Mythology- Myth Retelling (1397 Words)
I didn’t mean to die, obviously, but it happened anyway. Oopsies!
I also didn’t mean to almost destroy the world, but we all make mistakes, right?
Right?
Okay, maybe not. At least not mistakes that almost cause the downfall of the world and require the king of the gods himself to kill me (and my dad’s car!). Sorry, guys!
Oh, you’re wondering how I possibly did that, aren’t you? Well, let me tell you the story.
—
I should probably tell you that I’m the son of a god. Helios, to be exact. Cool, right?
Nope! First of all, I’ve met my dad twice. That averages about once per seven years. Thanks for being there for me, Dad! He also gives “flaming temper” a whole new meaning. The dude snorts FLAMES.
But anyways, I was at my fancy-demigod-private-middle-school-Hades-hole eating lunch when my friend sat down next to me, an ugly smirk on his face.
I call this dude my friend, but he’s really not. He’s kind of a jerk, but he and I tolerate each other most of the time. However, this particular day had already been terrible for both of us, and we were both just in the mood to pick a fight.
“You’re not really the son of Helios, are you?” he sneered. “You’re just a wannabe demigod who faked a little light trick to get the title.”
Now, usually I’m pretty calm and clear-headed, but the fact that I’m a demigod is my pride and joy. So, of course, I idiotically spat back, “Of course I am! Helios is my dad, and I can prove it!”
“Do it, then.”
“Fine. I’m riding my dad’s fancy sun car across the sky tomorrow morning, and I’ll send you a sign- one that may or may not end in your combustion.”
So I stormed out of the cafeteria and snuck out of school, heading for my dad’s mega-mansion on the east side of town. I wanted to let my mom know where I was, but she’d kill me if I told her I was ditching school to visit my dad. Literally- she’s a water nymph, and she’s threatened me with drowning multiple times. I have a great family, right?
So anyways, I finally got to the subway station and headed towards the rich residential houses, passing the time on the train by people-watching. When you realize the world is secretly populated with mythological creatures, life gets a lot more interesting.
I finally got off after about fifteen minutes, exiting the train station and scanning the horizon for the home I was looking for. My dad loved opulence- surely his house was the palace at the end of the row, painted such a bright shade of gold that it was almost impossible to stare at. This might be a good time to mention that I had never been to his house before. Great job, Dad.
I headed to the giant mansion, and before I knew it, I was standing in front of the gates, still fueled by the rage of my fight with the guy back at school. I would prove, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that my father was Helios. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous to meet my clinically absent father for the first time in years.
Shaking my head to clear the nerves, I rang the doorbell, smiling in amusement as “Here Comes the Sun” played from every speaker on the estate. I can tell you one thing, my dad sure does know how to stick to a theme.
Suddenly, a man in a tuxedo began walking down the winding trail connecting the mansion and the gate where I was standing. Finally, he reached me, and without a word, unlocked the gate and beckoned me in.
I followed him wordlessly, glancing around at the manicured, sculpted gardens and all of the strange, orb-like golden spheres adorning the yellow roses. It was beautiful, as much as I hated to admit it, and I began to wonder about what my life would be like if I lived with him in this shimmering, sunlit palace. Would it be different?
Anyways, I finally arrived at the giant doors, and the doorman, still silent, unlocked it and I stepped into the grand, opulent hall. I stared around in wonder, noting the fountains casting sheets of sunlit water from corner to corner, my eyes catching on the opulent tapestries telling of Helios’ achievements. The guy was not humble: portraits of him adorned every available surface, and most of them seemed significantly more handsome and strong than I remember him being in my grand total of two visits.
My eyes finally fell to the giant golden throne in the middle of the room, carved with complicated swirls and suns, and the large, glowing man sitting on it.
My father.
“Son?” He stood up, coming closer. “What are you doing here?”
I gulped. Being around my father for the first time in years made me a little nervous, especially since I was about to ask him to borrow his pride and joy for a quick ride.
“Hi, Dad,” I said.
He smiled, face alight with happiness. “Phaethon, I’ve missed you so much. I’m so sorry for being gone for all these years.”
I kept my face neutral. “Hey, Dad, some kids at school don’t believe I’m really your kid.”
He frowned. “That’s silly. Here, I’ll do you a favor. I’ll give you anything you want to prove you’re my son. I swear on the River Styx! Imagine strolling into school with Medusa’s head in your hand! That’ll really show them.”
I smiled sheepishly. “I was wondering if I could borrow your sun chariot for a night?”
Helios’ face crumpled. “Son, you don’t have the power or strength to survive that…”
But I (idiotically) didn’t care. “Let me ride it, Dad. Please. You swore.”
He sighed, tears streaming down his cheeks. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. I’d been racing Go-Karts since I was nine. How hard would a giant sun Lamborghini be?
“Well, I suppose I did swear. It was nice knowing you, son.”
Undeterred, I followed him out of the great hall into a car garage. Inside was the biggest, brightest, sleekest car I’d ever seen. “Sweet,” I muttered, tracing my hand over the smooth, warm hood.
“Are you listening, son? This is important. You need to control the car, okay? Don’t let it go free. If you do, it will literally be the end of the world.” Helios turned to me, completely serious. I shrugged, then jumped into the driver’s seat, excitement lighting up my face. I looked through the window, noting the moonlight streaking the sky. It must have been later than I thought. Almost dawn.
”Alright, Phaethon. I can’t seem to convince you not to do this, so, son, I just want you to know that I love you.”
I nodded awkwardly, beginning to back the car out, my mind focused on proving myself to my friend. It was large, the largest car I’d ever seen, and driving it was no easy task. I eventually got it out of the garage and into the open driveway, then pressed the button conveniently marked FLY. I rose into the air, shrieking, and then directed the car towards the east. I rose higher with a shudder, the steering wheel jerking a bit as I struggled to control it. My dad’s words echoed around me, reminding me to control the car as I continued flying it eastwards, taking with me the sunrise. It was peaceful, for just a moment, the rolling fields stretched out before me, but then the steering wheel gave the most violent jerk yet and I lost my grip, panic filling my thoughts as I plummeted towards the earth, the car scorching the air around me, heading dangerously close to the earth. A scream escaped my lungs, and suddenly a flash of white-hot light enveloped me, and then…
Nothing.
Later, I learned that Zeus himself had struck me down and killed me. An honor, I guess?
But anyways, that’s the story of how I died! Pretty cool, right?
I guess you can learn something from my unfortunate story, dear reader, and that is: don’t let your stupid friends convince you to do stupid things. Great life advice, in my opinion. So, that’s it, I guess! Phaethon out.

Part 2: If These Walls Could Talk (246 words)
I’ve been here a while. Since the 18th century, to be exact. Back then, I was a mission, created to convert Native Americans into Catholics. The missionaries built me brick by brick, muttering scattered prayer into my wet cement, hoping to build a structure that would last for centuries. And I suppose they succeeded. I’m still here, aren’t I?
Soon, the missionaries lost their power, and I became abandoned, standing as an empty monument until I became a military fortress, home to soldiers hoping to become their own republic. They named me then, after the poplar trees growing free on my property. It all climaxed in 1836, where the brave soldiers fought for their freedom and autonomy against the Mexican, blood splattering my sacred walls as cries of death and glory echoed through my chambers, soldiers dying for an idea that would never come to fruition. Soon, fire licked my foundation and my walls fell to the ground, my cries of pain left unanswered.
After my legendary battle, I became many things: a garrison, a depot, a chapel… and eventually, I became what you know me as today. You can come for a tour if you’d like, see my legendary past before your eyes, inspect the 18th-century graffiti marking my walls, and stand at the spot of one of the most legendary battles of the Texan Revolution. You can find me in San Antonio, if you’d like to visit me. Nowadays, they call me the Alamo.

Part 3: Fairy Tale Characters Meet Up (292 words)
“Welcome to the grand opening of Character Café!” I yelled into the microphone, withdrawing a pair of sparkling gold scissors engraved with fairy-tale scenes as I cut the sleek ribbon, flashing cameras surrounding my small staff. “Thank you all for coming!”
I glanced around at all of the smiling faces, their faces mirroring my own expression of delight. After years of work, my fairy-tale themed restaurant would finally be in business.
“Wait!” someone called, and I craned my neck to look as a beautiful woman pushed through the crowd, her ebony hair shining against her pale-white skin and apple-pink cheeks. She looked like someone I knew…
“You can’t open a fairy-tale café without the fairy tales!” she called, turning to face the crowd. “Hi guys, I’m Snow.”
Snow… Snow White. Snow White had come to my opening! I could barely breathe.
“Wait up!” another voice called, this one coming from a girl with auburn hair and very recognizable heels. Cinderella. I was too starstruck for words.
“Hey, bestie! I was waiting for you!” Snow called, threading her arm through Cinderella’s. They squealed together, smiles lighting up their faces. It was funny, really, to see how two of the most famous characters ever interacted together. I would have expected them to be competitors, rivals, even, but they seemed like two peas in a pod. “Anyways,” she said, turning and addressing the crowd, “I wanted to say that this is truly the best café ever, because it’s all about us fairy-tale characters! Eat here, eat here, spread the word!”
She turned to me and smiled, white teeth flashing, and I almost fainted. Meeting the characters I had idolized for so long, together, was almost too much. It was the best day of my life.

Part 4: Magical Realism (207 words)
Today was the single weirdest day of my life. Seriously, you wouldn’t even believe it! I woke up for school, put on my uniform, brushed my teeth, packed my backpack, yadda yadda yadda… but then it got interesting. You see, I was brushing my wings, totally normally, when I looked outside my window down the street, and there, I saw the strangest thing I’d ever seen. A human without wings! Can you even believe it? I had to do a double take.
Anyway, the guy in question was tall, handsome and looked about my age, but I couldn’t really see his face from my window. I craned my neck to get a good look at his back as he walked by, and, sure enough, his back was bare. No wings at all!
Suddenly, a bird flew by, perching on my windowsill. Then the next strange thing happened: it started chirping, not speaking English like normal birds! I couldn’t even tell what it was saying. I began to wonder what was going on. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I was the proud holder of a boring, vanilla, simple life, and this was possibly the craziest day ever.
And it wasn’t even 7:00 AM.

Part 5: Epic Poem in Prose (238 Words)
After the Trojan War, all of the Greeks sailed home to their families, victory ripe on their tongues. All except this man, that is, because the lovely goddess Calypso had trapped him in her cave, seeking a husband to stay with her on Ogygia forever. Even as the sun rose on the year Odysseus would finally come home, his troubles continued. He was friendless, alone, and pitied by the gods. All except Poseidon, who hated Odysseus until he arrived safely back home. But Poseidon himself was away in Ethiopia, enjoying a feast, where the other gods conversed on Mount Olympus. Father Zeus discussed the sorry fate of Aegisthus, who did not heed the advice of the great gods and instead paid the price. However, Athena interjected with pity for poor Odysseus, stuck on an island with no one to help him, all alone with sea on every side. The daughter of Atlas, Calypso, holds him with the hope of love, but Odysseus longs for home. She asked why Zeus dismisses him now, when he was such an asset in the war.
Zeus himself responds, “How could I ever forget poor Odysseus? But Poseidon still rages about the fate of Polyphemus, and prevents our hero from arriving home. Come now, we must plan! How might we convince Poseidon to give up his anger?”
Athena raised her eyebrows, a course of action forming in her head. “I have an idea…”

Part 6: Historical Characters in the Present Day (210 words)
Hello. My name is Cleopatra, and, not to brag, but you’ve probably heard of me. I used to be an Egyptian queen?
You’re probably wondering how I’m still alive. The truth is, I don’t really know. I just woke up this morning in a whole new world. I was laying in a soft and luxurious bed, and when I woke up, I looked directly to my left and almost jumped out of my skin! An impossible-looking device stood imperiously on a spindly table, and on it were strange numbers and symbols. It reminded me of a sundial, almost, but there was no way something like that could exist in my current time. It looked as though I had woken up thousands of years into the future.
When I finally mustered up the strength to step out of bed and look through the clear square of material adorning the wall, I almost fainted. There were so many people, dressed in strange, fanciful clothes, clutching rectangular screens and talking. Giant buildings stretched into the sky, and strange roads filled with strange, metallic chariots driven without horses. It was the strangest thing I’d ever seen, and I can’t even imagine how it was possible. But I suppose that’s how the future is: impossible.

Flower Daily- 412 words
Flower Chosen: rose (love), daisy (innocence), snowdrop (hope)
“Oh my goodness! It’s lovely, Oliver!” Alexus squealed, admiring the lavish picnic spread laid out before her. She twirled around, the snowdrop embroidery on her summer dress glinting in the warm late-afternoon light. The forested clearing seemed to glow in the sun as the daisies carpeting the dewy forest floor waved gently in the breeze, twinkling music echoing through the willowy branches of the surrounding trees. It was magical.

“I knew you’d love it,” Oliver said happily, adoring eyes riveted to Alexus as she flitted around the clearing like a fragile pink butterfly released from its cocoon.

“It’s beautiful,” Alexus responded, voice lilting slightly as she turned towards him, noting the way his tousled hair fell behind his ears and how his brown eyes gleamed like melted chocolate. She sat down gently and opened the small basket, arranging the contents on the brightly-patterned picnic blanket and smiling slightly as she noticed a plate of rosewater-cardamom cookies: her favorite. Oliver had remembered.

Oliver let out a small laugh, sitting down next to Alexus and brushing a bit of grass off her bare shoulder. Alexus sucked in a breath as his fingers sent fireworks across her body, and she scooted ever-so-slightly closer to him. Oliver caught the scent of rose petals as she leaned in, and he found himself breathing deeply.

Something about Alexus: the way her hair fell elegantly over the side of her neck, how her smile curled mischievously at the corners, like she was letting you in on a secret every time you made her laugh, how her startlingly green eyes fluttered when she was excited… he couldn’t explain why, but being with Alexus made him happy.

Alexus bit into a cookie and sighed in contentment, looking over at Oliver as he arranged the daisy petals scattering the ground into the shape of a heart, his cheeks pinking when he noticed her looking. “You know, Ollie, being with you… it’s really nice.”

Oliver grinned shyly. “Gee, thanks, Alex… it’s great hanging out with you too.”

They shared a smile, and Oliver slowly reached over to take Alexus’ hand in his, threading their fingers together like puzzle pieces fitting into place. Together, quietly, they watched the sun slowly dip beneath the horizon, the sky shot through with pale pink. They stayed there, together, under the setting sun, until the stars glittered in the night sky and each fell asleep, dreaming of the other, dreaming of the love story neither could have ever imagined.

Constellations: 525 words
Constellation- Casseiopeia
Queen Casseiopeia strode through the castle, a look of sheer triumph adorning her perfect face. She slipped into a dressing room, sat gracefully in one of the many golden thrones scattering the castle, each etched with different pictures of herself, and rang the bell for a handmaiden. The queen waited impatiently for help to arrive, examining herself in the mirror. “Beautiful,” she whispered. “I am so, so beautiful.”

She smirked, watching the pleasant reflection of her lovely face. A handmaiden timidly knocked on the door, and the queen called, “Come in,” her lilting, melodic voice echoing through the hall until it turned sinister.

The handmaiden entered the room, an expression of forced stoicism on her young, pleasant face as her shaking hands betrayed her anxiety. The queen hadn’t seen this particular handmaiden before. Maybe this was her first day. The girl looked young enough, pretty enough, scared enough. Casseiopeia’s legendary fits of anger struck fear into the hearts of her servants, and she wanted to keep it that way.

Fear was healthy, fear was good. Fear kept people in their place.

“Hello, Your Majesty. What would you like, Your Majesty, miss?” the handmaiden asked, voice even. The queen had to give her some credit: the young girl didn’t even flinch when Casseiopeia trailed her slender fingers across the handmaiden’s arm and dug her nails into the girl’s wrist.

“I need to get ready for a meeting. Do you have any experience with beauty, seeing as you lack it yourself?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, miss, I do.”

The queen didn’t have to be so evil. She just liked it. She was the queen, after all, the most beautiful woman in the land, even more beautiful than Poseidon’s sea nymphs. Of course, no Gods-fearing woman would dare to think such a statement, let alone utter it. But Queen Casseiopeia was not a normal woman. She had the world at her feet.

“I’m more beautiful than the Nereides themselves. Handmaiden, dear, do you agree? I command you to answer truthfully.”

The girl paled, and the queen’s eyes flashed dangerously. The handmaiden was smart enough to understand her deadly situation: If she agreed, she could be executed for treason against the gods. If she disagreed, she could be tried for treason against the queen.

“M-m-miss, Your Majesty, I don’t know…”

Suddenly, a booming voice echoed through the castle. “I am Poseidon, lord of the seas. One person in this castle has disparaged the beauty of my Nereides with boasts about her own. This person will suffer.”

The queen went white. “Impossible… it can’t be…”

But even as she spoke, she began to lift into the air, clutching the arms of her throne in terror as she began to dissolve in blue-tinged light. She screamed, but then she shot through the ceiling of the castle and was gone.

The handmaiden ran to the room’s sole window, looking for her master. Before her eyes, she watched as the blue glow climbed into the sky, eventually separating into separate balls of light and arranging themselves in the sky.

“Goodbye, Your Majesty,” the handmaiden whispered. Then the girl turned away and strode out of the room, never looking back.

Aesthetic Set

SWC Fanfiction: 949 words
Motif: hope
I crashed through the thick jungle underbrush, brushing spider webs out of my hair and flinching every time a stray branch scraped my arms, rivulets of blood dripping from my hands as I ran. My eyes began to sting as sweat dripped from my forehead, and my feet ached from running. But I couldn’t stop.

The cost would be my life.

I made the stupid mistake of looking back, watching as the striped, muscular tiger behind me gained speed. I knew it was hopeless, but I continued to pump my legs, refusing to give up. Around me, the sky began to darken, the giant, twisty branches casting eerie shadows down onto the jungle floor, the little light arcing down from the canopy slowly dissipating. Soon it would be completely dark, and I would be lost in the night. And of course, the tiger chasing me would still be able to see just fine.

Suddenly, I slammed head-on into the trunk of a giant tree, the impact knocking me flat onto the forest floor. I heard a heart-stopping crack as a shiver ran through me, and I pictured myself as one of those cartoon characters, vibrating as they got bonked on the head with a mallet. My vision blurred as a headache ravaged through me, sparks of color accompanying fresh waves of pain. I mustered the strength to touch my forehead gently, wincing as it came away stained red. Blackness began to seep into my vision, and with it, I came to the grim realization that I was about to die: if not from the head injury, from the tiger or the bugs or the twenty million other hazards in the jungle. I felt so many things at once, and my life began to flash before my eyes.

Then everything went black.

—

I woke up in a warm, comfortable bed in what looked to be a school infirmary. Hovering over me was a nice-looking girl with blond hair and blue eyes. When I say hovering, I mean HOVERING. She was floating a couple feet above me, blue-tinged butterfly wings beating a bajillion flaps per minute as her face stared sympathetically down at me. I wondered if I was going insane. I tried to scramble away from the giant-butterfly-lady as she came closer, but my head felt like it was being sat on by a new herd of elephants every time I moved, so I settled for using my blanket as a shield.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,” the girl said kindly. “I’m only here to help. I’m the school nurse. Welcome to Thriller Insect Academy. Now, if you would just drink this down, please, you’ll feel back to normal in no time!”

She pressed a suspicious-looking bottle filled with some sort of green, radioactive slime to my lips, and I wanted to nope out of there so fast. However, I still couldn’t move, so I settled for mumbling “nuh-uh” and closing my mouth stubbornly.

She sighed in gentle exasperation. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay? Then I’d have to fill out a bunch of paperwork. This will make you feel better, I promise. I know I look scary, but honey, you’re one of us now. As soon as you entered the Academy’s boundaries, you became an insect too. So please stop fighting and drink the medicine.”

Her words swirled around my brain, and I mustered up the strength to turn my head, noticing giant dragonfly wings sprouting from my back. I screamed in terror.

The girl was getting annoyed. “For the last time, you’ll be fine! You’ll be one of our students and we’ll teach you how to use your newfound powers. So just drink the thing and shut up, please.”

Tears sprang to my eyes. There was no use fighting anymore, so I opened my mouth defeatedly and let her pour the medicine down my throat. Strangely, it tasted like lemonade.

Suddenly, I felt my headache disappear. I could feel pain and heaviness seeping out of my limbs like a cool breeze, and I found that I could suddenly feel the wings on my back and the antennae on my head. I tried to stand up, gingerly stepping out of bed and walking over to the mirror that was propped up against the opposite wall. I stared at my reflection in awe. I actually looked… kind of cool! I carefully gave my wings a flap, shrieking in delight as I lifted off the ground. I was flying!

“I told you you’d be fine. Come down now, please, before you hurt yourself,” the girl called up to me. I slowly touched back down. “Better, see? I’m Rockie, by the way. Welcome to the Academy.” Rockie said, shaking my hand.

I smiled, walking around the infirmary. I peered out the window and noticed the giant glass buildings in the distance, surrounded by greenery. We were still in the jungle, it seemed, but it looked like I was on the campus of a prestigious university. Thriller Insect Academy, I supposed.

I noticed hundreds of bug-people, most of them around my age, gliding through the air and playing on the ground. They all seemed to be having the time of their lives, and I wished I could go and play with them, test the limits of my new abilities and make new friends.

I couldn’t really explain it, but being at the Academy felt… right. Like I was born to be there. And as I watched the students gliding and sliding, I noticed a soaring, swooping feeling rising in my heart like a ray of sunlight, something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Shadows flitted over the top of the wall occasionally, giving us glimpses of the world behind us, the world we were never supposed to know.

Chained to the wall behind us, only able to stare at the dark and jagged stone wall in front of us, we were never meant to see anything else.

All the things that could be seen in the passing shadows had been given names, long ago, by other prisoners, who were now forgotten, faded to dust.

The memories had long since disintegrated, just as ours would in time. Still, we passed down the names to each new generation, along with stories of what could be out there, sitting just behind us.

It was lonely to sit there at times, even being surrounded by others in the same predicament.

We'd talked to every other person there countless times since existing, and being given the same experiences since birth,

Attempts to escape were never acted upon, and the frequency with which they were thought up and planned was decreasing as others reminded each other how there was no way out of this place.

Still, no one really wanted to escape. This was all we knew, and all we would know for the rest of our lives

from shortly after birth to shortly after death.

We never knew what some of the shapes entailed, and those ones we gave the same name, regardless of shape.

Naming each shadow accurately was like a game for us, our source of entertainment, and we never tired of it.

It would never last forever, though.
I was too curious, they told me.
I wanted to know what made those shadows, what sorts of things formed the shapes we watched for eternity.
So, one day, I left.

It wasn't so hard as had been thought, really.

with which we were kept with were

And I got up.
And I turned around.
And I saw.

rebekah sighed, watching the blur of quaint towns and lazy fields pass by her window. she propped her heels up on the seat and relished the solitude of her empty train car, closing her eyes languidly and letting the warm sunlight reach through the glass and caress her lovely face. a smile curled at the corners of her red-tinted lips, the curve of her mouth quirking in an enchanting, mischievous grin as she watched the landscape slowly fade from dewy forests to untouched white-sand beaches studded with wispy, wind-tossed grass. her excitement grew the closer she drew to her destination, bright blue nails tapping the window impatiently. she couldn’t wait for the trouble she would cause in rhode island.

finally, the train pulled into rebekah’s stop. she exited quickly, giving a cheery wave to her fellow passengers as she leaped off the train step, landing with a fairy-like twirl. she hiked up her narrow, patterned skirt in a very un-ladylike manner as she clambered onto a bicycle, heading for town.

along her merry way, she passed charming houses, freckled children, and spotted dogs, saying hello to each and every one. once she reached the bustling town square, she parked her bicycle outside of a small café and set off to explore.
before she could, however, a gentle, careful hand tapped her on the shoulder. rebekah turned around to find a young, handsome man with a confident smile, a diamond watch gleaming on his wrist. he had a poised air about him, his immaculate blazer and creamy tie accentuating a slender, striking figure. a button on his lapel read standard oil.

“hello,” she said, drawing closer. “good afternoon,” he responded, casually leaning against the brick wall of the café. playing with the leaves of a nearby tree, he plucked a plump, white flower from the branch and offered it to rebekah playfully. “a flower for the pretty lady?”
she smiled, taking it and placing it behind her ear.

“i’m rebekah.” she said smoothly, extending a hand, which he leaned down to kiss. “i’m william, but you can call me bill. would you allow me to show you around town?” he asked, and, as she nodded, he took her arm in his and took her on a tour, pointing out cute restaurants and local shops. together, they examined sweet-scented candles, sampled delicious treats, and bought brightly-colored vintage glass bottles. “they’re full of secrets,” rebekah explained at bill’s questioning glance. “maybe this bottle was owned by a sailor’s wife, or a doctor, or a fortune-teller! maybe i’m just carrying on the legacy of bottle-owners.”

bill smiled, playing along. “maybe this bottle right here washed up on the shore after falling off a traveling merchant’s cart. or maybe it held a young princess’s perfume, or a bottle of vanilla for a wedding cake!”
“exactly!” rebekah replied. “i think you’ve got it, dearie.”

from across the shop, the cashier called to them, “hey, lovebirds! are you guys planning on actually buying anything?”

—

“you may now kiss the bride.”

polite clapping filled the lavishly-decorated apartment rooms of 730 park avenue as rebekah and william embraced. the chilly october air wafted through the open windows, autumn leaves from nearby trees scattering the aisle and tangling in rebekah’s veil as william laughed. a centerpiece of weathered glass bottles filled with daffodils (the bride’s favorite flower) adorned each table, but the beautiful decorations didn’t make up for the whispers floating around the room.

“who is this rebekah, anyways? how did she capture the heart of william hale harkness, the richest bachelor our town has ever seen?”
“i heard she used to live in saint louis and loved the ballet.”
“i’ve heard it said that she spiked the punch at her sister’s debutante ball with mineral oil.”
“one of her old school friends told me that rebekah told everyone that she ‘set out to do everything bad’.”
“ooh, i’ve heard she married her first husband just because she ‘didn’t have anything better to do’. I hope she doesn’t break poor bill’s heart.”

rebekah pretended not to notice the whispers, let her confidence thicken into a shield that not even the judgmental murmurs could break. “don’t worry, lovely, they’re just jealous. soon they’ll come to love you just as i do,” bill said softly, squeezing her hand. rebekah returned his smile gratefully, threading her arm through his as she cleared her throat. “esteemed guests, i have wonderful news!” she called to the room, waiting for their full attention before continuing.

“do you all know that charming house back home on watch hill, the beautiful one overlooking the ocean?” she paused dramatically, then said with a flourish, “well, bill and i have bought it! and just for all of you, we’ll be having a housewarming party next week in our newly-dubbed ‘holiday house!’’’

this time, the clapping was genuine: all the socialites were curious to see what kind of party rebekah would throw. her reputation thus far was one of barely-disguised wildness, and a raucous party would put her in the history books forever as the maddest woman the town had ever seen.

the party was exactly that. rebekah debuted her brand-new fish tank (filled to the brim with scotch) and let the libations flow freely, leading to a night of laughter, love and some poor choices. during the celebration, rebekah and bill stood together on the balcony, overlooking the festivities as elegant, sweeping music echoed from somewhere down below. as the song drifted up to them, the couple looked to each other with matching expressions of affection. “becky…” bill sighed, trailing off as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and she wrapped hers around his waist. “i love you, dearie,” she finished for him, and they swayed together under the stars, knowing that they’d forever be the center of each other’s universe.

—

“all in all, a great night,” one woman declared to another, rubbing her head as she exited the manor unsteadily. “this rebekah harkness… i think i like her!”
“yes, i agree,” another woman replied, taking a seat on the damp ground and pulling off her shoes. “she and bill seem so happy together! i hope it lasts…”

—

years wore on as the parties continued: years full of rumpled sheets, stolen glances, feather-light laughter, and subtle, infectious, beautiful happiness. with each new event, rebekah’s wild reputation grew, catapulting her to fame, until she was on the cover of vogue magazine and in every local’s mind, all longing for an invite to one of rebekah’s notorious parties. meanwhile, the happy couple gave birth to a beautiful, bright-eyed little girl named edith, and each new day felt like another stolen heaven they both didn’t want to leave. but, alas, it wasn’t meant to be.

“bill, dearie? is something wrong?”

she found him on the floor, a shattered glass in his clammy hand, the sculptor he was posing for staring at the body in frozen shock. a horrible shriek echoed through the house, and when the doctor finally arrived and proclaimed his death a heart attack, rebekah let a single tear drip down her cheek and onto the slick floor. then she turned her back on her lover as they carried the body away, but never turned her back on his name: she would forever be known as rebekah harkness.

—

the whispers came immediately.

“did you hear? will harkness’ dead!”
“i bet it was all the parties.”
“ugh, rebekah’s probably getting all the money…”
“ i wish i was her right now. poor william, though. he couldn’t keep up with his wife.”
“they were a lovely, mad, beautiful couple, don’t you think?”
“ah, yes. especially the woman. i wonder what she’ll do, now that she’s had such fun destroying our town… ”

—

“welcome to holiday house, ladies!” rebekah crowed, lounging on the couch with a bottle of wine. “just like old times, right? remember all the trouble we used to cause in school?”

the girls laughed along with her, nursing their own bottles and reminiscing about stories of their youth. around them, others milled, slightly bored. the extravagance of rebekah’s famous parties had significantly decreased since william had died, but she had a surprise in store for her tired guests.

“ladies and gentlemen, i ask that you please head to the pool,” rebekah called with a giggle. “there’s a special surprise!”

the guests made their way down to the pool, murmuring. rebekah followed behind, conversing loudly with her friends as she walked. as soon as the group arrived, an appreciative gasp arose from the crowd.

rebekah harkness had filled her entire pool with champagne.

she addressed the crowd again, gesturing to her left, where a long line of beautiful dancers streamed out of the mansion. “i would also like to introduce the beautiful ballet dancers of joffrey ballet school, who have generously agreed to perform a show for us!”

a man with a curled mustache and a crooked smile walked up to rebekah and threaded an arm around her waist as the others crowded around the dancers. “fancy a card game, becky?”
“oh, sal…” she sighed, “perhaps just one…”

one turned into two turned into five turned into twenty, and soon rebekah found herself spreading yet another handful of coins down on the table as salvador smirked. “you sure are good, sal…” she sighed, slurring her words a bit from exhaustion as her eyes began to close. “yeah, honey, i am,” he responded with a smile. “hey, you look tired. oh, look at that! it’s three in the morning already. you should get some rest, becky.”

taking her hand in his, he guided rebekah to her bedroom, threading through the few stray guests who still remained. “thanks, sal,” she said, half-asleep even before she fell into bed. before he even closed the bedroom door, she fell asleep, dreaming of dancers and daffodils.

—

“oh my goodness, guess what? rebekah harkness dressed up as a maid and served drinks at her own party to hear the gossip.”
“i know, silly, i was there!”
“ugh, lucky. that woman is the craziest thing to ever happen to our town.”
“imagine if she had never moved here…”

—

“did you see rebekah last night? she was out at midnight, just wandering around the beach…”
“yeah, she’s been acting stranger than usual lately. did you hear that she put up a giant blue dome on her lawn?”
“oooh, i saw that…”
“well, turns out the neighbors sued her for zoning violations, and she dyed one of their cats bright green in revenge!”
“goodness, the audacity of that woman… it’ll be the death of her someday.”

—

of course, the whispers were right. at the age of 67, after a life of dance, parties, and philanthropy, rebekah harkness passed away of stomach cancer. her ashes were placed inside a $250,000 spinning vase designed by salvador dalí, allowing her to continue dancing, even past her final breath.

half a century later, the holiday house property passed onto another great, wild, blonde musician, but the echoes of the legendary rebekah harkness fill the halls of holiday house, even now. listen closely, and you might hear her lovely voice in the creaking of the walls and the subtle music drifting through the air. listen closely, and she will tell you her story. listen closely, and she might even call it… folklore.

—

“the ghosts & my mind”, “the friends i didn’t know i had”

“silently. ever so silently… you don’t own anything but the darkness inside”

“they’re good at finding their way back. They can hunt for the path you’ve left, and they know you by your trails of shadows.”

“to the little ghosts that hide away, you’re somebody.”

“She lacks the warmth of hope and revels in the chill of frosted invisibility. she is made up of whispers…”

“and she sings… to make friends with the ghost.”

“a palace for the liars”

“you’re nothing without them… not the other way around.”

“you don’t even have to turn the knob for them to come spilling in… more so out of habit than anything.”

“buried in snow & the ashes of winter”

“stone-cold silence”

Outlining: 298 words

- The story is set in a world inspired by Greek mythology, but not directly related to (enough that you can spot the influence but it’s not too obvious)
- The story centers around a mysterious character called the Weaver, who uses on invisible strings to alter fate (introduce a symbol)
- LOTS of strings woven together (a giant, big tapestry), so most people don’t get touched until they die, but some do, for better or for worse
- The Weaver plays with three different strings, each incorporating a different stew element
- The Weaver begins with a little conversation with themselves, and they say that “everyone will have their own time, even those who feel most immune, even those who watch from the shadows…” (foreshadowing)
- First string: the Weaver drags their long nail across it to reveal a homeless orphan struggling to make ends meet (not a big tug, just something small)
- on the day when the string is pulled, the boy finds a $100 bill on the sidewalk with a letter addressed to another boy, his age, same name (new character introduction/ epistolary)
- Next string, a little boy talks to his grandpa on the phone, and he talks about how he misses his grandma who just passed away, and then the grandpa asks if he got the letter that his grandma sent him for closure and he said no, and they’re all really sad when they realize the letter is lost
- Final string, they pull out carefully, then they turn to you expectantly, you think you’re going to die
- then, next to you, you hear a scream, a scream of a voice that sounds familiar, and you break down (plot twist)
- Concludes with the Weaver speaking directly to the reader, telling them that their time will come (breaking the fourth wall)

Exposition: 208 words

The tapestry sits in a dark, gilded cave, surrounded by veins of golden marble. It’s giant, taking up an entire cavern wall, billions upon billions of unique strings woven together into a beautiful mural. It’s incredible to look at, and even more incredible to experience: simply being in its vicinity fills you with a sense of awe, the threads pulsing with life and power.
In front of the tapestry lies a hunched, skeletal figure shrouded in a cloak of shadows. Its spindly white fingers reach out carefully, stroking the strings gently. Its muttering, ancient voice echoes through the cavern, unintelligible, archaic words from a secret tongue pouring out in waves of husky power.
Its name is the Weaver. It’s ancient, as old as time. The Weaver is responsible for the strings of the universe, playing and tugging and pulling on the threads that make up our world. Each string represents a human life, and each life the Weaver touches is changed in some way. Most people are never touched until the Weaver pulls their string and kills them, but some lives are altered before their eventual death. Some call the Weaver fate, some call it destiny… some call it a myth. But it’s real. Realer than life itself.

Rest of the Story: 1089 words

“Everyone will have their own time…” the Weaver mutters slowly, “even those who feel the most immune, even those who hide in the shadows…” it says, rocking back and forth in front of the tapestry. Then slowly, very slowly, it reaches for the wall and drags a long, yellow nail across a threadbare, brown string.

A young boy about fourteen years old sits underneath a bridge, pulling a blanket to his chin and shivering against the cold Chicago winter. He grabs a stale piece of bread from a Ziploc bag and brings it to his mouth, cursing when his fingers are exposed to the biting air. Soon, the bread is gone, but his hunger still remains. He knows it’s pointless to cry, that crying doesn’t help anything, but still, the tears come, freezing on his cheeks. He knows that there’s no one on this Earth that cares about him, that even if he died in the snow tonight nobody would know his name. More than anything, he wishes for someone, anyone, to give him a sign, give him the strength to keep carving out a life for himself in the icy, broken world he calls home. But, as always, nothing happens. Downcast, dejected, scared, but not surprised, he curls up in the shadows and tries to sleep. But before he drifts off, he notices a piece of paper drifting on the chilly wind, swooping and sliding until it comes to a rest in front of the boy. He picks it up with shaking hands, realizing it’s a letter, a letter with his own name scrawled across. He opens it timidly, reading the elegant, curly script.

Dear Ryan,
I love you. I want you to always remember that, okay? I love you more than all the flowers in the world. Even when I’m gone, I want you to know that my love will surround you like a blanket on your coldest days, the days you feel most alone. I will always be here, living through your thoughts and memories. I will always be here. Always. Don’t forget, okay? Whenever you feel sad or angry or lonely, think of me watching over you from above. Think of me, and be happy. Don’t feel sad when you remember the way I laughed or the way I always gave you a hug when I saw you. Remember it, and be happy that we got to spend so much time together. Don’t let this ruin you, let it make you strong. And, above all, remember that you are never truly alone.
Grandma

The boy realizes the tears on his cheek are no longer filled of sadness. Choked with emotion, he curls down to sleep, the letter clutched to his chest, a warm sense of comfort filling his weak frame. For the first time in years, he falls asleep calmly, happily, with the ghost of a smile tugging on his lips.

Back to the cave, the Weaver continues to rock, rock, rock, fingers gesturing to nothing and lips forming words that don’t exist. It extends a hand again, chuckling a bit, the sound filled with nightmares and pain. This time, it grabs a pure white string, yanking on it harshly.

A little girl about twelve years old sits at a kitchen table, playing with her hair and wiping her shining eyes as her father passes her a phone. She holds it in front of her and can see her grandfather on the other side.
“Hi, Papa!” she squeals, angling the phone in front of her so they can see each other on the video chat. “I missed talking to you!”
“I missed you too, honey,” he replies, his husky voice soft as he fumbles around on the other side of the screen. “How’s it going?”
She sighs. “It’s okay, I guess, but I really miss Grandma.”
He nods in sympathy, looking away from the camera so his granddaughter won’t see the tears in his eyes. “Me too,” he says, “me too. At least you got to communicate with her one last time before she passed, honey. Most people don’t even get the closure of a proper goodbye.”
The girl’s brow creases in confusion. “What are you talking about, Papa? I haven’t talked to her since Thanksgiving.”
He stares at her through the screen, a sinking feeling filling his stomach. “She sent you a letter saying goodbye,” he says slowly, carefully. “Don’t you remember?”
She shakes her head, tears filling her eyes. “I never got a letter…”
Behind the little girl, her father frowns. “Dad, we never got anything from Mom before she died.”
The grandfather looks crestfallen. “It must have gotten lost in the mail. That’s terrible, Ryan, I’m so sorry. Nana was so excited for you to get that letter. She didn’t even show me what she wrote, she wanted it to be just between you and her. I’m so sorry,” he repeats, and he watches with misery as tears begin to stream down Ryan’s cheeks.
“It’s okay, Papa,” she chokes out. “I’m just happy that we got to spend so much time together.”
“That’s beautiful, Ryan,” her grandfather responds. “You’re such a strong girl.”

The Weaver chuckles, seeming to relish in the twisting of strings, the little alterations that can change a life.

Suddenly, as quick as a knife, the Weaver turns to you.
You flinch, terrified, as its glowing white eyes stare into your very soul.
Slowly, deliberately, it turns to the tapestry, selecting a blue string and staring at you as it draws the thread out of the tapestry carefully, discarding it onto the floor.

You scream, convinced that it’s yours, that you’re going to die, that this cave will be the last thing you ever see, but then you realize the guttural, heart-wrenching cry jolting through your ears isn’t yours. You turn, tears streaming down your cheeks, as the tortured voice slowly morphs into a voice you recognize.

No. No. Not her. Not her. Not her, please, no, not her, anyone else, please…

You realize you’re screaming the words, but it’s no difference, she’s gone she’s gone she’s gone, and soon your voice becomes hoarse from the noise, but it’s no use, and you break down into hopeless, heavy blackness, until the pain recedes and you’re finally…

Gone.

—
Dear, dear reader, don’t think you’re immune, don’t think that this screen will hide you from me. Know, reader, that your time will come. Know, reader, that you’re not safe. I will pull your thread eventually… I am the Weaver, after all.

Critique for my piece

Editing: 36 extra words

You scream, convinced that it’s yours, that you’re going to die, that this cave will be the last thing you ever see, but then you realize the guttural, heart-wrenching cry jolting through your ears isn’t yours. Your eyes widen, tears streaming down your cheeks, as the tortured voice slowly morphs into one you recognize.
No. No. Not her. Not her. Not her, please, no, not her, anyone else, please…
You realize you’re screaming the words, but it’s no difference, she’s gone she’s gone she’s gone, and soon your voice becomes hoarse from the noise, and the truth rises in your mind.
It wasn’t your string. It was hers.
—
Dear, dear reader, don’t think you’re immune. Don’t think that this feeble glass screen will hide you from my power. Know, reader, that your time will come, that you will never be truly safe when your string is right in front of me, gleaming in this cave’s golden light. I’ll pull your thread eventually… I am the Weaver, after all.