‣ compliments daily! veni told me that there's “nothing worse than being burnt out” in the context of writing, but i decided to apply it to something a little more playful! enjoy this little kotlc fanfiction <3

marella leaned forward, her hands dangling over the stone firepit. remembering what she had learnt in her last lesson, she raised her arms and brought them down sharply, causing a column of flame to light in the center of the firepit, flaring a bright blue. linh, maruca, and stina scrambled back, maruca and linh poised to call their talents if necessary.
“marella,” linh said patiently, “i think that fire's far too high for us to actually roast anything there.”
“yes, i know,” marella replied. “this is just practice. you all can, um, hang out?”
“while ‘hanging out’ sounds admirable,” stina drawled, “i was thinking we could actually get something done for once. if only someone would tell us if there was something we could help with, instead of just—”
linh sighed. “sophie's not that bad,” she pointed out. “and we all need a break sometimes.”
"i wonder what being not on break is like,“ stina grumbled.
maruca rolled her eyes. ”weren't we going to roast things over marella's fire?“
”oh, right! c'mon, let's see if there's anything in the house,“ maruca said, dragging stina with her.
marella concentrated harder, twisting the flames this way and that. they built higher and higher, and just when linh was about to raise her arms and call the water from the reflecting pools, she dropped everything, letting the flames dwindle until they were barely a crackle. the fire sputtered chaotically as marella gasped from the effort of restraining it.
”careful! i think you're overextending yourself,“ linh warned. ”that was one of the most powerful things i've ever seen you do.“
”if you can save atlantis, i can spark a few flames,“ marella replied, but she was shaking slightly from the effort of raising the fire again.
linh huffed, but didn't interrupt as marella practiced the exercise a few more times, knowing marella would be saving all of her concentration to keep things under control. just as marella waved her hands and sent another pillar of fire racing, stina and maruca arrived, arms laden with all sorts of gnomish produce.
”marella?“ stina called uncertainly. marella whipped her head around, startled, and in that second she lost control of the fire. before it could spread out of control, linh waved her hands and all the water in the reflecting pools soared over and doused everything, including marella.
”i did tell you not to overextend yourself,“ linh sighed.
marella glared at her. ”i've been burnt out! how are we going to make an aurenflare now?“
”we'll have to do it without making use of illegal abilities,“ stina sighed. ”how unfortunate."
marella groaned and went inside for a match.

‣ today, i'll be writing a national anthem for tragedy and mythology! my songwriting skills are… in need of work xD enjoy!

the tragedy woods are watching you
as you're trapped ‘neath skies more gray than blue
through whispers and sighs,
secrets and lies,
the tragedy woods are watching you

they capture a few more each year
as they feed on doubt and on fear
through twisting, conniving,
cunning, and striving
to keep you here

the tragedy woods are watching you
as you’re trapped ‘neath skies more gray than blue
through whispers and sighs,
secrets and lies
the tragedy woods are watching you

it’s not in our nature to have a happy ending
and the woods will do their best to ensure we don't escape
but our future, now that's something worth defending
by the end of the month, we'll leave
this
twisted
landscape!

(the tragedy woods are watching…)

the road's getting bumpy on this odyssey
sailing the seas of mythology!
but no getting grumpy, ‘cause we want to see
the sights of the seas of mythology!

deities, demigods, magic abounds
and we sail on, adventure-bound!
on the argo ii, we journey with pride
as we take to the seas and take to the skies!

the road’s getting bumpy on this odyssey
sailing the seas of mythology!
but no getting grumpy, ‘cause we want to see
the sights of the seas of mythology!

mythology, we’ll always be
a ship of magic, through seas and skies
yes, we'll sail on,
through day and night
as our ship through the air flies!

yes, we're on an odyssey
(sailing the seas of mythology!)
yes, we want to see
(sailing the seas of mythology!)
we're sailing the seas of mythology!

‣ i got third person omniscient, future tense!

“you will be weakened,” the fortune-teller proclaimed. my friends and i crouched closer, desperate to hear more.
“that's all you have for us?” i demanded.
“very well…

”hazel will face the greatest challenges in life. she will think how useless this message is when she faces them, but sometimes, just knowing of danger is the greatest gift of all. she will carry on relentlessly, for she will have been told that there is a windfall in her future, and that shall be her guiding force. she shall not rest until she is satisfied, and her determination will fuel her until it is her downfall. she will heed these words, and have great happiness before she is finally felled.
hazel will find comfort in the smaller actions, like the way she pours herself a cup of steaming hot tea each morning, and doesn't bother to add sugar, as it is too hot for her to taste. to the end, she will be pouring that tea, and she will stay steadfast in her determination to go to bed at the same time each night precisely. she will remain a careful, determined one to the end of her days.“

”well, that's cheerful,“ hazel muttered.

”elara will have an uncertain future. all go through troubles, but hers will be undefined and rapidly changing. however, a few things glow in her mind, and thus in her future. at some point, a waterfall will change her life. she will realise that her thoughts do not define her. elara will live in a garden—the future is uncertain, but i discern that she will live in a woodsy old land, perhaps with honeysuckle and twisting ivy. she will feel happy, but always a bit discontent at the back of it all. happiness, after all, is fleeting.

elara gasped. “honeysuckle—that's always been my favorite flower.”

"and violet—she is already in grave danger, and she will remain there for most of her life. her friends, i sense, will stick by her, except of course, for those who were never friends in the first place. those…she will discard them at the first opportunity, but spend most of her adult life feeling guilty about it. yes, violet's road will be the most difficult. she will scorn my words, and soon see me as cursing her, when time after time, my predictions come true. violet will deny my gift until i return. she will always be stubborn—no, pigheaded—even when she knows better.

“you don't have a gift,” i declared. “this is just some fraud trying to make fun of us.”

the fortune-teller regarded me with an inscrutable expression. "is that so? we shall see….

‣ tfw you wrote the daily and promptly misinterpreted it, but don't have time to redo it so this counts for zero points!
‣ no? just me? enjoy anyway xD

“glinda, come with me.” elphaba whispered. it was a long shot. it was impossible. but then, wasn't turning green impossible? animals that couldn't talk? defying gravity? maybe, with glinda, they could turn the impossible into possible—together.
“think of what we could do together,” she begged.
“unlimited,” she declared. “together, we're unlimited.” glinda was shaking her head, but her eyes were wide, fixed on elphaba—hope! she could still—“we'll be the greatest team there's ever been!” she raised her broom as proof.
“dreams, the way we planned ‘em,” elphaba cried, and she could see the shift in glinda, remembering the one night after that dance, when they’d just been two girls—witch, fairy, good, bad, it hadn't mattered. they could be those two girls again—she was sure of it.
“if we work in tandem,” she said, and to her amazement, glinda joined in. “there's no fight we cannot win,” glinda cried with her, and in that moment, she was flying. she was soaring, defying gravity, impossible made possible.
“just you and i, defying gravity,” they sang, and as they soared west, towards the oncoming sunset, elphaba didn't have to ask glinda if she was coming.
she already knew.

‣ legends weekly! this has been a dream for ages, genuinely so happy for this one—enjoy!

part one: mythology — crossover
[ word count: 898 words ]

isis raised her wings, feeling the most delicate of breezes brush her face. it was a relief being able to fly—however did mortals stand being confined to the ground? the lack of such power must have been horrible. although, she considered, they would not know what they were missing, the sheer joy of being able to swoop through the air. she was truly a superior being to have this power.
ra's vivid sunlight accosted her eyes, and she raised a graceful hand to her face so she could see, giving the sun boat a slight smirk. ra knew quite well not to trifle with her, now that she knew his secret name. that serpent—it had been one of her most difficult creations, and she was the goddess of magic itself. the embodiment of power—she deserved to have everything she'd taken! the serpent had been such a lovely creation.
what a shame if it went missing…even more to manipulate, control, have in her grasp. all she had to do was let it loose.
isis smiled, and the serpent was free.
━
hecate hummed to herself—some tired tune of apollo's, probably. the god was talented, but he was particularly so in creating earworms. hmph. she'd rather have the quiet crickets of nighttime—that was, after all, why she preferred talking to artemis over apollo. she was so calm and peaceful. and apollo spent all his time shooting big snakes with arrows.
a snake slithered towards her sandal.
hecate gasped. surely, her luck couldn't be this bad? but no, the monster was slipping towards her, and at only a few inches away, it lunged and struck.
the pain was like nothing she'd ever experienced; of course, it was difficult to hurt a goddess, but still! the physical pain was barely there, like a paper cut, but the mental pain—impossible. she was sapped of power; her very essence was draining.
━
isis lounged, sipping pomegranate juice and wondering why that serpent was taking so long. her power was incredible, true, but even she had limits. perhaps the serpent had failed to find a god? or the serpent itself had been felled? it would be odd, but after all, osiris, her own husband—
“you've returned!” she cried, startled. the serpent could not communicate, but it hissed softly and gestured with its tail. isis nodded and transformed, ready to go where it led her.
━
hecate gasped for breath. mortal lives were so flighty—was this how they felt all the time? plagued by pains and hallucinations, for surely, the giant rainbow bird in the sky was one. iris was the only rainbow goddess hecate knew, and she had no wings.
the bird swooped towards her, and she yelped weakly.
“who are you?” she demanded furiously, when it appeared that the bird was really a goddess, one with tanned skin, straight black hair, and dramatically made-up eyes, wearing a simple white gown. aphrodite would have approved.
“who are you?” the stranger replied. she had an obvious accent, one that was not from anywhere hecate knew.
“hecate,” she replied coldly. she may have been a ‘minor’ goddess, but she was the goddess of magic and one of the saviors of persephone.
“isis,” the other said, and hecate frowned. she'd never heard of an isis in the olympians.
“i've never heard of you,” she said. she intended to be imposing, but the wound on her ankle throbbed, and she let out an involuntary gasp. isis frowned.
“you were bitten?”
“no, i-i'm just randomly shaking,” she snapped.
isis' eyes lit up with a terrifying eagerness. “what is your secret name?”
“secret what?”
“name,” isis huffed. “i need it to heal you, because no one else can—i sent the serpent, after all. so tell me your secret name, or—”
“you think i'll trust you, after that?” hecate demanded furiously.
“well, you need me to heal you. no one else can. i'm the goddess of magic,” she declared importantly.
“that can't be, i am,” hecate replied.
“some goddess of magic if you can't heal this,” isis pointed out.
hecate struggled to prop herself up. “healing was never my specialty. combat, on the other hand—” she lifted her hand and threw a beam of light directly into isis' eyes. the other goddess gasped in pain, and it was all hecate needed to summon a nearby vine and trap her. she was feeling victorious, until she nearly collapsed from the power.
isis huffed. “just tell me your secret name, and i can heal you.”
“i don't have one,” hecate replied.
“i'll just use your real one, then,” isis said, and with a few complicated gestures and strange letters in the air, hecate found herself recovered. “why did you do that?” she asked.
“simple. if you have someone's secret name, you get all of their knowledge.”
hecate rolled her eyes. “you could just ask.”
“very well then. tell me everything you know.”
“not like that, you have to be polite.”
“well then, how does one become polite?”
“i've never been very good at it. my specialties are nature magic, really—you need to really have a connection with whatever you want to enchant, and—”
isis smiled smugly. “thank you for the help,” she said in delight. “later!”
hecate's jaw dropped. “that wasn't your plan all along, was it?”
━
well, isis thought, that worked out nicely, didn't it?.

part two: hi-fi — butterfly effect
[ word count: 542 words ]

zheng he approached the emperor's court, feeling terrified for what he was about to ask for. it was barely a year after the yongle emperor's death, and he had championed zheng he's voyages. who was to say this new emperor, the hongxi emperor, would grant his outlandish request? his voyages were expensive, and the new emperor already had everything he needed without going off to a faraway land, chasing a myth that didn’t exist.
“your exalted majesty,” he said as he approached the hongxi emperor’s throne, “i seek permission to continue my voyages.”
“your voyages?” the emperor scoffed. “why would i give you permission to do that?”
“there are wonders you could only imagine on the other side of the world,” zheng he declared. “i know you have seen some of them yourself.”
“i have,” the hongxi emperor agreed. “but the expense is incredible. to sail all the way around everything—it is far too difficult. we are better off keeping to ourselves.”
“i know the way is expensive,” zheng he said carefully. “but i have another plan. we sail past the land of the rising sun, into the ocean, and we will reach europe.”
the emperor scoffed. zheng he continued.
“the earth is a sphere,” he explained. “we will just reach the beginning if we continue. it will save us time and money, i assure you.”
the emperor templed his fingers, considering. “very well,” he said. “if you do not reach europe and return in two year’s time, i will have your voyages terminated whenever you return.” he leaned forwards, proving to zheng he that it wasn’t just the voyages that would be terminated. “do not disappoint me.”
zheng he nodded frantically. “i won’t.”
—
“we’ve reached land!” a sailor called, peering through the few wisps of fog to the rocky lands ahead. zheng he laughed with wild joy. for several months, they had sailed, but not once had they seen any evidence to prove his theory incorrect. they had done it at last! europe’s ports were ready to welcome him.
the sailors scrambled ahead, swimming the last few feet as they judged whether or not the boat would simply be able to drop anchor and pause there, as there was no port that zheng he could see.
they came ashore in twos and threes, sighing in relief as their feet made contact with solid ground. zheng he glanced around, hoping for some village or something they could use to find a trading port, but there was no such thing in sight. now that he thought of it, this seemed very different from his last visit to europe, but he supposed he had simply forgotten. it had been some time.
the ship’s cartographer came rushing over, scrolls of paper in his arms. zheng he nodded tersely at him. “what is it?”
“th–the charts,” he stammered. “these are the best maps in the world, and this cove doesn’t match any of them. it’s too big not to have been noticed, and the depth and all is completely different too. i–i think this is a new country. something undiscovered. It’s bizarre—it’s like we’ve entered a new world.”
zheng he was astonished. this would amaze the emperor. “well, then,” he said.
“welcome to the new world.”

part three: fairy tales — retellings
[ word count: 274 words ]

we all tell this story.
you will disregard it, like all the others. you’ll take your spell and go on your way, i know.
but listen! listen to the tale of a girl i once knew. they called her ulla, a girl from the sea, just like you, with your perfect eyes and your swishing, nimble tail.
she was beautiful, once…
—
she had raven’s hair, eyes like obsidian, and a shimmering silver tail. tales were told of her beauty for miles around. all knew her to be the most magical, perfect, mermaid, with a voice that could sing pearls into being, charm sharks to sleep, and enchant every eligible merman in the land.
of course, she loved the one she could never reach. isn’t that how it always goes? the boy she saved from the sea, the boy who saw her the way no one else did, the boy who was engaged, but loved her, she was sure of it. the boy who had two legs and could never, ever be hers.
and so.
she came to a terrifying woman in a cave. begged the mermaid, her tail like an eel’s, to bring her to the upper world so she could marry her perfect prince. gave up her siren’s voice, her family, her home, all for a love that wouldn’t love her back.sank to the bottom of the sea, strange and malformed, a casualty of another’s happily ever after.
the terrifying old woman hadwarned her. for she’d been given the same warning and the last a warning before that. history repeated itself, as it often does.
—
and so.
what will you choose?

part four: folklore — passing down a story
[ word count: 239 words ]

hazel smiled, leaning against the wall of her college dorm. violet and elara slipped in, elara twisting their hands together as though they were two puzzle pieces to be fitted together. for a few moments, they rested quietly, enjoying the peace and quiet that came with a break just before exams.
finally, violet broke the silence. “do you remember when we went to see that fortune teller?” she’d brought it up out of fear, wondering when the terrible event would come to pass. hazel and elara smiled, remembering their own fortunes.
“of course! zel, you remember, don’t you?”
hazel laughed softly. she remembered, but elara, now an english major, had always been good at storytelling, and to hazel, elara’s graceful voice was a heavenly choir.
“tell me again,” she said.
“and me,” violet said, grateful that she’d not been dismissed as a lunatic.
elara smiled. “we went to the fair, you know, and it was hot—”
“no,” hazel protested, “i was freezing!”
“that was because you were wearing a tank top,” elara said primly. “it was hot, and we were sweltering, and then we saw the tent.”
“purple,” violet remembered. “with some sort of banner, i think.”
“a garland—golden coins and symbols, paper-cut and fluttering in the breeze,” elara replied. “and we crept inside, and we reached into purses and pockets, scraped out enough coins for all of us.”
“and she beckoned us close,” violet continued, “and she said…”

part five: fairy tales — character meet-up
[ word count: 310 words ]

red took off running. she’d always loved the woods—who wouldn’t? they were full of flowers, and trees, and besides, they were the way to grandma’s. she’d always loved grandma, too.
once she was in the woods proper, red slowed her pace—even with a nine-year-old’s energy, she was too tired to run very far. she skipped about, picking a couple flowers, having an earnest conversation with a squirrel until the squirrel got bored and climbed up a tree. she was just looking up from inspecting a tree root when a bundle of gold and blue tripped over her and they collapsed in a heap.
—
goldie disentangled herself, grumbling. she’d been running away from her parents, who were simply too much, and then this girl had the nerve to put herself in goldie’s path? how rude! she straightened her curls as much as she could and sighed as she glanced at her dress. far too wrinkled—and only an hour before, it had been just right!
“what were you doing there! look at me, i’m a mess!”
the other girl, who was wearing the brightest red hood goldie had ever seen, narrowed her eyes. “my hood is bright red,” she said snootily. she looked about goldie’s eight, maybe a little older. “if you didn’t notice me, that’s your own fault.”
goldie huffed. how infuriating of her. “what were you even doing, picking grass?”
the other girl rolled her eyes. “if you must know, i was taking my grandmother this basket of baked—”
—
a little boy, maybe six years old, lunged towards red-hooded girl from behind a tree, stole the basket, and ran away with it. a girl, maybe ten or eleven, grabbed the boy’s hand and they sprinted away, devouring the treats as they went.
“hey!” red-hooded girl shouted, following them, and goldie chased after her. it was something to do, at least.

part six: mythology — genre swap
[ word count: 222 words ]

athena frowned down at her phone, scrolling through ticktock. “what is the educational merit of this digital application?” she questioned apollo, who happened to be nearby.
“what isn’t the educational merit of this digital application?” apollo questioned lyrically.
“everything,” athena said crisply. she did not need to elaborate, so she did not.
“well,” apollo grumbled, “if you already know the answer, why are you asking me?”
“all humans pursue knowledge,” athena explained coolly. “i do not understand why one should utilise this ticktock, but others might. i wish to know why one would use such a program.”
“you share videos, and then you get to see ones the algorithm thinks you’d like.”
“well then, why are all my videos awful? they’re all about stupid people doing stupid stunts. this is a terrible algorithm.”
“let me see that,” hephaestus said, snatching athena’s phone. she frowned but didn’t argue. “ah. it appears that your fyp—your for you page—has been set to show you ‘daredevil stunts’ and ‘eating contests’. are you interested in those things?”
athena huffed. “is that why hermes borrowed my phone to see my lockscreen yesterday?”
“probably, yes. here, i can fix it,” hephaestus said, meddling with athena’s phone. when she examined it, her ticktock homepage showed studying tips and old-world libraries.
“delightful!” athena declared. “now, i have a question about instant-gram…”

‣ i'm back! haven't been doing as many activities as i'd like because this annoying thing called exams showed up, but i have escaped for now
‣ used “their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun” from luna's profile

“there's no sun today,” reine whispers. a useless observation, but she wants to say something, anything to fill the silence left when geneva lapses into one of her quiet moods. she does that sometimes—more often than not, actually. while sometimes it's comforting, the fact that they are bound in silent understanding, today it's tense, a tightrope stretched almost to breaking point.
“no,” geneva says. “we could make one.”
it's not a question, the rise and fall of her voice shows. reine tips her head, watching geneva's brown hair blow in the wind. she may be walking the tightrope, but her friend is the circus master.
“we could,” she agrees. clouds rage across the sky, and thunder cracks, like the applause of those who just want to see a fancy trick.
“it could destroy everything,” geneva cautions, her voice unnaturally playful. geneva's always been like this, a girl who is made of a thousand skies, a thousand moods, and reine only sees one.
“it could destroy us,” reine says. she would do many things for geneva—she's learnt that over the years. but for two girls with powers through touch, contact is completely forbidden.
in all the years she's known geneva, she's never held her hand.
“or, we could create a new star, sparkling a binary sun and completely changing the world,” geneva points out casually.
“or that,” reine agrees.
geneva holds out a palm. it's a request, not a question.
reine steels herself and links their fingers together. the last time someone did this, dinosaurs went extinct.
as their fingers touch, gold explodes outward. geneva's eyes turn the color of sunbursts, and reine knows hers must be the same. light pours out from them, their hands sparking the fire of the sun on earth.
last moments have never been so bright.

‣ my science teacher is a scammer—she promised pie to the student who could recite the most digits of pi today and now we don't have school :( enjoy!

“you're such a good friend,” aruna told sabine. they were sitting on the dock, feet dangling over water that was surely infested with all sorts of evil bacteria. sabine was typically quite picky about messiness and rule-breaking, but here she was, savoring the last golden days of summer. that was just the sort of person sabine was.
“i…wow,” sabine said. aruna couldn't quite see her face, but sabine looked as though she was blushing.
“are you excited for seventh?”
sabine gave a single delicate nod.
“middle school,” aruna said excitedly. "with cliques and grades and mean teachers—“
”you're quite excited about all of these horrible things,“ sabine observed. ”i was thinking more of getting to learn even more than i already know.“
”and that,“ aruna laughed. ”at least we're done with a uniform, mostly.“
”we have a dress code,“ sabine observed.
”yes, well, that's another thing to look forward to! running away from a teacher who's ready to scream at us for not wearing regulation sweatpants,“ aruna giggled. ”we've got to pick out nice outfits for the first day of school.“
”matching?“
”no, something…coordinating, but separate. we have to be like fraternal twins. like earth and venus.“
”earth and venus are the same size, but they have different atmospheres, temperatures, orbits—“
”like us,“ aruna agreed. ”different atmospheres, temperatures, orbits, but we're alike in what matters.“
sabine smiled.
━
”what are you wearing?“ aruna asked on facehour, what seemed like the whole of her closet exploded onto every surface that could reasonably hold clothes.
”i don't know,“ sabine replied shakily. she'd been planning just to wear the suggested outfit per dress code—a dark skirt and a nice cableknit sweater. aruna obviously had other plans.”
“do you think i should wear this one or this one?” aruna held up two soft-looking shirts, one a golden brown and the other navy.
“the gold,” sabine replied.
“it's not gold, it's fireside taupe,” aruna replied. she found a pair of navy corduroy pants and a denim jacket, then inspected the look.
“this will do,” she decided. “but we should go shopping sometime if we want to look remotely socially acceptable.”
sabine stared at her. “this isn't remotely socially acceptable?” she asked, turning the camera for a view of tomorrow's outfit.
aruna sighed. “you have so much to learn, sabine. see you tomorrow! oh—you should wear sneakers, but nice ones. do you have converse or anything?”
“is that a car brand?”
“see you tomorrow,” aruna repeated tiredly. she flopped onto her nest of clothes and the camera cut off.
━
sabine stumbled into the cafeteria, still slightly dizzy from all the walking. this place was huge, after all, and she knew barely anyone in her classes. she'd be lucky if she made it through a full week. she glanced at the lunch line, expecting aruna to be waiting for her.
instead, aruna was sitting at a table of girls with perfectly braided hair, the styles in a pattern as obvious as the fibonacci sequence. one of them was braiding aruna's hair with one hand and eating with the other, so all of them would look just alike. aruna spotted sabine and waved.
sabine grabbed lunch and walked briskly over, uncertain of where to sit once she arrived. aruna nodded at a seat at the edge of the table, and sabine sat down, careful not to disturb anyone's lunch.
“everyone, this is sabine. sabine, this is everyone,” aruna said by way of introductions.
“everyone?”
“well, everyone important,” aruna replied. she realised her oversight too late, but still added a hasty “and you, of course.”
“sabine? you're a whiz at math, aren't you?”
“i guess, yes,” she agreed.
“'you guess'? she's amazing,” aruna declared, and sabine felt a spark of pride.
“that's great! could you help me with this one problem? we've all tried and failed,” one of the girls said.
sabine nodded, walking the other girl through the basic steps of algebra. the girl smiled and asked for help with the rest, although they were all in the same vein as the first one. not wanting to seem rude, sabine agreed.
“aruna, you're coming this afternoon, right? we're going to moonbucks and getting purple drinks.”
“wait, i thought we were going to go shopping,” sabine said, panicked. “i told my mom that.”
“oh my gosh, i'm so sorry! maybe we can go another time? they just invited me and i couldn't say no,” aruna explained.
“it's fine,” sabine said, though it wasn't, not really.
━
there were more times, more forgettings, more math homework that needed to be checked. aruna felt a bit guilty, but sabine needed to fit in with their new friends, who were already known colloquially—an english vocab word— as “the lemons.”
eventually, sabine drifted off. she wasn't stupid, and once she'd realised aruna's friends really just wanted homework help, she'd begun to spend lunch periods in the library, reading about hemachandra numbers or pascal's triangle or something of that nature. aruna offered once or twice to join her, but lunch with the lemons was intoxicating, quite difficult to refuse.
finally, they split, the way two often do in middle school. no more facehour chats, or visits at moonbucks with sabine, just the lemons. they probably missed each other, but that was the way of the world.
it was definitely her fault, but she wasn't about to admit that, was she?
━
aruna glanced around in math class. pre-algebra was infuriatingly difficult—no matter what she did, the x's refused to vanish.
sabine looked at her and saw her struggles, but said nothing. she knew aruna wouldn't have accepted it.
you're a good friend, sabine.
i'm not.

‣ second weekly of the session! feat. swclassics and far too many exams for my own good, hence the lateness of this weekly :))
‣ enjoy the tales that follow…

part one: the language of flowers
[ word count: 622 words ]

rayna ran outside, coat abandoned despite the bitter cold. her hair was frosted with snowflakes immediately; they settled gently on her eyelashes like she was a fairy princess of old. only three moments into the outdoors, and her hands were already numbing. let them; her hands were not valuable like those of her sister, a talented piano player. her mind was not sharp like that of her brother, who'd aced the swct. she had failed, and there were the grades to show it—but for the most part, with a paltry c+ in math. math, her mother and father's best subject.
she cried, and the tears froze on her cheeks. the wind swirled around her, whipping iced curls into her face and stinging her delicate skin. she refused to relent, not letting the memory of that kitchen, full of disappointed people, return. if this snow was, as the books described it, a sugar snow, she could survive a few minutes.
though of course, she hadn't been able to survive her own math class, so who was to say? more frozen tears stung her cheeks, and she rubbed at her face to dislodge the little chips of ice.
her sister ran outside, face round and sweet under the layers she'd been swaddled in. “rayna, you need your coat,” she said, holding it out. already, the snow had settled upon it, frosting the crimson red wool with silver.
rayna shoved the coat away. “i don't need it,” she said roughly. “or you.”
“yes, you do,” her sister said patiently. the snow stopped falling, as though it hadn't been able to give for that long. just like her.
“no!” rayna cried, and left it at that. her sister ran away, making huge footprints as she stomped away through the rapidly melting snow.
her mother stood at the door and called out to her. “you can't hide from your problems forever, rayna,” she said. rayna was broken by how easily her mother could read her. was she really so simple that her emotions could be read on her face?“
”it's been working so far,“ she cried, and wanted to take back the words immediately.
”what do you mean?“
rayna ripped dead blossoms from the ground—meadowsweet planted last summer. she shredded every dried petal until the task was finished and she had to look up.
”this didn't come out of nowhere,“ she sobbed. ”you knew i was struggling and studying and it wasn't enough! i told you math was difficult for me! you didn't—" she stopped for breath, digging more and more in the snow. her hands were completely numb by this point, but she kept on, wondering what she'd find beneath the white carpet of snow. it was easier to play with dirt and grass instead of study for exams. why was life like this?
she heard a distant slam—her mother shutting the door. she ignored it and kept digging, creating a huge, muddy divot on the perfect landscape. her sister, hopping up from a snow angel, curled her lip and said nothing.
rayna tugged at a huge stick, no doubt a bit of branch felled by the storm, and came across not preserved green-brown grass as she expected, but a silky white smudge. a flower, a snowdrop to be specific, right in this icy landscape.
the flower was crushed, but it was still there, its petals perfectly placed and a silky-soft shade of ivory. rayna picked it, and, despite it having just being under a muddy stick, tucked it into her hair.
the snow had stopped altogether. she saw the sun reemerge, a beam of sunlight casting over her. she smiled, reached up to touch the flower.
at least now, there was hope.

part two: constellations
[ word count: 435 words ]

“look, zoë. pretty, right?”
“the goddesses are painting the stars,” zoë sighed dreamily. her small hands were upturned to the sky, as though to catch a delicate drop of stardust.
“yes, exactly,” her sister said, smiling.
“no, not painting,” zoë reconsidered. “like…sketching. beginning to tell our fates. but beyond that, they know of us no more than we do.”
“so insightful,” zoë's sister said, a catch in her voice. she knew zoë's future far more than zoë ever would. in a few days…
but no, she would, at least, give zoë this.
“there was certainly one—no, two—who believed that the stars hold far more of us than you'd ever know,” zoë's sister said. zoë pressed closer, excited.
“tell me,” she commanded.

once, there were seven sisters. maia, electra, taygete, celaeno, alcyone, sterope, and merope. they were a unified group, equals in everything, happy to roam as a band of seven. they had the bond that no one but sisters can understand, where you are joined but separate, a constellation of seven that each has its own light.
as children, they were happy and unified, but soon grew curious about the world outside of their enchanted grove. they ventured out in twos and threes, and returned with tales of marvels.
maia, as the oldest, went once and decided it was enough. she was a calm sort, too rational to dive into the wild world of humans, and she was wise and saw that there was no need for her to gallivant off. her sisters, though, refused to see reason, and left more and more frequently.
eventually, they gained a reputation—ageless girls with hair like silver, roaming wild, delighted at the simplest of tools and happy to bring back little things to their home.
magical, enchanted, fairylike. all epithets applied to them. but soon, as years wore down and the world changed, but the pleaides did not, they gained a new descriptor.
unnatural, whispered the humans who would rather destroy than learn.witch.
and so, the light visits turned to near escapes, until one wasn't an escape at all. the sisters, lost and isolated, were completely doomed, until the old gods, taking pity on the foolish six, let them live in the stars. a cluster of six pearls, hanging in the sky.
and the seventh, she arrived just late enough. the new constellation was formed, and she remained on the ground. she refused to look up, and began an obsessive, wild search. maia never stopped loving her sisters.
and at the end of her life, she was finally granted relief in the stars, the seven reunited once more.

part three: aesthetic
[ word count: 000 words ]

find the aesthetic set, made for the second part of the weekly, here.

part four: swc fanfic
[ word count: 782 words ]

“it's cabin wars!” river cried in delight. she ran through the tragedy woods, upsetting several nesting squirrels, and danced about in the main cabin, finally settling near the bulletin board, which would be updated in three minutes, twenty-nine—eight—seven seconds. the countdown was exhilarating, and adrenaline would build and build and build until it simply had to be unleashed. needing to do something with her hands, river grabbed a handful of clover out of the ground and began mindlessly shredding it. she felt bad for destroying the plant life, but that was nothing compared to the cabins and standings that would be toppled.
two minutes, ten—nine—eight seconds. she paced and paced, crushing her shredded clover blossoms as she did so. around the main cabin, river saw other swcers performing similar tasks, a few flexing their hands to prepare to write, others loading cannons with cannonballs of crumpled paper and sharpening pencils as though their lives depended on it. river, for one, thought this completely reasonable preparation—cabin standings were practically life and death.
one minute, fifty-three—two—one seconds. river's brain was kicking into overdrive. she could hear screams of panic and happiness, and somewhere off in the distance, she could hear starr coaxing gurtle: “no, gurtle, you can't eat the daily again, people need that—” river laughed wildly and tapped her fingers frenetically on the ground. the final seconds were approaching—
"three! two! oneeeeeeee!“ the campers, cos, leaders, and tyrants shouted as the bulletin board changed. river raced around, warring as many of their enemies as possible—which turned out to be all of them. she laughed as she heard a few campers discussing how scary she and a few others were for warring so many people. after her attacks, she raced back to her cabin—there were wars to fight, after all! the tragedy campers were already assembled, and they were confident. they could do this!
━
”we can't do this,“ river mourned sadly. the campers were flagging, completely exhausted, she wasn't much better, and there were still ever so many words to write. she hunched sadly over her computer, typing out one careful word at a time. she knew she wouldn't be able to write much more—she'd tried to plan a sleep schedule in which she got at least six hours, but she was already behind schedule. she couldn't sleep when a war was due in an hour!
there had been a few victories before. they'd vanquished their first war easily, and done the same with their second, but most campers were bound by sleep schedules. river wouldn't fault them for that, as she had encouraged everyone to get some sleep, but she was now alone with only a few others, still attempting to write.
”we need inspiration,“ one of the campers sighed. ”i can't think of a thing to write about. even my stream of consciousness is drying up!“
”i think we need rest,“ another pointed out. ”that's probably why we can't think.“
”rest, and inspiration,“ the first camper yawned. ”in that order?“
”in that order,“ river agreed. ”i just took a nap, so i'll be fine. y'all should get some sleep."
the word ‘sleep’ worked like a charm—as soon as the campers heard it, they drifted off. river herself wanted to collapse, but she stayed upright, hoping there was a way to get through this. where had her sense of industry gone?
she studied the extra challenge that had been attached to fantasy's arrow-war, fired right in the middle of the woods like a warning. write 200 words in an archaic or old-fashioned style, it said. how was she to do that, when she couldn't even write 200 words in her quote-unquote modern style? despairing for the future of the cabin, river leaned back in her seat and twirled her pen, hoping for inspiration. naturally, the pen flew out of her hands and spiraled across the woods, landing in a cluster of moss. with a groan, river went to retrieve it.
the pen had landed near the trees, and as river picked it up, she noticed a splash of white in the dark leaves. curious, she went to find it and noticed, incredibly, a snowdrop, somehow surviving despite the fact that it was much too warm for winter plants. river frowned, unraveling this curious mystery.
how did the snowdrop do it? wasn't it supposed to die?
well, she thought, new hope striking her, if the snowdrop could survive so, she could certainly write a few words. compose an epic to the snowdrop's excellence—yes, that was a brilliant use of her time. she skipped back to her computer, ready to write.

‣ welcome to the mystery…

part one: plot points
[ word count: 357 words ]

‣ exposition — we follow our three main characters, grace, nisha, and erica, as they take a walk after a sleepover and notice a group of policepeople nearby. apparently, a fire burned a neighbor's treehouse last night, and when mentions that they were roasting marshmallows, they're instantly framed as the prime suspects. angered, the three set out to clear their names and solve the mystery.
‣ rising action — the crew examine the site of the fire and meet the owners. the mother and daughter are equally devastated and shaking, mentioning that they have terrible experiences with fire. feeling awful, the crew examines what used to be the treehouse, find a couple footprints, and trace them to three suspects. despite interrogation, they are not able to find the arsonist as all of them have valid alibis.
‣ climax — feeling defeated, the crew go back to examine the fire site and find something that was previously missed — a charred box of half-used matches, with the name of the restaurant on the box. racing back to the restaurant, they find that the lazares, the owners of the treehouse, had dinner somewhat early two nights ago, but mrs. lazare left long before her daughter. they race back home, intending to interrogate the lazares as quickly as possible.
‣ falling action — they interrogate the lazares, and while the lazare daughter, a girl of eight or nine, simply cries through the whole interview, mrs. lazare repeats over and over that the tree house was dangerous. at grace's home, they finally piece together the whole story—mrs. lazare was afraid that her daughter would be gravely injured in the tree house, so she destroyed it with something her daughter was terrified of. the group goes to the police station to explain things, but is stopped by the fact that it's composed of twelve-year-olds, and they slink home, defeated.
‣ end — mrs. lazare's daughter, after overhearing the whole story, runs to report her mother, then runs back home to her teddy bear. grace, nisha, and erica, are hailed as if not heroes, useful junior detectives, which pleases them so much. to celebrate, they have a sleepover, but instead of roasting marshmallows, they bake a whole lot of cookies.

part two: red herrings & clues
[ word count: 098 words ]

‣ red herring — the premise of the story is that our crew has been framed for the fire as they were roasting marshmallows
‣ red herring — suspicious footprints appear that are later shown to belong to the gardener, who has an alibi
‣ clue — a half-charred matchbox is found that bears the name of a restaurant. the culprit ate at that restaurant a little before the crime
‣ clue — the culprit has been shown to resent the treehouse that was burned down because it's dangerous to her daughter
‣ clue — the fire was targeted specifically towards the treehouse, and none of the suspects have a reason for burning that down

part three: interview
[ word count: 277 words ]

for this section, i partnered with the epic skyler! in the interview that follows, she was the interviewer and i the interviewee. i am in italic and mouse is underlined.

"Greetings, River. You are here because you were at the Incident. I assume you know what I’m talking about. We need to gather as many facts as possible. What happened that night?“
”i'm not entirely sure, because i'm innocent! you see, i was simply minding my business, strolling along the fuschia sand beaches of the island of swc, when a troupe of people appeared throwing mangoes at everyone! i caught one and ate it because it was delicious.“
”I see. Did you recognize any of these mango-throwers? I am aware that probably nearly every SWCer has thrown mangoes at some point, but this event does fill in a missing puzzle piece leading up to the big Incident. Mini-catalysts, I suppose they could be called. You said you ate a mango. Did anything seem… off about this mango? or was it just a normal mango? I would assume they were special in some way, because I doubt ordinary mangoes could have done all that. But then again you ate the mango, and SWCers have a talent for creating chaos with a simple, ordinary mango, so I cannot make assumptions.“
”i believe the mango was a typical mango at first, but it looked as if it had been charred a bit, which i found odd. however, it still tasted as a mango should. i say with regret that i was unable to recognize most of these mango-throwers, as they wore masks that made their faces look like turtles. however, i did notice that one left a shoe behind.“
”Charred mango? That narrows it down a bit. A mango must be near fire to be charred. And turtle masks? Could you have had an encounter with the cult of Balrog-Gurtle's followers? That would explain a lot. What did the shoe look like? Do you have it still?“
”yes, i believe that the mangoes were in conjunction with some sort of arson plot, as i understand that arson is a common theme in swc. it is possible that i encounted balrog-gurtle's followers, but as i am not updated on the relationships of the hosts, balrog, and balrog-gurtle, i am unable to say much more on that front. i shall explain more once i have a full understanding of these things. the shoe, i think, was a boot, and quite an old-fashioned one, too. perhaps it was from fairy tales or fantasy? i know both of those have a medieval feel to them.“
”Arson is indeed extremely common, as I have investigated many cases that were of mango arson. I am also not updated, but my team is trying to figure it out. Only three have gone insane while working on the case so far. Ooo I see… that does make sense. This shoe is a human shoe, correct? Not a goat's shoe?“
”seeing as three people have gone insane, i will give you a little more evidence, but i hope you understand that i am reluctant to continue working with you. i must clarify that of course, it's a human shoe! i did not specify as i believed you would understand that. i believe that the Incident is indeed a case of mango arson, as is common in the wilds of swc."

part four: mystery scene
[ word count: 718 words ]

grace settled in a chair across from little dillan lazare, who was nervously chewing on dried mango. she cleared her throat and tried to look menacing.
“so, dillan, what happened at the incident last night?”
“i have no idea, because i'm innocent!” dillan broke into sobs around pieces of dried mango. nisha shot grace a reproaching look. remembering that her friend was certified to be a babysitter, grace let her have a go at interrogation.
“we—we went to dinner,” dillan finally admitted. “it was yummy. i had macaroni and cheese.” grace let out a loud, long, breath. they could be here for quite some time.
“okay,” nisha said calmly. “do you remember when you went to dinner?”
“the normal time,” dillan replied cheerfully.
grace groaned. erica didn't look much better. “when do you normally eat dinner, dillan?”
“like, early?”
“how early?”
“five thirty or something?” dillan looked nervously around, as though expecting a schedule she could reference. “i think my mommy knows?”
“why is that?” grace cut in.
erica scoffed at grace's question. “grace, she's eight years old, of course her mom does everything for her.”
but grace's question turned out to be a good one. “mommy has schedules for everything,” she explained. “dinner is at five thirty and bedtime is at seven and wake-up is at six thirty and go to school is at seven thirty and coming home is at three thirty—”
“okay, cool,” erica grumbled.
“why do you think your mommy has everything planned out?” grace asked.
“grace, she's eight! that's normal!” erica was losing her cool.
“mommy wants me to be safe,” dillan said, throwing a piece of dried mango at erica. “that's why she plans everything out.”
erica raised her hands in mock surrender.
“did you notice anything else?”
“there were footprints,” dillan said solemnly.
“do you know who made them?” nisha asked. grace frowned at her—they already knew the gardener had made the footprints.
“not a goat!” dillan cried, and laughed hysterically.
“good to know,” nisha said. “was anything else burnt, besides your treehouse?”
“there was a matchbox,” dillan said slowly. “it was black at the end.
”charred,“ grace murmured.
”can we see it?“ nisha asked.
”over there,“ dillan said, pointing. grace rose, crossed to the counter, and quickly picked up the matchbox. it was quite nice, with a little label on it denoting it as coming from olive's greenhouse, a popular café. as she held the half-burnt matchbox, grace understood.
”dillan,“ she said, and nisha and erica's heads swung to her as they noticed the change in her tone, ”did your mommy stay with you for the whole dinner?“
”no, she had to work. she dropped me off at my aunt's,“ dillan explained.
”and did your mother approve of the treehouse?“
dillan shrugged. ”no more than anything else that could hurt me,“ she grumbled. ”but she hated it especially.“
”thank you,“ grace said, her mind spinning. ”you've been very helpful.“

”what was that?“ nisha demanded. ”you just—“ she paused, eyes huge with excitement. ”does that mean you've solved it?“
they were walking back after visiting little dillan, who had decided to go play with her stuffed animals after being interrogated. since grace's house was full of her siblings' chaos, they were walking to erica's instead.
”so? who did it?“ erica demanded.
grace tossed her head. ”mrs. lazare.“
stunned silence greeted her pronouncement. nisha actually stopped walking, spinning to face grace.
”that can't be! she's, like, an—“
”an overprotective control freak?“ grace cut in.
”yes! isn't she terrified of dillan getting into trouble? there's no way she would do that!“
”yes, there is,“ erica said, eyes lighting up with the same revelation. ”dillan was at her aunt's house, so she'd be out of the way. dillan told us herself that the treehouse irked her mom because it was too dangerous. plus, it was leftover from the last owners—there's no way mrs. lazare is going to rebuild it.“
”and the matchbox,“ grace finished. ”from the restaurant where she ate only an hour earlier. she left to “work,” but she could have easily swung back to set the flame.“
”and as an added bonus,“ erica added, ”she gets the insurance.“
”whatever are you talking about?“
the girls yelped in unison.
”m—mrs. lazare?" erica asked slowly.
things were about to get a lot more complicated.

‣ for this one, i chose to use one of my favorite antiheroines / villains from the gilded wolves! long live eva yefremovna <33
‣ tw for people-pleasing + self-loathing

cher monsieur montagnet-alarie,
i'm sorry. i know my actions were wrong i hurt you, and laila, and i'm manipulative and backstabbing. i'm a traitor. i'm not ashamed to admit it.
but am i really? you would do the same for your brother, for your for laila, for your crew of friends. wouldn't you? you've met my father, you've seen what he's like. can you blame me for caring for him. it is my job as a good daughter, and i have to be a good daughter. don't i? what am i, if not eva yefremovna, vasilev's golden child? useless.
many argue how well-off i am—a patriarch's cousin, gifted with blood Forging, connected to the imperial ballet? do you know what it cost me to love to dance? has your precious laila told you, told you how my father—to protect me. listen to how twisted our happy, happy family is. he loved a dancer, and so i could not be one. i couldn't be my mother, who was a sylphide until her body was too broken to dance. and i should be—be spared the fate! it's a kindness, a kindness given to me. you know about mother's love. i know you now, after. i may not be beautiful, perfect, courtesan laila, but i'm more talented, wouldn't you agree? just as tragic, just as perfect, and yet not perfect enough.
will i ever be? resent me if you wish. but i—i resent you, you who can lead me on and break me. i resent you for making me feel regret. it is not something that i experience very often.
even if you never find this letter, i wish you well. it is the best you will get, now that beautiful, perfect laila is no more. an instrument, monsieur. that's all she is. and if you can't realize that, you're doomed, monsieur. loving a ghost of a girl—no, i pity you. i apologise, but pity you.
well.
not too much, no? after all, you have me. i may be second place. i may be even more broken than the perfect girl you love. but i am someone, monsieur. you've seen what i can do. you have no choice.
ruslan won't give you one.
au revoir,
evalina.

my full name, she thinks. that's what mother called me.
she slides the letter under his pillow, noticing a few wayward pearls, probably from laila's garish bracelet. she infuriates eva. she's sorry, she has to be, but she respects the other girl. survival is difficult, isn't it?
eva leaves the room, not bothering to tidy from last night's activities. ruslan will be waiting.

‣ this was surprisingly difficult to do—i tried to match the aspects of piano to where they were placed in the overall piece, if that makes sense—the ritardando closing the poems was something i am especially proud of
‣ to all the pianists of swc, and anyone else who comes across this <3 enjoy!


i. scales
ascending, descending, a perfect rainbow as my fingers race
back and forth. not a song per se,
but a melody for sure, simple but pleasing,
the music of the spheres? a scale is
universal.

ii. arpeggios
exercises again, but they really are music
a melody woven into my fingers now,
so second nature i don't even have to think.
a chord expanded, they're a stronghold
for me to strengthen my fingers as i
play one for each key.
each note a stone in water, and i listen
as song ripples out.

iii. crescendo / decresendo
louder, and i play accordingly,
all pent-up anger crashing onto the keys
a storm amplified by the damper pedal
fingers flutter faster and faster across the keys
(keep your tempo even!)
the piano(forte) can shout no louder—
until it
doesn't
have
to—
the storm breaks, the thunder recedes,
and the music grows quiet, like the sound of rain.

iv. ritardando
at the end, the music is different.
loud or soft, it doesn't matter, but closed,
is the word that can be used.
a finality, an ending,
but before, lethargy creeps in,
slowing each chord of the cadence i play to signal the end.
this
piece
is
over,
my stalled melodies say.
time
to
rest.

‣ this daily was like sipping your favorite tea—warm, comforting, and familiar, all the coziness of home around you. and it was warranted, given the mess of cabin wars xD enjoy!

you trot through the forest, ferns brushing your bare feet and spanish moss trailing its spiderlike tendrils through your hair. you follow the path, which is bordered loosely by narcissus, and arrive at a little round door, painted a deep, velvety purple. around it, violets grow, and the air seems to shimmer slightly. you draw out the key, an ornate rose-gold thing, and unlock the door. you make your way downstairs, into the hobbit hole.
the floor is carpeted with a soft plush fabric the same shade as the door, and it is welcoming to your feet after the forest floor. with a cursory glance around, you see the abundance of books that litter the space, lining every wall with their cheerful spines. some are placed horizontally, some vertically, and some lean against others, creating a dramatic pyramid that should not be geometrically possible. a few poufs have been placed in the hole, and there's a chaise piled with cushions in twilight shades. up above, the space is lit not with harsh lamps, but gentle fairy lights, illuminating the place with a light that resembles that of the moon. smiling, you walk through the room to the hallway, lit with yet more fairy lights, and continue to explore.
the hallway is not very long, so you reach the first room it opens into fairly quickly. unlike the library you entered in, this room is nearly completely absent of books; however, watercolor sketches and paintings line the walls, as do many plants. you see jasmine, ivy, and lavender, all of them with a little lamp above so they can survive. paints are clustered on a single desk and the floor, and you walk carefully to avoid getting dirty. you continue on, wondering what else you'll find.
the last room in the hobbit hole is a bedroom, with a half-moon chaise longue meant for dreaming. it looks impossibly soft, and while the quilt is patched with scraps of deep blue fabric, a cobbled-together sky, the rest of the room is smooth and elegant, the ceiling the same shade of deep blue, with glow-in-the-dark constellation stickers stuck to it. a similarly curved desk fills the rest of the space, and the walls have a couple of artworks pinned to them—one, a watercolor of a mermaid; another, a photograph of the northern lights. the space is perfect for sleep, a dreamland where ideas drift and settle into thoughts and words. you know you could spend hours in here, sinking into the magical ambiance, but you force yourself to return to the library you entered—you believe there's more to see.
in the main room, you examine the books again. some of them jump out to you more than others—a gilded, lavender tome in particular. you attempt to open and read it, but upon finding it's secured to the wall, you bend down and with further investigation, find a tiny keyhole, perfectly suited to a tiny key. racing back down the hallway, you find one on a delicate garden table, along with a bottle labeled “drink me.” dismissing the bottle, you insert the tiny key into the tiny keyhole. suddenly, the whole shelf swings forward, revealing a secret cabinet lined with yet more books, a selection of scented candles, and treats! macarons, raspberry and lemon, which you immediately devour as you flop onto a pouf. surely it can't get better than this.

author's note:
‣ the story of orpheus and eurydice has long been fascinating and tragic—how music could move mountains and bargain with kings, but two lover could not reunite. i've loved this tale for a long time, as shown not only through my near-obsessive reading of greek myths but also through my love of hadestown. the musical explores orpheus' music quite a bit—i wanted to do so as well, but through a different character. enjoy the epic.
‣ many thanks to lio for critiquing <3



glossary of musical terms:
‣ treble clef — all notes are above middle c; most commonly used
‣ bass clef — all notes are below middle c
‣ alto clef — middle c is in the middle of the staff; not used very often
‣ trill — quick, fast ornamentation
‣ arpeggio — notes in a chord played as a series
‣ mezzoforte — medium loud
‣ fortissimo — very loud; the loudest a piece gets
‣ tempo — speed
‣ crescendo — a gradual increase in volume
‣ ritardando — a slowing of tempo, typically at the end of a piece or section
‣ melodic minor — an alteration of a typical minor scale
‣ cadence — a series of chords that marks a turning point in the music



they called me after the lyre, my first instrument. “lyra,” they said, “a girl as sweet as the lyre she’s named for.”
yes, they knew i was talented.
they knew, young one, from my first pluck of the strings, when i wobbled over to the lyre and played a few sweet notes, a new melody. a girl named for music, with a laugh like a melody. how sweet i was, they cried.

i grew to love the harp, although with it, i could not travel as easily. i was content at home, to write new melodies and spend time with eurydice.
my sister sighed, told me she was surrounded by talent. “my husband, lyra—how shall i ever measure up!”
we laughed, told her she was perfectly capable. “eurydice, maybe it's you giving us this talent,” orpheus told her, and she'd laugh, smile, tell us surely that wasn't true. we'd laugh, smile, tell her she was so, so loved.
our laughter was a harmony i have never heard again. eurydice’s giggle in treble clef, orpheus’ low chuckle in base, and my own in middling alto. together, we were a glorious greek chorus.

and we would play—my childish memories still see orpheus as more talented, and perhaps he was. it wasn’t technical skill or lyrical prowess that made him shine, but the gift to encapsulate life in music. he would perform, i would learn, and eurydice would laugh and laugh and laugh.
soon, crowds drew to our music like moths to a flame, all to see the gifted boy, his dazzling wife, and me, a girl of twelve. trees and people alike leaning closer as we played by golden firesides. delicate trills into dramatic arpeggios as we rushed through mezzoforte to climatic fortissimo, all of it a gift from the muses themselves.
do you have any times like that, young one? remember them, savor them. too often, they don't last.

they came running to me—after.
orpheus, hermes, our parents, telling me in fits and starts what had happened.
how eurydice had wandered off, as she often did. how a snake bit her, and she collapsed, feet slipping out from under her like a heroine at the theatre. a twisted greek chorus of the wedding guests looked on at our grief.
a cry ripped from my throat, and before i knew what was happening, i rushed to the harp—my harp, my refuge, and snapped string after string. crimson lines crisscrossing my hands, pain shooting across them, a melody off-key, a painful, dissonant, harmony. scales rising, tempo increasing, until it all cut off at the peak of the crescendo, no ritardando to soften the blow. eurydice was gone. forever.
dimly, young one, i remember someone carrying me off, fragments of metal harp strings wound around my fingers. dimly, i remember fighting to escape sleep, a twisted cure for grief.

the next day, i heard the news that orpheus had left, and with him, his magical lyre. he was going down to hades, to rescue eurydice from his clutches.
he left me no word of goodbye; we had been close through eurydice only; but still i mourned his absence, that of a musical mentor, and eventually, i mourned his death.
i resented him for leaving me, letting me grieve alone while he played the part of the knight of romance. as his song drifted up from six feet under, his lament for eurydice, forgotten, i left the shards of my shattered harp as my own last gift to eurydice. as the song filled every tree and creek, the woods shuddered, each leaf dripped tears of sadness, the requiem so powerful it could move mountains. orpheus continued to wander, playing his haunting song. truly, young one, melodic minor is aptly named—his last epic was grief incarnate.

and i?

i made my living traveling, sharing my music and tales, becoming well known as the sister of that star-crossed couple, orpheus and eurydice. you won't find me in any of the olden myth-books, but that's no excuse for me to be forgotten. i didn’t mind the neglect, just the regret—the question, again and again, “why didn’t you go? you could have saved her.”
could i have? i’ll never know. young one, if you ever have a choice like that, make the choice you can live with. crossroads like that, they’re cadences in your life. they define you, ruin you, even.
in stories and songs, i wandered like eurydice, sang like orpheus, until i ended up here, telling my story to you. before, my song, my epic, hadn't had an end, but i suppose it does now, with this final tale.
take care, young one. i'll see you in the stars.

‣ this is quite cynical now that i think of it—but let's hope it gets better for her <3

estella lifted her brush. she paused, contemplating. and then, she let it fall.
from three feet up, the gold-dipped paintbrush crashed onto the canvas, leaving a shimmering splash of gold. she did it again and again, until the canvas gleamed with gold. again and again, joy in each movement of the brush, her happiness breaking over her in waves. and hope, a fluttering butterfly, dancing around her as she gilded the canvas. standing back, she let it dry, leaning it against a wall with a painting done exactly the same way. she was wasting half her paint, and she couldn't have been happier, because this was finally happening.
art college, a chance to pursue a dream, had always been faraway for her, a someday thing, something for her too-long bucket list, but the application paid off. she was finally getting in, and she enrolled next week. reaching for a sketchbook, she grabbed a gold marker and scribbled furiously, covering a whole page.
estella gilded everything she could—gold paint from the hardware store on her bookcases, gold ribbon wrapped around her bulletin board, the paintings she'd made hung so they covered most of her sage-green walls. her friends could call her queen midas, but they knew how much this meant to her. everyone did—they knew of her dream, her hope, her longing. just this one chance, and she had it in her hands. an acceptance letter, pinned to her bulletin board, was not immune; she traced every curve of the writing with a delicate gold pencil. gold was the color of wishes, the color of hopes, the color that belonged to her.
━
“elle,” madelyn said, laughing as she took english notes with a gold colored pencil, “you're getting in over your head about this. it's just school, not greek mythology.”
“what would you know, you don't read greek mythology,” estella said.
“true. but you've been…disconnected. you barely speak to us. everything is gold and shiny, except for when you go to art and it's like you're counting down the days.”
“so what if i have been? this was my dream, madelyn.”
“and does that dream include me?” madelyn's blue eyes flared with anger. she'd always thought blue a calm color, a soft color, but looking at her friend now, she pictured a collage she'd done of the ocean, waves roiling and flaring in fires of fury. madelyn's eyes were like that now, twisting and turning with anger. and underneath it all, a fire of truth, bright as the blue at the heart of a candle.
she hadn't. she'd neglected madelyn, she'd neglected leilani, she'd neglected everyone, she'd forgotten all of her friends in a wild golden rush, hope turning her arrogant.
“it—it doesn't,” she whispered.
“i may not have read greek mythology,” madelyn began, and blue turned cold, madelyn's voice like ice as she cut into estella. “but i do pass spanish. i've always thought you my star, a guiding light, but now i see what you really are. beautiful, perfect, but unreachable. you've been arrogant since you walked into this school.”
madelyn wasn't crying. she held estella's gaze, and that made it worse.
“i won't see you.”
“do you have to do this?”
estella knew now. she was just as much a fool as midas. perfect, golden hope ruined everything.
“why are you even talking to me? you could live in the sky for all i care!” madelyn's voice stayed the same. cold as ice. she banished estella, and as estella stumbled out, looking for the stars, looking for solace, she saw a delicate golden butterfly flutter out of a nearby window, towards the gardens.
estella snapped her golden pencil. the problem with hope, she thought, is that it doesn't last.

‣ yum yum yum it's a story stew gobble gobble gobble
‣ (yes, that is the intro. the whole thing. nothing can top this <33)

part one: outline
[ word count: 578 words ]

‣ ordinary world — describe an alternate venice, where as the citizens draw a delicate balance between the water and their buildings, and an enchanted hall of stained glass. portals in every shimmering window lead to cities throughout this world — and beyond.
‣ call to adventure — ginevra, our main character, notices that the waterline is creeping up, and not even the magic hall is immune to the flood. seeing as the hall is one of the last vestiges of magic left in the world, ginevra, or vera, as she's called, grows concerned.
‣ refusal of the call — vera trusts the authorities to handle things, as she believes she's not competent enough for such a task. when she's walking through the hall, she sees a jumble of letters, which she recognizes as a puzzle. she assembles a team for help to solve it.
‣ meeting the mentor — spurred on by her english professor, vera assembles a team: viola, her best friend, florence, another close friend, and renata, vera's rival in english who agrees to help her.
‣ crossing the threshold — they gather to solve the puzzle, a substitution cipher that leads them to the library. as they decipher the second puzzle, which is formed out of crossed-out letters in a book, they look outside and see that the water level has risen even more—water sloshes on the floor of the library.
‣ tests, allies, and enemies — vera, viola, florence, and renata solve the second puzzle but are unsure what to do next, as it instructs them to use the portals in the hall. viola refuses to help them, and the rest watch her go, knowing that she won't let herself be involved in something so untrustworthy. vera is tempted to give up as well, but renata tells her they have to finish everything and they run to the hall, where they find that the water is up to knee height.
‣ approach the inmost cave — with the solving of the final puzzle, the team takes the portal to paris, france, and find themselves at the top of the eiffel tower. they are amazed, especially as paris, like venice, has remaining magic, but they get to task, looking for — as stated in the riddle — “the universe's coins.”
‣ ordeal — when renata says the riddle again, trying to find what they're missing, she's confronted by their english professor, who is amazed they solved the puzzles, and disappointed with herself for not deceiving them better. realizing that their professor has been taking these last bits of magic as they see the paris lights flicker, they demand the answer. she storms away in a burst of magic, leaving behind a faint yellow glow.
‣ reward — vera realizes she understands — the “coins” are the stars, and as she grabs a last one from the sky, the portal flickers dangerously.
‣ road back — desperately, the group goes back to venice only to find the hall completely flooded. vera isn't quite sure what to do, but renata and florence figure it out — they throw that last star towards the chandelier, where it fills the hall with a brilliant light.
‣ resurrection — the water around them shimmers, before turning into a glittering glass sphere, which shatters, painting the world in shards of color. vera reflects that she's never seen anything so beautiful. as the shards fall, she sees her professor, who smiles cryptically before leaving.
‣ return to the ordinary world — vera, renata, and florence know there are more adventures to be had, but they return to the library, carrying pieces of stained glass for the newly opening museum of venice's history. as they leave the library, viola comes running up, saying she's found another puzzle.

part two: exposition
[ word count: 223 words ]

in venice, the water reigns.
as the first rays of sunlight brush the city, the canals twisting through everything lit up as the light hits them, letting the city shimmer with a new day. the sunbeams trace across the city, finally reaching the sala delle vetrae. the hall of stained glass — although perhaps a better description would have been the hall of magic. it is, after all, the last trace of it left in the city. each beautiful, magical window, with glass in colors so deep and rich they cast vibrant shadows, is a portal. a network of glimmering, magic-traced cities just like venice. a key to a different world — at least, not the one ginevra segreta lives in.
she rises and looks out her window, seeing the delle vetrae even from all the way across the city. she smiles, watching the city unfold; the water ripples with the addition of gondolas, the bridges begin to fill with people, and though she cannot see it, she is sure the magic was stirring.
she slips downstairs quickly, careful not to jump or leap too much. their house is built on another, which is built on another.
such is the way with venice — stunning, yes, but a shiver from sinking. magic-traced cities always have a price. vera's not about to pay this one.

part three: stewing
[ word count: 3091 words ]

i chose to incorporate a new character (they get introduced several times), a plot twist (professor ghazal's betrayal), foreshadowing (professor ghazal wishing her good luck), a new pov (renata's), and an epistolary element! (the first clue) enjoy <3
edits are with strikethroughs / have been underlined. i got a critique from the lovely poppy :)

vera heads downstairs, barely willing to tear her gaze away from the water as she eats breakfast and grabs her things for school. it may be simply paranoia, but she's noticed the water creeping up lately, lapping at the edges of sidewalks, just below where it would overflow. it's probably nothing, but she's heard people say that venice's balance could be knocked over with a feather.
it's definitely nothing, she reassures herself as she hops onto the waterbus and heads to school. besides, the city's known for flooding. i'm sure they have procedures in place.
as they pause at a busier intersection, vera stops poring through her book of sudoku and stares in fascination at the sala delle vetrae, studying each intricate stained-glass window. they're portals, every one of them, venice the hub of the few magic-traced cities that exist. she's amazed, but as she glances at the people walking nearby, she sees something troubling—there really is water lapping at the sidewalk, and as she feels the boat rock slightly with a passing wave, it sloshes, soaking several shoes and creeping dangerously close to the delle vetrae. vera shudders, unable to believe what she's seeing. if venice really is to meet its old enemy once again, not even their magical hall will be immune.
she smiles when she sees viola, her best friend, race onto the waterbus in a gloriously scattered heap. surely she'll know what to do.
after vera explains everything, “nothing,” is viola's immediate response.
“don't do anything,” she adds, just to make her point clear.“
”i thought—“ vera begins, but stops as they exit the waterbus and stumble onto the sidewalk, entering the school building.
”i know,“ viola cuts in. ”but you do know that there are people specifically equipped to handle this, do you not?“
”i do,“ vera agrees.
”then you know they will take care of everything if there is an everything to be taken care of,“ viola says, and her matter-of-fact method is immensely comforting.
”that's true,“ vera says slowly.
”don't obsess over it,“ viola tells her comfortingly. ”venice is, like, the tip of magic-traced cities. nothing's going to happen to it.“
”what would i do without you?" vera laughs, relieved.
━
vera wanders through the delle vetrae, wondering what she's even doing. she should be on the waterbus home, doing homework as she's supposed to, but she wants to come here. she does every once in a while, to clear her thoughts. just being in this magical place calms her, somehow.
sitting on a bench, she watches travelers racing through the portals, teleporting to paris, baghdad, san francisco. she knows that every city connected to the portals is magic traced, but knowing that feels different from seeing an emerald city through one door and clouds seeping from another.
she notices a portal with little lights floating out of it, almost like stars. the sign on the wall says that this is paris, and tacked below it is a sheet of paper. curious, vera picks it up and reads it.
code. completely indecipherable. she frowns.
she sees a couple police and wants to ask them about the mysterious note, but they brush past her without a blink.
if the authorities don't know about this…and there's only one note…it's up to me to crack the code.
well.
it's up to us, she amends. let's be real, i need a team for this.
only one question, of course. who?
━
“professor? professor ghazal?” vera asked shakily, waiting after class. viola gave her a questioning look, but she ignored it.
“yes, ginevra? how can i help you?”
“i was wondering if you knew of any students who are particularly skilled with puzzles,” vera answers, trying to look as innocent as possible. after some convicing, viola agreed to help her, but she'll need others for help, they both know it.
“puzzles? what for?”
“i wanted to start a group focused on solving difficult puzzles,” vera answers. it's not technically a lie.
“you wanted to start a puzzle-solving club?”
“kind of,” vera mutters.
“well then, why don't you just post an advertisement or poster in the hallways?”
vera bites her lip, hard. this is something she didn't anticipate.
“er…i want to make sure i'm on good terms with them,” she says weakly.
“what is this really about?”
vera bites her lip again, cutting it. "i found a…puzzle? coded letter? of sorts in the sala delle vetrae,“ she explains. ”i've been there quite a few times, and i've never noticed anything like it. and with the water…i thought to investigate.“
”i believe in you, ginevra,“ professor ghazal says, smiling. ”i know you can do it. now let's see…is viola piazza involved? i know she's a friend of yours. and florence agostini?“ vera nods. ”oh—do you know renata clemenza?“
vera sighs. yes, she knows renata clemenza. arrogant, quote-unquote popular, and infuriatingly talented at english. ”yes,“ she says curtly.
”she's quite good. you might want to ask the three of them for help.“ vera nods.
”thank you so much, professor ghazal. truly, i'm so indebted to you.“
”naturally,“ she replies. ”good luck!“
vera leaves, and professor ghazal sighs. ”good luck,“ she repeats. ”trust me, you'll need it."
━
{{ “hey, vera, viola,” florence says, smiling. they're gathered in the hallway between classes, as they have a free period since they have a free period, they've gathered in the hallway. no one uses it between classes, so it's safe for them to use. vera brought her copy of the letter—now all they need is renata. unfortunately, no renata appears.
“i knew she was bad news!” viola grumbles. “can we just ditch her?”
“no, you cannot,” renata snaps, sweeping in. vera narrows her eyes. she knew renata was a bit arrogant, but a dramatic entrance is over-the-top.
“hello, renata,” vera says, as deadpan as possible.
either renata doesn't catch her sarcasm or is ignoring it, because she replies, “hello, ginevra.”
vera bites her lip, frowning. “call me vera,” she says.
renata's lips twist a little. “call me ren,” she answers.
“okay,” viola says, breaking into their conversation, “we don't have time for nickname exchanges. you said you wanted our help in solving a puzzle?”
“yes,” vera agrees. “it's a letter—i think it's in some sort of substitution cipher.” she nods at the note, which only uses five digits. one, two, three, five, and seven.
renata and florence read it over, but viola doesn't bother—vera's shown it to her half a dozen times. “this is…odd,” florence says finally.
“what's odd about it?”
“it seems to be a box code,” renata says. “you know vaguely what that is?”
“five digits, twenty-five letters?”
“yes,” renata says, “and the letters should be something like this:”
renata grabs a random sheet of paper and draws a five-by-five grid. she writes the letters in the boxes and the numbers along the outside, then combines them, so a is eleven, b is twelve, c thirteen, d fifteen, and so on.“
vera starts translating the first line. it doesn't take long before she stops in confusion. ”this doesn't make sense. there are far too many as.“ it's true—the page is filled with elevens. none of it makes sense.
”this is the trick, isn't it?“ viola sighs, scanning the paper over and over. suddenly, her head jerks up in surprise. ”there's a mark here—more numbers.“
”oh great, just what we needed,“ florence says. she frowns, making sense of the old-fashioned script. ”thirteen, seventeen, nineteen. nine doesn't fit and it wouldn't make sense anyway.“
”wait!“ vera cries in surprise. ”two, three, five, seven, thirteen, seventeen, nineteen—all prime numbers! is one prime?“
”no,“ renata says, her mouth twisting into a smile again. ”but eleven is.“
”so it doesn't start with one—the sequence goes two three five seven eleven. one thousand eleven is z and twenty-two is a.“
renata nods. ”allow me," she says, scribbling a new grid. the four of them translate furiously, and soon they've got a riddle.


dear reader,

if you're reading this, i pray it is not too late. hopefully you decipher the clues; i wish you well, dear reader. yes, i said clues, and this is the first—after all, victory comes with a price. read the riddle, find the answers—or don't, and let venice perish. remember the topic.

stories higher then the empire state
where knowledge hap'ly populates..
come, come, one and all
to the second-best of venice's many halls.


“stories,” renata says. “and a hall. does venice have any skyscrapers? no, but then—”
“it's not like building stories,” viola says coolly. “it's stories, as in books. knowledge. we have to go to the library.”
“and look for a book?” renata demands. “surely it's more specific.”
vera taps another part of the message. “topic. it's a book on prime numbers. should we meet at the library after school?”
there are nods all around. “sure,” renata says. “not like i have anything better to do.”
━
“well,” vera says briskly. renata watches her as she lays down the original letter, the sheet of paper on which they decoded it, and a sheet listing at least fifty prime numbers. “let's get started, shall we?”
she smiles at viola, who appears rather nervous. renata frowns—she's always thought the two of them to be terribly close, florence more of a third wheel, but they seem somewhat separated today.
“yes, we've got to find the prime numbers section,” florence says, oblivious to the apparently growing tension. renata knows the others don't care for her much, so she ignores whatever's happening as she follows them down aisles of books. she peeps out a window, and sees that the water has totally flooded the sidewalk. people are trickling out—not yet a stream, or even a river, just a little drizzle of fleeing people.
they find the mathematics section and search for books on prime numbers. the first is inconclusive, as is the second, but with the third they find another note, written on the same paper and in the same handwriting as the first letter.

dear reader,
well done, you've solved the first puzzle. to solve the second, you're going to need a bit more than the library. go to the pinnacle of the city of lights to save everything.
bonne chance.

“what now?” viola asks tentatively. “how much does ‘farther’ mean?”
vera studies the letter, and it clicks. “the city of lights,” she says. "bonne chance is french. we need to take the portal to paris. renata raises an eyebrow, impressed with vera's knowledge.
“sounds right,” she says, trying to sound as intelligent as her rival.
"paris!“ viola shrieks. ”are you insane? the only way to get there is through—“
”sala delle vetrae,“ florence says. ”makes sense that that's what we need to save everything.“
”no. no. absolutely not. i supported you through this whole endeavour, vera, but this is too much. this is illegal! and—" she gestures to their shoes, which are coated lightly with water which are completely soaked. the water has risen around their shoes, just touching the tops of viola's sneakers, and it's clear she can't take any more.“—we need to evacuate. not stand around solving puzzles in a whole other country.”
florence gasps, confirming renata's suspicion that she knew nothing about this tension.
vera tries to appeal to viola. “please, viola—”
“i'm done.” viola's eyes are wild as she stares at the waterlogged floor. around them, librarians rush books to higher shelves, usher children to their parents. “did you hear me? i'm done!” she shakes her head and sprints out, water splashing all of them.
the three of them turn to each other, and for once, renata can't find the right words.
“what do we do?”
vera's eyes turn cold and hard, the way they do just before she gives the right answer in class under professor ghazal.
“we finish this.”
the three of them grab their things and sprint wildly for the delle vetrae, all too conscious of the rising waters.
━
“alright,” renata says, water swirling around her ankles. they're the only people left—everyone else, save for the police force, is desperately evacuating. “i think we just step towards the window, and the portal will take us to paris.” she squares her shoulders and steps towards the window with an image of the eiffel tower, stars glittering around the delicate iron structure.
“is this safe?” florence asks. renata shakes her head, laughing. “legal?”
“no!” vera says cheerfully.
florence rolls her eyes. “let's just get this over with.”
together, they step into the portal. the world goes black, then white, then gold, and then iridescent. for a while, the only thing renata can see is dizzying, beautiful light. }}
━
“we're…here,” renata says as she steps onto a balcony. “it's beautiful.”
“remind me how you're so good at english,” vera begins, which surprises her—to think she'd be joking with renata clemenza, of all people! and to think that she'd have ruined her friendship with viola piazza, she adds dismally. shaking her head, vera clears all of it from her mind.“
”there's supposed to be a clue here,“ renata says slowly.
”look!“ florence cries, pointing to the sky. little golden lights drift through the air, illuminating everything with their brilliance. ”paris is magic-traced, just like venice.“ the floating lights, vera realizes, are delicate captured stars.
”we don't have time for this,“ renata whispers. ”we have to find the last clue.“ it's cold, but she's right. carefully, they examine the bars of the ironwork, every inch of the balcony, and even the tiny room that appears to be a control center of some sort.
”i wonder what this is used for,“ florence muses.
”we don't have time for that,“ vera sighs. ”what is a floating star, anyway?“ around her, the air is filled with a hum of unintelligible french. in a way, it's somewhat comforting.
a voice in vera's familiar tongue slices through the chatter. ”how lucky it is that i have the answer to all of those questions.“
the three spin around in surprise. ”professor ghazal?“
their old teacher smiles. ”i'm impressed you solved the puzzles,“ she sighs. ”i should have made them more difficult.“
”you—you made them? why?“
professor ghazal sighs. ”why do you think? these magic-traced cities are dying anyway. it's time for new power, don't you agree?“ she flexes her hands, and vera realizes with horror that they're veined with gold.
”what is that?“ she asks shakily.
”magic. mine to command….and with each destruction, i'll have more and more.“ a dreamy smile comes over her face. ”i'll control the world.“
renata's eyes turn furious, the color of thunderstorms. ”no,“ she says bluntly. ”you won't.“
florence has something else to say. ”why would you leave us the puzzles, if you want everything to be ruined?“
professor ghazal's eyes lose their dreamy sheen. ”a promise,“ she spits. ”one that should never have been exacted. my sister, with her ‘dear reader’ and playful little jokes; she was trying to talk me out of it all along?“
”don't worry,“ vera says. ”we won't waste time with that. you're done.“
the woman just laughs. ”without your captured suns? i think not.“
”so that's the answer to the last clue?“ renata asks, as though she's solved something.
professor ghazal lifts an elegant shoulder. ”it is, but a lot of good it'll do you without actually knowing what it is.“
”but we do!“ vera cries exultantly. ”captures suns—the little floating stars! that's what we need!“ she reaches out, nearly overbalancing, and grabs one. ”this is it!“
”oh, no,“ the woman responds. ”this is definitely not ‘it.’“
turning from the traitor, the three race through the portal, one last time.
━
as soon as they step through the light-filled world, the three are drenched, water swirling up to their waists.
”this is terrible!“ renata shouts over the water's roar.
”never mind that! we have to save everyone!“
”excellent point, as though i didn't already know that!“ she shouts back. florence huddles in a little ball, fiddling with a ring she's wearing. ”florence! any ideas?“
florence frowns. ”it's light for a reason! we just have to figure out what that reason is!“
”light…do you see any candles or something here?“
”no, just the chandelier!“ the chandelier drips with crystals, and as vera tilts her head back to examine it, the back of her head brushes water. it's rising at an alarming rate, and in a few seconds, they'll be dragged under.
”do we just throw it up there?“ vera demands.
”can't hurt to try!“ as one, they grab the thing and launch it towards the ceiling, where it hits the chandelier in a shower of sparks.
”now what?" vera asks desperately, but the others don't answer, they just watch. as vera begins to tread water, she wonders if she'll ever see viola again. obviously, their quote-unquote plan didn't work.
on the plus side, neither did professor ghazal's—i can't see how this is helping anyone, she reflects.
“wait!” renata gasps. “something's happening!”
water droplets begin to rise from the surface, floating towards the ceiling. they form a gigantic bubble, which grows bigger and bigger as more water floats upwards. vera can barely see through the stuff. the bubble grows and grows until the three stand on solid, dry land, not a puddle in sight.
“is it just me,” florence whispers, “or does that look extraordinarily like—”
"glass!“ vera screams, tackling them to the floor as the whole thing shatters. from between her fingers, vera can see shards of color everywhere, the whole world a fractured rainbow, and somewhere in between, a black sweater set…professor ghazal. before she can scream, her former mentor vanishes.
”well,“ renata says as the last pieces settle, burying them in a prickly snowdrift. ”am i glad that's over.“
━
”this is so relaxing,“ renata observes, leaning against a bridge as the three of them watch a canal.
it's been six weeks since the shattering, as people are already calling it. no one knows exactly what happened, not even the details of vera's, renata's, and florence's involvement—they're simply three children in the wrong place at the wrong time.
still, it hasn't stopped them from gaining fame. a couple passersby stare at them from a gondola.
”it's practically a vacation,“ vera agrees. sure, professor ghazal got free, but experts in traced-magic have determined that her power is probably running low.
”i know,“ florence says. ”no adventures, no floods, no puz—“
viola comes running towards them, clutching something in her hand. she stands in front of them, heaving.
”what is it?“ vera says coldly.
”i—found—this—this—morning,“ viola chokes out. ”i—think—it's—a—code.“
the three look at each other knowingly. ”so much for a vacation," renata says.

‣ love this daily, and it's a classic! lyrics used were from taylor swift's “ivy,” because they're lovely! <33


original version:
how's one to know / i'd meet you where the spirit meets the bone / in a faith forgotten land / in from the snow / your touch brought forth an incandescent glow / tarnished but so grand
translated version:
what do you know? / i will meet you where the soul is / by faith the earth is forgotten / in the snow / your touch created a warm light / i love her

“what do you know?” geneva scoffed, staring at her professors. she may have been more powerful, more gifted, ‘more everything,’ as reine called the two of them, but she would never be superior.
“you put too much faith in yourself,” zahra replied.
that was an answer, but not to her question. then again, her question was a response to zahra's previous statement. zahra could not be expected to continue that conversational thread, because geneva would not have. she tried again.
“what do you know about our capabilities?” that was more structured and specific.
“i know,” zahra said coldly, “that nature forgot to include you when it created a balanced world.”
the words hurt, stinging parts of geneva she never knew existed, but she kept her face calm, projecting righteousness and annoyance, with a bit of hope and innocence mixed in. it was, she knew, the expression that was the most likely to please zahra and get her to understand.
“zahra, i'm afraid i do not understand. reine is my balance.” these were facts, indisputable. zahra was not supposed to argue.
“professor,” zahra corrected. “i am to be treated with respect.”
“that was not relevant to our conversation,” geneva argued, letting some of the innocence melt. “what proof do you have that we are—unnatural?”
“the last time your fingers touched—”
“they did not touch,” geneva corrected.
“i'm telling the story,” zahra snapped. “the last time your fingers touched something in common, they created a glow that melted the snow and turned it to a cloud in seconds. i remember that light vividly—like the air was dipped in gold. and you were eight then. your powers have doubtless matured in the last nine years, and we do not have time for you to play about.”
“it would not be playing. it would be research, to discover those parts of the universe that we do not yet understand. the parts of the universe that have somehow manifested in us. is that not fair?”
zahra stared at her for a long, long moment. “how do you know that you will not hurt my daughter? you have already shown you are not shy of power, geneva.”
“i love her,” geneva said simply. it was everything, and not enough.
zahra nodded stiffly. “i give permission,” she said, and geneva felt the hope swell like a sunburst in her heart. she let the innocence and hope and thrill of discovery fill her eyes, let zahra believe that she was the perfect miracle child.
“thank you, zahra.”
zahra didn't correct her. “i'll see you—” she paused.
“where the soul goes,” geneva said. “on the river of life and death.” she smiled. “it is accurate.”
“accurate, but misleading,” zahra pointed out, amused.
“that seems to be my specialty,” geneva replied.

‣ hi poppy! i wanted to return the favor of you saving my weekly (and let's be honest, i also wanted the points!) enjoy <3

They block the things that want me gone.

this is very direct—perhaps you could use something like “monsters” or “enemies” here? it fits more with the cryptic, fairytale feel

She sighs, the sound like water bubbling from a spring.

i love your use of water metaphors throughout this piece—this is an especially pretty one, but there are several, and they fit especially well with the narrator's likeness to fire and suns.

The pain in her voice is colder…

while i see what you're trying to do, i'm not sure if “cold” is the right word for her pain—when i first read this, i thought she didn't care about her child's pain and fear. you might want to replace “colder” with a different word or reword the sentence to show that she feels pain for the narrator, but is growing numb to it!

My dearest child, the wolves are blessed
Held in the arms of their crystal goddess

i love the poetry / song that appears throughout! it feels just like a nursery rhyme parents would use to soothe their children, which makes sense given that this whole piece feels like a fairytale / bedtime story with a warning.

My hands are only growing warmer.

i suggest intensifying this or making the previous scene less intense—before, the floor burned like coals, but now the narrator's temperature seems to be rising even more, which doesn't quite make sense? just a thought

I am of the sun.

this is beautifully dramatic!

The thorns behind me are fire. I can’t rely on them for protection anymore.

and this is also perfect—the idea that the narrator has had to rely on others (their parents, the thorns) for protection, but now simply has to rely on themself! the piece also builds up to this scene very well

…my motions are slow, like I’m trying to move in water.

again, this metaphor is perfectly apt

They weep for fear and fire, for daylight and hurt.
They weep that I am.

i love this ending—suggesting that the narrator has not made piece with the wolves and whatever fragment of the sun lives within them, but merely placated it—it's just open enough to leave you interested, but it does close the piece, which is quite a fine line.

overall, i really enjoyed this! the water / fire metaphors and language was really interesting, and i loved how magic and spiritual elements showed up through the piece. it feels like a dreamy, horror fairytale, which i think was what you were going for? i had so much fun reading this, thank you for letting me critique <3

author's note:
‣ clearly, this piece is inspired by forget me nots, but it's more than that. the setting came first, then the ice cream stall, and eventually it evolved into this: a tale of two sisters, and a tale of remembering. i hope you enjoy <3

munira made her way through the market as dusk began to fall.
it was quite a busy market night, she’d noticed; shoppers had already begun to congregate around the twisting canals, and she could barely find a spot to set up her ice cream stall. around her, the other vendors were doing the same, hawking silk made from moonbeams or mirrors that let one see into the future. the midnight market was wild—a place where deals were struck, tricks were common, and magic drifted through the air on a honey-tasting wind.
munira let the sign for her stall flutter through the air. “floral nostalgia ice cream,” the sign called with each ripple. it was enchanted to float around through the air, beckoning possible customers to try her wares. she let it go free, and it flew off looking for clients.
soon, munira had a short line outside of her shop. she treated each customer the same way. first, she snatched a waffle cone, then scooped a bit of ice cream into it and finished with a butterscotch drizzle. as the customer licked the ice cream, eyes widening with recollection, she took her payment of three coins and ushered the next client to the front of the line.
the waffle cone and butterscotch weren’t particularly important, but the floral ice cream was made from forget-me-not flowers that grew in enchanted forests. they brought lost memories to light. sweet or sour, the flavor indicated what sort of memory would be dredged up. a customer may leave with tears or smiles, but they were always grateful for her gift.
munira never ate the ice cream herself. it was too painful, after all. too close to a reminder of ayana, her perfect sister, the center of her stall. four years, three months, sixteen days, and she continued to serve ice cream, hoping that one of those long-lost memories would be a memory of her, ayana found once more.

“do you have to leave, ayana?”
“i want to see the world, sister. why do you not understand?”
“without me?”
“you’re happy here, munira. i’m not.”
“what if you get hurt? if you can’t come back? if you forget about me?”
ayana took munira’s hand in both of hers, folded their fingers together. “i could never forget about you, i promise.”
“do you really?” munira said hesitantly.
“take these,” ayana said, handing her flowers as blue and innocent as her wide eyes. “they’re forget-me-nots. that way, we’ll always be connected. and you’ll remember me, won’t you?”
munira smiled, memorising her sister, with her dark braids, deep bronze skin, and those startling blue eyes, brighter than the sky. her height, several inches shorter than munira, just petite enough for her to feel like the big sister. they were not mirrors, just rippled reflections, connected through their shared looks. she knows she’ll never forget her sister’s face.
“i could never forget you, ayana.” she folds her sister’s fingers over a few of the bright blue flowers. “go see the world.”
forget me not.

“i’ll take a scoop of ice cream,” said the woman across from her. she was startlingly tall, with a dark amber pixie cut and a spattering of freckles. her eyes were a dark cobalt blue, and something in their cool confidence reminded munira of someone she could not place.
“of course,” munira replied, grabbing a waffle cone and the scoop. she doled out a scoop of ice cream, ready to give it to her customer, but a sight in the distance stopped her. a few booths down, another banner like her own fluttered in the wind, advertising soul exchanges. she shuddered inwardly. munira knew they were helpful to people who had been in life-threatening situations, but she wondered if one would ever feel like themselves in such a predicament.
“sorry, could i have my ice cream?” the woman asked after munira continued to hold the cone. she followed munira’s line of sight, coming to rest on the same stall. “those are…interesting.”
“i would say corrupted,” munira replied as she turned over the floral cone.
“they can be useful sometimes,” the woman replied with a surprising note of anger in her voice. munira raised an eyebrow, startled, but didn’t press her. she watched as the customer took a bite of the floral ice cream, and any protests she’d been planning to make had clearly faded away, memories overtaking everything else. still, she looked sad, with a longing expression munira could have sworn she recognized.
she pushed the woman from her mind and gestured to the next customer. dwelling on fantasies wouldn’t bring ayana back.

the next day, the woman returned with more coin. unfortunately, so did the soul exchange stall. munira curled her lip, unable to stop herself. the woman regarded her curiously.
“you really think it’s that bad?” she asked, with the same sharp tone from the day before.
“how can someone be—real? if they’ve lost such a critical part of themselves? how could one be themself?” munira’s crossing a line and she knows it, but she feels desperate to explain this to the customer. the . . . dissonance created by exchanging souls is what her ice cream stand aims to fix. the memories dredged up are tools to connect with one’s past! how can you savor these memories as luxuriously as a bowl of ice cream if you can’t see yourself in them?
“i got a soul exchange,” the woman says. “i had to.” she fiddles anxiously with a ring on her finger.
“i’m sorry,” munira whispers. it’s not the right thing to say, but she has no idea what the right thing is. “i didn’t mean to offend.”
“you didn’t,” the woman says. there’s something so motherly, so familiar about her forgiving nature—munira can’t quite put a finger on it. “the accident changed me. i came back to see if someone would recognize me, but…” she lifts a shoulder, her blue eyes downcast.
“your ice cream,” munira says softly, because she’s pretty sure apologizing to this person is the wrong thing to do—she hasn’t forgotten anyone. she keeps ayana’s memory with her every day.
“thank you,” the woman says, taking it. the movement is slow and delicate, as though she doesn’t quite want it after all. munira frowns at this, then remembers what the woman’s told her. a soul exchange . . . munira should be kinder.
“of course,” munira says before she gestures to the next person in line, her memory still ringing with the woman’s face.”

“why do you run this stand?” somehow, munira’s not surprised to see the woman from yesterday. she’s wearing light blue today, and it’s a silly thing to notice, but it highlights her startlingly blue eyes.
“to help others remember,” she answers. not a lie, but not the truth.
“i know,” the woman says. “but why?”
“to see if anyone remembers they were my sister,” she whispers. she shouldn’t have told — she never does — but something about this woman makes her want to tell the truth.
“do you remember your sister?” the woman asks gently.
of course. munira closes her eyes, floating into memory.
bright blue eyes, wide with innocence . . .
her eyes fly open, seeing eyes exactly the same shape, color, and shade.
munira can’t believe it. it’s been too long, hasn’t it? still, she can’t help asking . . . “ayana? is that you?”
ayana lets out a choked sob. “i told you,” she whispers, and munira can’t stop hearing everything on repeat.

remember me, won’t you?
remember me,
remember . . .

“ayana,” she gasps, “ayana, i’m —” her sister leaves before she can finish.
the word “sorry” hangs in the air, unsaid and not enough.

“will you forgive me?” munira asks, her mouth cold as ice, practically numb. she’s been eating ice cream since the shop opened, breaking her rule, remembering more and more little things she’d missed. ayana’s motherly nature, despite munira being the older one. ayana’s habit of fiddling with rings when she was nervous. ayana’s easy grace, how nothing was done carelessly. ayana’s blue eyes, the ones her own sister couldn’t even remember.
“i didn’t expect you to remember me,” ayana says, and that shatters munira.
her sister smiles bitterly. “it’s been so long,” she sighs. “i have a new job in the city. new family, a . . .” she drifts off, but munira knows what she was going to say. a new life.
“well, you should get back to them,” munira whispers. “don’t bother yourself about me any more.”
“i should, i suppose,” ayana replies. “thanks for the ice cream.”
munira nods jerkily, passing her sister a cone. as ayana glides away, she reaches out and grabs her sister’s arm.
“you’ll remember me, won’t you?”
ayana stares at her, and munira sees the twisted irony. the two of them, begging each other to never forget.
then her sister smiles, blue eyes soft with what could be tears.
“i will,” she says. “if you’ll remember me.”
“i—you got a soul exchange! i remembered a little girl who was a full head shorter than me!” the words spring from her before she can stop them.
“no,” ayana says. “remember me for the right reasons. remember a little girl who longed for adventure. remember a woman who wanted to take care of everything. remember me, munira, the person i am.”
between sobs, munira manages, “i will, little sister.”
ayana leaves, smiling with a bittersweetness characteristic of munira’s ice cream. that’s the thing about memories — they’re sour and sweet all twisted up together.
remember me, ayana.
forget me not.