ᴅ ᴀ ɪ ʟ ʏ : 04 / 03 / 2024
prompt:
write a story in past tense, third person omniscient pov.

If the walls could talk, Jaila knew she'd be six feet under.

If the walls revealed where she disappeared as night fell, the concealed liquid slipped in drinks, the coins tucked into her waistcoat, she wouldn't live to see the next sunrise. Whether it be by the hand of a fellow thief or the rich, she knew the ending to this story. That risk came with the job.

Moonlight flooded the alleyway, and seeped over her boots when she stepped into the street. Frigid air shook window shutters and rolled an empty drink can across the street. Wind brushed her face, murmured in her ear, told her to turn back and run. Its message never changed as the nights passed, yet the warning was an octave higher that evening.

Jaila fought off a shudder, and slipped her hands into her waistcoat as she walked, fingers brushing the coins in her pocket. They gave her a small comfort every night, when she had none but the moon for company.

The coins represented more than anything they could buy — more than fame or riches. They constituted her entire identity, this thief off the streets, her hands filthy with guilt and betrayal. They were her purpose.

“Y'know what the rich say,” came a voice from behind her.

Jaila pivotted, a hand reaching for the dagger at her waist. The shadows melted beside an abandoned shop, and out stepped a young girl. Her dark hair in short clumps that ended above her shoulders, trainers layered with mud, a splatter of pigmentation scattering her nose. A girl younger than Jaila herself, with a self-satisfied grin spreading across her face.

Jaila relaxed at the sight of her half-sister. Slightly. “The rich say many things, Acsa.”

Acsa's smile grew all the more smug, a crescent moon reflecting in her eyes. “Of course - they have nothing better to do.”

And, as expected, the woman winced. Acsa had anticipated this reaction, but the triumph welling in her chest was a welcome feeling. A testimony to the fact that she was right, and had been all along.

Acsa may have only been her half-sister, but she knew the woman better than anyone. She also knew that the only person Jaila cared about was herself.

"The rich have a saying, and I'm sure you've heard it before. 'Thieves steal for revenge, greed or a mouth to feed.'"

Jaila watched the younger girl, fingers brushing a coin.

“But you're not just a thief, are you?” Acsa tipped her head, the dots across her nose shining beneath the moonlight. “You're really employed by one of the rich. You do his dirty work, murdering competitors, and the thieves who steal from him. You're a fraud. Now we know where Ol' Jacks disappeared to.”

Jaila clutched the coin tighter, tighter than the rope around her throat.

Acsa's smile vanished, and the moon's glow seemed to recede back into the clouds. Grey cloaked them, accentuating the shadows of their eyes, the black of their hair.

“So, why all of this, Jaila — what's all that coin for?” Acsa walked forward, genuine bewilderment on her face. As if this was a puzzle she was struggling to solve. “What do you want? Who are you protecting?”

If the walls could talk, they would've said,

“You. She's protecting you.”

But in this story, walls don't talk, and sisters lie.

So, Jaila scoffed and rolled her eyes. She turned on her heel and responded with,

“No one but myself.”

Moonlight caught a flash of silver, and the coin dropped to the floor. She tucked her hands into the waistcoat, and slipped into the shadows.

Unaware that if the walls could talk, she might find herself with a different ending. They'd tell of her tear-stained pillow, the sleepless nights, the life she dreamed of for her sister. The meals she gave up to keep another coin in the jar. The newspaper cut-outs of countries she wanted them to escape to.

Maybe she wouldn't find herself six feet under the ground, but with a sister who didn't hate her, who would love her back.

If only the walls could talk.

687 words

ᴅ ᴀ ɪ ʟ ʏ : 05 / 03 / 2024
prompt:
read one chapter of a book, then write a continuation of it.
note: continuation of the last chapter of Lockwood & Co. by Jonathan Stroud

The skull's ghost hadn't returned.

Lucy didn't like to admit the glances she sneaked at the blackened mantlepiece it left behind, a shrivelled human skull, empty and lifeless.

She wouldn't admit the times she paused mid-sentence, expecting a snarky comment expressing disappointment that they weren't all dead yet, or why Holly still insisted on putting vegetables on their pizza, or how, if someone would kindly break this jar, the ghost would be on its merry way to wreak havoc over London.

But it never came.

Sometimes, when Lockwood & Co. had dragged themselves back to Portland Row in the earliest hours of the morning, ectoplasm burns staining their coats, rapiers swinging haphazardly at their sides, Lucy didn't go straight to bed like the others.

Sometimes, she sat cross legged on her duvet, facing the little attic window that overlooked Arif's corner shop and the street below, watching the skull on the sill.

Sometimes, on nights like tonight, she spoke to it.

She cleared her throat.

“Ghost? Skull? Are you there?”

Nothing. She didn't expect any different, but a small part of her that she tried to stamp out was disappointed.

What an idiot she was, talking to a skull.

Lucy sighed, the motion turning into a yawn.

“Wow. I just saw all the way down your throat. Yuck! Have you ever heard of covering your mouth? That's called etiquette, Lucy.”

Her eyes had rolled halfway to her brain before her heart leapt to her throat, and she gaped at the windowsill. The skull sat there, silent and placid.

"Skull? You spoke!"

Stillness filled the air. It said nothing.

Lucy waited for what felt like hours, her eyes staring fixedly at the blackened skull, at its shadow that inched outwards as morning light began to rise. The world continued to spin, time carried on ticking. A crack still ran through the skull's side, it still resembled a shrivelled prune, and its empty sockets still stared at nothing.

Nothing.

Lucy sighed, and rose to go to the bathroom. As she reached the doorway, she turned and murmured,

“Bye, skull.”

It responded with silence.

She gave a sad smile.

Then, descending the steps, she could've sworn she heard a quiet, familiar voice.

“Bye, Lucy. Thanks for everything.”

375 words

ᴅ ᴀ ɪ ʟ ʏ : 06 / 03 / 2024
prompt:
invent a new genre and write 250 words on it.
introducing: ghost luring

Forget ghost hunting, Tel lured ghosts for a living.

The pay was infinitely better and, as long as you didn't bash on walls with broomsticks or scream menacingly in their general direction, ghosts were often friendly. Friendly-ish.

The downside of his job, however, was the razor-thin line between speaking to a ghost and trying to save it. Sometimes, all it took was a brief conversation that sent people mad with delirious grief.

When the lines blurred, the most rational individual might find themselves deluded into thinking their loved one could come back.

If there was one thing Tel knew, it was that ghosts never come back.


As he stopped by the small-town bakery to grab himself a morning muffin, Tel couldn't help but stare out at the vacant street. He craved these early hours of the morning — when cold, grey daylight leaked through the sky, when most of the city was still dreaming, when he could go about his business in peace.

“Another job, Tel?” asked the cashier as he paid for his muffin.

Tel flashed him a grin, the one passers-by found too wide for four o'clock in the morning. “Always.”

“Sure is a shame we don't sell any of the flapjacks anymore,” the old man mused, gazing at the full tray behind the counter. “No one's bought them in months.”

Tel's chest clenched at the word 'was', and his grin faded a little. “A shame.”

The man nodded forlornly, passing him the muffin. “Anyway, good luck on today's job, kid.”

Tel gave him a nod and said, “I'll need it.”



Good luck, kid.

If only luck could help him now.

He trudged through West Abbey, passed the train station and primary school empty of children, passed the run-down post office with its windows cracked, all the way down the park which his childhood friends had convinced him was haunted.

Tel paused in his brisk pace, as if waiting for something, his eyes on the swing-set. He settled himself down on a bench, and slowly peeled off the muffin wrapper. Wind brushed his face and hands, pushed one of the swings and let it fall back, creaking.

He made himself comfortable.

The air tightened around him. Wind sharpened, pricking the back of his neck. A chill ran down his spine.

He's coming.

A line laced the air above the swing, lengthening to form a silhouette, as if Tel were watching it drawn by an unsteady hand. Seconds ticked by, counted by Tel's heartbeat, and the shape slowly materialised.

First, the curve of the nose, the deep set of the eyes, the shudder of ice-cold lips.

Then it spoke.

“Tel Pascas. Going down memory lane?”

Tel couldn't help his mouth tugging upwards. “Of sorts.”

“And what business are you on at this hour of the morning?”

Tel made direct eye contact with the ghost, holding its empty gaze. Sorrow flooded his heart, pumped through his veins, kept it tied by a fraying thread to this world. What he wouldn't do to cut the cord.

“Just visiting an old friend.”

He's not coming back, the boy had to remind himself as his best friend flickered in and out of sight.

After all, there was only one thing Tel knew for sure.

Ghosts never come back.

an attempt lol - 548 words

ᴅ ᴀ ɪ ʟ ʏ : 08 / 03 / 2024
prompt:
write a two-hundred word thank you note.

To the Woman I'm Named After

I remember reading a book as a child, your story written in its pages. Your name, my name, written in looping letters across its cover.

My memory of that time is fragmented, bits and pieces scattered throughout my subconscious. But one page in that book, its colourful illustrations of fruit, has lived on in my mind all these years.

I remember flipping through, stopping on a beautifully painted page, little me staring in awe at the vibrant fruit in baskets. Maybe there weren't any baskets. Maybe there were. That wasn't on my mind at the time. I just felt pure, innocent happiness.

I have her name!

Most people aren't named after someone like you. Someone who guarded herself and stayed true to what is right. Someone silent who witnessed a miracle. Someone who was scorned and shunned, but didn't waver.

I want to be like you were. In a world full of the arrogant, I wish to be among the humble. In a world of lost souls, I know my purpose.

I hope to meet you one day. I want to tell you how much you inspire me, how connected I feel to you, though at this moment, you have been long dead. I want to tell you that I'm trying, trying and failing, to be the best I can be. I'm trying every day. I want to ask how you felt, what kept you so strong.

Though I know, and I hope I always remember the answer.

I hope to meet you someday, in another life.

Peace be with you,
a girl named after you.

268 words

ᴡ ᴇ ᴇ ᴋ ʟ ʏ #1
- Legends -
2174 words

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Part 1
▪──── Retelling


Stheno wanted to murder her sister.

Anger frothed in her veins, pumped by her heart, clouding her gaze. A torrent of rain plunged from the sky, slamming down on Stheno's shoulders, and she bit back a cry of pain. The wrath in her middle flared, and she threw herself through the storm.

Sweat merged with water as she ran blindly. Her thoughts were preoccupied on keeping one foot in front of the other, and what she would do to her sister when she got a hold of her.

If. A spike of fear that she'd never admit to ran through Stheno's chest. This wasn't the first time Medusa had run off, but it was the first time she'd told neither of her sisters. And Stheno hated her for it.

That hatred and misplaced anguish coiled around her stone heart, and then her legs were pumping harder, shoes slapping against the rain-slicked ground, anger a fire in her chest, a taste on her lips.

If you're dead, Medusa, she thought grimly, I'll dig you up and murder you again.

With sisterly love, of course.



"You did what?“

Medusa had the decency to look sheepish. ”I was trying to find Athena.“

”And do what?“ Stheno asked, arms crossed and disdain etched across her face.

Medusa glared back. The snakes swaying from her head hissed at Stheno. Her own snakes hissed back as Stheno turned on her sister again. A pang of familiarity struck her as she saw the defiance and fury in the girl's gaze, but she shoved it down.

Medusa's eyes flashed. ”I wanted to kill her.“

Stheno scoffed in forced contempt. The anger she'd felt mere minutes ago had waned, and it only left exasperation in its wake. ”You wanted to kill someone who specialises in war? Does that sound smart to you?“

”Let her be, Stheno," Euryale, the third sister, snapped. Stheno had almost forgotten she was there, blending in with the shadows. Now the cold light bathed her face, eyes blazing and snakes writhing at her ears, a force to be reckoned with.

Far from feeling betrayed, Stheno lived for moments like this. When the three of them stopped hiding in the dark and showed the world their true colours.
It was times like this when she knew,

We can do anything.



Except, it seemed, cheat death.

Stheno's heart truly turned to stone when she saw her sister's severed head. Her eyes sightless, blank, lacking the fire that always burned somewhere beyond her irises. Now, it was gone.

The snakes drooped at her ears, limp and lifeless. Stheno's own snakes hissed and writhed atop her head, eyes pinpricks of fury.

Anger frothed in Stheno's veins, pumped by her heart, clouding her gaze. Wrath flared in her middle again, and she savoured the taste of rage on her lips. Her ever-present companion had returned.

“Stheno,” Euryale called, her voice low and threatening. Unspoken words hung in the air between them, words that murmured, we expected this.

Anguish surged like a tidal wave against the stone barrier around her heart. Medusa was dead. Dead.

And revenge must be served.

“No one,” Stheno said, “kills my sister.”

No one but me.

519 words

Part 2
▪──── If These Walls Could Talk


Too many people have passed through my walls.

I owe them nothing but the gratitude that they have not knocked me down, and they owe me everything.

The memories I hold within this empty space, the secrets shared that none believed would be overheard, treasured, kept safe for an eternity. The companionship of dear friends they have not spoke to in ten years, the sound of innocent happiness.

I know the knowledge I have is priceless. I contain all of the people that they were, the people they shed to progress in life, the people they sometimes wish upon falling stars that they could go back to.

No matter how many stars they wish upon, their past selves live in this room, and will never leave my walls.

But one individual stands out to me in particular.

Her childhood laughter has replayed in this room enough times for me to make a song of it. Enough of her tears have fallen to paint my walls in colours of anguish and sorrow, of betrayal and loss, of life and death.

She has spoken to me, to a ghost in this room, with such fervour that I would have comforted her if I were able. But I cannot.

For years, one person's pleading voice echoed in this room.

And only silence replied.

218 words

Part 3
▪──── Using Sparks from the Past: Retelling


“Persinette, Persinette, let down your hair,” came the voice of the woman who saved her.

A woman who she knows — a dream she can barely remember — will save her again.

“Coming, Aunt Faye!” Persinette calls, dropping the pan she was holding into the sink. A breath of relief slips between her lips - she'd been scrubbing those dishes for hours, the skin on her fingertips rubbed raw.

Frying pans are evil, she concludes, glaring at the sheen of soap along its handle.

Persinette reaches the tower window overlooking their city, her eyes snagged by the dying sunset. The horizon is streaked in colours of flame, blood reds and blinding gold painting her vision. The sun's gaze falls over her little window, setting her winding blonde hair alight.

Fire curls at her feet, brushing her ankles. It reflects in her irises, and a hunger for power erupts in her chest.

“Persinette!”

The girl jumps and lets out an abashed laugh. Then, securing the rope of blonde — burning — hair around her wrist, she flings it over the windowsill and lowers it down the tower wall. Sunlight glitters in the air, some call them dust particles, but Persinette knows her name for them is more romantic.

Through the summer haze, Persinette peers down her rope of hair.

The figure who holds it in their hands doesn't look much like her Aunt Faye. She tilts her head, and the hair trembles. But the light is blinding, and her vision may be warped.

She ignores that little voice in her head, the one that says, trust your instincts, the world isn't a good place. But it is, and Aunt Faye is proof of that.

The figure on the ground begins to pull themselves up her hair. She's being paranoid — that voice likes to play tricks on her.

“Persinette!”

This voice is choked with panic, and, strangely, it sounds like Aunt Faye.

The girl's bedroom door swings open, slamming into the adjoining wall. A tremor runs through the room, and Persinette herself as she sees, with her own eyes, Aunt Faye hunched over. Hands on her knees, the woman puffs as if she's never run a lap in her life.

Persinette stares. “If you're here, then who is…?”

All she can do is squint through the sun's glare, peering down at the foot of her tower. At the figure now halfway up her rope of hair. From this distance, she makes out the build of a man, his hair ablaze in the falling light. A man.

“That man,” huffs out her aunt, “is an assassin, sent to kill the witch in the Tower of Stars.”

Persinette knows she should be cringing with horror, but all she can think of is that beautiful name — the Tower of Stars. What a picturesque place, an idyllic setting, the home of a princess.

And, with a sinking sorrow, she realises she is anything but. That evil frying pan lying half-washed in the sink, piles upon piles of dirty dishes catching the sunlight, and Persinette herself - all angled and bony, with hanging blonde hair and a head full of pretty names.

She snaps herself out of it, and asks her aunt, “They call me a witch?”

Aunt Faye's lips draw tight. “For your long, blonde hair. They say it's unnatural.”

Persinette regards her rope of hair, imagines how light and free it would feel if she trimmed it, how dazzling it would look if she were able to tie it up.

“Don't worry about that, Persinette,” Aunt Faye insists, seeing her contemplative expression. “That man is here to kill you.”

“Mhm.”

Persinette glances at a forlorn scissor lying at her corner desk.

Heat from the dying sun loops around her heart, setting her chest alight.

Energy courses through her veins, flooding every artery, every capillary, every blood vessel. Power flows from her shoulder, across her elbow, surges up her raised forearm. The heat splays in five directions as it hits her wrist, and her fingertips pulse with fire.

She doesn't move a muscle, and the scissors fly from the desk towards her.

She catches it in her palm and flashes a grin at Aunt Faye. “Well, we can't have them thinking I'm a witch.”

Faye snorts. “Or mortal.”

Persinette bends down, eyes on her hair. A part of her is hesitant to discard it, her hair of fire. The more reasonable part doesn't waste a second in grabbing the clump and cutting it right off.

She holds the loose strands in her fist for a moment, and then, with great pleasure, lets go.

755 words
this was actually really interesting to write - i did some (brief) research on the story of Rapunzel, and read through two previous versions of it from before the Brothers Grimm's iconic tale. one version told the story of Petrosinella, who learns the art of magic by ogres, and the other of Persinette whose story includes a fairy instead of a witch (Aunt Faye). the assassination plot was my own twist on the tale.

Part 4
▪──── Oral Retelling: Show Characters Passing Down a Story


Robin Hood is a tyrant.

Robin Hood was a savior.

He answers to no one, does everything with a single purpose in mind.

He slaved for those with less than him, did everything with a single purpose in mind.

For himself.

For the poor.

Few will say his actions are justifiable.

Many would say his actions were honourable.

He steals and thieves and kills without remorse. He longs for power that was stolen from him.

He stole for the people, gave to the people. He longed for justice that was stolen from him.

He holds a bitter heart, trapped within his ribcage of stone. None can enter, none can leave.

He held a generous heart, and acted on only what he believed.

He’s never loved in his life. That boy doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

They say he loved once. And the rich stole that from him too.

What a scoundrel.

What a tragedy.

He’ll be known as a miscreant for the rest of eternity, the title branded to his lapel.

He was known as The Honest Bandit, the man who had enough guts to risk his life every night. The hope of the people.

None will hear the name of Robin Hood without knowing his crimes, his careless demeanour.

He was of pure heart and nature, willing to give up all that he had for those with less than himself. He took from the fortunate, and made his own fortune.

He’s willing to treat people as mere objects – used to his advantage, and then discarded.

He stole from the rich and gave to the poor.

He steals from the rich to make himself rich.

253 words

Part 5
▪──── Write a Story With a Moral


Only birds live in this city now.

Their skeletal forms soar over the expanse of ruined ground, wings pushing against the weight of wind and sorrow that layers their home.

They see the wasteland through wise, downcast eyes. They hear only their heartbeats pounding against the silence, where a thousand heartbeats once pulsed. They smell the putrid scent of bodies, of hunger, of death.

They look to the horizon, the rising of a new day. A day that many will never see, air they will never breathe, time they will never have.

Blood red floods the sky, overlooking those who have left this world.

A little boy, his eyes blank and sightless, gripping a blue blanket in his limp fist. A girl clutching the pen she had used to write her name as her soul left her body. A father holding the hand of his lost son, his tears now dry and scarring cold cheeks.

The birds watch the sun inch over their empty, lifeless city. They see the picture of destruction, of demolition, of death. But, squinting their wise eyes, they see a man amongst the rubble. He lays at the foot of a collapsed building, and yet, he has a smile on his face.

He died smiling, they realise.

“What does this mean?” one of the birds asks.

That all is not lost.

223 words

Part 6
▪──── Epic Poem in Prose


They told of a time,
When darkness fell over the land,
A cloth of shadow, of evil, of the unknown.
None dared to tread beneath its canopy
For a thousand and one years,
Until a young boy,
By the name of Audius Kleel,
Stole a boat from the dock,
And raised its makeshift flag high,
Made from his discarded shirt,
And a smear of dirt,
He drew a star on its white fabric,
A star that signified the death of the old
—from its dying light—
And birth of the new,
The curious, the brave.

Audius sailed, if he were honest,
Because of mere chance.
A gang of rogue pirates had chased him to the dock
And that sign upon his shirt—
The star in all its dying glory?
It had been from wiping dirt-stained hands
Across its fabric.
He was no rebel, no hero, no innovator
Definitely not a flag-barer,
And yet,
When they saw him raise his arms,
To warn them of the rogue pirates advancing,
Knives in hand,
The people saw only the blazing look on his face,
The look they reasoned was one of defiance,
Of a hero, a rebel, an innovator,
A flagbearer,
With a dying star on his boat’s helm.

206 words

ᴅ ᴀ ɪ ʟ ʏ : 11 / 03 / 2024
prompt:
write a two-hundred word introspective story.
a note to myself about the people in my life, and a wish to appreciate them and the current moment a lot more.

legacy
/ˈlɛɡəsi/

the long-lasting impact of particular events, actions, etc. that took place in the past, or of a person’s life.

▪────


Legacy is a word I never fully understood.

Maybe I won't until I see the garden of those who leave the world before me, their seeds blooming into an orchard, a forest of all they ever did.

I don't believe that these legacies must be ground-breaking or earth-shattering. They don't have to make me rethink my life and the world around me (though that would be interesting).

To me, the legacy that someone leaves behind is the fingerprint they left on my heart, the first thing I think of when they're mentioned, the conscious reminiscence of a moment I shared with them.

All of these moments make up the blueprint of who I am, and all are important.

The thank you that my great aunt said when I helped serve her at a family event, the little screech my best friend makes when someone embarrasses her, and the way she would put me in a headlock if she knew I wrote this.

My mother sternly telling me to drink a hot chocolate when I'm ill, my great-grandma's raspy laugh that was always followed by a cough.

The only memory I have of my grandad's father - a smile on his wrinkled face, a white hat on his head, and walking stick in hand.

Though time will pass and the grass will grow and echoes of the people I knew will fade, I will always have a smile, a laugh, a fragment of their memory.

And to me, that is a legacy. For me, that is enough.

271 words

ᴅ ᴀ ɪ ʟ ʏ : 19 / 03 / 2024
prompt:
make a list of words using the thesaurus, and write a scene around them.

Augur hated his name.

Most took theirs from famous intellectuals or beloved historic figures, but he was named after a verb. Above all, a verb meaning ‘to warn’.

To this day, he still questioned what his parents were thinking.

Did they look at their infant son, a babbling baby rocked in cradling arms, and say “he gives verb energy”?

Augur shook his head. He'd never be able to ask his parents — the echo of his mother a mere thread in the quilt that was his memories, his father's sanity dwindling like pulled string.

He remembered the coarse fabric of his mother's home-made bedspread, the solace that flooded him as he pressed his face to her knitted scarf. He remembered the shake of her laughter as she wrapped him in her arms.

He hadn't worn a woollen scarf since the day she died.

Augur staggered through the midday mist, a figure cloaked in smoke - his hair shading dark eyes, and lips tilted down in a disapproving frown.

People didn't disappoint him, they weren't worth his thoughts, but it was simply the world that he despised. The world that had moulded them, made them corpses playing dress-up.

But who am I to talk? The Corpse of Crum.

They also called him Mist-Maker (though he was attempting to stop the mist), and a collection of crude words he'd rather not repeat.

Augur felt himself smile. At least they didn't call him by his name.

Small mercies.



If anyone was surprised when the Corpse of Crum lurched through the infirmary centre, arm clutched around his middle, liquid darkening his black trench coat, they didn't show it.

He practically threw himself on one of the infirmary beds, limbs splayed in all directions and eyes glazed in pain.

He glimpsed a female medic sprinting to the bedside, her form blurring, and then all went black.



“Hello? Sir, can you hear me?”

Augur pried his eyes open, and the silhouette of that same medic sharpened. “Hmm?”

“Good, you're conscious,” she let slip a smile, and then her attention slid back to her clipboard. “We just need some basic information for the records. You're an inventor?”

“Mhm,” his voice came out slow and befuddled. “Just a… humble inventor.”

Augur had barely a clue what was going on, and a wave of pain crashed on his middle. He bit back a cry, pressing his fingers to the fresh bandages wrapped around his gut.

"Now why, may I ask, is a humble inventor suffering from a severe burn along his abdomen?“

Augur wracked his brains, but he nothing came to mind. ”Ticked off the wrong people… I guess?“

He could've sworn that the medic's eyes narrowed. Then again, that could've been the medication talking.

”Ticked them off how?"

The memory clicked into place like the slotted piece of a jigsaw puzzle. “Oh! I made something to get rid of the mists, and now some shady people want to get rid of me. They set off a fire at my flat. Idiots, honestly.”

He flashed a merry smile.

The medic shook her head — he didn't think she believed him. He frowned. How rude.

“Okay, now the question I probably should've started with, name?” She glanced up at him.

“Corpse of Crum. Mist-Maker. Scum of the Earth—”

"Your real name, if you please?“ she snapped, pen tapping against the clipboard on her knee.

Augur closed his eyes. ”I have a stupid name. You're going to laugh.“

The medic let out a groan. ”I won't laugh.“

He kept his eyes shut, staring at the expanse of darkness beneath his eyelids. ”Augur.“

”What?“

”My name. It's Augur.“

”Oh.“ There was a beat of silence and the scratch of pen on paper. ”Well, in ancient Rome, an augur is a seer who observes the behaviour of birds. A visionary. It's a good name.“

Augur didn't believe that.

The darkness he was looking into seemed to widen, sharpen, envelope him from all sides. Hold him tight in its grip, flood him with the cunning that had kept him alive all these years, after his mother fell to her grave and his father succumbed to madness.

The medication wore off — flashes of fire and searing heat pushed to the forefront of his mind, skin scalding along his abdomen.

His mind cleared, senses alert even as his eyes stayed shut.

He heard the slam of a door, the scent of smoke.

”Do you know what else my name means?“

Silence responded.

”A warning."

For the second time that day, blackness pulled Augur into its depths as the world went up in flames.

743 words

critique for Poppy <3
659 words

Okay, right from the first two lines, I'm already hooked. Those are brilliant to start with, and the transition from those lines in italics to the normal text isn't abrupt at all - the perfect beginning.

Being very nit-picky here (because your piece was so good I practically have to nitpick in order to give critique lol), in the line:

'The feel of the thorns on my skin doesn’t bother me as I run home.'

Here, maybe you could replace 'feel' with another description, because the word is quite vague and could be applied to anything. Just a suggestion that definitely isn't necessary but might help increase the imagery a little. ^^

Also, you could rephrase the sentence a little if you wanted to, because it's slightly blocky for a first line, so that it reads as:

As I run home, the feel of thorns on my skin doesn't bother me.

Again, not necessary and it really depends on what you as the author prefer.

I love this line: 'The pain in her voice is colder than a river on a rainy morning.' I think it just adds so much character to her mother and despite only reading a small scene with her, her personality is already shown through this.

'They call me mad.
They call me skittish, like a rat in a trap.'

Love these lines as well, the rat in a trap rhyme added so much more to the sentence.

The line: 'I pull my hands away and stride away,' repeats the word 'away' twice - this is one of my pet peeves lol, but feel free to leave it in if you're fine with it.

Again, love this line: 'The wolves have not stopped crying.' Just… just wonderful - it adds so much tension, I'm a fan.

My favourite bit of writing thus far has got to be:

'Birds love the trees, the trees love water.
Children love music, music loves the lyre
Wolves love moon, the moon loves silver.
Men love their sun, the sun loves its fire.'

'The sun loves its fire' - literally speechless. I have no words. :0

That whole scene is brilliant - the writing and sentence pacing and the description - nothing fell flat and every word has its place. *chef's kiss*

Another selection of lines I love because apparently I can't stick to one:

Papa, do the wolves cry tears like mine?
Cold, slick, and sweet, like Mama’s finest wine?

Your rhyming lines are just phenomenal, I need to know how you do it! xD

In the line: 'My hands go up' - it feels a little disconnected from the character, as if the character themselves aren't raising the hands but the hands are moving themselves - if this was the intention, definitely leave it in, but otherwise it could be rephrased to say something like 'I raised my hands.'

Again, in the lines: 'I can feel my eyes widen in surprise, feel my hands go down, but my motions are slow, like I’m trying to move in water' - the use of the word feel makes their actions seem disconnected from the character, but if this was your intention, again leave it in!

I'm slightly confused about this line: 'They weep that I am.' Is there any way to make it clearer to the reader? What is it that they're weeping for here?

Okay, those last lines in italics:

'Mama, do you fear the wolves and moon
When they say they shall come soon?'

I mentioned it so many times, but I love the rhymes so much - it breaks up the blocks of text, it gives a variation in how the story looks and how it reads, it adds another layer of intrigue and tension for reader because they want to continue and know more. So brilliant <3

Again, these are only my personal opinions, and so please don't feel pressured to implement any of the things I said - trust your gut and what you feel, as the author, sounds right for your story. (also this would definitely be a great candidate for the writing comp!)

best of luck, poppy! <3

ᴅ ᴀ ɪ ʟ ʏ : 27 / 03 / 2024
prompt:
google translate lyrics of Demons

Red scarred his fingertips, burnt them black. Ash clogged his throat, coated his hands. The birds sang as he pulled himself from the rubble.

Nails caked with dirt, the first thing Amir saw was a bleeding sun. Rays of scarlet seeping from a golden centre, sending forth shadows over the carnage, staining it all red and black. The colours of a joker.

Amir's muscles strained, cried out he stood. He wavered in the breeze, eyes blinded by the dying sunset. Then he was falling.

Red flashed as he hit the ground. Pain exploded across his vision.

The air was knocked out of him. He couldn't breathe.

Can't. Breathe.

Amir doubled over in the debris, coughing his lungs out. Tears leaked from parched eyes and rolled down blood-stained cheeks. His heart ricochet off his ribcage with every bout of coughing.

Every tear was revenge, every cough was agony.

Amir knew this pain had a name; it went by destiny.




All that happened, happened for a reason. Amir knew that, and the burn of anger in his chest seared.

Blood painted the sky, streaked in shades of despair, telling him of revenge. A time that he had expected, when the privileged would take their revenge for his happiness.

Now that his home lay in ruins at his feet, his family corpses beneath. Now that he was at his knees, begging, pleading.

Pleading to join them.

Destiny discarded him. He sat in the rubble, suffering but alive. He sat with death, a broken, bleeding man.

His blood stained the sand black.

'The worst have rotten blood,' they used to say.

And whose was rottener than theirs?




Amir scrutinised his hands; red scarred his fingertips, burnt them black.

His bleeding sun cast shadows across the ridges in his palm, the cuts along his arms. Now the sunlight was dying, and blood-red leaked to form night's canopy.

Light gave way to darkness, day died to bring forth night, and his family still lay amongst the rubble, their heartbeats silent.

He could very well hate those that had brought this fate upon him, their so-called destiny. The revenge that ate away their morals, their care for human life.

He could repay them with all that they had given him.

But he knew that anger burned red and scarred the heart black.

399 words

Weekly #4
1,781 words

Part 1
▪────

Exposition: A bridge was made by the people many centuries before, a bridge of limestone that arched over the river. However, by causes unknown (to the reader), the bridge collapsed and wasn't remade for many years. Our protagonist, Adair, is fascinated with finding out how the bridge collapsed, and how many people fell into the river with it.

Rising Action: Adair asks his mother about his father, stating that “he fell in, didn't he?” His mother does not give him a clear, straightforward answer, and seems distressed by the topic. She refers to his father's home, and how this world was not it. Adair tries to communicate with his mother, but nothing works.

Climax: Adair is helping to build the bridge again and brings this news home to his mother. She isn't pleased and tells him not to cross when it is completed. Adair gets angry and insists that she is only acting this way because of his father's death, which he claims she was not there to witness. She says that the bridge is cursed. The argument is not resolved, and instead ends in silence.

Falling Action: Adair continues building the bridge, and when the day comes to cross it, he is one of the first. He thinks of his mother as he walks and is lulled into a false sense of contentment and bliss. He doesn't hear the overhead wire snapping and falling, and the bridge starting to burn. The bridge collapses again, and he falls with it.

Resolution: He wakes to see his mother looking over him, her demeanour distressed. He apologises to her and says he is not going anywhere, his home is with her. She laughs with relief and says that they will go home.

The rhyme ends by telling the woman she can go home now.

- 319 words





Story (parts 2, 3 & 4)
▪────


oh, your bridge is falling down,
falling down,
falling down.



As children, they asked about the bridge.

Its limestone pathway arching over the river, a trail for generations of the past. They asked about its lore, whether drinking the water below would steal a man's soul, or if you crossed it at night, would the shadows swallow you whole?

The adults laughed at these questions, but sorrow lingered in their eyes just a little too long.

Their gaze would drift off to the setting sun, dying red and yellows streaking the horizon where a bridge once stood. Where its arches once bowed and light filtered through, so that the sun was reduced to a golden spark in the distance.

Now the light blinded them, setting the world aflame.

Adair didn't care so much about the bridge's lore; he was fascinated with something else.

How did the bridge collapse, and how many fell with it?



“Papa fell in, didn't he?”

Adair watched his mother turn to stone before his eyes — her posture rigid, her eyes alert.

She bent over the sink again, scrubbing the pan in her hand. She did not look at him. “He fell where?”

Adair gently took the pan from between her clutched fingers, and continued washing it. “Papa fell in the river. When the bridge collapsed.”

The boy phrased it as a declaration — not a question needing confirmation, but a statement. A statement that took the form of a blunt knife, twisting in his mother's abdomen.

She swallowed. Her knuckles whitened against the oak brown of the countertop, fingers gripping wood.

Pain flashed in her eyes, stifled agony spelt out across her face, before the expression hardened again. The woman was stone once more.

Her cold gaze fixed on the steady stream of water falling from the tap. She made no move to close it.

“Your Papa's time came to go. He… He's home now.”

A match lit in Adair's chest.

“But this is his home,” he said, resentment lacing his words. "We are his home."

She shook her head.

Silence gripped the air. Moments stretched for an eternity between them.

Silence, but for the thump of their heartbeats and the running of water. Silence, but for all the words they wished they could say.

Adair's mother broke it first.

“This was a home that failed your Papa, that didn't keep him safe.”

Her voice shook, the shudder of someone at the edge, looking down.

At the edge of this stilted normality, this pretence of everything is fine, don't worry, of Papa passed away, it's not important how. This act that had spanned his whole life, since the day his father died.

A sob broke through when she murmured, “A home that let him fall.”

Adair left his mother with her demons, the tap still running.



Dying sunlight bathed the river in shades of fire, setting its waves aflame.

Adair squinted against the glare, rubbing muddied hands against his trousers and wiping sweat from his brow. His muscles strained from a hard day's work, grit in his nails and a satisfied glint in his eye.

By the time he returned home, the river had swallowed up the sun.

“Mama!”

Footsteps sounded against the stairs as his mother descended, and Adair greeted her with a beaming grin.

She returned the expression with a surprised smile, fixing the sleeves of her gown. “What is it?”

“We're rebuilding the bridge,” Adair announced, eyes bright. “We've finished half already, and it's been decided that I will be one of the first to cross when it's completed.”

The woman studied his face — the light in his gaze, the sweat still layering his brow. Her silence spoke multitudes, and Adair's heart dropped to his stomach.

She looked at him, saying nothing as the seconds ticked by.

Again, moments stretched for an eternity. Again, silence gripped the air.

This time Adair broke it. “Ma…”

“I love you, my dear,” his mother whispered, pain glazing her eyes. “But I cannot let you do that.”

Again, the match lit in his chest. Rage coiled Adair's heart like a barbed wire — his glare accusatory, his words even more so.

"First, you refuse to tell me the truth about what happened to my father — that he died when the bridge collapsed. Then, when we can finally rebuild it and I am able to cross it just like you and Papa once did, you forbid me?"

A spark of anger flared in his mother's gaze as she rose up to his height, her eyes flashing, warning him to mind his mouth.

He didn't.

“Just because you're afraid that what happened to Papa will—”

“Don't you dare!”

The world stilled.

His mother had never truly raised her voice at him, and now he understood why.

She was a woman of stone no longer, suppressed emotions streaking her face, burning beyond her irises.

A warrior stood in her place, grief scarring her expression, remnants of the pain that had deadened her heart.

“That bridge is cursed. You were not there when your father died.”

“Neither were you!” Adair spat.

This time, he didn't expect the silence.

A second passed. Two.

It held him in a chokehold. He couldn't breathe. Fear throbbed in his chest.

Like a brick wall had risen between them, his mother closed off.

The fire in her eyes died. The emotions fell from her face as if they had never been there to begin with, a mask peeling back to reveal the statue beneath.

She tugged her sleeves once more, and left her son choking on the silence.



Two weeks later, the bridge was completed.

Two weeks later, Adair and his mother still hadn't spoken.

He thought of her then, imagined the pride in her smile as he stepped onto the bridge, its limestone pathway arching over the river.

As the light filtered through and the world no longer burned, he thought of his mother.

Her words lingered in his mind, “The bridge is cursed.” A warning—

“Adair! Are you ready?” called one of his friends.

Adair beamed, lips pulling into a grin that even the sun could not rival. “Of course!”

Anticipation surged behind his ribcage, pulsed through his veins. His heart pounded to the beat of his footsteps.

This is it.

With every step across that bridge, the lure of the unknown pulled him along.

Despite the sting of his mother's anger, and the simmering remnants of his own indignation, his burdens lifted as he walked. Contentment swelled in his chest, and he fell into a trance of pure bliss.

So deep, in fact, that Adair didn't hear the searing of an overhead wire, or the contact when it hit the ground.

He didn't smell the singe of smoke as a rope caught fire.

He didn't feel the crumble of limestone beneath his feet.

He didn't hear the screams of “The bridge is burning!”

He thought of his mother's smile just as the world went up in flames, and he fell into darkness.




oh, your bridge is burning down,
burning down,
burning down.



“Adair—!”

He heard the voice as if from very far away. A voice that comforted him, pulled him into an embrace.

A voice that told him everything is fine, you'll be alright.

A voice that made him open his eyes and look up into his mother's face.

Her ash-singed hair and smoke-stained skin. The mask of stone peeled back, raw emotion scrawled across her flushed cheeks. Tears warring with the fire in her eyes.

“Mama…” he sighed.

A sob lodged in the back of her throat. “Adair, my dear.”

He looked at her eyes, making sure she saw the sincerity in his. “I'm sorry, Mama, for everything.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. I am your mother—I will love you, always,” she said, a tear rolling down her soot-stained cheek.

“Don't worry about me, Mama.” Smoke burned his eyes as he reached for his mother's hand, murmuring, “My home is with you.”

Her relief came out in a stifled gasp, tears swimming in her eyes as she laughed and said,

“Then we'll go home.”

Adair closed his eyes to the sight of his mother's smile, and the thought of home.


you can go home now,
my fair lady.

1,462 words
thanks so much to tilly for her critique <3

critique for Tilly <3
976 words

Tilly, I really like the plotline and the idea - having just finished reading the whole thing, I can say that I love the dynamic between the parents and Freddy himself - there are a few lines he says that I really felt :')

As for choosing the ending, I honestly loved them both for different reasons.

But before I really get into it, I wanted to say that you should choose the ending that you feel is right. I struggled with this with my entry (that you're critiquing now probably aaa-) because I had the same choice - and although I usually go with the sad ending, this time I chose the other route.

It really depends on the story and where you want to go with it <3

-

Okay, first of all, I really like that title. Atlantic Down immediately drew me into the story!

The first line is perfectly fine, but you could rephrase it to grab your reader's attention right from the get-go. For example,

Someone shook me from the darkness, a voice clamouring for my attention.

If you'd rather keep the line as it is, again it reads perfectly fine, but I would say it could be rephrased so that the word 'was' isn't repeated (that's just one of my pet-peeves lol ^^) :

'Someone was shaking me, and a distant voice was clamouring clamoured for my attention, but I couldn’t bring myself to heed to what was disturbing my sleep.

Again, this next line is perfectly fine, but maybe to make it a little less clunky, it could be rephrased it to:

'She shook her head and closed her mouth her lips tightened, seeming to think better of whatever she was going to say.'

Here:

'I was still rather tired, but I did my best to keep up with Mother’s hasty pace as she led me round one turn, then another,' maybe you could describe the tiredness instead of stating that Freddy is tired, so that it adds imagery and relatability for the reader?

I love this line:

'“Is the ship sinking?” I whispered, a lump forming in my throat. “What if it sinks before you get off?”' - it encapsulates the story so well <3

Also, I love the dynamic between the parents shown here:

“Leonard, I…”
“It’s okay,” he whispered.

These lines, and the way the mother's words trail off adds another dimension to their characters and I really liked that.

Where you've used double exclamation marks or question marks, I don't think it's necessary and might make the story read a bit informally - just using one does the job perfectly. ^^

Where it mentions the pocket clock, did you mean pocket watch? Just clarifying that might make it easier for the reader to visualise.


Sad ending:

So, with the endings, I liked both but for different reasons.

The sad ending has a lot of description which helps the reader to really imagine the setting properly, and, especially with the mention of rain, it added pathetic fallacy in the weather reflecting his emotions.

I also love the repetition of ‘wishing’ in these lines:

'I dashed it away and continued to stare at the clock, wishing I could turn its hands back, and time along with it.
Wishing Father had stayed with us. Wishing that we had never set foot on that blasted ship.'

Specifically the last line - I think, if you do choose to end it sadly, this is the perfect way to end it so that it's both bittersweet and shows Freddy's anguish and regret.


Happy ending:

But, the happy ending was also wonderful in its own way. Also, because you've already mentioned the possibility of the ship sinking and this tragedy taking place, it could be a nice twist for the father to survive. It's up to you! <3

I like how in the line, 'Pulling the pocket clock out, I checked the time, wondering how long it had been since I slept. It read 7am,' it shows he's using the gift his father gave him, and although it's a small detail that could be integrated into any part of the story, I liked that he uses it to read the time.

You can also mention this in the sad ending version, just by him reading the time off of it.

I really like this scene:

My heart skipped a beat and I stumbled back, clenching the pocket clock so tight it hurt my hand.
“Father!!”

But maybe, earlier on, you could reference a special feature that the father has (e.g. a scar on his cheek, a few grey hairs in his beard, his laugh catches the attention of others, his eyes turn hazel in the light, his smile is lopsided, etc) so that it can be repeated again in this scene, and this will show how Freddy realises that this man is his father.

'“Freddy,” he whispered.' I love that he whispered it - I really imagined that <3

Here, you could rephrase it slightly so it reads as: 'I clung to Father as if I could would never let go, crying on his shoulder as he hugged me close.'

And, finally, I really like the last line being: '…unexplainable gratitude filling me as I heard his laugh once more.'

-

Honestly, Tilly, I'm not sure which ending you should choose because they're both wonderful and add to the story in their own ways, but I know that whichever you, as the writer, feel is best will be perfect for it.

Overall, this is a great piece and I hope my critique helped!

Please bear in mind that these are only my opinions and you are in no way obliged to take my feedback into account, they are only suggestions after all ^^ - best of luck with your writing piece! <33

thank yous (march '23) <3

hosts, daily team coordinators, and fellow (co)leaders:
thank you all for this wonderful, hobbit-filled, gurtle-rampaging session! the second cabin wars was so fun, and starr that wonderful thumbnail- :0 this session will truly be one for the books, and i'm so happy that this lotr-themed session has been my favourite yet <3

hi-fi thank yous

rae:
aa, rae! this session has been absolute blast, and you made hi-fi what it is! your brilliant ideas shaped our cabin and i loved helping you bring your ideas to fruition. i got to know you so much and i loved how you made sure to check up on me and niko - that was so sweet and made my day <3 your artistic skills are out of this world, and that is not an exaggeration! your pfp left me speechless- :0 you were so kind and welcoming right from the very beginning, and you were so wonderful about my writing as well - it meant the world to me <33 thank you so much for this amazing session, and i can't believe it's ended </3

niko:
niko!! thank you for being such a brilliant co-leader and your experience really showed throughout the session - i absolutely loved the hi-fi pfps you made and if i wasn't so attached to this one, i definitely would've had one <3 i loved the conversations we had and enjoyed getting to know you! i really hope you were able to perfect your writing comp entry and you're happy enough for it to be submitted, whether for this session or a future one - feel free to reach out to me if you ever need someone to critique any of your writing, i'll happily do it <3 this session has been wonderful and you're a part of that <33

silvi:
aa, silvi! we were in steampunk together (which was amazing) and now we've made some brilliant memories in hi-fi! i've loved having you in my word count studio and i'm pretty sure you completed most, if not every, daily and weekly - you gained the most words in hi-fi this session! congratulations :0 <3 you did absolutely brilliantly and i'm so proud to have been your co-leader! <33

skylar:
skylar! i didn't get to know you very well this session - but feel free to drop by my profile any time even after session ends! you did so well this session and i'm really glad i had you in my word count studio! i hope this session was amazing for you <3

sunny:
heyy sunny! ;D i'm so glad you were put into my word count studio! as always, i loved speaking to you - you've convinced me to read the fourth skyward book as soon as i can! - and you're such a sweet, caring individual <3 your support for my writing is something i will always be grateful for! whether during or outside of swc, you've been an amazing writer and friend, and i wish you all the best with your writing! feel free to contact me if you ever need someone to critique your work, i'll gladly do it ;D i hope you enjoyed this session and took something from it <33

alaska:
aa, alaska! as i'm writing this, i've just read your thank you note and it warmed my heart so much! <3 you were a star this session, and reading your work bettered me as a writer which i am so grateful for - i loved encouraging you and i didn't even realise you saw my messages lol! i'm so happy that you've entered the writing comp and i wish you all the best for it! you're such a wonderful person, and i'm so glad i got to know you this session - feel free to drop by my profile even after swc ends <33

time:
time! i'm sad i didn't get to know you better, but it was wonderful having you in my word count studio - feel free to drop by my profile even after swc ends! you did great this session and i hope you enjoyed it in hi-fi <3

cactus:
cactus! i loved having you in my word count studio and you almost reached 13k words which is amazing! you were an asset to hi-fi and i hope i see you in future swc sessions i wish you all the best and i hope you enjoyed this session! <3

em:
although you joined later than the rest, you still did so well, em! i'm sad i didn't get to know you better but i'm so glad you were put into my word count studio - i hope you enjoyed it in hi-fi, and i hope to see you in future sessions <3

to all the rest of hi-fi:
there are just so many people to name and i'm on a huge time limit right now, so i'm sorry i can't name you all! </3 but i loved our hype-woman and every single camper who made hi-fi what it is - you held our cabin at sixth place, and although some may look down on that, i'm so insanely proud and grateful for every single one of you. you're all stars, and i wish you the best! <3

thank yous outside of hi-fi

tilly:
TILLY! aa, i've known you for the longest time and you've seen my writing back when i was a pre-teen with a keyboard to now - and i'm so grateful for all you've done to help me grow <3 the critique from earlier today is just the tip of the iceberg (that critique was amazing btw, i needed it so much- :0 i was reading your comments and saying “aah, yeah, i agree” lol) - your support for all of my writing projects goes back years and i thank you for being such a wonderful friend! i love that we bonded over being from the UK xD i wish you all the best, and hope to see you next session as well! <33

snowy:
SNOWYY! you're amazing and i cannot even summarise our conversations in just a few lines because there were so. many. of. them. and i loved absolutely every single one! you're a brilliant writer and an even more brilliant friend - i'm pretty sure the first time we properly talked was after i'd watched TBoSaS and that conversation went on for weeks! and your writing- :0 don't even get me started- girl, you're such a wonderful (i can't find another synonym lol) writer and i need to make time some time soon to read all your most recent pieces! (swc has been keeping me so busy but i WILL get round to it now) - i can't wait to see you next session! <33

clev:
clevvv! i've always briefly spoken to you over the sessions, but i felt so much closer to you this session! you were the reason i joined the frying pan cult (will never regret that!) and i've been seeing a lot of frying pans cropping up in my writing since then ;D your constant support is wonderful, and i will always remember the time, a few days ago, when we both submitted our dailies right when it hit 12 utc time- :0 that adrenaline rush thoughhh- amazing <3 i hope to see you next session!

poppy:
poppyyy! i've always seen you around during swc and maybe spoke to you once or twice before now, but i'm so glad we spoke more this session! i'm so honoured that i got to critique your writing, and just through your messages about the critique, i got to know the sweet, wonderful person that you are <3 i wish you all the best with your writing comp entry, and i hope to see you next session! <3

moonlit:
aa, moonlit! i only really got to know you last session when i was a panellist, but since then we've spoken so much more, and i'm super grateful for that <3 i just wanted to give you a quick thank-you for your wonderful messages and support - and of course your wonderful advice about applying for leader! it means the world and more to me <3

recca:
reccaa! i spoke to you so much this session, and i've loved all of our conversations! your bubbly nature is so contagious, you have no idea <3 your support has been so so very appreciated, and thank you so much for critiquing my fanfic entry! the title credits go to you and i am so grateful for it ;D i wish you all the best! <3

alia:
last but definitely not least: alia! <3 you're just overall an amazing person, so there's not much i can say that will be better than that, but i'll try - i've admired your writing from the sidelines for so long, and even helping to critique your writing was so hard- :0 you're a brilliant writer and an even better friend - thank you so much for nitpicking my fanfic entry lol, that's exactly what i needed! i wish you all the best in everything you do <3

and to you, dear reader:
if you've made it this far, you're likely one of my fellow swcers, and i just wanted to take a quick moment to say, i wasn't able to include all of you in this list, but i want you to know that i always saw you - your funny anecdotes and motivational mangoes, your rants about gurtle eating the link (again), your scoldings when i was up past midnight.
i adore all of you, and i hope to see you next session! ;D

with love and mangoes,
may <3

oh, your bridge is falling down,
falling down,
falling down.




As children, they asked about the bridge—its limestone pathway arching over the river, a trail for generations of the past.

They asked about its lore, whether drinking the water below would steal a man's soul, or if you crossed it at night, would the shadows swallow you whole?

The adults laughed at these questions, but sorrow lingered in their eyes just a little too long.

Their gaze would drift off to the setting sun, dying red and yellows streaking the horizon where a bridge once stood. Where its arches once bowed and light filtered through, so that the sun was reduced to a golden spark in the distance.

Now the light blinded them, setting the world aflame.

Adair didn't care so much about the bridge's lore; he was fascinated with something else.

How did the bridge collapse, and how many fell with it?




“Papa fell in, didn't he?”

Adair watched his mother turn to stone before his eyes.

She bent over the sink again, her posture rigid, scrubbing the pan in her hand. She did not look at him. “What?”

Adair gently took the pan from between her fingers and continued washing it. “Papa fell in the river. When the bridge collapsed.”

The boy phrased it as a declaration—not a question needing confirmation, but a statement that took the form of a blunt knife, twisting in his mother's abdomen.

She swallowed. Her knuckles whitened against the oak brown of the countertop. Pain flashed in her eyes, stifled agony spelt out across her face, before the expression hardened again. The woman was stone once more.

Her cold gaze fixed on the steady stream of water falling from the tap. She made no move to close it.

“Your Papa's time came to go. He… he's home now.”

A match lit in Adair's chest.

“But this is his home,” he said, resentment lacing his words. "We are his home."

She shook her head.

Silence gripped the air. Moments stretched for an eternity between them.

Silence, but for the thump of their heartbeats and the running of water. Silence, but for all the words they wished they could say.

Adair's mother broke it first.

“This was a home that failed your Papa. It didn't keep him safe.”

Her voice shook, the shudder of someone at the edge looking down.

At the edge of this stilted normality, this pretence of 'everything is fine, don't worry', of 'Papa passed away, it's not important how.' This act that had defined his whole life, since the day his father died.

A sob broke through when she murmured, “A home that let him fall.”

Adair left his mother with her demons, the tap still running.




Dying sunlight bathed the river in shades of fire, setting its waves aflame.

Adair squinted against the glare, rubbing muddied hands against his trousers and wiping sweat from his brow. His muscles strained from a hard day's work, grit in his nails and a satisfied glint in his eye.

By the time he returned home, the river had swallowed up the sun.

“Mama!”

Footsteps sounded against the stairs as his mother descended, and Adair greeted her with a beaming grin.

She returned the expression with a surprised smile, fixing the sleeves of her gown. “What is it?”

“We're rebuilding the bridge,” Adair announced, eyes bright. “We've finished half already, and it's been decided that I will be amongst the first to cross when it's completed.”

She studied his face—the light in his gaze, the sweat still layering his brow. Her silence spoke multitudes, and Adair's heart dropped to his stomach

Again, moments stretched for an eternity. Again, silence gripped the air.

This time Adair broke it. “Ma…”

“I love you, my dear,” his mother whispered, pain glazing her eyes. “But I cannot let you do that.”

Again, the match lit in his chest. Rage coiled Adair's heart like a barbed wire—his glare accusatory, his words even more so.

"First, you refuse to tell me the truth about what happened to my father—that he died when the bridge collapsed. Then, when we can finally rebuild it and I am able to cross it just like you and Papa once did, you forbid me?"

A spark of anger flared in his mother's gaze as she rose up to his height, her eyes flashing, warning him to mind his mouth.

He didn't.

“Just because you're afraid that what happened to Papa will—”

“Don't you dare!”

The world stilled.

His mother had never truly raised her voice at him, and now he understood why.

She was a woman of stone no longer, suppressed emotions streaking her face, burning beyond her irises.

A warrior stood in her place, grief scarring her expression, remnants of the pain that had deadened her heart.

“That bridge is cursed. You were not there when your father died.”

“Neither were you!” Adair spat.

This time, he didn't expect the silence.

A second passed. Two.

It held him in a chokehold. He couldn't breathe. Fear throbbed in his chest.

Like a brick wall had risen between them, his mother closed off.

The fire in her eyes died. The emotions fell from her face as if they had never been there to begin with, a mask peeling back to reveal the statue beneath.

She tugged her sleeves once more, and left her son choking on the silence.




Two months later, the bridge was completed.

Two months later, Adair and his mother still hadn't spoken.

He thought of her then, imagined the pride in her smile as he stepped onto the bridge, its limestone pathway arching over the river.

As the light filtered through and the world no longer burned, he thought of his mother.

Her words lingered in his mind, “The bridge is cursed.” A warning—

“Adair! Are you ready?” called one of his friends.

Adair beamed, lips pulling into a grin that even the sun could not rival. “Of course!”

Anticipation surged behind his ribcage, pulsed through his veins. His heart pounded to the beat of his footsteps.

This is it.

With every step across that bridge, the lure of the unknown pulled him along.

Despite the sting of his mother's anger, and the simmering remnants of his own indignation, his burdens lifted as he walked. Contentment swelled in his chest, and he fell into a trance of pure bliss.

So deep, in fact, that Adair didn't hear the searing of an overhead wire, or the contact when it hit the ground.

He didn't smell the singe of smoke as a rope caught fire.

He didn't feel the crumble of limestone beneath his feet.

He didn't hear the screams of “The bridge is burning!”

He thought of his mother's smile just as the world went up in flames, and he fell into darkness.

—

I see my son the same way I saw my husband.

Falling. Dying.

—

oh, your bridge is burning down,
burning down,
burning down.



“Adair—Son. Wake up…”

He heard the voice as if from very far away. A voice that comforted him, pulled him into an embrace.

A voice that told him everything is fine, you'll be alright.

A voice that made him open his eyes and look up into his mother's face.

Her ash-singed hair and smoke-stained skin. The mask of stone peeled back, raw emotion scrawled across her flushed cheeks. Tears warring with the fire in her eyes.

“Mama…” he sighed.

A sob lodged in the back of her throat. “Adair, my dear.”

He looked at her eyes, making sure she saw the sincerity in his. “I'm sorry, Mama, for everything.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. I am your mother—I will love you, always,” she said, a tear rolling down her soot-stained cheek.

“Don't worry about me, Mama.” Smoke burned his eyes as he reached for his mother's hand, murmuring, “My home is with you.”

Her breaths came out in stifled gasps, tears swimming in her eyes as she laughed and said,

“Then we'll go home.”

Adair blinked away the ashes and, for a moment, he felt the weight of another body, a familiar arm holding him.

Papa…

He closed his eyes to his mother's smile, a ghost’s embrace, and the thought of home.


you can go home now,
my fair lady.

author's note:
‣ credit to the English nursery rhyme that this is based off of.
‣ thanks so much to the wonderful tilly, recca and alia who all critiqued this and helped me bring it to the next level + credit to recca for the brilliant title <3
‣ credit also to The Wizard of Oz and something I was listening to that both influenced my writing without me realising it - after all,
there's no place like home.
‣ kudos to throwing all caution to the wind, because that's what I did for this one ;D