word count :: 17519/15000
points earned :: 4725
dailies completed :: 3
weeklies completed :: 1
word wars completed :: 2
critiques completed :: 5

to-do :: edit fear of fire, write kieran short story, add fantasy words…

links ::
fantasy :: https://scratch.mit.edu/studios/34550583/comments
fantasy wc studio :: https://scratch.mit.edu/studios/34601641/comments
main cabin :: https://scratch.mit.edu/studios/34694852/comments
critiquitaire :: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/979951956

Hello there everyone! I’m Crim, a Christian teenager who loves writing, drawing, reading, and getting unduly obsessed with TV shows. I’ve participated in 6 sessions of SWC so far, so this is my 7th session, which is really mind-bending to be honest. The past couple sessions I’ve been more invested, though, and I think I grew a ton last November). This session I am a fantasy co-leader (my second time co-leading, and it’s been a blast to work with Eevee and Stingray over the past month! Love you guys<3), and I am looking forward to growing my writing a lot over the course of this month.

On a related note, one of my favorite things about Scratch Writing Camp is the critiquitaire, even if I can never spell it right on the first try (is that correct? I don’t even know.) For those who don’t know, the critiquitaire (which will be posted on March 11th this session!) is a place where people exchange writing and give each other feedback on it. There is a minimum of 100 words of critique, but depending on how many words you write, you can get more points for your cabin. Here’s last session’s critiquitaire. I love the critiquitaire because I love giving and receiving feedback! As such, I tend to do a lot of these critiques, probably more than I do dailies sometimes.

I’m also a twin and I write a lot with my twin sister, Vi. We are currently working on a fantasy novel (it’s in the editing/revision stage !!) about a girl who becomes wrapped up in a rebellion against her father, the king. And we’re also in the planning stage of a sci-fi/dystopian/fantasy/etc. novel about a man who loves the stars, but cannot reach or even see them because the earth’s atmosphere is so polluted. He is one day given the opportunity to study the stars, to see them for the first time, and slowly realizes that this opportunity was now what he thought it was. We hope to finish up the revisions of the former novel and write the first draft of the latter this year! (Maybe as a NaNo project? We shall see….)

I also enjoy writing short stories, however, and I love creating stories to enter into the SWC writing competition I was a Judges’ cut last session, but I can’t link the writing because scratch took it down for being too dark Vi and I also got a place in the fanfic competition with a fanfic of the X-files, which you can read here.

(Wow I just gave myself the perfect tangent but I’m still having trouble using it. I guess I’ll do a hard cut instead. Sorry.) If you know me at all, you already know that I’m very obsessed with the 90s paranormal procedural show called the X-files! (I even included it in my co-leader app for this session) If you’ll excuse me, while I try to mine for words, I’m going to go on an incredibly detailed rant about the show.

The X-files ran from 1993 to 2002 and had two revival seasons in 2016 and 2018. (It’s probably good that I didn’t watch season 10 when I was 10 years old, but it’s still kind of sad that I only watched it for the first time last year.) The X-files’ is a procedural (meaning episodes stand alone to an extent, which most TV followed at the time, to the best of my knowledge as a child of the streaming-age), but it also was revolutionary for its non-procedural elements—its episodes which followed a plot-line. This aspect of the episode was referred to as the mythology or the mytharc. I must admit that I’m partial to these episodes, as they are imbued with great themes and “vibes”, I guess. The X-files mythology is largely about conspiracy and corruption and the search for the “Truth” and the men who would do anything to keep it hidden. Mostly, though, the X-files is about a man and his partner who would do anything to find that truth. So while I love the mythology, the characters are the show’s main appeal. Dana Scully (in case you were wondering, she is iconic, beautiful, perfect, etc.) is originally assigned to work with Fox Mulder to debunk his work (he works on the X-files, which are cases the FBI has stopped investigating because they fall under the category of “unexplained phenomena”—basically he’s just obsessed with aliens, psychics, etc.), but they actually just immediately become best friends and you get to watch their relationship grow throughout the seasons and it’s just beautiful. They laugh together in the rain, drive along roads in the middle of the U.S., talk over cases in crummy motels, cut through the darkness with the beams of their flashlights, explore and uncover and save each other again and again. Anyway, it’s very beautiful (the cinematography is outstanding. the vibes are so amazing. I love the Vancouver atmosphere so much) and I love it so much and you should watch it.

This is my first time trying for the 1k intro challenge and I’m very sorry for getting so derailed. I don’t think I’ll count this as completing even if I reach the word count because 300 of the 1k is X-files lol. But I’m just doing it for the words at this point haha.

Now, back to me, sort of. I love listening to music, though I’m not at all musical haha. I tend towards acoustic and singer/songwriter as well as alternative and folk styles. Some of my favorite artists are Sleeping at Last, Novo Amor, half•alive, The Arcadian Wild, The Oh Hellos, Vian Izak, Alec Benjamin, Raynes, Noah Kahan (currently obsessively looping Stick Season ), Elbow, First Aid Kit, Cadence Floria and more! I have an excess of playlists, but I also like to listen to entire albums (I know some people don’t haha), and I generally label someone as a “favorite” if I celebrate most/all of their entire catalog. However, I also love listening to songs on repeat. So basically any way of listening, I love it.

I connect music to my stories a lot, and enjoy plotting animatics in my head, even if I rarely complete any. Here are some that I (and Vi) have finished though: Wrapped in Piano Strings, Earth (so old and ew, but we never finished the redo… (ok fine it was my fault but~~ maybe eventually I’ll finish it)), Breathe Again (from our warriors era omg!), You (also—sort of—from our warriors era !), and I feel like there are more but they’re not coming to me. I wish we did them more, but I also have commitment issues.

This is another perfect segue into talking about art, but I don’t know how to do transitions, all my essay writing has been for naught. I’ve been drawing humans for about 4 years (a little less)—we started in 2020. (We’d been drawing mostly just cats for several years (probably about 4). Scratch was actually what inspired us to draw, as we wanted to make our own warrior cats art like we saw everywhere on this site.) I love drawing mostly because I love characters and want to, I guess, express that? I don’t really know how to describe it, but pretty much the only reason why I draw with the prolific-ness that I do is because I become attached to characters and want to represent them visually (Hence why we have an entire collection of Mulder and Scully art on our art account lol)

We started drawing people after watching Avatar: the Last Airbender and wanting to draw the characters from it! Our style evolved as we then watched Tangled: The Series and took a lot of cues from the incredibly comic-y style of that show. (The amount of Varian art I drew in those months was absolutely insane lol). Then, we watched Star Wars: The Clone Wars (well, we’d actually seen it as kids but we rewatched it at this point and became utterly obsessed. our biggest obsession before x-files—the only one that’s even comparable.) and took more realistic anatomical cues from that, so our style made a huge shift. Now, we draw from references a lot (again, it’s the X-Files’ fault ? blessing ? you pick.) and our style has become somewhat our own while still reflecting these influences.

Okay, how have I not talked about books yet? I love reading, but haven’t been doing as much lately, sadly. Probably because I got a phone >:c But let’s talk about some books that have inspired me recently~ last year I read all of Brandon Sanderson’s work (I particularly love his Stormlight Archive series, the character work there is exquisite!) and the Six of Crows duology by Leigh Bardugo. I love the poetic-ness of some of her writing along with the excellent character work in that duology. There are so many more, but I’ve actually now done the challenge even without counting the words from my X-files tangent, so I’ll call that a success! Nice to meet you

Daily 2 :: “Take someone else's compliment and integrate it as a focal point of your story.” :: compliment/prompt from @poppywriter

Kieran shifted in the seat. His suit crinkled uncomfortably at his elbows, and it was hot in the conference hall. Above Kieran’s head was a magnificent light fixture, pouring warm light over the table. Unfortunately, it also made everything very hot. Kieran took a tiny sip of the water in front of him, which couldn’t be called “iced” anymore. (He didn’t want to have to use the restroom during the meeting, so he’d been strictly rationing it.) It helped a little.

At the head of the table, a man droned on about business strategies for the company. Kieran wasn’t sure why his boss had asked him to come to this meeting. It didn’t seem to apply to him at all. Asking him would probably be seen as disrespectful, though.

Kieran couldn’t count the number of times he’d asked a teacher, a parent, a boss why. The rebukes had always been harsh. He’d learned to keep quiet instead.

Reaching forward, Kieran tugged his suit jacket’s arm down, getting rid of some wrinkles. He clasped his hands together. Did that look professional?

His nails were getting a bit long. He’d have to trim them when he got back. If he could even find the clippers.

Did it look like he wasn’t listening? He’d probably been staring at his hands too long. Kieran glanced up, trying to pay attention. He focused on the back of the head of the man in front of him. That was suitably boring.

The man in front of Kieran was balding, several years older than him. A senior at the company. Why was Kieran here? He stifled a sigh as the speakers switched.

He tried to listen—he really did try—but all he could think about was that it was only his second week at the company, and he had to come to this meeting projecting the plan for the next five years.

Another hour passed in much the same manner, but, blissfully, the meeting concluded at 5:15 pm.

Kieran waited for a few of the others to stand before getting to his feet. He stretched, a satisfied sigh slipping past his lips. He straightened, almost to military attention as his boss approached from the other side of the table.

“Hello, Mr. Aston,” Kieran said.

“Enjoy the meeting, did you?” Mr. Aston asked, dark eyes locking with Kieran’s. The eye-contact was a bit unnerving, but Kieran forced himself to maintain it. He didn’t want to be impolite.

“Well—” Kieran started, then cut himself off. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m joking, Kieran,” Mr. Aston said, straightfaced.

“Y-you are?”

“Of course, I don’t expect you to like these sorts of meetings. In fact, that’s part of why I invited you to this one.”

Kieran didn’t reply for a moment. He tilted his head with a small, incredulous chuckle. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

Mr. Ashton smiled. “I thought your application was brilliant. You seem like a bright young mind, and that’s exactly what we need here if we’re to stay ahead of the competition. Meetings like this one are just formalities at this point. I want you to come up with alternatives, I believe you can help us to streamline things, to get us to a place where we don’t need things like this anymore.”

Kieran stared at Mr. Ashton. It took him a while to remember to say, “thank you, sir.”

“I’m only being truthful, son,” Mr. Ashton said, setting a hand on Kieran’s shoulder before walking away.

Bright young mind. An involuntary smile graced Kieran’s lips.

As he walked home, Kieran found he didn’t at all mind the thought of going back to work the next day.

+ 608 words, 400 points

Daily 5 :: Book chosen, Inkheart by Cornelia Funke (first chapter) :: Change, Meggie goes to school the next morning

At the sound of her alarm clock, Meggie jerked out of bed, blankets hot and tangled around her legs. Her dreams had been filled with shadows and whispers of dangerous men, flashes of red hair and scars.
She collapsed back onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, wishing she could let out all the tension and fear with that breath.
Mo peeked in the room, offering her a smile that said “everything is fine” at the same time as it said “let’s not talk about it, okay?”. Meggie smiled back at him, but didn’t believe him for a moment.
“Breakfast is ready,” he said aloud.
Meggie nodded, and Mo shut the door behind him.
She dressed, stuffed a couple spare books in her backpack, and stepped out of her room into the hall.
Mo was in the kitchen, humming as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
Meggie dragged her backpack to the table, leaning it against one of the legs. She sat down in the creaky chair before her plate of eggs and toast.
“Thank you,” she told Mo.
“You’re welcome,” Mo responded, every bit as cheery as normal. It worried her more than his dismissal of her last night, more even than his conversation with Dustfinger.
The name still unnerved her. It sounded so alien, so distinctly other-worldly. Like a character from a fairy-tale that frightened children and left them to stay awake all night.
Still more chilling was the name Dustfinger so reverently called Mo. Silvertongue. Meggie frowned at her toast.
Taking a sip of his coffee, Mo glanced at his watch, eyes widening in mock horror. “You’re going to be late!”
Meggie stuffed another bite of eggs in her mouth. She was always late.
“Let’s go, then Meggie,” Mo said, setting his mug down.
She set her jaw but didn’t say anything. What was there to say? All he’d done the night before was dismiss her questions, her worries.
Meggie slung her backpack over her shoulder and looked up at him. “Let’s go.”

+ 337 words, 150 points

First weekly for Fantasy !!! 2,305 words total

Part 1: Mythology

1.4. Genre Swap

Telemachus stood in the hangar, one hand shielding his eyes to stare through the gates and out into space. Could one of those specks be his father’s ship? Each star seemed to be calling out to him, alive with possibility and disappointment.
He let his hand drop to his side. Telemachus wasn’t a child anymore. He’d stared out into the depths of space countless times, and he couldn’t let himself be sucked in again—not like his father had been. It was his turn to be the strong one.
Telemachus walked through the station’s winding halls until he reached his mother’s quarters. When he entered the foyer, several men stood to attention.
They’d been waiting on the benches his mother had provided for visitors. Telemachus’ mother had been so unwell lately that often people were forced to wait hours until she felt ready to let them into her chambers.
Telemachus nodded to the men, trying to school away a scowl. Each of them was a suitor from other parts of the Confederation, hoping to earn his mother’s love, but—most importantly—her fleet’s allegiance.
With a beeping sound, the door registered Telemachus’ presence and let him into the living room. He barely resisted smirking at the men waiting as he walked on through.
“Ma?” he asked.
“In here,” she called from her bedroom.
He glanced around at the living and dining areas—no dishes. Had she eaten at all today?
Telemachus ducked into the bedroom. His mother lay on the bed, head propped up by pillows, a quilted blanket pulled up to her armpits with her arms free over the blanket. She trailed her fingers along the pattern of the quilt, tracing the stitching.
“Hi, Ma,” Telemachus said with a smile. He sat at the edge of the bed, taking one of her hands in both of his. “How are you feeling?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been better, dear,” she told him in the same tone as if she had been saying “I’m fine”.
He sighed, glancing up at the ceiling. “Those men are waiting outside.”
“Yes. I know,” she whispered.
“What are we going to do about them?”
It was his mother’s turn to sigh. “Telemachus—”
“What? We have to do something, don’t we? Get rid of them?”
“It’s too dangerous. Not to mention futile.”
“Ma, they’re plotting against us! We can’t just let them be our guests for eternity.”
“Telemachus, look at me,” she said, tone firm, drawing his eyes back to her. His mother’s jaw was set, her gaze unwavering. Despite her physical frailty, she was not, by any means, weak.
Telemachus hung his head. “I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated.”
Nudging his chin up with her free hand, his mother forced him to look at her again. “Your father will return, Telemachus. I know you’ve given up on him, but I haven’t. I don’t ask you to believe it, but you have to trust me. I’m not going to let them destroy our home.”

+ 492

Part 2: Hi-Fi

2.1. Original Characters in Historical Times.

Orion squinted at the papers, holding them a bit further from his face to read them. Maybe he’d need to stop procrastinating and actually get glasses sometime. His last prescription had run out years ago, and he’d never found an eye doctor he liked since.
He set the papers down, rubbing his tired eyes. After finally being able to read the words, Orion was having trouble processing. A female scientist? It was rare to hear of them, and it would be his first time interacting with a female astronomer. Apparently, she was the leading expert in the field, though, and he did need some answers about the odd patterns he’d been observing.
Orion didn’t dwell on the issue long. The moon would soon rise, and it was time to get to work. The late summer air was refreshing as Orion walked along the sidewalk to the observatory building.
Another car was already parked in the typically empty lot; it must have been Dr. Saylor’s. A sturdy-looking vehicle, painted mint-green, with dirt splattered along the bottom edge—not cleaned often, then. New Mexico summers were not known for being particularly muddy.
Orion mounted the observatory steps and, stopping just before the door, straightened his tie. Perhaps he should have picked the navy suit. But it was too late now.
Nervously licking his lips, Orion twisted the door handle and stepped into the observatory to meet his new partner.
It was quiet in the building. She stood by the telescope, alternately looking down at some of his sketches and glancing at the data sheets.
“Dr. Saylor?” Orion asked when she didn’t seem to notice his arrival.
“Oh,” she turned around. She wore glasses, he noted. Maybe he could ask who her optometrist was. “Dr. Howard.” She smiled briefly, stepping forward to shake his hand.
He nodded in greeting, accepting the handshake. “Hello, Dr. Saylor. I see you’ve been looking at some of my notes. I was hoping you could help me answer some questions that have come up as a result of some of the unusual data I’ve collected.”
“Of course. I believe I can,” she said, pushing her glasses up on her face. “Let’s get to work.”

+ 365 words

Part 3: Fairy Tales

3.1. Using Sparks from the Past: Retelling

Grass tickled Hans’ cheeks as he crept up the hill. The sweet scent had grown stronger, and the trail of smoke leading into the sky seemed to be coming from this valley.
However they’d been excited by the sight, Hans knew to be cautious in this wilderness. Who knew what magical, dangerous creatures could be the source of that sweet-smelling smoke? So he’d convinced a reluctant Greta to let him investigate. How he’d managed it was beyond him, but Hans never questioned fortune.
His stomach rumbled, but Hans was used to ignoring that. You could say he never questioned bad luck either.
It had been a massive bout of bad luck that had gotten them in this situation, wandering the wilderness alone. Birds had eaten away the trail of breadcrumbs he’d so carefully placed to lead them home, and Hans’ evil stepmother had succeeded in getting him and his sister lost in the forest.
In the fields, things were a bit better. The sunlight kept them warm, though it shone a little too brightly around here.
Could it be magic of some kind? Hans didn’t know, and he didn’t much want to find out. But he did know that they needed to reach civilization, so he flattened himself against the top of the hill and, leaning on his elbows, Hans gazed down into the valley.
Nestled in the base of the valley was a cottage, one that greatly resembled the one Hans had grown up in. The smoke rose from its chimney. The powerful smell of chocolate had become more powerful, making his mouth water.
It was a cheery sight, with light pouring out the delicate little window panes.
If he squinted, Hans could see a figure in the house and a rocking chair on the porch. The figure seemed to be a woman, shuffling around and possibly cooking? She held a pot and carried it to the fireplace.
Having seen enough, Hans ducked away. After a moment, though, he paused. Perhaps that woman was stirring caramel in that pot, creating the sweet scent. She was making something edible. He hesitated. Perhaps he could go get some food and bring it back to Greta. That’d be faster, anyways, right?
Hans turned back, walking carefully down the hill, then running along the base of the valley.
He knocked on the door, mouth watering at the increasingly distinct smell of caramel.
“Hans?” He heard Greta’s voice, dimly. But that didn’t make sense, she wasn’t there. He ignored it, and the door creaked open.
When he saw who’d opened it, he stumbled back. Hans knocked into his sister, who had suddenly appeared behind him.
“Greta?” Hans breathed out as he stared at the figure of his stepmother, who smiled at them both.

+ 459 words

3.4. A Journey of Motifs: Using Popular Fairy Tale Motifs in Another Story

Victor stared at his reflection, a slight frown puckering between his brows. It seemed as though his condition was worsening now, but had he just imagined feeling better that morning?
Victor shook his head at the mirror. He had to be getting better—it had to be working. The mirror was probably faulty. Maybe sprites had damaged it. He lifted the mirror up, grunting at the weight.
Tucking it under an arm, Victor walked out of his small bedroom, through the hall, and out of the back door. His fingers were shaking as he unlocked the gate, but that was probably his imagination as well. Victor carried the mirror to the garbage can and leaned it against the green plastic container.
When he stepped back, Victor’s reflection appeared again in the mirror. The circles under his eyes seemed even darker. And—Victor lifted a hand to his nose—no. There was no blood.
The mirror was lying to him, again. Victor huffed out a laugh, but it sounded crazed even to his own ears.
With gritted teeth, Victor kicked out. Once his boot collided with the mirror, it shattered into a million pieces. They mixed with the gravel in the alley, deadly shards invisible against the tiny stones.
Victor stomped back inside, threw a coat on, and grabbed the bag by the door. It was time to make sure, once and for all, that he was healed.

+ 234 words

Part 4: Folklore

4.1. Oral Retelling: Show Characters Passing Down a Story

Alex cleared his throat and scooted to the end of the bench so he could more easily look at the other children, sitting in rows behind him. Victor sat right in front of him on the ground, his coat zipped up tight. He’d done it to keep warm, but nothing seemed to work as well as his mother’s arms around him.
The older boy began the story, his voice somehow heavier than normal, the emphasis on words strange and other-worldly. “They say that the forest is haunted,” he said, gazing around the room with a flat, serious expression. “Ghosts hunt in these woods, hiding in the trees and making their homes in the shadows.”
Victor glanced around. The trees around him seemed a little more sinister than they had a moment before. He knew that James was telling a story, but his words were so clear and terrifying, Victor couldn’t help but believe him the tiniest bit.
“They say that no sound penetrates the forest. Those outside cannot hear the screams of those trapped within.” Alex let a smile touch his lips this time, and his fists clenched in his lap. “They say that magic exists in this forest. Sprites dance in the trees, confusing and twisting reality to meet their own ends. These sprites can move small objects, create mirages, change the appearance of reflections, and drive their victims into madness.
“They say that no fire can be lit within its bounds because the trees themselves will not allow it. The forest can never be burned. It will never die.”

+ 261 words

4.4. Magical Realism (Talking Animals, Little Bits of Magic, Etc)

It was dusk by the time Victor finally found the courage to enter the forest. He knew it was a bad idea, and worse to go this late. But he had needed the push of darkness, the haste brought on by the knowledge that it was only going to get darker to force him into the woods.
The cloud of his breath in front of his face told him the night was already getting colder. It would be a short trip, Victor promised himself. In and out before the moon rose.
All around him the murmur of leaves in the wind, the creak of branches, and the sound of mud squishing under his boots seemed familiar enough. Tame enough.
Perhaps the stories really were exaggerations, not true warnings.
Even so, Victor didn’t stop or slow until he reached the grove.
It was, as always, utterly silent in that circle of trees. The moment he stepped in it was as if a blanket dropped over the world, muffling it.
Heat also radiated from the circle, prompting Victor to take off his winter jacket. Unzipping the jacket made no sound. He slung the bag off his shoulder and stuffed the jacket in.
Slowly, reverently, Victor approached the trees. Each one had long, pointed leaves that, rather than droop like that of a willow, reached toward the sky.
Victor wasn’t sure why that was, but the laws of physics didn’t seem to apply in this space, so he chalked it up to the magic of the trees. It didn’t matter. What did matter was what the trees could give him.
Victor reached upward, balancing on the tips of his toes. His fingers just brushed an apple.
Well, he called them apples. They were shaped similarly but were white in color. When he touched it, the apple shivered.
The branch shrunk back, but Victor didn’t move.
Come on, he urged in his mind. His mouth formed the words, but no sound emerged.
Then, the branch reached out, as if curious. It nudged Victor’s outstretched fingers.
Victor smiled up at it, letting his hand cup around the apple. It was as if the branch let go, and the apple dropped into his hand.
He fell to his knees at the weight of it, like the effort of reversing gravity suddenly was on his shoulders. Victor grunted in response, breathing heavily. Still, no noise escaped his lips.
After a few moments, the sensation passed. The apple in his hands appeared, in every respect, normal. The white color had evaporated, leaving a ripe apple in his cupped hands. Victor stood, returning to his bag and placing the apple inside.
He carefully slipped his coat out from underneath the apple and put it on. The intense heat was worth it because once he stepped out of the circle of trees, Victor felt the wind bite his cheeks and make his eyes water.
He heard it whisper by the branches, and Victor smiled.

+ 494 words

TWs: themes of death

“A Perfect Time to Die” | Nov ‘23 Competition Entry (Won Judges’ Cut)

The clock told Rome that his time was almost up. Outside told him the same thing.
Winter had stolen into his world, and frost inched over the car windows each night. Even beneath a blanket, his fingers and toes felt frozen. The circle of metal above his heart radiated cold.
Before the sun rose, Rome slipped out of bed.
When Rome had first gotten sick, his father told them to look. If he wasn’t meant to get better, they needed to plan, they needed to know. But Rome hadn’t wanted to check the clock, so they didn’t, not at first. Once it lasted over a month with no sign of improvement, his mother had checked it anyway.
“You have three months,” she’d said, voice trembling and fingers brushing back his hair more gently than ever. As if he would break with the slightest touch. A boy of ice.
Rome had spent the last two and a half months in bed, lungs refusing to work right. With all that time alone, his mind wandered.
Sometimes, he dreamed that his time had already run out and someone had come to take him away. He dreamed that his mother gave him more time, that she was the one to die. Both thoughts were as dark and cold as the winter.
But the frigid metal clinging to his neck chained him to reality. His death was preordained, inscribed in the clock that lay above his heart.
His mother would soon be up to yell at him to go back to bed, so Rome needed to hurry. He would not spend his last days in bed, no matter how much his lungs—or his mother—protested.
Rome dressed, swallowing himself in two puffy coats.
Outside, a cloud billowed from his breath and ice crunched beneath his feet. The frost crawled into his lungs, and Rome paused, waiting for the coughing fit to pass.
He wondered, like he had many times before, if he could die sooner than the clock said. But his mother had told him that the clocks didn’t lie.
That day, Rome’s feet led him to the zoo. The sign read closed, but the zookeepers always left a side door open for him.
He made his way to the penguin exhibit with mittened hands stuck in his pockets.
The birds huddled together, flapping their wings and crying out in their unearthly voices. Rome liked the birds, but he’d always thought it strange that God had given penguins wings that didn’t work right. It gave him a sort of kinship with them, he supposed. Rome, the boy with the broken lungs. The snow had claimed him, too.
Rome watched them for a while, but he knew his mother would worry, so he began to head home.
He was stopped by a man, who stood at the doors to the zoo, hands clasped behind his back as if waiting for someone. With his long gray coat, the stranger seemed like a statue except for the way his hair moved with the wind.
“Why are you here?” the stranger asked in a quiet tone that made Rome think he already knew the answer.
Rome stared at him for a moment. He had a long, round nose, ruddy hair, and dark, concerned eyes.
“I’m going to die,” Rome replied.
The man gazed at him with those coffee-brown eyes. At last, he nodded. Then asked, “What did you come to see?”
Rome cocked his head to the side. “I saw the penguins.”
“I like the penguins, too,” the stranger said.
Snow drifted around them, collecting in the man’s red hair and falling into Rome’s eyelashes.
The stranger unbuttoned his coat and slipped a hand to the chain around his neck. The snap of the chain sounded like ice cracking.
“The winter is no time to die,” the man said.
Rome stared at the clock, which swung like a pendulum between the stranger’s outstretched fingers.
Rome disagreed. The winter was the perfect time to die. After all, everything else in the world seemed to think so.
Nonetheless, he accepted the clock from the stranger, who smiled at Rome in a sad way. “You’re a brave kid, you know.”
Rome didn’t feel very brave. He felt wrong, like a flightless bird. The new chains clasped their cold fingers around the boy’s neck, and he watched as winter claimed the man.

+ 733 words

March 11 Daily :: chosen focus/theme: war, broken families

Ben gripped his mother’s hand as they rushed through the airport. His small legs could barely keep up with her. If his father had been there, he would have lifted Ben into his arms, carried the boy all the way to the plane.
Ben couldn’t wait to see the plane, but his father wasn’t there.
His mother’s eyes were still red-rimmed, and Ben wanted nothing more than to climb up into her arms and wipe her tears away. But he knew that they had to be fast, that there wasn’t time.
Ben’s throat felt raw and painful from too many held-back sobs. He was only eight, but he knew that crying now would only slow his mom down.
As she ran, his mother tugged a little too hard on his arm, Ben stumbled on the slick airport floor.
“Ben!” his mom dropped to the ground beside him, putting a hand to his forehead, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. Her own were staring at him, wide and worried. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “I’m fine, mom.”
She lifted him up, hands under his arms. “Okay. Let’s hurry.”
Ben clenched his jaw, and took her hand more tightly in his this time. He wouldn’t fall again.
Besides, didn’t he want to see the plane? Ben focused on that, pushing aside the pain of his scraped knees, in his throat, and the pain that burrowed in his heart.

+ 242 words

Let’s start with a bit of an overview with my initial thoughts. I skimmed through the piece yesterday and a couple things stood out to me. In a lot of places, I found that you got into the character’s head very well. My personal favorite thing to write or read is 1st or 3rd person close perspective, and you achieved this perspective quite well! Secondly, you said no prior knowledge of the world was necessary to give the critique, but I was incredibly confused. I think in some ways this is a flaw if you want it to be able to stand on its own. When doing the line by line edits, I’ll try to suggest ways where you can improve on this and give more clarity to the average reader. However, one way this served your story was the realization that, as far as I can tell, Eli and Victor did not have a good relationship. Just skimming, I took away that Eli was somewhat Victor’s nemesis? I thought this was very fascinating as you begin with what seems to be Victor’s grief over Eli’s death, but it shifts to something different when you realize what Eli was to him. Not necessarily less of a grief—but just different. I thought that tonal shift was done fabulously and served to make the story more compelling. I’ll now shift to more line-by line edits and reading through it more thoroughly.

gigi wrote:

It was eleven pm. Victor didn’t have much time. His hands were steady as he picked up Haverty’s needles and vials. There were tubes of Eli’s blood lining the walls. Once upon a time, merely hours ago, Victor wouldn’t have thought twice about gathering Eli’s blood. Between Dominic and his desensitization to blood, it wouldn’t have been hard to relive the good days with Eli.

Going back to my note about confusion, I’m very confused here. However, in this instance, I think it serves the story rather than dragging it down. My confusion leads to curiosity and interest. Why is Eli’s blood in tubes? Why does Victor need the blood? All these questions are good to begin with. (Though, on the other hand, I might cut down on the bombardment of unknown names just a little bit. It can be hard to keep track of so many new characters with nothing to tie them to. Maybe don’t mention Haverty or Dominic. Especially as I’m unclear what Dominic has to do with this? Is Dominic the one who is desensitized, or is it Victor? I just find the final sentence unclear in its wording.)

gigi wrote:

Eli was dead, *bull ay ted* (scratch doesn’t like that word) cleanly by Sydney and he hadn’t gotten back up. Eli should have gotten back up. That was how their game went. Victor would try and try again and after every wound Eli stitch himself back up and try and hurt Victor in return. The cold *peri shhh ed* (scratch doesn’t like this word) body should have only existed once and that should have been fifteen years ago in an ice bath.

Again, super confused. I like that though! I like that it shows a bit more of who Eli was to Victor. However, I think that the final line is, again, a bit confusing in its wording. Are you trying to say that Eli should have *pear i shhh hed* before but didn’t? I think if you changed the wording a bit that could be clearer. Maybe change the wording to: “Eli’s cold, *pearai shhh shid* (scratch doesn’t like this word) body should have only existed once: fifteen years again in that ice bath.” I think this makes it clear he’s speaking of a particular situation. I still don’t know what the situation *is*, but I do now know that Eli had been either assumed to be **peari shhheed* or *peari sshhheed* before. And that should have been the only time, in Victor’s mind. Which is really good! I love how you’re dealing with Victor’s grief and denial.

gigi wrote:

Victor’s hands weren’t shaking because the gas was still being pumped through his lungs. He was still being robbed of his own power should the EON come through the door. Dying and dying and dying again had taken it’s toll on him, leaving him skin and bones. Victor wouldn’t throw a worthy punch in his state let alone taking down several healthy men. How Eli had managed to gain muscle was beyond Victor but then again, was Eli immortal in the same way Victor was? Victor’s hands weren’t shaking because the lack of pain had caused a lack of fear. The return of the sensation of pain hadn’t also been the return of fear.

Victor felt blissfully numb.

Oooh this worldbuilding stuff is super cool! I like a lot about the way you’re having Victor narrate. However, these last couple sentences confuse me. His hands aren’t shaking? Because he can’t feel pain, he’s not afraid? But wait, he can feel pain? I just feel like it’s unclear what he can feel, and then in the final sentence you say he feels numb? I’d clarify that a bit. I think something along the lines of: “Victor’s hands weren’t even shaking. His inability to feel pain led him to lack fear. It was blissfully numb: an awareness without sensation.” would work better and simplify things.

gigi wrote:

There were footsteps down the hallway. EON reached the building; they had traced Victor and thought they had him cornered.

Victor took the vials, anything Haverty left behind. He swiped them all and shoved them in the bag. The footsteps were louder. He opened the window. The door handle creaked as it was opened. Victor jumped out the window. Stell, tagged by several EON officials, burst into the office. Victor fell onto the bush below. He didn’t check if all the glass equipment was intact. Haverty was a scientist kin to Victor. You didn’t run such dedicated experiments if you would loose your progress with the slip of a hand.

He didn’t check to see if Stell had looked down the window. He staggered towards the roads and stuck his hand out. He kept moving. Victor jogged when he felt like he’d been moving too slowly before.

Ooh, this is good, I like the action!

gigi wrote:

A car slowed down to stop. A woman with pink hair that had faded from the dye and freckles on her cheekbones rolled down her window. “Where are you going?” she asked.

The only thing I’d change about this is making it very clear that Victor is running along some sort of highway. You mention a road, but I didn’t know immediately if cars were driving along. Are cars driving by and ignoring him? Or is this the first car he sees? I’d just add a bit more description of what is happening around him in this part.

gigi wrote:

“Merit city. I need to stop on the motorway. I promised to help one of my friends because her cars broken down. Is that enroute for you? She broke down twenty three miles from the city border if you’re not going there. Hell, drop me off at the next gas station.”

She hummed as if considering it, “Where’s Syd?” she asked.

Victor stumbled back. After realising what he had done, he moved closer to the window so he was gripping the glass, “How do you know that name?” The facial features of the girl began to twist until an older woman with a crooked nose and brown curly hair was looking at him. “Jude.” Victor stated. Jude smiled.

Ayyyy I don’t even know who this is but I’m excited that she’s here lol
(Maybe explain why she came, though? Did Victor tell anyone where he was going? How did she find him? Or is it just a coincidence?)

gigi wrote:

“Where’s Syd?”
“I had to deal with some business. I didn’t want her to get caught if I was too slow.”
“And you’re meeting her twenty three miles from Merit city? That’s an awful long way.”
“Mitch is with her. He took the car.”
Jude took a minute to think about it.
“Get in.” Jude ordered. “And you owe me one for this Vale.”
Victor climbed into the passenger seat. Jude started to drive and continued for the forty five minutes until they reached the fateful sign.

This was really good! I love the emotion in it as well as the action. I don’t even know what fandom it’s from, but it makes me want to read whatever book it’s from :0 Great job, Gigi, and thanks for letting me critique it for you! Hope it helps

+ 763 words of critique!

Critique of a Perfect Time to Die

Okay , on a skim read and I really want to say I love the setting for this story! I think Winter perfectly sets the tone before we *know* the tone. It's also instantly creates an intreguing atmosphere that pulls you into this bleak and lifeless moments. The other thing for future reference is *please* double space. It helps make everything legible and it is the industry standard. I know it's annoying to go through and you might already have it double spaced on your original document but it makes a world of a difference.

Okay! Line by line edits!

> But Rome hadn’t wanted to check the clock, so they didn’t, not at first. Once it lasted over a month with no sign of improvement, his mother had checked it anyway.

I really like this! You can immediately tell what the clock is and what it's foreboding, where it hadn't been as clear at the beginning. Rome's refusal to look at it gives the reader a great insight into his character and his reluctance to die.

> Both thoughts were as dark and cold as the winter.

I do think you lean way to far into the cold/winter metaphors and often to your own detriment. My general code of conduct is always assume you're readers are smart. We, your readers, know that thoughts of death and sacrifice are dark because society has already told us. This metaphor would work if you were either using a lesser known metaphor or introducing a new extended metaphor into the story. As it is, we the reader know winter is linked with death from the opening sentance and from knowledge of previous writings, where Winter is synonmous with death and illness. It feels as if you don't trust your reader to link winter to death or death as bad on their own. You should trust your reader.

> He would not spend his last days in bed, no matter how much his lungs—or his mother—protested.

A great set up for the main meat of the story! As a deathly ill child, it would have been a really easy trap to fall into not explaining how or why he's up and moving in his final, presumably worse days. It takes what's already been established about Rome and builds onto it. I also like the mention of the two coats! Sounds as snuggly as he can get!

> He wondered, like he had many times before, if he could die sooner than the clock said

I'm unsure if it's a stylistic choice to have the reader so removed from Rome's perspective/be third person omniscient. Either way, this has already been said and really highlights an issue of telling rather than showing. If you don't want to dig into Rome's thoughts, he could maybe act in a way that suggests this wish. Maybe he checks his watch again and calculates how long he has left or he could act dangerously as if trying to die before the clock tells him too and thereby challenging it's authority. These are ideas of course but this sentance is repeating something that's already been established and not sharing anything new about the world or the characters to the reader.

> The sign read closed, but the zookeepers always left a side door open for him.

This is an intresting piece of infomation. I feel as if it's contradictionry to what we already know about Rome, he's been bedbound for three months now and there's been no implied fascination with birds. I love the idea and I think it could really elevate this story, perhaps if birds were another reoccuring metaphor alongside the winter?

> “I saw the penguins.”
“I like the penguins, too,” the stranger said.

I really like the dialogue and connection built between Rome and the stranger here! It feels perfectly natural for a stranger and a child. It's not to deep and straight to the point, another trap very easy to fall into, so really well done with that! I also love Rome's brutal honesty in his earlier dialogue as well.

> The winter was the perfect time to die. After all, everything else in the world seemed to think so.
I think we get really into Rome's mind here. His acceptance of his fate etc… Just, yeah I love how you write Rome and I very much would read more of him.

> and he watched as winter claimed the man
Great final line! I don't really have much else to say on it. It feels both like a natural ending and as if there should be something after.

-

Line by line thoughts finished! Here are the thoughts I couldn't fit in/would like to emphasise and a closing statement.

I didn't know where to put it but the man's appearence at the zoo feels very forced for the sake of plot? Everything we know about the zoo and the clocks implies Rome should be alone or at least with people who have a fair amount of time left. I do really like the man's role and symbol in the story, which I interepreted as you not being alone in your suffering. I just can't quite get over the question ‘What was he doing there?’

I also didn't know where to put it but I am in awe of your choice of language. Every word felt like the write verb and noun etc… I was immerserd in this world.

I'd also like to emphasise that I feel like a lot of this short story does a lot of telling rather than showing. It's hard because you obviously have a lot of amazing ideas but not enough time to fully expand on them. You cut corners by saying ‘Rome wondered if he could die before his watch’ and ‘His mother was worried.’ rather then spend an extra twenty words or so showing these characters acting in a way that shows the reader these feelings.

I'd like to close my thouhts with the fact I genuinly think this is an amazing piece of writing and you should be proud of it! Your character work is amazing and so are the relationship dynamics. And also your description. I didn't break this down with every moment I was blown away by the language because It would be a lot of your writing reflected back at you. I loved reading this!

hi! just skimming through, this is super pretty! keep in mind, though, that i’m by no means a poet, so take all my advice with a grain of salt.

chuey wrote:

Child of the night, whisper till the morning
Sh, sh, don’t cry
Close your sleepy eyes and never mind the mourning
Let me sing you a lullaby

this is really pretty right off the bat, but my one comment would be that i don’t really understand the purpose of the “whisper till the morning” line. within everything else, it seems as if this person is talking to a child and trying to get them to sleep, but this line seems incongruent with the rest of it. why would they be telling the child to whisper? otherwise, this is a really great beginning, setting up the rest of it nicely.

chuey wrote:

Dream of life and love, not death
Sweetest one, don’t cry, I’m here
Be thankful for your every breath
Night closes in; you have nothing to fear

I’d say this line has a couple more issues, but this time I’d say it comes down to flow. I think that the “don’t cry, i’m here” would have flowed nicely into “night closes in; you have nothing to fear”, but with the other line in between it feels kind of disrupted. Obviously, I know that the rhyming scheme wouldn’t have worked, but I think it would be worth it to look at this line again and see if you can rearrange some things. Additionally, I might change the first and last lines? I think the first line feels a bit jarring with the mention of “death”—obviously, you’ve mentioned “mourning” in the previous verse, but I think this one seems a bit more out of place, I guess? And with the last line, I think including a “but” rather than the semicolon would make the thought flow more smoothly. Considering that night is usually seen as a time to be afraid, changing the line to “night closes in, but you have nothing to fear” (or maybe “you don’t have to fear” to keep the syllables matching?) would make the thought feel more complete.

chuey wrote:

Sleep until the dawn of day
Child of the night, whisper till morning
Sunshine breaks, broken voices pray
Close your sleepy eyes and never mind the mourning

I like the harkening back to the first verse, but with some line changes.

chuey wrote:

Born to darkness to die in the light
Dream of life and love, not death
Reaching for day from the shadows of night
Be thankful for your every breath

This sounds nice, although it’s making me a little confused about the lore surrounding this story? Will this child die when it turns to day?

chuey wrote:

Innocent hands, grasping for gold
Sleep until the dawn of day
Trick of the sun; it’s merely mold
Sunshine breaks, broken voices pray

ooh, I love the “broken voices pray” line! (religious imagery >>>>)

chuey wrote:

Dust glitters and sparkles, false in the sun
Born to darkness to die in the light
Sobbing for starlight till our days are done
Reaching for day from the shadows of night

I love the aesthetic of this world so much. Very nice.

chuey wrote:

Straining for the moon when we can’t touch the sky
Innocent hands, grasping for gold
Falling when we fail, hiding when we cry
Trick of the sun, it’s merely mold

Again, the repetition is super nice!

chuey wrote:

Getting up again, stumbling through the dark
Dust glitters and sparkles, false in the sun
Loving the sunshine even when it tears us apart
Sobbing for starlight till our days our done

gah the “loving the sunshine even when it tears us apart” is really good! although i *might* say sunlight instead of shine, for some reason i feel like it fits the mood of the line more

chuey wrote:

Loving the light, even when it blinds us
Straining for the moon when we can’t touch the sky
Craving the light, even when it binds us
Falling when we fail, hiding when we cry
Sh, sh, don’t cry
Getting up again, stumbling through the dark
Let me sing you a lullaby
Loving the sunshine even when it tears us apart
Sweetest one, don’t cry, I’m here
Loving the light, even when it binds us
Night closes in, you have nothing to fear.
Craving the light, even when it binds us
Child of the night, whisper till the morning…

I like how you started small and then shifted to more universal themes, especially when you talked about the moon and sunlight. And stepping into the sun even when it hurts. (Giving Dear Evan Hansen.) While I don’t have that many notes (sorry, I don’t know how to critique poetry….), I did have a few things I recommended at the beginning that I think would improve the piece afterwards as well. Overall, this was very pretty!

+ 483 words of critique

He’d told them he enjoyed the rain. He wouldn’t need a ride home. But thank you for the offer.

Now, as Kieran stood alone on the sidewalk, he scowled at the sky and wished for any sign of the sun.

He trudged along under the clouds, rain smeared over his glasses, hands stuffed in his pockets. His face schooled itself into a smile each time he encountered a passerby.

He couldn’t help but dwell on the workday, though he’d much prefer to put it all behind him. However far away Kieran’s feet got, his mind was still stuck back there.

So far that day he’d spilled coffee on the carpet—no coffee tomorrow—he’d had to ask for help using the printer. After an entire week on the job! Then, he’d lost track of time and been late to his meeting—his only meeting that day.

The offer to drive him home had been a polite gesture on his co-workers’ part, nothing more. Not after all that. Besides, they couldn’t see his apartment. The shabbiest, cheapest place he could find, in the worst neighborhood in the city. He didn’t want to see their pitying stares when they realized the hour-long walks he underwent each day.

When Kieran finally arrived and unlocked the door to his apartment, he had to squeeze by the bike he’d abandoned in the hallway. The red paint was peeling, the tires in desperate need of filling, and the chain snapped.

He barely registered it, except to make a mental note to get rid of it later. It wasn’t of any use to him, as he couldn’t afford to fix it.

Kieran took his shoes off, placing them carefully by the door. He slid his arms out of his jacket and checked it over. Seemed clean enough; he hung it in the tiny closet.

Unbuttoning his shirt as he went, Kieran turned the television on and then wandered through to the kitchen, pulling out the egg carton. Kieran grabbed a bowl from the dishwasher, setting it beside the eggs, and turned the heat on under a pan on the stove.

Kieran rushed back to his bedroom as the pan warmed up, tossing his shirt in the laundry and tugging on a plain white t-shirt instead. He paused in the hall, staring at the bike. Strange how the chain could be split in two, broken and useless, but still one piece.

When he returned to the kitchen, the pan was ready. He made himself two scrambled eggs, shaking on the pepper liberally. The smell was familiar, if not comforting.

Kieran cleaned the pan, then scarfed down his food and washed the plate, bowl, and utensils.

It was dark now, past 6:00, and the rain was continuing outside. Kieran sat in bed and listened to the TV in the background, but his focus drifted. His gaze kept catching on the red bicycle. He really did have to get rid of that thing.


The next day, Kieran passed the bike again, but he was in too big a hurry to get to work to do anything about it.

He stepped outside the apartment building, and the fresh smell of rain accosted him. Kieran paused, letting the feeling wash over him. The sky was still overcast, but the clouds showed no sign of further rain. Instead, they appeared white and endless, like paper with no words yet written.

An hour later, Kieran sat at his desk, fingers drumming on the surface. In a strange way, the desk felt emptier today. Like a blank page that needed filling.

Kieran turned the computer on, stifling a yawn. Maybe it had been a mistake to skip coffee.

“Tired?” A voice startled him out of his reverie.

Kieran glanced up, where his co-worker leaned over the cubicle wall. He turned in his seat, looking around as if she could have been talking to someone else. “Um. Yeah. I guess I am.”

“Me too,” she said with a sigh.

Kieran nodded in response, but she didn’t leave. Was he supposed to say something back?

“Sorry,” he offered.

She laughed. Wait, was that not the right thing to say? Kieran frowned up at her. But she quickly assuaged his worries. “It’s my own fault.”

It suddenly occurred to him how strange she looked, poking her head and shoulders up over the wall. Kieran tilted his head, leaning back in his chair. “How are you doing that?”

“Oh! I’m standing on my chair,” she said with a giggle.

She giggled.

“I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name,” Kieran admitted. Did that sound stupid? Rude?

“It’s Haley.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Oop—got to go. Talk to you later, Kieran.” She gave him a little wave, then ducked back down, accompanied by the sound of the chair creaking and wheels clacking.

Kieran shook his head. What had that been about? His co-workers were strange.

Thirty minutes later, someone else stopped by. (Matt. He thought.)

“Did you want some coffee, Kieran?” Matt asked, gesturing to his desk where you could still faintly see coffee-rings on its white surface.

“Oh—,” Kieran started. “Um. I don’t really like it.” Kieran winced. “I mean, coffee in general. I’m sure the coffee is great. But thanks.”

Matt smiled and gave him a thumbs up. “All good.”

Kieran returned his gaze to the desk, wondering if these people saw the emptiness he did.


Matt had offered to drive Kieran home again. Kieran had done his best to politely decline.

It rained again that evening. Kieran stared at the sidewalk beneath his feet, trying to keep the rain from falling on his glasses.

The sound drummed on, like static.

Something in that emptiness prompted him to look up.

Across the street, a girl sat in a window.

Kieran’s gaze met hers, and she smiled at him. Her whole body seemed illuminated in joy. He smiled back. She raised a hand in recognition. He copied the gesture.

Kieran let his hand fall slowly, watching the girl with the smile on her face. Why, today of all days, had his eyes strayed? After so carefully avoiding the other side of the street.

The girl sat in a dilapidated house, her sweater threadbare, edges fraying. Kieran could feel the cold air of memories and long winters spent inside, alone. Every inch of the image before him was achingly familiar, except one detail.

She smiled.

Kieran wondered how it would feel to smile like that.

His own smile was already fading as he left the house behind, the place he’d avoided so perfectly before. He couldn’t quite make himself regret looking, though his glasses were now covered in droplets.

What he did regret, though, Kieran realized as he stared at his broken bike, distorted by the rain drops, was not taking Matt up on his offer.

+ 1133 words

Critique for @Rainstorm-09

Before I transition to line-by-line edits, I’ll begin by saying that I think this is a really good piece. I critiqued another of your works in this world before (last session, I believe), and I think you’ve improved since then! I feel like you have a good grasp on the character and the world and I like how the story moves forward. That said, I think you fall into a bit of “telling” how Storm feels rather than showing it—or telling when you’ve already showed. Overall, I’d say this is a strong example of your abilities, but there are some details I’d like to help you smooth out with this edit.

storm wrote:

Storm Marlowe pulled her clock cloak around her body as she waited for the train to pull in at the station.

The stupidest thing the Dictator did was make transports the only way to cross borders. She looked up as a whistle blew.

“Transport for Los Angeles, leaving in five minutes.,” Aa voice said over the intercom. Storm boarded a car on the transport and found a place to stand.

How am I supposed to stand all the way to L.A? After everyone had boarded, they started off along the long track to L.A.

(Grammar/spelling corrections in bold.) This is a good beginning, setting up the conflict (her trying to cross borders)!

storm wrote:

Storm pulled her hood up as they stopped at the California border.

“All passengers, please prepare for a security check.” The doors slid open and guards stepped on board. They checked everyone, but passed by Storm. She tilted her head.

That sure was odd. She thought as the guard left the transport.

“Next stop, L.A Station.”

This part is also very strong, building the tension and adding some mystery to it that gets resolved later. Good job!

storm wrote:

Storm sat across from a fellow rebel. They were hiding out in a hotel, and discussing her plans.

“I need to get to the shuttle in Cabo San Lucas by the end of the month.” Storm said. The woman across from her raised her eyebrows.

“That gives you two weeks to get to Mexico and travel to the end of the Baja peninsula?” Storm nodded. Her peer whistled.

“I’m surprised that you got into California, good luck getting to Mexico without the overseer catching you.” Storm rolled her eyes.

“The California overseer didn’t catch me.”

“California and Mexico have the same overseer. And he’s good. If he let you pass over the border, there’s a reason.” Storm shook her head, and was about to say something when her peer cut in.

“Last rebel who tried to get into Mexico was killed, Storm. Under that overseer's watch. I don’t think you can get to the Mars shuttle.” She shook her head.

“You should just go back to your father's casino.” Storm stood up.

“No way! I have the information that the board on Mars needs, and I plan to get there.” She fiddled with the hem of her cloak.

“I can’t afford to get caught.” She turned around.

“My transport leaves in an hour. I should get going.” Her peer stood.

“Good luck.”

I feel like this part, while it allows us to understand more of what Storm is feeling and thinking at this point, needs a bit more work. It seems as though that is the only reason for this part. Why is Storm talking to this person? They don’t seem to be friends, and I can’t tell from this whether this fellow rebel is giving Storm anything. Some things you could do to fix this issue would be to make Storm need something from her (money, some sort of I.D., directions, etc.)—as long as it makes sense within the context of the larger story, of course. Or else you could cut this part and have Storm find out about the dead rebel/the overseer another way. (I.e. from a friend/more friendly co-worker or some sort of message to the rebels as a whole, perhaps?) If you’re going to keep this part mostly as is, I would also either name the other rebel or have Storm call her something, because it was a bit confusing to me when she was constantly referred to as Storm’s “peer”, but that’s mostly just personal preference. This part definitely adds to the tension and makes it clear that Storm is doing something that’s pretty ill-advised, however, and I like that about it a lot.

storm wrote:

Storm rocked back and forth on her heels as the transports crossed California. They were due at the border in ten minutes, and she was feeling anxious as they came closer to the border. Storm pulled her hood over her head. The last thing she needed was for someone to recognize her. As the transport bumped along the track, Storm looked at her surroundings. The transport was full to the brim with people. Some speakingspoke Universal Basic, and others speakingspoke their own language. She could only pick out a few Earth languages (German, Japanese, Spanish), but the others just sounded like gibberish. The transport came to a halt.

“All passengers, please prepare for a security check.” The intercom said. Storm groaned.

This was the moment she had been dreading.

Here, you tell us that Storm has been dreading this, but you’ve already shown her irritation (or dread) by her groaning—so I don’t think that this is particularly necessary. I’d just cut the final sentence.

storm wrote:

The doors at the end of the cart opened, and guards stepped on board. Behind them, an overseer. His dark hair fell to his chin and a long scar sliced down one slide of his light brown face, taking the sight of his left eye with it. He cleared his throat.

“Check everyone on board. We don't want that little rebel getting off the planet.” Storm slid behind a steel pole. The last thing she wanted was the Hispanic overseer and his guards catching her. She could hear the guards shoving the other passengers as they searched for her. She peeked out from her hiding place and gasped. The overseer himself was also checking people. This was an unusual phenomenon. He turned and stared right at her. Storm heart skipped a beat. She had been caught. She spun on her heels and ran down the cart. She could hear yelling behind her. She pushed past a family and tried to reach the door, but someone grabbed her cloak and shoved her to the ground. The overseer bent over her.

“I know someone who will be very glad to see you.” He said with a grin. Storm huffed as he guards lifted her by the hood of her cloak.

“You're a monster.” She growled as she tried to kick one of the guards. He shrugged and grinned again.

“Maybe.” He signaled to the guards, and they carried her off the transport.

“Tienes suerte de que el Ejecutivo te quiera vivo.” He muttered as the transport continued to move.

I should be on that stupid transport. The overseer was staring at her. She glared at him.

“Sorry, Señor. I don’t speak Spanish that well.” He chuckled.

“My apologies, Señorita. I was just expressing my congratulations.” She squinted at him as the guard started to drag her to a small transport.

“What?”

“After all, you might get to live for another week.” Storm shivered despite the warm weather.

“I’ve done nothing wrong!” The guards dropped her and the overseer grabbed her shoulders and spun her around.

“Señorita, you have revolted against the government, tried to escape to Mars to give vital information to your group of rebels, and cheated a government official out of fifty-thousand dollars. You are innocent of nothing.” Storm moved her face away from his.

“When did I get fifty-thousand dollars from a government official?” He sighed.

“Señor Tucker visited your father’s casino in Vegas. You played poker with him, and cheated.” Storm pursed her lips.

“Oh.” The overseer grinned. “Es como si ella nunca hubiera sabido que él era un funcionario.” Storm glared at him.

“If you’re going to talk, do it in English.” He shook his head.

“Señorita Marlowe, if I say it in Spanish it doesn’t concern you. Let’s get going.” The guards grabbed Storm again and followed their overseer. She inhaled sharply as they shoved her into the back of the transport. The guards were about to climb in after her, but the overseer held up his hand.

“I’m the one who signed a contract to bring her in, let me guard her, monstruos.” The guard glared at him, but moved out of the way. He got in the transport beside her and slid the door shut.

“Conductor, el Ejecutivo nos espera en él Mexicali. Tenemos que llegar antes de que acabe la semana. Ponte en marcha.” He snapped. The driver looked back as the transport started moving.

“Sí, Señor Carmelo.”

“Why does everyone speak Spanish?” Storm groaned. The overseer looked at her.

“You’re in Mexico.” He pointed out. He ran his hands through his black hair. Storm pushed herself against the wall farthest from the overseer and played with her dark brown hair.

This feels a bit out of character to me. Why is she “playing” with her hair? It seems as though you’re trying to show the reader her nervousness, but it just feels out of place to me. Maybe have her eyes scan the train car, searching for a way out—or something to communicate that she’s trying to escape, trying to stall for time, but very anxious about the circumstance.

storm wrote:

“What does the Executive want with me?” She asked, quietly. He looked out the slitted windows and shrugged.

“Lo siento, Señorita. I don’t ask questions.” Storm tilted her head.

“I may not speak much Spanish, but was I mistaken or did you just apologize?” He glanced over his shoulder.

“I don’t like arresting people who aren’t from my borders. You’re from Nevada, not California or Mexico. I said the same thing to the last rebel I caught.” Storm glared at him.

“The one you killed?” She asked. The overseer chuckled, but didn’t answer. She looked down and saw a screw by her boot. She leaned down to get a better look at it, but was yanked away and thrown into the right wall. She sank to the ground as a burst of pain shot through her arm.

“What kind of stunt are you trying to pull? If I hadn’t signed that contract you would be dead, Señorita, don’t push your luck.” Storm shook with fear as the overseer glared down at her, his dark eye staring into her soul. His other eye also seemed to track her movements rather well, despite its lack of sight. He gasped as he spun around. He walked over to a small box mounted on the wall and pulled out a rope. Storm flinched as he stepped towards her. He grabbed her wrists and tied them together. The ground shook. Storm's head shot up.

“What was that?” She asked. The overseer waved her off.

“I doubt it was anything.” But he stuck his head up front and whispered something to the driver. He turned and walked to the back of the transport and started shoving supplies into a few bags.

“Do you walk often?” He asked as he shoved on a beanie.

I feel like this is a weird question to ask—maybe have him say “How do you feel about hiking”? I think the phrasing makes a bit more sense that way, but that’s just personal preference.

storm wrote:

Storm narrowed her eyes at him. Before she could answer there was a bang and the transport started to tilt.

What’s happening? They started to shift to the left and Storm screamed. As they slid to the left she crashed into the overseer. He glared at her as they hit the wall. Storm felt pain in her other arm and her head. As the transport tipped over a bridge, Storm’s world began to fade. As she was slipping away, she heard the overseer say something to her.

“Hagas lo que hagas…” Storm didn’t hear the rest. She wouldwouldn’t have understood it anyway. Her world faded to black.

That wraps up my edits! I’d like to end by saying that I really enjoyed reading this piece, I thought you achieved the action/dystopian genre quite well.

+ 542 words

Out of Sight, Never Out of Mind
1187 words

He’d told them he enjoyed the rain. He wouldn’t need a ride home, but thank you for the offer.

Now, as Kieran stood alone on the sidewalk, he scowled at the sky and wished for any sign of the sun.

He trudged along under the clouds, rain smeared over his glasses, hands stuffed in his pockets. Kieran schooled his face into a smile each time he encountered a passerby. He couldn’t have said whether any of them returned the gesture.

Though he’d have preferred to put it all behind him, Kieran couldn’t help but dwell on the workday.

No matter how far away Kieran’s feet led him, his mind was still stuck back there, in his too-small cubicle.

So far that day he’d spilled coffee on the carpet—no coffee tomorrow—and he’d had to ask for help with the printer. After an entire week on the job! Then, he’d lost track of time and been late to his meeting—his only meeting that day.

The offer to drive Kieran home had been a polite gesture on his co-workers’ part, nothing more. They couldn’t still want him, not after all that. Besides, they couldn’t see his apartment. The shabbiest, cheapest place he could find, in the worst neighborhood in the city. Kieran didn’t want to see their pitying stares when they realized the hour-long walks he underwent each day.

When Kieran finally arrived and unlocked the door to his apartment, he had to squeeze by the bike he’d abandoned in the hallway. The red paint was peeling, the tires in desperate need of filling, and the chain snapped. How long had he let it sit there, gathering dust? Kieran couldn’t quite remember.

Kieran made a mental note to get rid of it later. It wasn’t of any use to him, as he couldn’t afford to fix it.

Kieran took his shoes off, placing them carefully by the door. He slid his arms out of his jacket and checked it over. Seemed clean enough; he hung it in the tiny closet.

Unbuttoning his shirt as he went, Kieran turned the television on and then wandered through to the kitchen, pulling out the egg carton. Kieran grabbed a bowl from the dishwasher, set it beside the eggs, and lit the burner under a pan.

Rushing back to his bedroom while the pan warmed up, Kieran tossed his shirt in the laundry and tugged on a plain white t-shirt instead. He paused in the hall, staring at the bike.

When he returned to the kitchen, the pan was ready. He made himself two scrambled eggs, shaking on the pepper liberally. The smell was familiar, if not comforting.

Kieran cleaned the pan, scarfed down his food, and washed the plate, bowl, and utensils.

It was dark now, past 6:00, and the rain continued to drum against the sides of the building. Kieran sat in bed and listened to the TV in the background, but his focus drifted. His gaze kept catching on the red bicycle. He really did have to get rid of that thing.


The next day as he got ready for work, Kieran passed the bike again, but he was in too big a hurry to do anything about it.

Outside the apartment building, the fresh smell of rain accosted him. Kieran paused, letting the scent wash over him. The sky was still overcast, but the clouds showed no sign of further rain. Instead, they appeared white and endless, like paper with no words yet written.

An hour later, Kieran sat at his desk, fingers drumming on the surface. In a strange way, the desk felt emptier today. Like a blank page that needed filling.

Kieran turned the computer on, stifling a yawn. Maybe it had been a mistake to skip coffee.

“Tired?” A voice startled him out of his reverie.

Kieran glanced up, where his co-worker leaned over the cubicle wall. Her dark hair fell across her shoulders. The lack of an up-do was not strictly professional, but its looseness seemed to reflect her own relaxed pose. He turned in his seat, looking around as if she could have been talking to someone else. “Um. Yeah. I guess I am.”

“Me too,” she said with a sigh.

Kieran nodded in response, but she didn’t leave. Was he supposed to say something back?

“Sorry,” he offered.

She laughed. Wait, was that not the right thing to say? Kieran frowned up at her. But she quickly assuaged his worries. “It’s my own fault.”

It suddenly occurred to him how strange she looked, poking her head and shoulders up over the wall. Kieran tilted his head, leaning back in his chair. “How are you doing that?”

“Oh! I’m standing on my chair,” she said with a giggle.

She giggled.

“I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name,” Kieran admitted. Did that sound stupid? Rude?

“It’s Haley.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Oop—got to go. Talk to you later, Kieran.” She gave him a little wave, then ducked back down, accompanied by the sound of the chair creaking and wheels clacking.

Kieran shook his head. What had that been about? His co-workers were strange.

Thirty minutes later, someone else stopped by—Matt, he thought.

“Did you want some coffee, Kieran?” Matt asked, gesturing to his desk where you could still faintly see coffee-rings on its white surface.

“Oh—,” Kieran started. “Um. I don’t really like it.” Kieran winced. “I mean, coffee in general. I’m sure the coffee is great. But thanks.”

Matt smiled and gave him a thumbs up. “All good.”

Kieran returned his gaze to the desk, wondering if these people saw the emptiness he did.


Matt had offered to drive Kieran home again. Kieran had done his best to politely decline.

It rained again that evening. Kieran stared at the sidewalk beneath his feet, trying to keep the rain from falling on his glasses.

The sound drummed on, like the static between channels.

Something in that emptiness prompted him to look up.

Across the street, a girl sat in a window.

Kieran’s gaze met hers, and she smiled at him. Her whole body seemed illuminated in joy. He smiled back. She raised a hand in recognition. He copied the gesture.

Kieran let his hand fall slowly, watching the girl with the smile on her face. Why, today of all days, had his eyes strayed? After so carefully avoiding the other side of the street.

The girl sat in a dilapidated house, her sweater threadbare, edges fraying. Kieran could feel the cold air of memories that felt like long winters spent inside, alone. Every inch of the image before him was achingly familiar, except one detail.

She smiled.

Kieran wondered how it would feel to smile like that.

His own smile was already fading when he left the house, the place he’d avoided so perfectly before. As he stood in the hallway of his apartment, Kieran couldn’t quite make himself regret looking, though his glasses were covered in droplets.

What he did regret, though, Kieran realized as he stared at his broken bike, distorted by the rain drops, was not taking Matt up on his offer.

Critique for @iinspirqtion

I’ll start with an overview. I just skimmed through it and something that jumped out at me was the characterization of the narrator, as well as his growing frustration that eventually turned into anger and violence. Plot-wise this piece was very strong. My main critique of the piece was I found that you often over-explained what the character was feeling. I thought the *feelings* were good and natural, the jealousy and adoration was a very interesting mix. However, I think some of these things were communicated by “telling” the reader rather than showing them. Overall, the emotional shifts are really good, but I think they could be polished a bit to improve the entire piece a lot. I’ll now shift to some line-by-line edits! (Also, I refer to the narrator as “he” since I couldn’t find anywhere that referred to the narrator’s gender. Not sure if that was intentional or not.)

em wrote:

“My hero”

My
/mī/, determiner
Belonging to or associated with the speaker.

I love the definitions at the beginning and end!

em wrote:

I had the pleasure of gracing his presence for the first time at 6 pm on the clockdot, on a Friday. It was me, not anyone else, walking down that dark alleyway after a long day at work. Why I waswas I walking down an alleyway? Something strange drew me in.

(Grammar/etc corrections in bold) I really enjoy this first sentence. The “pleasure of gracing his presence” sets the tone quite well. However, while I understand the purpose of these other lines, I think they feel a little bit forced. Particularly the “it was me, not anyone else” part. I might combine that sentence and the following one and reword it to be “Why was I, of all people, walking down that dark alleyway?”. I just think that has a better flow to it.

em wrote:

A thought was imprinted in my mind, as it was all the time. I was unimportant, I gave the world a burden by existing. I should just go. It didn’t help that some people made sure to remind me every day.

“You’ve never done a single thing in your life. How do you live with all this boredom? It’s no wonder you don’t have any friends,” One of my coworkers had sneered at me. “What’s the point in you living?” He had then thrown me across the floor, much to the ignorance of our boss, who was somewhere drinking his sorrows away.

Sometimes, I findfound myself admiring the lives of themtheir lives. My boss, my coworkers, their lives, no matter how sad or tragic, were lives. Mine, on the other hand, could only be described as a shell of emptiness.

This is an example of where the character starts to explain his emotions to the reader in a way that, I think, is not necessary. I’d honestly just cut this entire section and go directly into his memory of his co-worker yelling at him. That scene, in my opinion, is enough to show the reader that the narrator is dissatisfied with himself and living a very lonely life.

To sum up, I’d change the first few paragraphs to something more along the lines of:

em with my edits wrote:

I had the pleasure of gracing his presence for the first time at 6 pm on the dot, on a Friday. Why was I, of all people, walking down that dark alleyway? Lost in thought, I wandered in as if drawn there.

I had found myself recalling the day, other peoples’ criticisms echoing in my mind. (Or something *like* this to transition.)

“You’ve never done a single thing in your life. How do you live with all this boredom? It’s no wonder you don’t have any friends,” One of my coworkers had sneered at me. “What’s the point in you living?” He had then thrown me across the floor, much to the ignorance of our boss, who was somewhere drinking his sorrows away.

Still, I sometimes found myself admiring their lives. My boss, my coworkers, their lives, no matter how sad or tragic, were lives. Mine, on the other hand, could only be described as a shell of emptiness.

em wrote:

A strangled gurgle came from a shadowed corner, and I leptleapt back, in a sudden surprise, knocking me out of my daydream. “Help me, please,” a broken voice spokesaid.

I’d just add a quick phrase at the beginning of the first sentence to clarify that we’re being snapped back to the present. (E.g. “Back in that alleyway, a strangled…”) Additionally, I’d shift the sentence structure to be “A strangled gurgle came from a shadowed corner, knocking me out of my daydream. I leapt back, in sudden surprise.” — I feel like this organization flows smoother (so we’re not interrupting the action with another reference to his daydreaming, if that makes sense).

em wrote:

I looked cautiously around, before spotting a quivering figure hiding behind a tattered box. Gingerly, I moved the box to the side, revealing a dirty and musty person. His eyes were full of hope as he noticed me, his hair full of dirt, his body smelling of rot, decay, and blood, and his hands weak and shaking. He seemed to be muttering something over and over, but I couldn’t quite catch what he was saying.

“Can you help me?” He seemed as if he could faint at any second. There were scrapes and bruises on his side. I winced in sympathy. “Please help me,” he cried desperately. “Please.”

This was it, I thought to myself. This was where my life could become interesting, I could help someone! “Come with me, I’ll bring you to my home,” I told him excitedly.

The man started to speak but was cut off by exhaustion. He collapsed on the floor with a thud. It looked like he was on his last string of life.

I rushed to pick him up. He wasn’t heavy at all, on the contrary very thin. Perhaps he didn’t have much to eat, I mused. “I’ll bring you home,” I repeated. “Then we’ll see what we need to do.”

The man, with the last ounce of strength he had, spoke in a ragged breath. “Thank you. You’re my hero,” before losing all consciousness.

I stared at the man in my arms in shock. No one had ever called me a “hero”, and here he was, someone I’d just met, calling me “his hero”. A surge of warmth rushed through me. I’m his hero, I told myself confidently. I can fix this. I can make him feel better.

I really like all of this! The only thing I”d really change is the final paragraph, where I think you slip into a bit more overly-detailed description of his emotions. I might just cut the second sentence and turn it into “I stared at the man in my arms in shock. A surge of warmth rushed through me. I’m his hero, I told myself confidently. I can fix this. I can make him feel better.”

em wrote:

I brought him home, washed him up, and let him rest on a spare mattress I had. After a while, he woke up. “Thank you for your kindness,” he told me. “I won’t be in your hair for too long, but would you mind me staying for a while?”

I smiled and told him I didn’t mind.

That “while” turned into months, turned into years that he spent next to me. I never understood why he chose to live with me for all those years, instead of someone better. Someone more worthy of someone like him.

The only thing I’d comment on here is that the “Someone more worthy of someone like him” line feels a bit out of place. We currently don’t know anything about this man’s character. However, it does work to illustrate that the narrator feels like he is a worthless person, so I like it in that regard. I might just move the narrator’s confusion about why the man kept living with him to after you describe how good the man is. (Totally not necessary, just a thought.)

em wrote:

He was kind to me, he talked to me, and I felt as if I had a friend, something that I’d never experienced before. He always thought of me, always grateful for the little act that I did years ago.

He wasn’t only a good person to me, he helped others, saved others, and talked to others without any trace of fear. Things I would never dare to do. Soon, people started calling him their “hero”. It was a well-deserved title. If you knew how much he helped a no-name town like us, you would’ve understood. Everyone understood who he was. A savior. A hero. Their hero.

Soon everyone wanted a piece of him, he would disappear during the day and only come home at night, with his face flushed and cheeks red. Soon he had hundreds of people waiting to talk to him, begging him to give him a second of his time. Who was I to argue with a person who I didn’t even deserve to be in the presence of?

“I got a few drinks, it was on the house. I was talking to a few friends, I hope you don’t mind,” he grinned, eyes as bright and full of life. He was happy, and I wasn’t.

They took him away, a whisper came from the depths of my brain. They took him away from you, just like everything else. He was yours, but now he will never be. It’s just the way things go.

They were probably talking about how amazing he was, how brave he was, how lucky they were to have him. They were probably thanking him for defeating those monsters a few days ago on the outskirts of town. Everybody loved him.

But I loved him first. I took care of him first, doesn’t that mean something? Doesn’t that matter?

This is super good, especially the last couple sentences.

em wrote:

Soon I wouldn’t see him at all, the townspeople begging him to stay at their house for a while, to meet their family. He had changed from that helpless quivering ball all those years ago, to someone everyone wanted around. To someone, everyone wanted a piece of. He barely even acknowledged me anymore. It wasn’t his fault, of course, he had better things to do than to worry about me. He was still there, coming in from time to time, but I’d never see him. As if I wasn’t important enough. As if I wasn’t deserving enough. I understandunderstood, I was never deserving enough for someone that wonderful. I never willwould be.

Here you accidentally shift into present tense, so I’d watch out for that.

em wrote:

Then, everything changed. It was another day coming back from work, a Monday to be exact. Mondays were always bad luck. This day was no exception. I passed the pub on my way home, and a new poster was hanging from the town bulletin board. “WANTED: ALIVE OR DEAD”, it said in big bold letters, and it drew me in.

Here is, I think, a good place to reference the beginning? You mention it “drawing him in” again here, so perhaps you could emphasize that more.

em wrote:

I stopped to look at it, and what I saw was that man’s face, smiling, grinning, no smirking, with a fifty-thousand krut bounty below it.

I feel like the man should have some sort of nickname the townspeople or the narrator give him. “The/that man” just seems a bit unclear and confusing. Perhaps he could call him “hero”? That might be a bit too on the nose, but I think he needs some sort of nickname even if no one knows his real name.

em wrote:

“Did you hear? That man, he’s wanted in Theris, and now they’ve come here to search for him!” One of the passersby whispered to their friends. “It’s a shame that it came out this way, he was a good person. He saved my child from the flu, he was my hero.”

I’m a little unclear on how he could have saved someone from the flu…. Is he a doctor?

em wrote:

My hero. Those two words again. They sounded the same as they were those many years ago, in that dark alleyway. But those words probably mean nothing to them, when they can say them so casually. Not me, never me. When I went home, there was no trace of him. All his belongings were gone. He had probably already fled to somewhere else. There was no note, nothing, to thank me for my years of kindness. It made me mad, how easy was it for him to just disappear like that after he meant so much to so many people? Me, on the other hand, if I was him, I would’ve stayed and treasured my last moments here. I would find him and make him pay.

I gave up my life, everything I held dear, to travel the world, in hopes of finding him. I left my family, my friends, to find him, because he took something for granted that I never would. It’s strange, thinking back to my decision. Why did I do it?

But now, here I am, after years that could no longer remember, after I had grown old and wizened with the knowledge I collected from journeying the world, I’d found him. And now, standing here, it feels so bittersweet, because both of us know what’s going to happen. Basking in the moonlight, standing on a cliff, looking down onto the sea. The woods surround us every which way.

I like the shift to many years in the future quite a bit! However, I would consider foreshadowing this a little more earlier in the story. Perhaps starting here and then cutting back to the explanation of how they got there. Or you could even mention that the narrator “didn’t know how many years the man would have a hold on him” when he says how long the man stayed? Totally not necessary, though, just something to consider. (Plus, I think it would make the tense change a bit less jarring. Otherwise, I might make this part in past tense as well.)

em wrote:

“Why?” I ask, choked up with tears. “Why did you leave?”

He sighs. “I’m not a good person. You are. You took me in, even though I was a robber, a criminal, a monster. I thought that if I escaped somewhere else, I could rewrite my destiny and help others pay for what I’ve done in the past. But the past catches up to you. So I ran from it. But now, it’s back. I know I can’t run anymore. My life is filled with loneliness and pain, so why continue?” He gives me a soft smile, weathered by age.

I felt so angry. So angry that he could smile over what he’d done. So angry about everything. So angry that he’d taken my life, and made me waste it on him, but it’d all end now, wouldn’t it?

I love the description of the other man, but I might change this last paragraph to use less “telling”. You’re *telling* the reader that he’s angry, instead of showing it. Instead, I might change the paragraph to “How could he smile over what he’d done? My fists shook from how hard I clenched them. I’d wasted my whole life on him, but it was the end now. Wasn’t it?” Or something like that

em wrote:

“Before I have to do what I have to do, let me ask you something,” I whisper my question into his ear.

I love that you don’t hear the question! I think it adds to the tension. I might consider rephrasing what he tells the guy, though, because it feels a bit wordy. Maybe you could change it to “First, let me ask you something”?

em wrote:

He smiles again and whispers back.

And then I push him.

The inconceivable past where I can no longer stray on.

SLDKFJSDJLF *brain explodes* I love this so much. It’s so dark and so good.

em wrote:

“Hey! I didn’t quite catch your name!” A blurry face is talking to him. “I wanted to thank you for helping me pay my debt!”

This confuses me a bit. I can’t tell if you’re changing perspectives or not. Maybe say “My blurry face”? If this is the narrator talking? I don’t really understand who it is, though.

em wrote:

He looks at the face with a sad expression. “The name I was chosen for had high expectations for me. Unfortunately, I have not lived up to those expectations. Only then will that name be worthy of me. I hope you understand my strange request.”

The blurry face nods. “I won’t pry further if you don’t want me to.”

Back to the ruined future, which I could never change.

I asked him, “Who are you? What is your name? After all my time with you, I still don’t know a single thing about you. It’s funny, isn’t it?”

As if he’d already known what was going to come, he looked up at the stars, his eyes shining as brightly as them. “I am a person just like you. I have done many terrible wrongs, and no matter how hard I try to be good. I know I never will be. My future was laid out for me before I could decide. I am no Hero, as my name claims to be. You were a better person than me, you were a better Hero. You will always be my Hero. But it didn’t do you any good to save me, did it? It caused you more misfortune because of that. It left you for others, I was never truly grateful to those who were truly kind to me. That’s why I don’t deserve all the praise, that’s why I understand what you’re going to do.”

I was surprised. How did he know? But before I could react, my body chose to move on its own, and now he was gone, six feet underwater, no way he could come back. And so I sit there, on the soft ground, staring up at the sky, clenching my fists, unclenching them, and clenching them again. Thinking of what I did. I couldn’t let the guilt bring me even further down. It was what I was meant to do, what I was supposed to do.

I like this, but, again, I’m confused because it seems like he pushes him twice? The jumping between the past and the future just confuses me. But I realllllly like that the narrator almost does it on accident, but it’s a result of all his pent-up rage and hatred.

em wrote:

In the night, I think I saw a misty image of him, fading away before me, grinning with that all-knowing smirk I knew too much. The one that had haunted my sleep for such a long time. All-knowing till the end. He knew that none of us were heroes, no matter how hard we tried.

To this day I am still confused. What truly is a hero, and what makes a person one, when someone who seemed that wonderful, wasn’t a hero?

Hero
/hirō, hērō/ noun
a person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.

But he was my hero first.

SLDKJFJSDKL I really loved the drama of this story, and the narrator’s “fall” was super well done, too. *applause* Good luck on the competition, and I hope my edits are helpful<3

+ 1017 words of critique :0

Bellefleur
an x-files fanfic
co-written with @violent-measures
575 words

This is where it started: Bellefleur, Oregon. Between pine trees and two-lane highways. A spot where nine minutes had disappeared, marked with an X. A little town where scared kids grew up and the air sometimes smelled of the sea. Where those kids were taken someplace they didn’t know and then abandoned, broken under the evergreens.

This is how it started. Sunflower seeds cracking in the night. Rain falling in dark sheets. The radio acting up, five stations playing all at once. A bright light shining outside their car, and suddenly a moment, nine minutes, gone.

“Time can’t just disappear, it’s a universal invariant!” she shouted at him over the rain, an incredulous smile crossing her rain-streaked face.

But they’d both seen it. Time didn’t work quite right here. He grinned crookedly in return. Nine minutes were a promise that the lost little girl could be found. This victory he commemorated in a bright orange X.

It started with scared girls and secrets in a dark motel room, with revelations shared next to ruined graves and rain soaking them through. They hadn’t remembered an umbrella.

His new partner had wide blue eyes and a laugh he thought he could listen to forever. She laughed at the insanity of nine minutes gone, of crippled girls walking. He laughed with her, but they both believed the truth could be hidden in a stopped watch and a patch of dirt from somewhere else. Science could prove the impossible real.

“Where are we going?” she asked, in the beginning.

First they’d lost nine minutes, then seven years. Evidence never amounted to much more than an X on the concrete. But the seven years amounted to so much more.

Moments passed as quickly as the trees outside the window, a whole lifetime held inside yet gone in the blink of an eye. They wandered many more forests in search of time and girls that had gone missing. After Bellefleur, they usually remembered an umbrella.

They never stopped asking each other questions, and he never stopped wondering if they were alone in this universe. It was never easy to believe, but it was easy to look up.

They watched the sky for lights, or at least he did. He got better at remembering to look down.

They drove down many dark roads and, in motel rooms much like the first, shared secrets and revelations they could not prove. What they might not hold in their hands was contained in their memories.

Sometimes remembering was the hardest part, when there were too many lost girls and not enough found.

Seven years of lost time later, they were back in the car with no need for the radio because they knew each other’s silence. On a two-lane highway to Bellefleur, Oregon, once more, pines rolling by in the window.

This is how it ended. Warm and dry in this bright motel room, he asked her, “Where are we going?”

Not because he didn’t know, because he did. What he didn’t know was whether the place they were headed was worth it.

Seven years ago, he might have said it was. He’d have burned the world if the answers could have been found in its ashes. Holding her in his arms, today, he knew no truth could be more meaningful than this. His hands didn’t seem suited to holding it, anyways.

“I won’t let you go alone,” she said, and it was answer enough.

special thanks to @sandy-dunes for graciously critiquing this for us!

Critique for @ReadWriteSing

I’ll begin with a quick overview. Firstly, I really love the retrospective format of it—this character has already experienced the betrayal, and now they’re reevaluating the entire relationship. That’s a super good way of exploring it, so props to you for that! I think the piece overall is strong, although I do have some smaller qualms with more specific sentence choices, which I will get into in the detailed review.

faith wrote:

Part 1: Daisy
You wore a daisy, merrily strolling throughout the town square.
I thought I could always trust the flowers.
Even your name matched the part, Addison, but names can’t be trusted.
I should have remembered, should have been more careful.
But now it’s too late.
It’s so clear to me now- the little clues I thought were nothing.
Under the daisy, you wore an ice plant.
Heartless, you fooled us all.

This is a great introduction and first part, really setting up the entire piece! My only change would be that I might combine the italicized sentences. It feels a bit repetitive as is.
Here’s a suggestion to combine them:
“Even your name matched the part. Addison.
I should have known that names could not be trusted.”
I feel like the impact is heightened when you combine them and shorten it like this!

faith wrote:

Part 2: Ice Plant
You used to be my friend. My best friend.
Me and you, we would do everything together. I thought we told each other everything, too. But apparently, you thought I knew. Somehow.
You should have told me, but by the time I found out, it was too late.
You have been taken over, haunted. I know you still have Addi in you, deep down.
But for now, I just have to pretend that you don't- and destroy you.
I never thought I would have to do this. To my best friend, of all people.

Just a quick grammar correction here—in the second line you say “me and you” when it should be “you and I”. I think this verse overall adds some interesting depth to the story and relationship. It seems as though, now, that Addison didn’t think she needed to tell the narrator what was happening. I think that’s a very interesting angle and kind of adds to the narrator’s culpability in the entire situation. If you’re going for that angle, however, I might add in the final section that the narrator realizes that they overreacted and should not have been so hurt by Addison, since she had never intended to be maliciously secretive. That might add to reasons why the character would “take them back” as they do in the end.

faith wrote:

Part 3: Black Dahlia
Tansies thrown at me. I get it.
You’re no longer my best friend- or my friend at all. You don’t have to officially declare yourself against me.
In this world, flowers mean everything.
Maybe if you threw off the daisy-like innocence, you can throw off the ice plant-like heartlessness.
Come back, Addi. I whisper as you smile your now-trademark ‘Foxglove’ smile. That’s what you want everyone to call you now. The flower symbolizes treachery. You’re more the black-dahlia-type, though.
Betrayal.

I love the reference to ‘Foxglove’ in this verse! My change here would be to cut down on the second line a bit. I think the italicized line feels a little unnecessary, as the narrator already said “i get it”. However, to keep some of this cohesion, I might shift the “i get it” down.
So my edited first two lines would look like this:
“Tansies thrown at me.
I get it. You’re no longer my best friend—or my friend at all.”
I think this keeps the spirit of the lines while cutting down on over-explanation, if that makes sense.

faith wrote:

Part 4: Daffodils
It’s been four years since you left me behind.
Four years since you betrayed me, since you became a monster.
I think you’re finally coming back around, though. Carrying a daffodil in the place you were going to hitch the greatest theft of your life.
Maybe you’re finally being honest- that’s what the daffodil symbolizes, anyways.
I’ve been wrong before.
After all, flowers can tell many lies. And bring the truth into focus at the same time.
You glance at me, your eyes tearing up, flattening out your pale pink dress and shooting me a nervous smile. I open my arms in invitation, and you run into them.
Oh, how I missed our friendship.
Hopefully, it will last this time.

I love “flowers can tell many lies” SO MUCH alkdjsfjklds it’s so good!

Overall, super good job with this piece, I really enjoyed getting the chance to read and critique it! I hope my edits were helpful<3

+375 words of critique

March 26th Daily
Character Swap
Fandom - The Wingfeather Saga

“And you, Leeli Wingfeather, are the High Queen of Anniera.” Nia’s eyes were firmly locked with Leeli’s, expression full of what Leeli could only describe as pride.

Leeli stared at her mother, her gaze shifting to her brothers to receive their shocked expressions. Janner wasn’t going to be king? More importantly, she was supposed to be queen? It seemed so wrong.

“What?” she asked her mother, as if Nia could have been mistaken.

But Peet nodded his head emphatically before Nia had a chance to respond. He bowed at her feet. “Your Majesty.” His white hair took on an almost halo-ish quality from the light streaming into the house, and his voice was more serious than she’d ever heard it.

It was true.

- - -

Her brother hadn’t spoken, staring at the letter in his hands for hours. How many times had he read the words? The setting sun painted the paper purple, yellow, and gold. It was beautiful, but Leeli didn’t have time to appreciate the Maker’s art at the moment. Leeli approached him cautiously, sitting beside him as the rest of their little family gathered supplies, Peet working on dinner now.

Tink fingered his whistle-harp in the corner, occasionally drawing sweet, quiet melodies from the instrument.

But mostly, it was quiet in the tree-house.

“I’m sorry, Janner,” Leeli whispered so that no one else would hear. She didn’t want to embarrass him further—he’d already turned bright red once Nia told him that he wasn’t meant to be king, he was a Throne Warden.

She still didn’t quite understand the term, but Leeli knew it was important and right. She realized that Nia and Podo had been training them for this all along.

“Leeli, just drop it. Please.” His voice was strained, and she could see the redness in his eyes that told her that he had been crying.

Leeli placed a hand on his wrist. “Janner.”

Her brother sighed. “It’s not your fault.”

Leeli leaned back. He was right. “I’m sorry that you’re upset, isn’t that enough?”

Janner shook his head. “Thanks, Leeli. I just—I’m just saying that I’m not angry at you. I’m, well, I don’t know. I guess I’m angry with myself. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. How I’m supposed to feel.”

Reaching forward, Leeli guided his chin so that he faced her. “You’re my Throne Warden, Janner. But you’re also my brother. I know you’ll figure it out.”

Finally looking at her, Janner smiled.

+ 412 words

Critique for @-NightGlow-

Hi Alana! Thanks for letting me critique your piece. I’ll start with an overview. I really enjoyed the feel of the piece. It is on the shorter side, but I think that serves it in this case. You did a great job with the description, but I found that you repeated certain sentence structures and phrases while I would have preferred more variety. I’ll point these things out in a closer inspection.

alana wrote:

In the deep woods, everything was surrounded by ferns and moss. It was a great sight to venture through those woods - it was filled with magic, a horizon of what seemed almost impossible.

I like starting with a preposition for the first sentence, setting the setting (haha) quite well. However, the second sentence falls into the repetition of phrasing with two separate phrases beginning with “it was”. Obviously, this is an instinctive phrase beginner, but I think switching it in this case would keep it more interesting. The second phrase, in general, however, is a little confusing to me. I’m not sure what you mean by “a horizon of what seemed almost impossible”. Is it saying the forest’s horizon seems impossible? I’m just not clear on what it’s talking about. I do like mentioning the impossibility of the forest since it is magical, but the sentence as-is confuses me.

alana wrote:

Although from the outside everything seemed somewhat dark and dreary, anyone who dared to enter the forest would say that it was everything but that. The leaves were colorful all scattered around creating this whimsical sense of tranquility, the stone pathway was all lit up, and above all that, there were talking animals who were not frightening at all! It was such a magical place, one that you could honestly just lose yourself in - and that, unfortunately, is what many ended up doing…

I think you have a better variety of phrasing here, and I love beginning the first sentence with “although”. My only critique here would be that you use the word “all” four times in a single sentence, which makes it feel incredibly repetitive. Cutting at least two of these instances would improve the sentence, in my opinion. I love the ending of this paragraph, too, by the way :0

alana wrote:

It was always lively and bright in the forest, but with every little bit of happiness that was shared, darkness inched closer, approaching quicker than ever. Amongst the animals, everyone living in joy - no one ever expected such a thing to happen. But with all the new travelers coming into the forest, it was losing its health and defense mechanisms bit by bit. The color from the plants began to die off, the shimmer that once illuminated the entire forest was fading away, and the animals that once ventured every part of the ancient woods were no more. It had all come to an unfortunate end, with no sense of beginning from the very start.

Ooh, this darker turn is super interesting, and I feel like it works well as a second paragraph because it actually has a change from the first one, if that makes sense? The tonal difference makes it better, is what I’m saying. Overall, I don’t have much to say about this one, though I *might* include some sort of hint in the first paragraph that things aren’t as they seem or that the light was not meant to last, etc.

To conclude, this is a great description with a good story to it as well. Again, thank you so much for letting me critique it!

+ 365 words of critique

Bellefleur
an x-files fanfic
co-written with @violent-measures
645 words
— — —

This is where it started: Bellefleur, Oregon. Between pine trees and two-lane highways. A place where nine minutes had disappeared, marked with an X. A little town where scared kids grew up and the air sometimes smelled of the sea. Where those kids were taken someplace they didn’t know and then abandoned, broken under the evergreens.

This is how it started. Sunflower seeds cracking in the night. Rain falling in dark sheets. The radio acting up, five stations playing all at once. A bright light shining outside their car, and suddenly a moment, nine minutes, gone.

“Time can’t just disappear, it’s a universal invariant!” she shouted, an incredulous smile crossing her rain-streaked face.

But they’d both seen it. Time didn’t work quite right here. This victory he commemorated with a bright orange X spray painted on the asphalt. Those nine minutes were a promise that a lost little girl could be found.

With these impossibilities came the question, delivered with a smile: “Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?” It might have been a jibe at his new, skeptical partner, but it meant something more. Do you believe we’re alone in this universe?

He wanted to believe they weren’t. But part of him was still twelve years old, walking into the room where a bright light had whisked his sister away. With that first girl, he also lost the proof he wasn’t alone.

It started with scared girls and secrets in a dark motel room. A terrified voice on the phone told them about the girl who didn’t need her wheelchair any longer. They shared revelations beside ruined graves with rain soaking them through. They hadn’t remembered an umbrella.

His new partner had wide blue eyes and a laugh he thought he could listen to forever. She laughed at the insanity of nine minutes gone, of crippled girls walking. He laughed with her, but they both believed the truth could be hidden in a stopped watch and a patch of dirt from somewhere else. Science could prove the impossible real.

“Where are we going?” she asked in the beginning.

First they’d lost nine minutes, then seven years. Evidence never amounted to much more than an X on the concrete. But the seven years amounted to so much more.

They wandered many more forests in search of time and girls that had gone missing. After Bellefleur, they usually remembered an umbrella.

They never stopped asking each other questions, and he never stopped wondering if they were alone in this universe. So they watched the sky for lights, or at least he did. He got better at remembering to look down, to find in those blue eyes the answers the sky might not bear.

They drove many dark roads and, in motel rooms much like the first, shared secrets and revelations they could not prove. What they might not hold in their hands was contained in their memories.

Sometimes remembering was the hardest part, when there were too many lost girls and not enough found.

Seven years of lost time later, they were back in the car with no need for the radio because they knew each other’s silence. On a two-lane highway to Bellefleur, Oregon, once more, pines rolling by in the window.

This is how it ended. Warm and dry in a bright motel room, he asked her, “Where are we going?”

Not because he didn’t know; he did. What he didn’t know was whether the place they were headed was worth it.

Seven years ago, he might have said it was. He’d have burned the world if the answers could have been found in its ashes. With her in his arms, today, he knew no truth could be more meaningful than this. His hands didn’t seem suited to holding it, anyways.

“I won’t let you go alone,” she said, and it was enough.

— — —
special thanks to @sandy-dunes, @chueythecat, and @amazaeevee for critiquing

tell us about yourself
hi there! i’m Crim, a Christian artist and writer who is incredibly obsessed with fandoms. some of my favorites right now are The X-Files and Star Wars: The Bad Batch (as you could probably guess from this application haha).

however, i also love reading fantasy with dystopian and science fiction elements such as all of Brandon Sanderson’s works (my favorite series being Stormlight Archive), The Inheritance Cycle, Six of Crows, and Lockwood & Co. this is the genre i tend to gravitate towards writing as well!

i love listening to music and building playlists for writing. some of my favorite artists are Sleeping At Last, Novo Amor, half•alive, Death Cab For Cutie, Raynes, Cadence Floria, Noah Kahan, Thomas Austin, The Arcadian Wild, and more. I also adore the musical Hadestown.

some miscellaneous things i love include: the rain, boba, cheesecake, the french language, writing in all-lowercase, characters with long coats, sweater vests, and the found family trope (again, a shocker giving my app theme! /sarc).

i live in PST! i also happen to be a twin and you’ll probably see my twin sister, vi, around.

have you previously participated in SWC?
I have participated in eight sessions of SWC so far! These sessions include March 2020 (in Fantasy), March 2022 (in Sci-fi), July 2022 (in Adventure), November 2022 (in Script), March 2023 (in Folklore), July 2023 (in Real-fi), November 2023 (in Dystopian), and March 2024 (in Fantasy). Of these sessions, I’ve mostly campered. However, I co-lead Real-fi in July of 2023 and Fantasy in March of this year. I have thoroughly enjoyed these chances to go behind the scenes of camp. Additionally, I served on the Memory Book Committee in November of 2023, which was another great experience that allowed me to work with an even larger team.

Other leadership or team-based activities i’ve participated in include LEGO league (i helped to lead the project side of things) and debates for school.
I’ve been writing for around 8-9 years, and my sister and I finished the first draft of a novel we’ve been working on last year! now we’ve been focusing on planning another novel and working on some fanfics on the side.

which cabins would you prefer to lead?
I would prefer to lead cabins such as Fantasy, Science Fiction, Adventure, or Dystopian because these are genres I’m more experienced in writing and/or reading. (So I would be more helpful in coming up with storylines in these genres). Additionally, I’d love a Paranormal cabin (i mean, who doesn’t love ghosts?). The cabins I’d be least excited about leading would be Real-fi or Poetry as I have little to no experience or interest in these genres. (However, this only really would affect how much I’d be able to contribute to the story, so if you’re leading one of these cabins and have a solid storyline idea and direction, I wouldn’t protest to helping out.)

For a cabin such as Adventure or Science Fiction, I think a Spiderman: Into the Spider-verse themed cabin would be a blast! The campers could come together to design a Spider-person (or perhaps a team of Spider-people?) and figure out their origin story.

I’d be willing to co-lead The Cabin that Will Not Win, especially as I do have some greater time constraints this session than previous ones.

please provide an excerpt of your writing

He’d told them he enjoyed the rain. He wouldn’t need a ride home, but thank you for the offer.

Now, as Kieran stood alone on the sidewalk, he scowled at the sky and wished for any sign of the sun.

He trudged along under the clouds, rain smeared over his glasses, hands stuffed in his pockets. Kieran schooled his face into a smile each time he encountered a passerby. He couldn’t have said whether any of them returned the gesture.

Though he’d have preferred to put it all behind him, Kieran couldn’t help but dwell on the workday.

No matter how far away Kieran’s feet led him, his mind was still stuck back there, in his too-small cubicle.

So far that day he’d spilled coffee on the carpet—no coffee tomorrow—and he’d had to ask for help with the printer. After an entire week on the job! Then, he’d lost track of time and been late to his meeting—his only meeting that day.

The offer to drive Kieran home had been a polite gesture on his co-workers’ part, nothing more. They couldn’t still want him, not after all that. Besides, they couldn’t see his apartment. The shabbiest, cheapest place he could find, in the worst neighborhood in the city. Kieran didn’t want to see their pitying stares when they realized the hour-long walks he underwent each day.

When Kieran finally arrived and unlocked the door to his apartment, he had to squeeze by the bike he’d abandoned in the hallway. The red paint was peeling, the tires in desperate need of filling, and the chain snapped. How long had he let it sit there, gathering dust? Kieran couldn’t quite remember.

(Excerpt from “Out of Sight, Never Out of Mind”, my competition entry from last session. Full work can be found here.)

what amount of time do you expect to be able to dedicate to SWC?
what plans do you have that could affect your activity?
On average, I would probably dedicate a minimum of 30 minutes per day. (Throughout June and July both.) However, I do have some plans in the last week of June and first week of July (June 27th to July 5th) that will unfortunately prevent me from using Scratch at all. However, I will do my best to help my team accommodate for this disappearance and there shouldn’t be anything else that’s going on to greatly limit my activity.

what are your skills and shortcomings in time management?
Overall, I am good at managing my time. I have been homeschooled for most of my life, which has required me to learn this skill. I won’t lie: I do procrastinate at times, but often on things that don’t have big time constraints. With something such as SWC, the time-reliant aspect of it prevents me from procrastinating too much. In fact, during sessions, I will often procrastinate on something else by turning to SWC. However, if I’m not feeling inspired to work on SWC related things, it can lead to me procrastinating on replying to messages and things like that. I don’t think this affects me too much, but it is a failing I try to keep in mind. I perfectly understand what is required of me in this role, and I always do my best to push through any lack of motivation to fulfill it.

what are your strengths and weaknesses in working with others?
what assets would you bring to a leading team?
My main strengths would be that I am good at brainstorming with others and building off of ideas. I like coming up with many ideas to give options for others to choose from, and I’d say that I am a pretty creative person.

My main weakness when it comes to working with others is how I tend to like to be in control. However, I would say that in practice I am a very accommodating team member because I do not like to be seen as controlling. So I would say that this mostly impacts my own experience rather than others around me. I can also deal with flagging motivation, making it difficult for me to work up the energy to even reply to messages.

Something I’d say is a strength is my ability to offer constructive criticism and edit things. I enjoy taking something someone else has worked on and showing them ways it could be improved or simply offering another perspective.

what one quality do you value most in a leader and how will you embody this trait as a leader?
This question is by far the hardest for me to answer. There are a lot of traits that make a good leader, and sometimes you can have a good leader without all of them. One that I particularly value, though, is being organized! A good leader is well-organized and is able to communicate clearly as a result. I will embody this because, as a detail-oriented person, I am not prone to be chaotic. I like to be organized, and I have a great affinity for lists.

what cabin atmosphere do you aim to create?
I would hope to foster an atmosphere of learning and community where campers focus on sharpening their writing skills and growing together with a smidgen of competition dashed in for flavor

three part question
check all that apply:
i am applying for both leader and co-leader ( ),
I am applying only for co-leader ( X ),
i’m willing to share a promotional project for swc ( X )

are there any leadership responsibilities listed in the FAQ you cannot complete? if any, please elaborate
There are not!

in the case of inactive leadership (either by yourself or by a fellow leader), what steps will you take to ensure that the cabin can still move on smoothly?
If and when I face inactivity (as I will for the first week of July), I would make sure to work doubly hard around this time to complete my responsibilities. I’d do my best to communicate with my fellow leaders in order to delegate anything that I cannot complete to anyone that is available to help out.

If any of my fellow leaders face inactivity, I would make sure to fill in any gaps I’m able to (such as communicating with the Memory Book Committee, Hosts, etc. about any deadlines). If necessary, I’d do my best to help them rework our cabin planning/cabin schedule as well.