From swc main cabin ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ July 2024:
"The Official Birdi Stanner Cabin/Gay Vampire Romance SWC gameshow has revived itself for this exciting bi daily - but no worries if you've never heard of it \<3 We'll be playing ‘Pack Like Sardines’, where the objective is to answer a prompt in the silliest way you can think of, and vote for your favorite after! Today is answering day (day one). You can find the prompts, read the instructions, and send your response in the comments here: https://scratch.mit.edu/studios/35453652 and it should be at most 50 characters! This activity is worth 100 points. Have fun, Birdi stanners "
My comment:
3. The hosts’ worst nightmare had come to pass—SWC was held hostage by Gurtles demanding over 9000 pizzas.
(last part is exactly 50 characters excluding the full stop punctuation)

From Folklore Fan Fest ✜ SWC July '24:
“ǫᴏᴛᴅ: ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴄʜᴇss ᴅᴀʏ! ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴀʏ? ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴠᴏᴜʀɪᴛᴇ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ? ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏ, ᴘɪᴄᴋ ᴏɴᴇ ʙᴀsᴇᴅ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴏꜰ ᴠɪʙᴇs :>”
My response:
never played chess in my life… I like other games. But I would choose the queen piece? I don't know. Just because.
(22 words)

From swc main cabin ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ July 2024:
Submissions for yesterday’s daily are closed, but the fun doesn’t end here! Today is day two of this bi-daily, voting day! Now you will be able to vote for your favorite answers to the prompt here: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1048425202/ Have fun looking through all of these absolutely hilarious responses from your fellow SWCers!

No writing today, but here are my answers:
“PROMPT 1 (You wouldn't believe what happened! Yesterday, I got lost ______.)”
Answer: G3 “in the jungle of evil teddy bears!” S4 “searching for the arson mango section of IKEA-” B7 “in skog's eyes - i think i'm in love :pleading:”
“PROMPT 2 (Well, it’s your fault. Didn’t you see the big yellow sign warning ______?)”
Answer: G1 “not to whack the talking fish with spaghetti?” S2 “that only alphas like me can enter ikea?” B6 “”this is a jazz free area.“ JAZZ! FREE!”
“PROMPT 3 (The hosts’ worst nightmare had come to pass—SWC was ______.)”
Answer: G8 “taken over by keebler elves & insomniac arsonists!” S3 “overrun by an army of evil Gurtles and Blahajs” B12 “- SWC was devoured by Gurtle, helpless against his attacks.”
“PROMPT 4 (I did see Gurtle walk that way, but I didn't think he'd actually ______.)”
Answer: G6 “undergo mitosis and sprout purple wings” S9 “make an army of toads and apples to eat the links!” B18 “take over swc and start a dictatorship outlawing mangos”
“PROMPT 5 (You know, whenever I imagined my sixteenth birthday, it did not involve ______.)”
Answer: G6 “lighting mcqueen teaching me how to drive.” S7 “growing bat wings that fart.” B17 “dancing gurtles holding candlesticks.”

From Folklore Fan Fest ✜ SWC July '24:
“ǫᴏᴛᴅ: ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ ɪs ɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴊᴜɴᴋ ꜰᴏᴏᴅ ᴅᴀʏ :ᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴʏ sɴᴀᴄᴋs ʏᴏᴜ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ sᴛᴏᴘ ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴏɴ ᴀ ʙᴀɢ/ʙᴏx/ᴡʀᴀᴘᴘᴇʀ? ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪɴᴅᴜʟɢᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟꜰ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪs ᴍᴏsᴛ ꜰᴇsᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴏᴄᴄᴀsɪᴏɴs? ”

My answer (110 words): When it comes to my favorite snacks, I can't resist pretzels and pizza. I love the crunch and saltiness of pretzels, making them the perfect snack for any time. They're easy to enjoy and satisfy my cravings, whether I eat them plain, with mustard, or even dipped in chocolate for a sweet treat. Pizza is another favorite of mine, especially classic cheese pizza. It's a special treat for gatherings or a cozy night in, with its gooey cheese and flavorful sauce. I enjoy the stretchy cheese and delicious flavors in every bite. While pizza is more filling and indulgent, I save it for when I really want to treat myself.

For SWC July 2024 Weekly #3 - Perspectives

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Also, some trigger warnings for mention of slightly mature (but NOT inappropriate, actually very informational) topics.

Part 1: Switching Perspectives (724+807+613 = 2,144 words)
Scene 1: Stockholm, Sweden - Emma's POV
Emma sat by the window in her cozy apartment in Stockholm, the faint sound of rain against the glass mingling with the soft smooth jazz music playing on a record player in the background. She held a letter in her hands and opened it. It was from her pen pal, Liam, from faraway New Zealand. They had been messaging each other for over a year now (because who even still sends handwritten letters internationally anymore?), exchanging thoughts, dreams, and slices of their lives.

In Liam's text messages, he would vividly describe the rugged landscapes of New Zealand's South Island, where he often ventured for hiking adventures. His words painted a picture of towering peaks, deep valleys, and the breathtaking beauty of untouched nature. Emma found herself captivated by these descriptions, imagining the vastness of those mountains, so starkly different from the gentle hills and serene forests that surrounded her in Stockholm. She could almost feel the crisp, fresh air and hear the distant sound of rushing rivers as Liam recounted his experiences navigating the challenging trails.

As their conversation got deeper, they began to share more than just their love for nature and poetic descriptions of back home. They exchanged thoughts on their favorite movies, discussing the stories and characters that resonated with them. Emma would eagerly await Liam's recommendations, often finding herself lost in the cinematic worlds he described. Music became another shared passion, with both of them sending playlists back and forth, each song sparking discussions about memories and emotions tied to the melodies.

Alongside these lighter topics, they also opened up about their lives, sharing personal anecdotes and reflections on their journeys thus far. Emma would tell Liam about her studies and the bustling life in Stockholm, while Liam would share tales of his travels and the challenges he faced back home in Christchurch, New Zealand. These exchanges created a rich tapestry of connection, weaving their lives together despite the physical distance that separated them. Each message became a thread in their growing friendship, filled with laughter, curiosity, and a sense of understanding that transcended their different backgrounds.

However, Liam's recently sent text message was completely different this time.

Liam had asked Emma to send about 100 in his currency. It was urgent, he insisted. He is just nearly out of money and his rent was due next week. In addition, his financial troubles stemmed from more than just poor budgeting. His gaming addiction, carefully hidden from friends and family, had spiraled out of control over the past few month. What started as innocent passion had evolved into endless nights in front of the computer or TV screen with the console. Or so he claimed.

Emma stared at Liam's message, her brow furrowed in concern. The urgency of his request for 100 in cash caught her completely off guard. In all the years she'd known Liam, he'd never asked her for money, let alone such a significant amount. Her initial reaction was a mix of worry and confusion. What could have happened to put Liam in such a dire situation? As she read the message again, Emma felt a twinge of suspicion. Something about the tone seemed off, almost desperate. It wasn't like Liam to be so vague about his circumstances. She found herself torn between her instinct to help and a nagging feeling that there was more to the story than Liam was letting on.

Emma picked up her phone, intending to call Liam for more details, but hesitated. If he was truly in trouble, she didn't want to embarrass him further by questioning his need. On the other hand, 100 was no small sum, and she felt she deserved a fuller explanation. After a moment's deliberation, she decided to send him a text:

“hey liam, just got your message. of course i wanna help, but im kinda worried about you. can we talk about whats going on? maybe theres another way i can help.”

As she hit send, Emma resolved to approach the situation with both compassion and caution. She cared deeply for Liam and wanted to support him, but she also knew that true friendship sometimes meant asking tough questions. Whatever was going on with Liam, she was determined to get to the bottom of it and help him find a sustainable solution, not just a quick fix.

Scene 2: Christchurch, New Zealand - Liam's POV
In Christchurch, on the other side of the world, Liam lived in an apartment building room similar to Emma's, except for one glaring difference that which she is completely unaware of. His apartment in reality was more unkempt and untidy, with every room being filled with food scraps and other garbage and some rodents. His own tiny bedroom, in stark contrast, was always polished to perfection. Almost as if it were a sanctuary amidst the chaos. And Emma had only saw his bedroom once, not the rest of his apartment rooms.

He had been pen pals with Emma for over a year, and he would be genuinely interested in how Emma described Stockholm's winter, as she bundles up in layers of warmth, her eyes sparkling with the reflection of snowflakes. Emma would talk to him about the time she worked in an old bookstore and the city's cozy cafes and quiet streets. And he would tell her of his hiking adventures up Mount Cook, where the air was crisp and the views stretched endlessly. Both Emma and Liam have a clear shared love for storytelling and exploration, among many shared interests. And she knew Liam as that kind adventurous boy from New Zealand. But what she didn't know is that, in reality, he was a fraudster.

Liam's journey to becoming a scammer was a twisted tale of rejection and resentment. In his early childhood, he had tried to be himself as much as possible, hoping to fit in and make friends. However, his quirky personality and unconventional interests made him an outcast. While others eagerly discussed the latest trends in music, fashion, or sports, he found solace in the pages of classic literature and information technology as well as programming. His passion for obscure hobbies, such as book collecting and trainspotting, set him apart, making him feel like a curious observer rather than a participant in the vibrant social landscape of his classmates. He would often struggle to connect with his classmates, who preferred to focus on popular topics that left him feeling disconnected and misunderstood. Lunchtime conversations buzzed with excitement over the latest viral videos or celebrity gossip, while he quietly sketched designs for a new invention or pondered the mysteries of the universe. This disconnect was not just a matter of differing interests; it was a profound sense of isolation that lingered in the hallways and classrooms, where he longed for someone who shared his enthusiasm for the unconventional.

Despite his efforts to engage with others, he found that his attempts were often met with polite smiles but little genuine interest. He would occasionally catch glimpses of curiosity in the eyes of a few classmates, but those moments were fleeting, quickly overshadowed by the prevailing focus on more mainstream pursuits. Sure, he could find someone online, but his parents would be concerned about strangers online, so there is not much choice. This lack of shared interests left him yearning for companionship, a desire to connect with someone who could appreciate the unique passions that defined him. He was also mostly underdeveloped socially due to spending more time on the computer than going outside with friends. From childhood to his teenage years, he faced constant rejection and ridicule. People perceived him as weird, and no one wanted anything to do with him. The loneliness and isolation gnawed at him, and he began to harbor a deep-seated bitterness towards the world. Determined to get even, Liam decided to turn to deception. He became someone who would hide under one or more personas, using his intelligence and cunning to manipulate others into thinking he was someone other than himself. This was the deep, dark truth of Liam. He was moderately successful in his fraudulent endeavors, but his poor money management skills often left him struggling to make ends meet. One thing was true, however: he really did have rent due next week, and he was desperate to come up with the money.

When he received Emma's message, he saw an opportunity. He knew he had to craft the most convincing response possible to get her to comply. His mind raced as he thought of the right words to say. He needed to appeal to her emotions, to make her believe in his sincerity. After several drafts and revisions, he finally settled on a message that he hoped would do the trick:

“Unfortunately, this is the only way. I'm sorry.”

With a mix of anxiety and anticipation, he hit send. As he waited for Emma's reply, Liam couldn't help but reflect on his life choices. He wondered if there was still a chance for redemption, a way to turn his life around. But for now, he was trapped in a cycle of deceit, driven by desperation and a desire for revenge against a world that had cast him aside.

Scene 3: Stockholm, Sweden - Emma's POV
Emma sat at her kitchen table, her thoughts swirling with confusion and concern after reading Liam's cryptic reply. The words “Unfortunately, this is the only way. I'm sorry.” echoed in her mind, leaving her with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had hoped Liam would offer more clarity, but his message only deepened the mystery surrounding his sudden request for money. The rain had intensified outside, creating a soothing background noise that contrasted sharply with the turmoil within Emma. She picked up Liam's letter again, reading between the lines for any clue that could shed light on his situation. The mention of rent due next week felt genuine, but everything else seemed shrouded in ambiguity.

Her phone buzzed, startling her out of her thoughts. It was Liam's reply to her earlier text. Emma took a deep breath before unlocking her phone.

“i'm really sorry for dropping this on you. it's just that…”
“things have been tough lately. i'll explain everything, i promise.”

Emma's heart sank further. She knew Liam well enough to sense when he was hiding something. Their year-long correspondence had been built on openness and shared experiences, or so she had believed. Now, doubts crept in about how much she truly knew about him. Their friendship had blossomed over discussions about their respective lives and shared interests. Emma cherished the tales of New Zealand's majestic landscapes and Liam's adventurous spirit. She recalled the joy she felt each time a letter arrived, filled with his vivid descriptions and thoughtful reflections. She had come to rely on their connection, finding comfort in their shared moments despite the physical distance between them. But now, faced with the possibility that Liam might not be who she thought he was, Emma felt a pang of betrayal. Could she trust any of their shared memories? Were his stories of hiking and exploring genuine, or were they merely a facade hiding deeper truths?

As she stared at her phone, Emma's thoughts drifted to Liam's request. The sum he asked for wasn't insignificant, especially considering her own financial responsibilities. She wanted to help him, that much was certain, but her trust had been shaken. She wondered if this was the first time Liam had turned to her for help, or if there were other occasions masked by his charm and eloquence.

The record player in the corner of her living room continued to spin softly, the jazz music providing a sense of melancholy that mirrored Emma's mood. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to collect her thoughts. Her fingers hovered over the phone screen, debating whether to press call and confront Liam directly. Part of her wanted to hear his voice, to gauge his sincerity beyond the written words. Another part hesitated, fearing what revelations their conversation might bring. Emma knew she couldn't ignore the situation. Whatever the truth, Liam was in trouble and she cared deeply about his well-being. Yet, she also needed to protect herself from potential deception.

With a sigh, Emma composed a reply:

“liam, i want to help you. But i need more than just apologies. please call me when you're ready to talk. we need to sort this out together.”

She pressed send, her decision made. In her heart, Emma hoped their friendship could weather this storm of uncertainty. She longed for the Liam she believed in, the friend who shared her love for stories and adventures, not the shadowy figure hinted at in his distressing message. As she waited for his response, Emma vowed to approach their conversation with both compassion and caution, determined to uncover the truth behind Liam's troubled plea and salvage what remained of their bond.

Part 2: Unreliable Narrators (869 words)

Here I will focus exclusively on Liam. His character traits in this context are:
• manipulative but has fear of being criticized
• very reserved and does not open up to anyone
• resentful of what people want him to do

And now, from the diary of Liam, in his words:
Well…
Naturally, she wasn't convinced.
One would think that just by being her friend for a while, she would do whatever I want her to do, right? But then again, it only makes sense that she wouldn't be immediately convinced. Who would be?
I actually can't think of anything else to say. I'm usually full of good excuses. I can write up a whole essay on why Emma is my bestest friend in the whole wide world in an hour. I can write up a fake letter depicting myself as a prince somewhere in a country that is not in the European, American, and Asian continents. I can do all that, but…
I got nothing.
I admit, I haven't had a really bad childhood, and I'm not in poverty, but I can't think of any other options. This isn't about me not having any friends or hobbies or whatever. It's about what they've done to me throughout the years. And while I admit to not having the courage to stand up to them or prove them wrong, still, I feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on me like a heavy blanket, stifling my breath and dimming my spirit.
Growing up, I was always the quiet one, the observer in the background, watching as my peers navigated the tumultuous waters of adolescence with ease. They seemed to glide effortlessly through friendships and social events, while I often felt like a ghost, invisible and untouched. My parents, well-meaning but oblivious, often compared me to my more outgoing siblings, their voices laced with disappointment when I didn't measure up. “Why can't you be more like your brother?” they'd say, as if my worth was a currency that could be weighed against others. Their words, though not intended to harm, carved deep grooves in my self-esteem, leaving me to wonder if I was inherently flawed.
School was no refuge. The relentless teasing from classmates, the whispers that followed me down the hall, and the laughter that erupted at my expense became the soundtrack of my daily life. I tried to brush it off, to convince myself that their opinions didn’t matter, but the truth is, they seeped into my mind like poison, infecting my thoughts and coloring my perceptions of myself. I became adept at hiding my feelings, wearing a mask of indifference while inside, I was crumbling. I would sit in the back of the classroom, doodling in the margins of my notebooks, crafting elaborate stories in my head where I was the hero, where I triumphed over adversity, where I was seen and celebrated. But those stories remained locked away, never to see the light of day.
As I grew older, the pressure transformed into a suffocating force. The expectations shifted from mere social acceptance to academic success, and I found myself drowning in a sea of responsibility. My parents' dreams for me loomed large, and I felt the need to fulfill them, even as my own aspirations faded into the background. I was trapped in a cycle of pleasing others, sacrificing my own desires for the sake of approval. I convinced myself that if I just achieved the next milestone — good grades, college acceptance, a stable job — then maybe I would finally earn their love and respect.
But the truth is, I was losing sight of who I was. I became a series of checkboxes, a collection of accomplishments that felt hollow and unfulfilling. I longed for the courage to break free, to stand up and declare my own identity, but fear held me captive. What if I disappointed them? What if I failed? Those questions haunted me, keeping me tethered to a life that felt increasingly alien.
Yet, in the quiet moments, when the world around me faded and I was left alone with my thoughts, I began to realize that perhaps the first step toward reclaiming my life was to confront the very fears that bound me. It was time to acknowledge the pain, to understand that I was not defined by others' perceptions or expectations. I wanted to write my own story, one where I could embrace my true self, flaws and all. I may not have the courage yet, but the desire to find it is a flicker of hope in the darkness, a spark that could ignite a new beginning.
So I became someone who makes up stories for money. And I was pretty darn good at it. Enough so that I eventually brought a room. And afforded some other luxurious stuff.
If only I wasn't so bad with money. If only I didn't spend most of it on that new gaming console. I don't actually have an addiction to games, but I do like playing video games. And I do prefer the computer over friends, although it is not such a full blown addiction. And I would have everything I ever wanted had I learnt a thing or two. But no matter what I keep failing over and over again. And now I need to compose the greatest, most convincing message ever. And get it together for once in my life.
We had some good times together… but I need the money.

Part 3: Metafiction (1,136 words)

Detective Mark Davies slouched back in his worn out office chair at the Christchurch police department, staring blankly at the anonymous tip that had just landed on his desk. The paper was crumpled, as if its sender had lost faith in its importance the moment they dropped it off. It detailed allegations of fraudulent activity, involving a suspect fabricating stories for financial gain. Mark sighed heavily, running a hand through his unkempt hair. Another day, another case. It wasn't that he didn't care; rather, years on the force had dulled his initial fervor for justice. The job had a way of wearing down even the most passionate detectives.

He mulled over the tip, reluctantly acknowledging the tropes that could easily unfold in this investigation. Cat and mouse game? Check. Race against time? Likely. Media portrayal of the suspect as an irredeemable villain? Almost inevitable.

Pushing aside his cynicism, Mark picked up the phone to arrange a meeting with the anonymous informant. As he dialed, he couldn't help but reflect on how these cases tended to play out. The suspect would deny everything, spin elaborate lies, and perhaps even manipulate others to cover their tracks. The detective's role was to dismantle those falsehoods, piece by piece, until the truth emerged. It was a dance he knew well, and it was one where trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.

The informant claimed that the suspect, a quiet loner in reality a scam artist named Liam Dowles, had been exploiting many different people on the internet with fabricated tales of hardship and redemption, each one different from the next. Liam was a master of deception, weaving intricate narratives that tugged at the heartstrings of unsuspecting victims. He portrayed himself as a single father struggling to make ends meet, a veteran haunted by his past, or, in Emma's case, an adventurous and outgoing man looking for companionship. Each persona was meticulously crafted, complete with fake social media profiles, photos that evoke compassion, and even fabricated testimonials from supposed friends and family.

As his schemes grew more elaborate, so did the consequences. Liam's victims, often vulnerable and seeking connection, would send money, gifts, and emotional support, believing they were helping someone in dire need. Yet, behind the screen, Liam reveled in the thrill of his deceit, using the funds to finance a lifestyle far removed from the struggles he claimed to endure. He traveled to exclusive resorts, dined in upscale restaurants, and surrounded himself with money, all while maintaining many façades. But he would easily lose that money often as he would get caught up in the hedonism of it all.

But as the web of lies expanded, so did the scrutiny. A group of vigilant online sleuths began to piece together the fragments of Liam’s fabricated life, driven by a shared sense of justice and a desire to protect others from his manipulations. They uncovered inconsistencies in his stories, tracing the digital footprints he left behind. As they closed in on him, Liam found himself ensnared in a game of cat and mouse, where the stakes were higher than he ever anticipated. The thrill of deception was fading, replaced by the looming threat of exposure and the potential consequences of his actions.

Mark listened intently, jotting down notes. Despite his initial reluctance, he couldn't deny the intrigue of the case. Liam sounded like the type who thrived on manipulating emotions. What a challenge for any detective worth their salt, he thought. But as the informant hung up, Mark couldn't shake off the predictable pattern forming in his mind: the suspect would likely lawyer up, attempt to discredit the witnesses, and create an elaborate alibi. It was a textbook case (well, almost).

Walking down the corridor, Mark noticed the buzz of activity in the precinct. Officers rushing to and fro, phones ringing incessantly — a routine day in the life of law enforcement. He found himself pondering the role of the media in cases like these. Sensationalism sold stories; villains sold papers. Liam, if guilty, would become a poster child for deceit — a one-dimensional caricature in the eyes of the public. It bothered Mark, this reduction of human complexity to black and white.

In his cluttered office, Mark leaned back against the desk, staring at the buildings beyond his window. The sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the skyline. He couldn't help but feel a pang of empathy for Liam, if only for a moment. Everyone had their reasons, their justifications, even those who strayed onto the wrong side of the law. It was a thought he rarely entertained, buried beneath layers of procedure and protocol.

The next morning, Mark delved deeper into Liam's background. As the investigation progressed, he found himself drawn into the familiar rhythm of detective work — piecing together timelines, cross-referencing statements, and analyzing financial records. Yet, amidst the paperwork and digital trails, he couldn't escape the nagging realization that he was playing a role in a narrative with predefined arcs and conclusions. The game was unfolding predictably; each move scripted in advance.

Days turned into weeks, and the pressure mounted as the deadline loomed. Liam remained elusive. The media pounced on the story, painting the suspect as a heartless con artist, an archetype Mark had grown to resent, even if he was not the con artist himself. Behind every headline, he saw the nuance that was often lost in the rush to judgment.

In a rare moment of reflection, Mark confided in his partner, Detective Sarah Nguyen. Over coffee in the break room, he voiced his frustrations. “I’ve been thinking…” Mark continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “What if we’re missing something crucial? What if Liam’s actions stem from a place of desperation, not malice?”

Sarah agreed as she leaned forward, her brow furrowing. “Exactly. We often forget that every suspect has a backstory. What if he’s just a product of his environment, like so many others we’ve encountered?”

Mark sighed, the weight of their conversation settling in. “It’s frustrating, isn’t it? We’re trained to see the world in black and white, but it’s really nothing but shades of gray. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re just playing our parts in a script we didn’t write.”

“Maybe it’s time to rewrite it,” Sarah suggested, her eyes sparkling with determination. “Let’s dig deeper. Instead of just looking for evidence, let’s explore more of his past in depth. There could be a small detail there that changes everything.”

Mark smiled, a flicker of hope igniting within him. “You’re right. Let’s uncover the truth behind the headlines. If we can humanize him, maybe we can find a way to break this cycle.”

With renewed purpose, they clinked their coffee mugs together, a silent pact to see beyond the surface and into the heart of the story.

Part 4: Self-Insertion (1,031 words)

(NOTE: here I address myself in the self-insert as you/your as if whoever reading this is playing the informant)

You, the anonymous informant in Christchurch, New Zealand, have found yourself at a crossroads. Liam Dowles' intricate web of deceit had ensnared many unsuspecting victims, and it was time to bring his charade crashing down. While you were on vacation in said city, you almost fell for one of his online scams. Hunched over your cluttered desk at a hotel room, the USB drive and paper files of all the evidence of Liam's actions lay before you, a testament to the urgency of the situation. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily on your shoulders as you dialed Emma's number, hoping she would heed your warning.

“Emma speaking,” her voice, tinged with curiosity and concern, floated through the receiver.

“Emma, this is urgent,” you began. “I've uncovered something unsettling about Liam. He's not who he claims to be.”

There was a very long pause on the line, assuming that the gravity of my words sunk in.

“What do you mean?” Her voice was laced with a mixture of disbelief and apprehension.

“Liam has been fabricating stories, manipulating people for financial gain,” you explained, carefully choosing your words. “He's created personas, crafted elaborate tales to deceive others. I've seen the evidence firsthand.”

Emma's sharp intake of breath echoed through the line. “But… we've been pen pals for over a year. He's shared so much with me.”

“I know this must be difficult to hear,” you sympathized, your heart going out to Emma. “But it's important that you know the truth. He's not the adventurous man from New Zealand he portrayed himself to be.”

Silence envelops the both of you for a moment, the weight of the revelation hanging heavy in the air. You could almost feel Emma grappling with the betrayal, her trust shattered by the facade Liam had meticulously constructed.

“What do we do now?” Her voice, though shaken, held a steely resolve.

“We need to confront him,” you replied firmly. “I have information that could expose him, but I need your help. Together, we can make sure he faces the consequences of his actions.”

Emma hesitated, the turmoil evident in her voice. “I… I want to believe there's been a mistake. But if what you're saying is true…”

“He needs to be held accountable,” you affirmed, your voice unwavering. “I'll show you everything I've uncovered as we talk. What is your email address?”

So, she gave you the email address, allowing you to send a few files. “This contains everything I've gathered about Liam's deception,” you said.

You could intricately imagine Emma opening the folder, her eyes scanning the documents and screenshots meticulously. With each page turned, you heard her initial disbelief give way to a grim acceptance of the truth. Liam's carefully constructed world was unraveling before her eyes, exposed for what it truly was.

“I can't believe this,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “All this time… I thought I knew him.”

“We both did,” you acknowledged, your tone sympathetic. “But now that we know the truth, we have a responsibility to ensure he faces justice.”

Emma nodded, her resolve hardening. “What's our next step?”

“I have a plan to confront him directly with this evidence. He needs to understand the consequences of his actions,” you replied.

You strategize your approach, mindful of the delicate balance between seeking justice and protecting yourself from further manipulation. Armed with clarity and determination, you leave the hotel room with a shared mission: to hold Liam accountable for his deceit.

Later that day, you went to confront Liam at his apartment. The air was thick with tension as you presented him with the evidence. You even went so far as to call Emma and put her on speaker phone so she could hear your conversation. His initial shock quickly gave way to defensive explanations and feeble attempts to justify his actions. But as you laid bare the extent of his deception, his facade crumbled, revealing a vulnerable figure beneath the layers of deceit.

“I… I didn't mean for any of this to happen,” Liam stammered, his voice tinged with remorse. “I just wanted… I wanted to be someone else. Anyone else but me.”

Emma's voice softened briefly, and a flicker of empathy can be heard. “Liam, why? Why did you deceive us?”

Liam hesitated, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I… I felt so alone. I wanted… I wanted to feel accepted, to be someone you could admire.” As he spoke, the weight of his words hung heavy in the air. The loneliness and desperation that drove his deception were palpable, casting a somber shadow over the room.

“We trusted you,” Emma's voice was a mix of sadness and disappointment. “You betrayed that trust.”

Liam bowed his head, unable to meet our gaze. “I know. I'm sorry.”

The confrontation stretched on, emotions raw and tensions high. In the end, Liam agreed to make amends, to seek help for his issues and to repay those he had deceived. It was a small step towards redemption, a glimmer of hope amidst the wreckage of shattered trust.

As you left Liam's apartment that day, a sense of closure settled over you. The journey had been tumultuous, challenging your beliefs and testing your resilience. But in confronting Liam's deceit, you had unearthed a deeper understanding of human frailty and the complexities of trust.

In the weeks that followed, Liam was arrested and convicted, and later embarked on a journey of self-discovery and restitution. With support and guidance, he confronted his demons, seeking therapy for his underlying issues and gradually rebuilding the trust he had so callously betrayed. It was a slow and arduous process, but one filled with promise and the possibility of redemption.

For you and Emma, the experience left an indelible mark on your lives. It taught you the importance of transparency and honesty in relationships, and the resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity. Though scars remained, you both emerged stronger and more compassionate, united by a shared journey of forgiveness and healing. And as for Liam, his path towards redemption continued, a testament to the transformative power of confronting one's own truths and embracing the complexities of human connection.

TOTAL NUMBER OF WORDS: 5,180 words

From swc main cabin ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ July 2024:
“SWC is _____ (adjective), and the best cabin is, of course, _____ (genre)! Recognize this? For today's daily you'll be creating your own Mad Libs! Create a template and post it in the Main Cabin, then respond to a few others. Pick someone else's template and words and write a 350 word story about it, earning you 250 points. Sharing proof can earn you an additional 100 points <3”

So I used the adlib of @strange_skies:
____ (name) decided it would be a ____ (adjective) to explore the old ____ (place) down the street but when they got there, there was a _____ (noun) waiting for ____ (pronoun) on the (object) inside. (i haven't done mad libs in a LONG time so i don't know if object is one help)

And the answer of @1lMaM:
(St Francis Gobbledygoblin), (blasphemous, I think you meant to put ‘idea’ after this?), (hill), (lily pad), (him), (stapler)

And the completed ad lib is this:
“St Francis Gobbledygoblin decided it would be a blasphemous idea to explore the old hill down the street but when they got there, there was a lily pad waiting for him on the stapler inside.”

So here's a story based on it in 648 words!

In the quaint town of Misty Hollow, nestled amidst rolling hills and ancient forests, there resided an unusual character named St. Francis Gobbledygoblin. St. Francis was not your typical resident of the town; he was known for his eccentricities and peculiar habits. Some said he had a penchant for collecting mismatched socks, while others claimed he could speak to the forest animals in their own language. However, one thing everyone agreed upon was that St. Francis had an unrelenting curiosity that often led him into strange and unexpected adventures.

One brisk autumn afternoon, as the leaves were beginning to turn shades of gold and crimson, St. Francis Gobbledygoblin found himself idly wandering down the cobbled streets of Misty Hollow. His mind was abuzz with thoughts of the old hill that lay just beyond the outskirts of the town. The hill had always intrigued him with its whispered tales of mystical creatures and buried treasures. Despite warnings from the townfolk that it was a place best left undisturbed, St. Francis couldn't resist the urge to explore. He had heard rumors of a hidden cave where ancient relics lay untouched for centuries. With a mischievous glint in his eye and his trusty walking stick in hand, he set off towards the old hill.

As he approached the foot of the hill, a chill breeze swept through the air, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. St. Francis paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the gnarled oak trees that stood sentinel around the hill. Their twisted branches reached towards the sky like bony fingers, casting eerie shadows on the path ahead.

Undeterred by the ominous atmosphere, St. Francis pressed on, his curiosity driving him forward. He navigated through thickets of brambles and skirted around moss covered boulders until he finally reached the base of the hill. There, nestled amidst a cluster of wildflowers, was an old, weathered stapler perched atop a lily pad.

St. Francis blinked in astonishment at the peculiar sight before him. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined finding such an oddity in the midst of his adventure. The stapler looked ancient yet strangely well preserved, as if it had been waiting for him to stumble upon it for centuries. With trembling hands, St. Francis reached out and carefully lifted the stapler from its unusual resting place. As he examined it closer, he noticed intricate carvings etched into its rusted metal surface. Symbols that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dappled sunlight, hinting at a hidden meaning known only to those who dared to delve into the mysteries of Misty Hollow.

Just as St. Francis was about to tuck the stapler into his satchel for further inspection, a soft rustling sound echoed from the depths of the hill. He turned, his heart racing with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, expecting to come face to face with one of the mythical creatures said to inhabit the area.

Instead, what emerged from the shadows was a tiny, iridescent frog. Its emerald green skin glistened in the light, and its eyes gleamed with intelligence as it hopped towards St. Francis. Perched delicately on its back was a minuscule crown made of woven vines and sparkling dewdrops. St. Francis couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of the regal frog. It seemed that his adventure had taken an unexpected turn, leading him not to treasure or ancient relics, but to a whimsical encounter with a creature straight out of a fairy tale.

As he watched the frog hop away into the underbrush, St. Francis couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Misty Hollow than met the eye. Perhaps the old hill held more secrets waiting to be discovered, or perhaps it was simply a reminder that sometimes, the greatest adventures are the ones that find us when we least expect them.

From swc main cabin ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ July 2024:
“Poof! A magical spell has transformed you into an SWC host! With increased input on behind the scenes decisions, what changes will you propose? Your plans should be at least 300 words - you can be as silly or serious with this as you like! Earn 250 points from completing this daily, and an additional 100 from sharing it.”
My response (315 words):

As the newly transformed host of Scratch Writing Camp, I would embrace this magical opportunity to enhance the camp experience and foster a deeper appreciation for writing among the campers. Here are some exciting changes and initiatives I would propose:

1. Arrange for well-known Scratchers as well as published authors to visit the camp. They could conduct sessions on their writing processes, share insights into the publishing industry, and offer personalized feedback to campers. We could also have a week-long thing where a renowned author stays at the camp, interacting closely with campers through workshops, one-on-one sessions, and even collaborative writing projects.

2. The prompts could be a little bit more diverse. We could have a prompt where we partner with campers from different regions or countries for a cultural exchange program. Campers could share their perspectives through writing prompts inspired by each other's cultures and traditions. We could also have a prompt focusing on experimental forms of writing, such as prose poetry, surrealism, collage writing, or nonlinear narratives. Encourage campers to push boundaries and explore unconventional approaches to storytelling.

3. Provide guidance on creating digital portfolios of their work throughout the camp. This could include tips on presenting their writing professionally online and networking with other young writers.

4. Facilitate discussions on writing ethics, copyright considerations, plagiarism prevention, and the responsibilities of authors in the digital age. Help campers navigate ethical dilemmas they may encounter in their writing journeys.

5. Initiate a collaborative writing project where all campers contribute to creating a shared story or anthology. Campers could collaborate on plot development, character arcs, and writing different chapters or sections.

6. Have campers create a Scratch project depicting a storytelling performance night where campers have the opportunity to perform any of their written works using their own voice or text-to-speech.

7. And my imagination is shot. I can't think of anything else. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.

8. ???

From Folklore Fan Fest ✜ SWC July '24:
“ǫᴏᴛᴅ: ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪs ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀꜰᴜʟ ᴅᴀʏ ɪɴ ᴊᴜʟʏ, ɪᴛ ɪs… ɢ̷̧̖̦͗̑ᴏ̶̣̱̺̎̐͊ʀ̷̣͆̆ɢ̴̞̞̍͒ͅᴇ̶̹̒̊͜ᴏ̶̟̟́ᴜ̵̲͚͕̾͠s̸̪͙̑ ̷̳̐ɢ̴̲͛̚ʀ̶̯̓ᴀ̵̢͝ɴ̸̢̧̜̍̃ᴅ̷͉̐̓͒ᴍ̸̧̬̭́ᴀ̵̱̪͛̆̏͜ ̷̮̟̐̊̒ᴅ̸̜̀́ᴀ̷͓̺̰̈́ʏ̸͎̩̼̿̉. ʏᴇs, ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ᴍᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ. ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴʏ sᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇs ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢʀᴀɴᴅᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ? ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ, ɢɪᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴀ ̷̡́ʜ̵̞͆ᴜ̴̘͠ɢ̷̣͋,̸̻̂ ̸̍͜ŝ̴͕ᴇ̷̙͊ɴ̸̭͘ᴅ̷͉͋ ̸̣̕ʜ̵̩̈́ᴇ̵̜̀ʀ̶̛̙ ̵̪̃ᴀ̴͙͋ ̶̯̉ᴛ̸̺̊ᴇ̶͇̾ẍ̴̘ᴛ̴̲̉ ̸͓̕ᴏ̵͉̌ʀ̷̗̉ ̶̇ͅɢ̶̫̚ɪ̸̝̈́ᴠ̶̘̕ᴇ̸̨̄ ̵̺̍ʜ̸̤͝ᴇ̵̥̇ʀ̶̢͊ ̸̟̀ᴀ̴̟͋ ̵̞́ᴄ̶̰̚ᴀ̸̳̃ʟ̸̡̛ʟ̸̙̚ ̷̼́<̵̱͒3̷̗̆3̵̻̍”
My response 81 words:
I apologize, but I do not feel comfortable talking about my grandma because they have passed away before I was born. As someone who needs to keep my personal life and my online life separate, I aim to chat about anything while avoiding anything that could potentially expose my identity. Perhaps we could have a thoughtful discussion about less sensitive family matters. My role is to provide helpful/fun information to everyone, while respecting the privacy and sensitivity of personal experiences.
(as you can see i went to the annoying chatbot answer route but in my style typed by me. the part about my grandma passing away before i was born is true tho)

From swc main cabin ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ July 2024:
“We're all well familiar with the acronym ‘SWC’- which stands for Scratch Writing Camp, of course! But what if it didn't? What if all this time, we'd actually been saying Slightly Wonky Camels or Supreme Watermelon Cult? Drop some alternate acronyms for SWC in the comments, and swipe someone else's to create a story out of! Feel free to make them as wacky and wonderful as you'd like ;D Writing 300 words will earn you a delicious 200 points for your cabin, plus an extra 100 for sharing proof!”
Using @emililies' comment “Strange walking carrots” I composed a story with 320 words:
In the distant future, on the agricultural colony of Nova Terra, where vast domed cities stretched across the horizon, a peculiar phenomenon occurred. It began with reports from the outlying farms depicting what can only be described as strange, walking carrots.

Dr. Elena Wu, a renowned botanist, was called in to investigate. She arrived at the farm under the blazing purple sky, greeted by trembling farmers who pointed towards their fields. Sure enough, amidst rows of neatly planted crops, carrots with tiny, stubby legs scuttled about like insects. Elena approached cautiously, her scanner buzzing with confusion. The carrots seemed to emit faint signals of sentient behavior, a bizarre twist in their genetic makeup. As she knelt to examine one, it suddenly sprouted small leaf-like wings and fluttered away, leaving Elena stunned.

With each passing day, the carrots grew more agile and coordinated, forming herds that roamed the fields at night. They displayed signs of communication, emitting soft chirps that echoed across the otherwise silent landscape. Farmers, initially wary, began to marvel at their ingenuity, wondering if they were witnessing the dawn of a new form of life. But as the carrots grew more advanced, so did the challenges. They began to exhibit signs of aggression, uprooting fences and invading neighboring farms. Tensions escalated as Nova Terra faced an unprecedented threat to its food security.

Elena worked tirelessly, studying the carrots’ DNA, searching for clues to their sudden evolution. Her breakthrough came when she discovered traces of alien genetic material, a remnant of a long-forgotten experiment conducted by the colony’s founders to adapt crops to the harsh planetary conditions. Armed with this knowledge, Elena proposed a daring solution: to negotiate with the carrots, to find a way to coexist. Through a series of experiments, she developed a means to communicate with them, establishing a fragile truce that restored harmony to Nova Terra.
And they all lived happily ever after. The End!

From Folklore Fan Fest ✜ SWC July '24:
“ǫᴏᴛᴅ: ̴̫̹͊̒ᴛ̶̜͑ᴀ̷̱͂͝ᴋ̴̜̠̀̾ᴇ̸͓́ ̶͎̗́͆ᴀ̵͖̈́ ̶̛̠̟ᴅ̶͓̼͒͗ᴇ̶̧̒̉ᴇ̵̹̾ͅᴘ̵͎͍̄ ̴͕̈ʙ̸̯̘͒̍ʀ̶̤̙̍ᴇ̸̺͆͠ᴀ̵͕͗ᴛ̵̮̔̾ʜ̷͈̈́͝:̴̈͜ ̴͔͖̂͠ɪ̷̢͚̏͋ᴛ̸͇͒'̸̔̐ͅs̵̩͉͌ ̶̨͍̈ɪ̸̮̖͒̎ɴ̴̰̑̒ᴛ̵̐̽ͅᴇ̶̥͇͒ʀ̸̗̳̀ɴ̷̨̫̽̾ᴀ̴͔̪͂̍ᴛ̵̪̃͛ɪ̶̖̈́̓ᴏ̸̢̙͌ɴ̶̪̈́ᴀ̴͓̠̍ʟ̸̭̓ ̷̰̀͝s̶͙̘̀͒ᴇ̵͇̓ʟ̶̲͎̑̇ꜰ̸̝͗̏ ̶̝͈͋ᴄ̸̹̤̕ᴀ̸͇̮̾̿ʀ̵̡̾́ᴇ̶͔͕͛̕ ̴̳͖̃͗ᴅ̶̨̯̆ᴀ̶͉̝̌ʏ̴̥͌.̷̯̎ ̶̻̭̈́͋ᴛ̵̹̲̃̿ᴀ̶̻̎͘ᴋ̵̜̰̔͂ᴇ̶̫͠ ̶̠̊͂ᴛ̷̒ͅɪ̸̱͘ᴍ̶̡̭̈́̃ᴇ̴̪̋̚ ̵͓̞͆ᴏ̴̰̰͊̈ꜰ̵̤̠͌ꜰ̴̜͠ ̸̡͕͝ꜰ̵̜͎̓ʀ̸̹͗ᴏ̸̦̲͘ᴍ̷̙̗͛̆ ̸̫́ᴀ̵̳̑ ̶̬̻̋́s̵̲͛ᴄ̶̰̄̉ʀ̵͍̙͛̄ᴇ̵̰̗̆ᴇ̸̠̔ɴ̵̡̀,̶̺̖͂ ̸̢̡̋ᴅ̸̨̻̏ʀ̴̨͚̂́ɪ̶̺͔̾̉ɴ̷͙̫͊̓ᴋ̷̮̈ ̶͉̀s̷̻͠ᴏ̵̪͉͆͝ᴍ̴̗̞̓̏ᴇ̵̖̫̈́̎ ̷̛̹͔̊ᴡ̸̪̲̆ᴀ̴̻͋ᴛ̴̬̠̋͠ᴇ̴͎̉ʀ̸͉͘ ̵̠͓͒—̸̞̇ ̶̯͘ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴠᴏᴜʀɪᴛᴇ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛɪᴇs ᴛᴏ sʟᴏᴡ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟꜰ?”
My response in 217 words:

Taking care of myself and slowing down involves doing things that bring me peace and balance in the middle of a busy life. I love to read, whether it's getting lost in a good novel or learning something new from a non-fiction book. It helps me take a break from everyday worries and connect with ideas and stories that inspire me. Spending time in nature is another favorite. A quiet walk in the woods or sitting by a lake helps me feel calm and refreshed. It reminds me of the beauty and simplicity of the world, which helps me relax and let go of stress. Yoga and meditation are important parts of my self-care routine. Yoga helps me stay strong and flexible while calming my mind. Meditation brings me clarity and inner peace, which is good for my overall well-being. Finally, taking quiet moments to reflect, journal, or listen to calming music helps me check in with myself emotionally and mentally. It's important for processing my thoughts and feelings, and helps me feel grateful and focused on moving forward. In short, my favorite activities for slowing down and taking care of myself involve nurturing my mind, body, and spirit. These practices help me recharge and stay balanced, so I can handle life's challenges with resilience and clarity.

From swc main cabin ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ July 2024:
“Ever wonder how the world will end? a zombie apocalypse, an asteroid, a black hole? Whatever it is, write 200 words from a character’s perspective of the world ending. You’ll earn 100 points for your cabin, and an extra 100 for sharing proof!”

Written from the perspective of a fictional character, a story in 449 words:

As I find myself standing in this desolate landscape, my gaze fixed upon the increasingly supersaturated crimson sky, I am acutely aware of the oppressive weight of finality that envelops me. Once a vibrant tapestry of life and vitality, the world now teeters on the brink of utter chaos, a disintegration that has unfolded insidiously, almost imperceptibly at first. The initial signs of decay were subtle, mere whispers of discontent that grew into a cacophony, spreading with a ferocity akin to wildfire, consuming everything in its relentless path.

I often reflect on the time when hope still flourished, a time when individuals were driven by a collective desire to uplift one another. Those days now feel like a distant memory, overshadowed by the grim reality that has taken hold. Hope has withered, much like the leaves that fall in autumn, as cities succumbed one after another to the inexorable advance of the brainwashed masses. These individuals, once emblematic of humanity, have been transformed into mere husks, driven by an insatiable, primal hunger that resembles a metaphorical plague, and one that defies both reason and mercy.

In my earlier years, I often indulged in fantastical imaginings about the potential end of the world. I envisioned cataclysmic events such as an asteroid hurtling towards Earth or a catastrophic geological upheaval that would rend the planet asunder. Yet, I never conceived that our demise would manifest in such a slow, agonizing unraveling of civilization, a descent into madness and brutality that feels both surreal and terrifyingly real. Survival has become a matter of minutes, each fleeting moment of respite punctuated by desperate skirmishes for existence.

Amidst this pervasive despair, however, there emerges a peculiar clarity. Confronted by the specter of oblivion, the trivialities that once consumed our daily lives dissolve, leaving only the stark realities of raw instinct and primal fear. Perhaps this calamity serves as a form of punishment, a reckoning for our collective failure to appreciate the fragility of existence. Alternatively, it may simply represent the inevitable conclusion of a narrative that began long before any of us drew breath.

As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, casting long shadows over this disintegrating world, I find myself clinging to a fragile thread of hope. I yearn for the possibility that somewhere, somehow, humanity will endure. In the midst of the ruins, I hold onto the belief that there exists a chance to rebuild, to glean wisdom from our past mistakes, and to forge a new beginning from the ashes of what once was. This hope, however tenuous, remains a beacon in the encroaching darkness, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit even in the face of overwhelming despair.

From swc main cabin ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ July 2024:
“Heroes always strive to fight for the greater good- to aid society as a whole. Hours of hard, grueling work are put in, sacrifices are made- there can be no limit to their selflessness. But today, destiny is not on their side. Write at least 300 words about the failure of a hero- watch them see their life's work crumble before their eyes. How will they react? Will they turn to the other side? It's up to you! This task is worth a scrumptious 200 points, plus 50 more for providing proof!”
So, here's my response, in 502 words:

In the dim light of dawn, the city lay in smoldering ruins. Elara stood at the edge of the once bustling city center, which was now a wasteland of debris and ash. Her heart, usually a wellspring of unwavering resolve, now felt as though it were a fragile, cracked vessel. The grand citadel, once a beacon of hope and strength, was reduced to a skeletal frame, barely recognizable amidst the rubble. Her life's work, her sacrifice, her promise to protect — everything lay in ruin.

For years, Elara had dedicated herself to the noble cause of justice, fighting tirelessly against the forces of corruption and chaos. Her reputation was built on countless victories and the unwavering belief that she could safeguard the innocent. But tonight, as she surveyed the wreckage, she was confronted with a stark, brutal reality: despite her best efforts, she had failed. Her allies were gone, the people she swore to protect were now victims of a calamity she couldn’t avert.

Her knees buckled, and she sank to the ground, her eyes hollow with disbelief. The tears she fought so hard to contain finally broke free, tracing down her cheeks as she clutched a tattered banner bearing her emblem. The emblem now seemed to mock her, which she now perceived as a symbol of broken promises. The weight of her failure was crushing, each breath a struggle against the suffocating sense of loss.

As the sun crept higher, the first whispers of discontent reached her ears. The once-admiring populace, now desperate and angry, began to murmur about a new leader, someone who could bring them out of this abyss. The seeds of doubt were sown, and Elara felt their piercing sting. She was no longer the revered hero; she was now a symbol of defeat. The temptation to abandon her principles and seek vengeance against those who had wrought this destruction gnawed at her. Her mind, clouded by the intensity of her grief, began to entertain dark thoughts. Could she turn away from the path she had walked for so long? Could she embrace the chaos she had once fought against?

But as she rose to her feet, her resolve solidified. She looked around at the broken city, at the faces of those who were now suffering. At that moment, something stirred within her, a flicker of the same determination that had guided her all these years. Elara knew that succumbing to darkness would not heal the wounds of this city, nor would it restore the lives lost.

She had failed, but she would not surrender. The path ahead was unclear, and the road to redemption was fraught with pain and struggle. Yet, if she could not undo the damage, she could at least try to rebuild. For in the depths of her despair, Elara found the strength to stand once more, resolve steeled by the knowledge that even in failure, there remained a glimmer of hope, hope that perhaps through her actions, she could still make a difference.

From Folklore Fan Fest ✜ SWC July '24:
“ǫᴏᴛᴅ: ᴏʜ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ɪᴛ's ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴅʀᴏᴡɴɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴇᴠᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴅᴀʏ. ᴡᴇʟʟ, ᴡᴇ'ʟʟ ᴅᴏ ᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ: ᴅ̵͔̗̅͋̊̅̊̈́̐ᴏ̶̛͇͖̤̠́͊͂͊̒̽̀͘ɴ̸̥͓̝̹̗͛͐̀'̶̧̧̫̙̼̩̖̭̖̅̊̈̀̈́̑̔̅̅̕͘ᴛ̶̛̝̺̫̘͔̫̬̝̤̩͛̾̆̓̊̍̚͝͝͝ ̴̡̧̻̱̊̏͗̅͒̒̈́ᴅ̵̨͈̹̮͚͖̽͝ʀ̵̛̲̞̾̅͗̚ᴏ̵̢̡̖̱̻̦͉̞͒̒̓̈́̈͝ᴡ̴͈͉͇̙͓́́͐͑͂̽̏́́͒͑ɴ̷̝̯̻̥̮̉̀̾́̐̒͛͋͌̄̊̔̕,̴̩̰͖͗̽͂̒̃̔̋̓́̚͘͝ ̸̺͖̘̯̦̭̪̮̊ɢ̷͇̞̯̟͎̖̲̼̅͘͘ᴜ̴̤̱̠͒̑̐̂̄ʏ̸̞̹̗͇̝̺͚̇̊͜ş̶̨̛̠̜̟̭̫͍̲̯̀̈́̅͒̄.̸̛̥́̋͠

ᴏ̸̨̓̌ɴ̷̨̯͋ ̸̰̺̃͑ᴛ̵͚͑ʜ̷̩̯̅ɪ̷̲̯̇s̶͙̃̌ ̴̳̲͌ᴅ̵̹͛ᴀ̸͔͐͝ʏ̴̤̺̓ ̶̳̩̒ᴏ̶̭̠̔͠ꜰ̵͖̀ ̷̧̡́͝ᴅ̶͍͝ᴀ̶͉̕ʏ̴̛̳s̴̜̎ ̵̖͛ɪ̴̰̋͝ᴛ̵̣̥̓'̵̫̮͘͝s̷̺̱̆͆.̶̞͊̇.̸̨̫̎.̸͍̐̀ ̷̳̙̈ɢ̴̤̘̉ᴀ̴̺̥͐s̴̡̼͗ᴘ̶̛̩̯͌.̴̯̓͝.̴̞̽͐.̴̞̀́͜ ̴͙̅ɴ̶̯̒ᴀ̷͚͗͝ᴛ̴̺͕̃̊ɪ̴͚̇ᴏ̶̹͊̕ɴ̸́͛͜ᴀ̶̛̫̦̆ʟ̴̺̝̊̕ ̶̢͈̚ᴀ̷̡̲̍̃ʟ̵̠͗ʟ̶̟͉̌̇ ̶̰͎̉ᴏ̶̧̤̿ʀ̵̱̕ ̶̛̫̽ɴ̸̠͐̆ᴏ̸̛̱̝ᴛ̵̳̥̑ʜ̷̛̜ɪ̶̭́͆ɴ̴͔͇̉ɢ̴̯̈́ͅ ̶̺̬̽͂ᴅ̵̭͉̆̾ᴀ̸̢̯̆ʏ̴̡̱̆̓!̸̖͍͛͒ ̸̯͋̍ɢ̷̝͙̉̆ᴏ̶̭͐͆ ̵̮̞͐̊ᴏ̸̼̄̇ᴜ̶͍̓̚͜ᴛ̷͂̆͜ ̵̖̫̔ᴀ̷̢̤͛̿ɴ̷̭̆͝ᴅ̵͛̕ͅ ̷̻͗̉ᴛ̶͉͚͂ᴀ̸̹͠ᴋ̶̮͓̈̒ᴇ̴͓̬̊͠ ̶̳͛̐ᴀ̷̡͋̿ ̵͚̕ʀ̵͍͑̔ɪ̶̻͔̐s̷̝̱̚ᴋ̴̧̝̓̔.̴̖̬̆ ̴̧̌͛(ᴇɴᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴍᴘ, ᴘᴇʀᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ?)”

My response (combined 38 words)

QOTD 1: Great reminder! Staying safe and informed is key. Let’s all be mindful of water safety today and every day! QOTD 2: Love the energy! Taking bold steps today sounds like a fantastic idea. Here’s to making the most of it!

SWC CABIN WARS #2:
“Hello fellow enemies > Cabin Wars! At least three people in your cabin have to collaborate to create a short story of at least 700 words. You have 24 hours, or else lose 1000 points. Extra challenge: Incorporate three IKEA products into your writing! Every cabin member who does this can claim 25 points for their cabin! This applies for up to six campers (resulting in 150 points earned maximum.)”
MY ENTRY in 381 words:
Mara sat on the edge of her mattress on a Neiden pine bed frame, the faint glow of the twilight filtering through her window. The room was unmoving at the moment except for the white Tromma wall clock on the black Knarrevik nightstand. Then, her fingers began to twiddle impatiently on the bedspread as she glanced at the ornate box resting beside her, its surface adorned with intricate silver patterns, a family heirloom passed down through generations. Inside it was the key to her grandmother’s mysterious attic, which had been locked for years.

Tonight was the night of the annual Harvest Moon Festival, a time when the veil between worlds was said to be thinnest. Her grandmother had always whispered about ancient secrets hidden within the attic, but Mara had never dared to explore. Tonight, however, was different. The festival's magic was rumored to unveil hidden truths, and Mara felt a magnetic pull towards the attic like never before.

As the clock struck seven, the sounds of distant festival music emerged through the open window. Mara took a deep breath, gripping the key tightly in her hand. Her heart raced with a blend of excitement and trepidation. She had planned to wait until the festival reached its peak, when the moon would be at its fullest, to unlock the attic door. With a final glance at the clock, she rose from the bed and walked towards the attic stairs, her footsteps echoing in the stillness of the house. The festival lights outside danced in rhythm with her pulse. Just as she reached the attic door, a loud crack of thunder shook the house, plunging her into darkness. The power went out, and the house was consumed by eerie silence.

Mara fumbled with the key, her hands trembling. A cold draft whispered through the hallway. With a deep breath, she turned the key and pushed open the door. The dark space beyond seemed to swallow the light. As she stepped inside, her eyes slowly adjusted, and she froze. On the far side of the attic, an ancient, dust-covered mirror stood tall, its surface shrouded in shadows. From behind the mirror, a faint, ghostly glow began to emerge. Mara's breath caught in her throat as she saw a shadowy figure slowly taking shape.

(for more proof: https://scratch.mit.edu/studios/35232199/comments/#comments-265909873)

SWC July '24 Weekly 4: IslandSWC Entry

Title: dysermeneutos

(Everyone and everything depicted in this film is entirely fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental. THIS WORK IS NOT INTENDED TO PORTRAY REAL WORLD ISSUES OR PROMOTE STEREOTYPES IN ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM. IT IS COMPLETELY FANTASTICAL.)
(TW: some readers may find parts of the following story questionable. Reader discretion is advised.)

Intro: Part 1 (626 words):

kwlahzu (who we will refer to as using they/them pronouns and whose name is stylized with lowercase letters) was not someone — or something — that can be depicted accurately. The description of their appearance eludes conventional characterization. This enigmatic quality renders any attempt at depiction profoundly challenging, as it transcends mere visual attributes and delves into the realm of subjective interpretation. Simply put, their true physical appearance resists reduction to simple adjectives or categorical classifications. It just simply cannot be described. They are neither human nor animal nor plant nor alien nor monster nor… any single thing considered to conventional or normative, anyway. For this reason, an exact description cannot be put into words.

Since the very day that they have been created, kwlahzu had been beset by an overwhelming compulsion to break the very fabric of their own epidermis, which, by the way, was actually made of literal polyester-like fabric. They felt the need to tear it apart. Rupture it. Peel it off. This visceral urge, as inexplicable as it was intense, seemed to emanate from the depths of their own psyche, manifesting with a relentless regularity that defied understanding. The sensation was not merely a fleeting thought or even a phase but rather a profound and persistent impulse that gnawed at the edges of their own consciousness, or at least a resemblance of it. kwlahzu was told from the very beginning by their creator that, should they succeed in what they do, their lesions would undergo a transformation that culminated in the formation of a black hole, leading to the self-absorption of their own matter into a gravitational singularity, eventually rendering them nonexistent. This triggered their need for self preservation, as the obsessive desires would get worse year after year, eventually leading to them being rejected by their creator for this reason.

As a result, they decided to spend their days hiding in the same residence they have been created in and have always known, perpetually ensconced within a crystalline enclosure, a dome of transparent material that both isolated and hid them from the rest of the world. This self-imposed confinement was not just due to the rejection and the need to watch over their creator, but it also stemmed from a need to control their urges. The nature of their habit appeared to necessitate a state of near complete immobility. Within their vitreous sanctuary, they maintained a posture of utmost stillness, their gaze fixed and unwavering. This proclivity for stationary observation seemed to border on the pathological, as they devoted themselves to the art of remaining as motionless as the very glass that surrounded them.

The explanation for this is that kwlahzu occupied a unique ontological status, one that almost completely violated the conventional dichotomy of living and nonliving organisms. While they are made up of both a range of inanimate objects such as polyester fabric and the anatomical components of living organisms, they possess multiple magical abilities, ranging from teleportation to the nearest place to levitation to being able to change their size, and they are also able to survive for many years without food, water, and sleep. They are also (presumably) unable to evolve or reproduce. This awareness profoundly influenced their perception of self and existence, leading them to entertain the notion that even the slightest laceration could precipitate a sudden catastrophic dissolution of their being. And they would be gone. Forever and ever. Nonexistent.

They do not eat. They do not drink. They do not sleep. They do not communicate. They do not move. They prefer to remain still and silent, despite their potential abilities. Not in fear, but rather in mere stoic but dedicated avoidance of the possibility of becoming nonexistent. Yet they would eventually survive through it all.

(1st cabin visited: 10. Scifi - Write a flashforward into your story! Does your character predict the future? Do they get a glimpse into the future somehow?)
Part 2 (435 words):

After about a century of entrapment in the cool, dark, and arid environment of their dome in a small closet of the house, kwlahzu had remained in a state of profound stillness and immobility. The once vibrant texture of their outer layer had dulled significantly, a stark reminder of their origins as a failed experiment — one that had ultimately been rejected and cast aside by the one who created them. Over time, the fibers that constituted their being had undergone a gradual and relentless degradation, resulting in a marked brittleness and rigidity. This deterioration occurred despite the absence of light and heat, suggesting that the mechanisms of decay were not solely dependent on external environmental factors.

As kwlahzu contemplated their condition, they became increasingly aware of the insidious breakdown of their structural integrity. The once cohesive form they inhabited was succumbing to the ravages of time, leading to a disintegration that was both physical and existential. Compounding this dismal reality, they began to detect a musty or chemical odor emanating from themselves, a byproduct of the decomposition process that had taken root within them. Yet, paradoxically, they experienced no accompanying emotional reaction other than a persistent yet nonetheless significant mild discomfort. The disconnect between their awareness of decay and the absence of physical feeling underscored a profound existential irony, leaving them to grapple with the implications of their own deterioration in a state of eerie detachment.

kwlahzu was acutely aware that, in the unfolding tapestry of time, they would ultimately dissipate into obscurity, departing this world with a quietude that would spare them the tumult of an abrupt life-changing event leading to their demise. The prolonged duration of their immobility had fostered a belief within them that such an eventuality was unlikely to manifest. And why would it? First of all, the world around them had forgotten their presence. This made them a specter in a realm where their existence was rendered inconsequential. Second of all, the environment they had inhabited for years outside their dome bore the marks of stasis, much like their desire for immobility. The only fluctuations occurred with the arrival of new human neighbors, whose transient belongings momentarily disrupted the monotony of their existence, although it was very occasional. Each new influx of residents brought with it a brief interlude of change, yet the essence of the place remained resolutely unchanged, mirroring their own inertia.

This place would never change. Or so they had initially thought. Because one day, the room along with the house had been reduced to rubble, the remnants now scattered across the ground. And kwlahzu's dome broke.

(NONWRITING - 2nd cabin visited: 12. Solarpunk - Turn natural objects (sticks, leaves, rocks, etc) into some kind of crafts project)
(NONWRITING - 3rd cabin visited: 4. Folklore - Play the Google dinosaur game)

(4th cabin visited: 9. Poetry - Introduce a symbol into your story, something that represents a larger idea than the literal thing it may be)
Part 3 (871 words):

After emerging from the destruction, kwlahzu found themselves surrounded by what had once been their home. The familiar structure that had provided shelter and comfort was now reduced to a chaotic pile of rubble. Everything they had known now lay in ruins. Yet, amidst this devastation, they remained, a solitary figure in a landscape of despair.

Now determined to escape the wreckage, kwlahzu got themselves out of the debris and started to leave. They moved away from the destruction, distancing themselves from the demolition vehicles that loomed ominously in the background, their presence a reminder of the chaos that had engulfed their life, or at least, a resemblance of it. With each movement, they sought to leave behind not just their past but also the weight of the recent memory that clung to them like a shadow. As they journeyed along the desolate highway, the afternoon sun bore down upon them, casting long shadows on the cracked asphalt. It was only during this solitary trek that they began to confront the reality of their situation. The enormity of what had transpired slowly dawned on them, and with it came an unsettling awareness of their own fragility. The world around them felt alien, a stark contrast to the life they had known, and the silence of the empty road echoed the turmoil within them.

In the midst of this introspection, kwlahzu felt something rising within them. It was the same obsessive urge that they had managed to suppress for a long time. As their realization of what had happened resurfaced, they began to grapple with, after such a long time, the overwhelming desire to tear it all apart Tear It All Apart TEAR IT ALL APART — a manifestation of their internal desire to disappear completely from this world now that everything had been ruined. This peculiar desire intensified with each passing minute, a sensation that was both foreign and unsettling. It was as if an invisible force was compelling them to carve it open, to reveal something deeper, something hidden beneath the façade of their existence. Something… forbidden.

As they stood in the quiet solitude of their environment, the obsession became all consuming. They envisioned the delicate, almost fragile layers of their outside surface, each one a barrier between their inner self and the external reality. The more they contemplated this urge, the more it morphed into a need, almost a primal instinct that cannot be resisted. As previously emphasized before, it was not merely a physical desire; it felt existential, as though doing so could lead to a profound transformation or revelation. Maybe they will be finally free, maybe they will be better for it, maybe they will never have to exist ever again. kwlahzu's mind raced with questions. What lay beneath the surface? Would they find freedom, or would they merely expose themselves to the vast nothingness? The sensation was akin to a moth drawn to a flame — irresistible yet fraught with peril. They grappled with the implications of such an act, torn between the allure of discovery and the instinct for self-preservation. Each moment stretched into eternity, amplifying their internal conflict and leaving them on the precipice of an unsettling decision.

Just in time as they were about to scream, a commercial van while driving suddenly had one of its tires deflated unexpectedly. This event forced the vehicle to come to a halt, leaving the driver to assess the situation. The van had a logo and words on it, but the only symbols on it kwlahzu could fixate on was the advertisement “Revive Your Upholstery! Transforming Fabrics, One Stitch at a Time!” kwlahzu was able to recognize this very phrase since their reading comprehension skills were not impacted by the lack of skill practice during isolation. Thinking that maybe they would find someone who could help them with their dilemma, they wanted to get in the van. The driver had opened the back of the van, and kwlahzu sneaked in by teleporting and sizing themselves to fit into a hidden place so that the driver wouldn't notice. They already chose a hiding spot — under the car seat where the driver wasn't looking and behind a large toolbox that protected them from being discovered.

The van now served as a symbol of being a safeguard against the unpredictability of life. It provided a sense of security and stability in a world often characterized by uncertainty and surprise. Within its confines, there was a comforting familiarity that allowed for a retreat from the chaos of sudden change outside. The van became more than just a mode of transportation; it turned into a way to find a new home where one could find refuge. And soon, the tire would be fixed and the van would later drive back to the driver's workplace. The toolbox behind them would later get kwlahzu to figure out how to prevent the reality of becoming nonexistent from happening, as they figured there would be tools inside it that would help to stop themselves from degrading, even if the conflicting desire for motionlessness and gradual degradation was ironically present in the background of their mind. Maybe, they would find someone who knows their creator there.

(NONWRITING - 5th cabin visited: 3. Fantasy - Bake a sweet treat to share)
(NONWRITING - 6th cabin visited: 1. Bi-fi - Make a nutritious snack (try to make it banana themed!))
(NONWRITING - 7th cabin visited: 5. Gothic - draw yourself as a ghost)

(8th cabin visited: 7. Mystery - Your characters find an object that changes the course of the story. Is it something from a character’s past? Is it magical? What does it do?)
Part 4 (511 words):

The driver was gone. Upon entering the upholstery furniture workshop, kwlahzu was immediately struck by the well-planned layout that allowed for easy movement of furniture and equipment. This design not only made everything easily accessible but also promoted a smooth workflow, crucial for the various tasks carried out in the space. At the heart of the room was a sewing station equipped with heavy-duty machines designed for precision stitching, essential for working with tough materials. Next to the sewing area were cutting tables marked with grids and measurements, ensuring accuracy in fabric cutting for precise designs. Assembly areas were also present, where finished pieces were carefully put together. This space was dedicated to fitting upholstery to frames or cushions, a task that required skill and attention to detail. Storage solutions were strategically placed throughout the room, with racks for fabric rolls, foam, and other materials to maximize space and minimize downtime during production. Designated areas for tools and equipment, such as staplers and hand tools, showed a commitment to maintaining an organized environment conducive to productivity. Safety measures, like fire extinguishers, were also in place to ensure a safe working environment.

What area was kwlahzu going to choose? The tool section, of course. So they rummaged through the toolbox, searching for any tool that might assist in mending their worn fabric hide. Their exploration was thorough as they searched for every tool possible, yet their thoughts incessantly returned to a singular tool they found: a sharp pair of scissors specifically designed for cutting textiles.

The reason? Because the thoughts were starting up again.

Resolutely, they decided to willfully contradict themselves, refusing to succumb to the thoughts for the first time in years. With determination, they turned away from the toolbox, opting instead to conceal the worn areas with new fabric, hoping that this choice would mitigate the grip of their compulsions. They sought a lightweight backing fabric to reinforce the damaged sections, aiming to provide additional support and prevent further deterioration.

As they approached the fabric racks, however, something halted their progress. They had now found themselves grappling with two contrasting thoughts: the persistent urge to breach the protective barrier of their epidermis, and the desire to fix themselves in the hopes that the new fabric would make up for years of deterioration.

And now they must choose their desired tool. Will it be the sharp scissors, the one that would allow them to give in to their desire to create a gaping cavity across their tegument so they could witness the black hole that they will engulf themselves into in the end and disappear forever? Or will it be the additional layer of fabric that will stop them from ruminating about said deterioration? Before they could decide, though, a young adolescent human male had entered the room and immediately saw kwlahzu choosing between both tools, while the rest of the tools were on the floor. Then, he proceeded to show them a piece of paper with writing in it.

“Are you one of those things my dad warned me about?”

(9th cabin visited: 8. Nonfi - Incorporate multimedia - a letter, diary entry, newspaper article, etc)
Part 5 (244 words):

And Now, A Public Service Announcement From The Department of Thaumaturgical Affairs Regarding The Existence Of Dysermeneutos! (Things)

In recent years, our world has been grappling with the emergence of the endless enigma called Dysermeneutos, or colloquially known as “Things.”
These peculiar organisms, born from the ambitious but eventually rejected experiments of scientific wizards attempting and failing to recreate imaginary creatures for children, they vary heavily in appearance to the extent that they cannot be individually or collectively described in a simple way. In other words, they defy description.
Neither fully alive nor entirely inanimate, they exist in a perplexing state that challenges our perception of what is real and living and what is not.
As we continue to adapt to their extremely rare but significant presence, it is crucial for every citizen to remain informed and vigilant.
Things can be found in various environments, from public areas to even your home.
Despite their benign nature, it is essential to approach them with the utmost caution.
The Department of Thaumaturgical Affairs advises against attempting to capture or domesticate them, as their unpredictable nature can lead to unforeseen consequences.
Instead, we encourage observation from a safe distance and prompt reporting of any of these creatures to local authorities.
Remember, Dysermeneutos are not pets, pests, or resources to be exploited – they are unique entities that need to be captured and eliminated.

This has been a Public Service Announcement From The Department of Thaumaturgical Affairs! Okay, bye!

(10th cabin visited: 11. Script - Write a scene of primarily dialogue, with as little mention of the environment or character actions as possible)
Part 6 (372 words):

– did you hear me? i just asked you a question.
– who… are you?
– it doesn't matter who i am. what matters is, what are… things like you doing here?
– i… don't understand.
– …
– …
– will you please get out before-
– wait! you don't get it. i wanted to… fix myself. i did not want to cause trouble.
– it doesn't matter whether you wanted to cause trouble or not. you… what are you? what are you? you're nothing. nothing but a mistake. you were a mistake. you're nothing but one.
– but… how? why me? i never asked to… reside in this world. i don't even know what i am. what i'm supposed to be. i'm practically… i don't know. i don't even know who created me.
– well… i do happen to know this. you were not supposed to look like that. you were supposed to be, according to my ancestors, role models for the children. you were supposed to appear more aesthetically pleasing to them. but they failed you, and now you're a product of their failure, thus making you a failure by default.
– but why? why does this have to be my reality?
– look, just get out or i'll make you.
– wait. can you at least try to help me in your shop? please?
– hahahahahah. you didn't think this was a legitimate business, did you? you didn't actually believe we repair furniture, let alone things like you? me and my daddy, we're gonna make money by using this so-called “furniture repair business” as a front to manufacture magic potions that actually HELP people that our leaders banned simply because they were too ignorant to do their research. did you actually think we care about you? cute.
– no. no, please. this can't be true. look… i am actually harmless. unlike you. i am not like you. i just wanted your help. i promise i will be harmless. actually… i would like to help you, if you promise to help fix me. if you know how. if you don't know how…
– hmm. actually, i may have a certain kind of potion for you.
– really?
– yeah. but it won't be here. it will be… somewhere else.
– also… what is your name?
– …does it matter? just follow me.

(11th cabin visited: 6. Horror - Your narrator suddenly gets a hallucinatory vision! What do they see? Does the vision eventually come true?)
Part 7 (562 words):

kwlahzu would have never expected that the boy would in actuality submerge them in a liquid of a dangerous magic potion and close the lid of the cauldron. But he did. Without even telling them. And so the effects instantly began.

kwlahzu's hallucinatory visions manifested as a vivid and immersive sensory experience, engulfing them in a reality that existed solely within their mind. As kwlahzu gazed around their environment, the walls seemed to undulate and breathe, their surfaces rippling like water disturbed by an unseen force. Shadows in the corners of the room coalesced into amorphous figures as their edges blurred and sharpened in a ceaseless dance of light and darkness. Whispers, murmurs, and distorted screams emanated from seemingly empty spaces. These disembodied voices spoke in nothing but gibberish, sometimes urgent and loud, other times barely audible above the sound of kwlahzu's own screaming. Occasionally, a clear voice would cut through the cacophony, seemingly calling kwlahzu's name.

The frightening images that plagued kwlahzu were equally vivid and disturbing. In their mind's eye, they saw grotesque figures lurking at the edges of his vision, their features twisted and inhuman. These entities would leer at kwlahzu with an almost malevolent intent, their forms shifting and changing in ways that defied natural law. Sometimes, these frightening apparitions would take on more recognizable forms, such as various humans and common animals, including that of their creator, their presence a cruel mockery of reality. In addition, there were pungent and often noxious odors wafting through the air. The scent of decay and rot would suddenly permeate the inside of the cauldron, only to be replaced moments later by the cloying sweetness of overripe fruit or the acrid smell of burning plastic. These olfactory experiences were so intense that they sometimes triggered a gag reflex, leaving kwlahzu gasping for fresh air that did not exist. Moments seemed to stretch into eternity, while hours could pass in the blink of an eye. Their surroundings would warp and twist, and the floor beneath them might suddenly give way, leaving them with a sensation of falling through an endless void. Throughout these experiences, kwlahzu was acutely aware of their inability to control or influence anything. They felt like a passive observer in their own mind, unable to direct their thoughts or actions. This perceived lack of free will extended beyond these episodes, leaving them with a persistent sense of being a puppet manipulated by unseen forces.

All of this would ebb and flow in intensity, sometimes receding to a background hum of unreality, other times surging forward with such force that they completely overwhelmed his senses. The line between fantasy and reality became so blurred that the subject struggled to discern what was real and what was a product of his mind. These experiences left the subject in a state of constant uncertainty and fear, never knowing when the next wave of sensory distortions or frightening images would overtake them. The relentless assault on their senses and psyche created a profound sense of isolation, as they found it increasingly difficult to communicate the nature and extent of their experiences to anyone else.

As kwlahzu absorbed all of the potion liquid in the cauldron, they grew bigger and bigger and bigger until the cauldron eventually exploded, and they found themselves morphing into something more grotesque, more random, and more indecipherable than before.

(12th cabin visited: 2. Dystopian - Your narrator suddenly realizes their motives aren't as pure as they thought! How do they react? What do they do?)
Part 8 (377 words):

(in this part, the narrator is the boy)
From the beginning, I, Harold, harbored no desire to engage in my father's business endeavors. My initial foray into this world of his was not a matter of choice but rather a consequence of his calculated manipulation as I found myself unwittingly ensnared in his illicit operation, which he deceptively presented as a humble upholstery repair shop. It was only after a considerable period of denial that the true nature of his enterprise became apparent to me.

He didn't just want me to grow up to be like him. He wanted me to take part of his deception.

In an effort to maintain familial harmony and avoid provoking his disappointment, I resolved to feign enthusiasm and compliance, even as I grappled with the dissonance between my values and the reality of my situation.

Believe me when I say, I'm no liar. I would never pretend to be someone else I'm not. I know better than to present myself as someone I'm not. However, I was so sick of consistently being invalidated emotionally by him, that I decided I would play along.

As I navigated this precarious path, a profound realization dawned upon me. My decision to participate in this morally ambiguous venture was not solely rooted in a false desire to support my father; it was also intertwined with a deeper, more complex motivation.

Beneath the surface of my seemingly noble intentions lay a yearning for validation and a simmering resentment toward my father, who had once publicly dismissed my aspirations to pursue a career as a journalism writer.

This dismissal had left an indelible mark on my psyche, fostering a desire not only for recognition but also for a subtle form of retribution against the man who had undermined my dreams.

Yet, as I reflect on my choices, I am acutely aware that the moment for reclaiming my agency has slipped through my fingers. The realization that I am now entangled in a web of deception and moral ambiguity weighs heavily on me, leaving me to ponder the implications of my actions and the irrevocable consequences of my decisions.

As for whatever that thing was… well, let's just say, I now regret taking matters into my own hands.

(13th cabin visited: 13. Thriller - Increase the pace of your story! What happens all of a sudden to add a heightened sense of anxiety and anticipation?)
Part 9 (335 words):

The cauldron exploded, and all the liquid had been absorbed by kwlahzu, who had now become something entirely different from their original appearance. Their new appearance was even more difficult to describe, except for one thing. It looked far more disturbing and was very aggressive. It was no longer harmless.

Everything around the basement had been impacted by the explosion. Broken bottles. Burnt wooden drawers. Bent metal tables. Everything was broken. All the hard work of father and son, gone. And now there was only kwlahzu.

They furiously got out of the basement and went up the stairs to the shop, only to see Harold quickly notice and leave through the back door.

“No, wait! Don't hurt me! I don't even want to be doing this! My dad is making me do it!” he cried.

All kwlahzu could think about was how everything had been ruined beyond repair, how the boy had tricked them into becoming something worse than they used to be, how everyone around them had let them down. But before kwlahzu could rapidly teleport to his direction and take it out on him, they experienced the acute sensation of something sharp infiltrating the interior of their being.

They then looked at an older man, who turned out to be Harold's father, and the driver of the van that had lead to their own demise.

“You're mine,” he smirked.

In that moment, the situation escalated to a nightmarish extreme. The opening began to manifest as a black hole, an insatiable void that drew kwlahzu's own corporeal form into its depths, and nothing else. The intensity of the experience was overwhelming, inducing a state of sheer terror that compelled them to emit a prolonged piercing scream. Both Harold and his father had managed to escape this horrific scene. Meanwhile, everything about kwlahzu was being erased by the hole, from their cognitive faculties to their own corporal form.

And just like that, kwlahzu no longer existed. And they never got to know their real past.

Ending (468 words):

kwlahzu had now dissolved into an abyss of non-being.

stripped of their former essence, they have transcended the boundaries of physical manifestation, rendering them devoid of any descriptive attributes that could tether them to the corporeal realm.

in this state of obliteration, the capacity for perception has been irrevocably extinguished. the faculties of sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and every other sensory experience now stand in stark contrast to their current reality. they exist in a realm where the vibrancy of colors, the resonance of sounds, the fragrance of life, the savor of flavors, and the warmth of tactile sensations are but distant memories, eclipsed by an overwhelming silence. this silence is not merely the absence of sound; it is a profound stillness that envelops all, rendering any notion of sensory engagement utterly moot.

as they linger in this state of non-existence, they inhabit a void that transcends emptiness itself. this void is not a mere absence of matter or presence; it is an existential expanse where the very concepts of significance and relevance dissolve.

there is now only a stark reality where nothing else matters, and nothing exists. it is a space unmarked by time or space, where the parameters of reality are stripped away, leaving only an infinite, unyielding nothingness.

in this profound state of being, they are not merely absent; they are enveloped in a condition of utter nullity characterized by a complete disconnection from the continuum of existence, where the past, present, and future are rendered irrelevant.

there is no memory to recall, no anticipation to foster, and no experience to cherish. the essence of individuality has been reduced to an indistinct shadow, a whisper of what once was, now lost to the relentless march of time into an unfathomable void.

the notion of identity has been obliterated, leaving behind a stark reality devoid of any semblance of self. in this void, the very concept of being is rendered obsolete. the absence of anything to cling to, be it emotion, thought, or sensation — creates a paradoxical liberation from the burdens of existence. yet, this liberation is not one of joy or fulfillment; rather, it is an unsettling realization of total disconnection, an eerie tranquility that accompanies the dissolution of all that was once known.

thus, they remain suspended in nothingness, an eternal state of being that defies comprehension. they are now echoes of a past that can no longer resonate, trapped in a dimension where existence is but a fleeting illusion, forever relinquished to the vast, unyielding expanse of the void. in this realm, they are neither here nor there, neither alive nor dead, but rather a haunting testament to the fragility of existence itself, an embodiment of the profound mystery that lies at the heart of being and non-being.

they no longer existed.

(END. TOTAL: 4,801 WORDS)

TKb0iZ's submit code: | order of cabins visited: 10, 12, 4, 9, 3, 1, 5, 7, 8, 11, 6, 2, 13 | prompts chosen: 1, 2, 2, 1, 2, 2, 2, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1 | we love the POLAR BEARS <3

From swc main cabin ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ July 2024:
“Did you know that IKEA was registered on today's date 81 years ago? To commemorate this event, today's daily will be about Skog and Blahaj's adventures through IKEA! Perhaps the duo decides to sneak out of the store, or maybe there's a rebellion between the animals - let your imagination run wild! For this daily, write 400 words encompassing our mascots' journey in order to earn 300 points. We'd love to know what these michevous animals are up to, so share your writing for an additonal 200 points!”

So, here's my story in 532 words:

On a crisp July 28th, a quietly revolutionary spirit stirred within the aisles of IKEA. Skog, a plump and daring Scandinavian bear plush, and Blahaj, a gentle and sturdy blue shark plush, had been friends for ages, their adventures often filled with playful mischief and unexpected camaraderie. Today was special, as it marked 81 years since IKEA first registered its name, and the store was buzzing with an air of nostalgic celebration.

Skog and Blahaj had spent the morning exploring the various nooks and crannies of the showroom floor. The dazzling array of furniture and decor was an endless playground, with Skog darting through displays and Blahaj lumbering along with more methodical curiosity. As the day wore on, the plush duo found themselves amid the bustling activity of the store’s anniversary festivities.

Skog's keen eyes spotted an opportunity for adventure. “Blahaj, look at that!” he whispered, pointing with a big paw toward an open service door, slightly ajar. The door led to a darkened corridor filled with the hum of the store’s unseen machinery. “It’s our chance to see what’s beyond!”

Blahaj, always one to follow his friend’s lead, nodded with a playful glint in his eyes. Together, they slipped through the door, their plush forms moving silently down the corridor. The dim lighting and occasional flicker of fluorescent lights gave the space an otherworldly feel, almost like exploring the deep sea for Blahaj.

The corridor led them to a surprisingly cozy storage room, its shelves stocked with rolls of fabric and boxes of screws. Skog and Blahaj set about exploring, discovering a whole new realm of IKEA they had never seen before. As Skog bounced from one box to another, he stumbled upon a half-assembled chair. “Perfect! We can build our own fortress,” he declared excitedly.

Blahaj, using his sturdy fins, helped Skog arrange the parts into a makeshift castle. As they worked, the room's lights flickered back on. Their building adventure had triggered an automatic sensor! To their surprise, a group of small plush animals, seemingly forgotten but very much alive, began to stir from their places.

Among them were a small but fierce lion, a mischievous monkey, and a loyal dog. They introduced themselves as the SÖT BARNSLIG lion, the DJUNGELSKOG orangutan, and the GOSIG GOLDEN retriever dog. It turned out they had been waiting for just this sort of spontaneous rebellion as a celebration of independence and imagination in the heart of IKEA.

The room soon became a lively scene of animated plush creatures debating and laughing. Skog, with his daring spirit, suggested they all explore the store together, while Blahaj offered a calming presence, encouraging everyone to work as a team. Their new friends eagerly agreed.

With a newfound sense of unity, the plush adventurers set off to navigate the vast store, discovering hidden corners and unique displays. Their playful rebellion against the constraints of their shelves became a joyous commemoration of IKEA’s legacy, celebrating creativity and camaraderie in their own whimsical way. By the end of the day, as the store prepared to close, Skog and Blahaj returned to their shelf, content with their adventure, their hearts full of the magic that made IKEA so special.

From Folklore Fan Fest ✜ SWC July '24:
“ǫᴏᴛᴅ: ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ ᴡᴇ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀ ʙʀɪᴇꜰ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʜʏᴘᴇʀ-sᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ ꜰᴏᴏᴅ ǫᴜᴇsᴛɪᴏɴ: ɪᴛ's ɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴄʀᴇᴍᴇ ʙʀᴜʟᴇᴇ ᴅᴀʏ! ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴀᴅ ᴏɴᴇ?”
In 24 words:
No, i've actually never had a Crème brûlée before. That dessert isn't very popular where I'm from. I've heard of it from television, though.

From swc main cabin ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ July 2024:
“Grab your mangoes, and get your canons ready.. we're going to give a little visit to our enemies today! For today's daily, you have to create an aesthetic set for one of your enemy cabins - but it doesn't stop there - you'll need to write a 200 word anthem to send to them too! Completing this daily is worth 100 points, and an additional 100 points can be earned for sharing proof <3”
Here is my anthem for our enemies the Gothic cabin:

Anthem for the Gothic Cabin

In shadows deep where moonlight shines,
The Gothic crew with spooky signs,
In flowing cloaks and midnight flair,
They make the night their cool affair.

Their playlists hum with eerie beats,
They dance around in haunted streets,
In cozy corners of their lair,
They craft their dreams with thoughtful care.

Oh Gothic folks, with darkened style,
The fact that you gained 100000+ points is wild,
And even though we tried to rise,
You managed to reach the top in all our eyes.

Your wardrobes are filled with shades of night,
Your observatory is quite a sight,
But hidden in your spooky fun,
Is winning that has just begun.

You love the gloom, the mystic scenes,
Yet every day, your heart still beams,
When sunlight comes and shadows flee,
Your winning spirit still shines so free.

In IKEA's every room and every nook,
Your dark aesthetic is off the hook,
With every point and clever cheer,
You make our fate a bit more clear.

We, Folklore, have tried to catch up
But we couldn't try to make up
For the fact that your would eventually rise
And we would be relegated to our demise.

So here’s to you, our Gothic enemies,
In every universe, we'd wouldn't be frenemies,
You may be the best in all your jest,
But really, we can be just as truly best!

(230 words)

Aesthetics in this project:
https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1050611460/

From Folklore Fan Fest ✜ SWC July '24:
“ǫᴏᴛᴅ: ̴̰̑ɪ̴̗̊ᴛ̷̺͑'̸̦͝s̸̟̐ ̴̧̍ᴡ̸̩̑ᴏ̵͓͝ʀ̸͕͆ʟ̴̺̌ᴅ̷̗͌ ̴̻̽ʜ̸̥̀ᴇ̶̼̌ᴘ̵̼̒ᴀ̷̫̽ᴛ̶̬̀ɪ̵͉̇ᴛ̵͇̈́ɪ̴̟͋s̴̩̚ ̷̖̓ᴅ̶̗̓ᴀ̷͍̎ʏ̴̖̀!̷̼̒ ̷̳́ᴡ̷̢̇ʜ̷̻͒ᴀ̸̟̔ᴛ̶͇̑'̸̳͝s̷͚͐ ̶̠̇ʏ̶͈͑ᴏ̷̱͝ᴜ̶̗́ʀ̶͉̑ ̷̠̿ꜰ̶̢̀ᴀ̸̮̒ᴠ̴̜̽ᴏ̴̖͐ᴜ̶̠͆ʀ̶͛ͅɪ̴͇̈ᴛ̵̮̕ᴇ̷͇̐ ̸̟̽ᴍ̸̆ͅᴜ̶͉̈́s̴͚͗ɪ̶̩̎ᴄ̴͖̔ᴀ̵̙̑ʟ̸̩̐?̶͖̿ ̶͇́(̴̱̌ɴ̴̹̍ᴏ̴̱́ ̶̡͂ɪ̶̜̎ ̶̛̻ᴀ̸̮͒ᴍ̴̖̽ ̴͚̃ɴ̷͓́ᴏ̶̘̑ᴛ̵͈͑ ̷̳̐ᴇ̷̞͆x̴̛̣ᴘ̷̱̂ʟ̸̺͌ᴀ̴̞͒ɪ̵̻̍ɴ̸̥͋ɪ̸̰̎ɴ̸́͜ɢ̷̜̚ ̵͕͒ᴛ̷̧̇ʜ̷̼̓ᴇ̶̺͐ ̶̥̃ᴄ̶̊ͅᴏ̴̩̓ɴ̷̭̒ɴ̷̭͒ᴇ̵̻͊ᴄ̵̲̊ᴛ̵̛͕ɪ̶̢́ᴏ̸̟̂ɴ̷̜̓ ̷̗̒ꜰ̶̠̾ᴏ̵̯͊ʀ̵̼̍ ̴͎̏ᴛ̷̰͊ʜ̶͍̅ɪ̸̝͝s̷̘̓ ̵̯̏ᴏ̸̫̈́ɴ̴̰́ᴇ̷̟́ ̵̛̟;̵̢̆>̵̺̽)̶͈̉
̸̣̉
̵̟̔ɴ̴̪̕ᴀ̴̮̄ᴛ̶̼̕ɪ̷̮͘ᴏ̸̭̒ɴ̴͇̈ᴀ̶̺̕ʟ̷̺̉ ̸̝̓ʟ̴̠̅ᴀ̶̲͒s̴͉̈́ᴀ̴̧̈ɢ̴̈́͜ɴ̶̰̍ᴀ̴̢͑ ̷̭̅ᴅ̷̨͒ᴀ̶̡̍ʏ̶̮͒!̶̼͊!̴̹̌ ̷̼͐ᴀ̶͓͝ ̸̚͜ᴠ̶̓ͅᴇ̴̭̇ʀ̷̻́ʏ̶̲̓ ̸̱͆ɪ̷̳̅ᴍ̴̼̃ᴘ̵̬͆ᴏ̵͙͐ʀ̷͍̾ᴛ̶͎͝ᴀ̷̎ͅɴ̴͎͋ᴛ̸͔̌ ̵̭̃ᴅ̸̙̒ᴀ̶̘͌ʏ̵̞̓.̵̲́ ̶͖͊ɢ̴̱͠ᴏ̵͖̕ ̴͉͑ş̷̿ᴇ̴̢͘ɴ̴̘̋ᴅ̶͚͘ ̵̫̇ᴛ̴̘̒ʜ̵̘̌ᴇ̶͔̎ ̷̺̐ᴘ̵̰̑ᴏ̷͝ͅʟ̸̼̿ᴀ̴̯̓ʀ̴̗̀ ̷̼͗ʙ̸̫͒ᴇ̴̩͒ᴀ̴̳̔ʀ̴͎͋s̸̜̅ ̷͖̋(̷̫͋ᴀ̵̠̕ɴ̸̱͆ᴅ̵͎̒ ̴̖̾ᴇ̵̙̑s̴̢͒ᴘ̶͈̏ᴇ̴̯̐ᴄ̵̐͜ɪ̸̝̓ᴀ̶̡̔ʟ̴̯͑ʟ̸̹̋ʏ̶̦̕ ̸̼̈ᴢ̶̼͘ᴀ̴̺́ɪ̵͚̏)̴̫̚ ̴̱́s̶̰̐ᴏ̸̢̉ᴍ̵̟͝ᴇ̵͖̈́ ̸͙̈́ʟ̸̼͘ᴀ̴̗̚s̸̡̈ᴀ̶͕̇ɢ̸͕͑ɴ̵͉̓ᴀ̵̠̈,̴͈̚ ̴͙̈́ɪ̷̪͝ ̴̻̽ᴛ̸̞̽ʜ̷͍͋ɪ̶̱́ɴ̷̠̕ᴋ̸̟́ ̸̙̅ᴛ̷̧͝ʜ̴̼̍ᴇ̷̥͠ʏ̴̻̔'̴̡̄ᴠ̶̬̓ᴇ̶̳̌ ̶̬̌ᴇ̶̹͋ᴀ̵͉̚ʀ̵̳͘ɴ̶͍̅ᴇ̸̱͝ᴅ̵̼̽ ̶͉̽ɪ̵̪͒ᴛ̵͎͝ ̷̓͜:̷̫͒ᴅ̶̰͂”
my comment in 33 words:
qotd 1: well i never really got to see a musical in my life but i did like watching that hamilton movie on disney plus if i remember right.
qotd 2: i already airdropped many lasagna donations

From swc main cabin ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ July 2024:
“Happy Friendship Day!! For today's daily, let's take the time to honor the people around us, from lifelong best friends, to cabin buddies. Take the time to reminsce on why these people mean so much, and write them notes! Not to be confused with thank you notes – these should be short and sweet, and reflect on memories and special times you shared. Write 350 words of friendship notes to recieve 250 points, and go give all your friends a hug today <3 Share proof to earn an additional 100 points.”

My note in 382 words:

My friend,

I trust this correspondence finds you in a state of optimal well-being and intellectual vigor. Upon extensive contemplation of our recent discourse, I am compelled to articulate my ruminations in a manner however I like. The profound relief engendered by the presence of an interlocutor who exhibits genuine comprehension of life's multifaceted complexities cannot be overstated. In an era characterized by relentless acceleration, the value of a confidant who truly apprehends the nuances of our shared human experience is immeasurable.

Our dialogue concerning aspirational endeavors and cognitive constructs has prompted a reevaluation of my own existential priorities. Your elucidating perspective has facilitated a recalibration of my focus on my own personal ambitions. Your remarkable capacity to maintain unwavering motivation while simultaneously cultivating patience and equilibrium is worthy of the highest admiration. The resilience you manifest in the face of adversity serves as a paradigm of perseverance, imbuing me with a reinvigorated approach to my own objectives.

I want to convey my profound appreciation for your unwavering support during periods of heightened difficulty. The rarity of encountering an individual who demonstrates such consistent and non-judgmental solidarity cannot be overstated. The depth of your empathy and authentic concern transcends the limitations of verbal expression. These instances of genuine interpersonal connection serve as a poignant reminder of the critical importance of nurturing and valuing relationships of true significance.

On a more quotidian note, I find myself anticipating our forthcoming rendezvous with great enthusiasm. Whether our engagement takes the form of a caffeinated tête-à-tête, an ambulatory excursion through natural environs, or a tranquil domestic soirée, I am filled with eager anticipation. It is my firm belief that the most profound dialogues and indelible memories often arise from the most unassuming of circumstances, and I am confident that our impending interaction will be replete with intellectual stimulation and meaningful exchange.

Your presence in my life represents a consistently positive and supportive influence, for which I am deeply grateful. The friendship we share is a veritable treasure, and I hold in the highest esteem every moment of our shared experiences and the unique cognitive perspectives you contribute to my worldview.

I eagerly await our imminent reunion. Until such time, I bid you to maintain optimal health and anticipate our next communication.

With the utmost regard,

@TKb0iZ