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

[ dailies ]

☘︎ 11.01.24 ⋅ introduction challenge ⋅ 1047 words
☘︎ 11.02.24 ⋅ letter to your future self ⋅ 295 words
☘︎ 11.03.24 ⋅ get to know your cabinmates ⋅ 430 words
☘︎ 11.05.24 ⋅ victorian flower symbolism ⋅ 1465 words
☘︎ 11.06.24 ⋅ role reversal ⋅ 494 words
☘︎ 11.07.24 ⋅ ten word story soup ⋅ 295 words
☘︎ 11.08.24 ⋅ science experiment gone wrong ⋅ 773 words
☘︎ 11.11.24 ⋅ lipograms ⋅ 235 words
☘︎ 11.12.24 ⋅ interview with the mascots ⋅ 471 words
☘︎ 11.13.24 ⋅ write a song-based story ⋅ 347 words
☘︎ 11.14.24 ⋅ bestselling bookstore ⋅ 227 words
☘︎ 11.17.24 ⋅ mystery bi-daily ⋅ 1227 words
☘︎ 11.18.24 ⋅ the strangeness of habit ⋅ 486 words
☘︎ 11.19.24 ⋅ swc acronyms ⋅ 378 words
☘︎ 11.20.24 ⋅ choose your own adventure ⋅ 366 words
☘︎ 11.23.24 ⋅ media representation ⋅ 467 words
☘︎ 11.26.24 ⋅ colorful pathetic fallacy ⋅ 338 words

[ weeklies ]

☘︎ 11.03.24 — 11.09.24⋅ dialogue ⋅ 1628 words
☘︎ 11.10.24 — 11.16.24⋅ cabin creation ⋅ 1000 words
☘︎ 11.17.24 — 11.23.24⋅ journalism ⋅ 1755 words

[ word wars ]

☘︎ 11.04.24 ⋅ word war with ice ⋅ 257 words
☘︎ 11.07.24 ⋅ word war with avia-- ⋅ 162 words

[ other writing ]

☘︎ 11.09.24 ⋅ cabin wars - curious tides fanfiction ⋅ 2944 words
☘︎ 11.09.24 ⋅ cabin wars - random rambling ⋅ 1057 words
☘︎ 11.10.24 ⋅ critiquitaire for vicky ⋅ 323 words

⋅ i had a lovely conversation with claya! this piece is inspired by a madilyn mei quote in her bio <3 it got a bit dark, but i like to think it ends on a bit of hope


“talk to me, maddie,” i whisper. we're sitting on a stone wall, feet swinging delicately over the edge.
“what,” she answers, her voice raspy from lack of use, “is there to talk about?”
“anything, everything. give me something, at least.”
she doesn't reply. i kick my foot against the stone, trying to ignore the view. there is none—just a desert, stretching as far as the eye can see. this stone wall used to belong to a huge castle, overlooking a bustling village. now, only the tips of the turrets and the highest battlements remain.
“we should search,” i tell her. “see if there's anything left.”
“and get sucked in?”
this time, i don't reply. she's right.
maddie reaches into the sand. her hand vanishes into piles and piles of softly shimmering granules, reaching for i don't know what. suddenly, her body lunges forwards, and i catch her before she can topple off.
“the magnets are too strong,” i say. “there's something wrong with the earth. before, the magnetic field kept everything stable, but now, something's shaken it all off balance. something is pulling sand to the surface and sucking everything else in.”
“the gods,” maddie replies. “they're angry.”
i scoff. "gods or not, i'm angry. our sandskiff's nearly broken, and then what? we thought we could stay here for a bit and look what happened.“
maddie studies me. finally, challenge sparks in her dark eyes. ”we find another town. we keep going.“
”is that all you want to do? just keep moving on?“
”i want to survive," she murmurs, and remorse hits me fast and furious, because she's been surviving almost as long as we've been alive. i'm old enough to remember the good years, before sand-floods began, before anything made of metal was banned because of this force everyone's deemed the pull.
“there's a city nearby,” she says. “we can rest for a bit. is that what you want?”
“i want to stay safe,” i answer. “i want you to stay safe. but i also want to find…a solution. not just patching up every problem, but actually fixing it.”
“maybe we will,” she says. “in the city.”
“in the city,” i confirm. this town, with its castle, was supposed to be an answer too.
we arrange the battered sandskiff for travel, and carefully, the two of us jump on. the unbalance gives the thing a push, and as i fill the sails, i send a prayer to the gods that this time will be a solution. that this time, the earth won't turn on us.

“why thank you,” i reply, smoothing my hair with one hand. it's always so lovely to be appreciated.
“you're welcome,” my best friend replies. “but you know, i didn't mean that as a compliment./”
“well, it's within my rights to take it as one, so i kindly suggest you shut up,” i reply, more annoyed this time. lyn is a lovely best friend, but some times she is just too fairyified for her own good. yes, i made that word up. no, i do not care what you think of it.
'“see, that's an example,” she says, clearly bent on annoying me into the end of existence. “anyone else would have immediately said something more polite, or better yet, just corrected themselves. everyone else wants to be the pretty princess and be special. you're acting like mediocrity is your highest achievement.'”
i roll my eyes. “it is! sure, heroes go on adventures and get shiny things_
”shiny things?“ she says, utterly amazed.
”yeah! treasure, swords, crowns, whatever. shiny things. but heroes get killed too, you know. i would really prefer not to be killed.“
she shakes her head. ”you're quite something, you know that? you act like you're being the stereotype of an average person, but you're the standout by choosing to be average. anyone else would take what you've got and use it for something worthwhile.“
”i'm quite fine with being boring old red. you can be a perfect shiny hero or villain or whatever. i have better things to do with my time."
she sighs.

⋅ one of my favorite dailies! i love victorian flowers and i love writing with imagery and symbolism and whatnot
⋅ flowers i chose were juniper, forget-me-not, and marigold <33
⋅ tw — centers on loss of a parent + grief



my mother always told me that to enter a garden, you need to give up something of yourself.
“the earth is giving you a gift, you see! to bloom and flourish — time and love are in this ground. the earth entreats upon the sun to shine and the rain to fall. gardens are the work of a lifetime, and the earth has many to spare.”
“but we tend the garden,” i said in confusion. “we are the ones that make it grow, aren't we?”
“no,” she corrected me, and i scoffed inwardly. “the earth gives the gift to us. we must cherish it. but in the end, we are all of the earth. the earth's gifts are the greatest of all: life, flowers, food. magic works with a balance. taking and giving. it's the way everything is.”
i smiled half-heartedly. my mother had pulled me into dozens of her superstitions and tricks over the years, from the salt scattered over her shoulder to her determination to never do anything at 2:06 pm because our sundial was cracked right there. when i was younger, i'd loved it, but now, it became tiresome.
“there's no magic, mama. just the flowers.”
“you don't see,” she said, and she wasn't chiding me so much as making a prophecy, her warm golden eyes studying me intensely. trust me, she seemed to be saying. i know how it is and how it will come to be. “here. i show you.”
she led me over to a corner of the garden, where a tall, stately tree with delicate, deep green needles and small blue berries drooped from its lace like branches. just for a moment, i marveled at the thickness of the foliage, how i couldn't at all see the ground and wall i knew were hidden behind it.
“juniper is a tree of secrets. you give it your secret, and in return, it gives you its secret. the earth's secret. how to grow a garden. you don't have to give a secret, but sometimes, it is the most valuable thing you have.”
“but if you already have the secret, why do you need it again?”
“no! it is not a thing you have and keep. a garden grows. so do secrets.”
“alright, mama.” anything to placate her.
she leaned in, murmured something among the foliage. maybe it was just my imagination, but i swear i saw the berries glow, the fronds shake, just a bit.
“now you try,” she said enthusiastically.
i let my lips brush the needles, and whispered a secret i don't even remember now. maybe it was the b- i got on my test. maybe it was how i'd skipped chess club — again. maybe it was how i'd stolen one of her sweaters and she hadn't even noticed.
“good,” she said, satisfied. she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small pouch. inside was a little blue flower on a fine gold chain.
“forget-me-not,” she said proudly. “for your twelfth birthday. you are a gardener now.”
“okay, mama.” i fastened the necklace around my neck and slipped the too-long pendant under my shirt. her bright gold eyes shimmered with comfort, although she did not smile.
“so you don't forget.”
alright, i was thinking. forget what?

☘︎

“are you alright?” i asked, then almost kicked myself. what was i thinking? i was a graduate student, on track to be a talented engineer. i was one of the smartest students in my class. how could i possibly have thought that my mother was alright?
“the flowers,” she murmured, and my heart seized in reply. she still believed in the secrets of the juniper tree and that honeysuckles soothed throats and all of it. “the garden needs me.”
“you've given that garden enough,” i said, and it was true. she'd fallen when trying to trim a beloved arbor of ivy. it had … changed her. greatly.
the earth is giving you a gift, you see!
“please, mari,” she said, and it was my name that got me. ever since my twelfth birthday, it had been marigold. my full name. never the one i'd named myself, because i was a gardener now.
i took her to the garden, sat her on the bench near a plot of bright pink flowers. she protested, demanded to see the juniper. i relented and brought her over to the tree, looking even more than last time like a great green mass of fine, tight needles. it looked quite ordinary. nothing magical about it whatsoever. she whispered something again, for what i now know was the last time.
“i will tell you the secret,” she said, and i frowned.
“it's a secret, remember? only between you and the earth.”
“no. we are the same. me and you and the earth.”
“but…” i trailed off, frustrated.
she laced her wrinkled fingers through mine, and i waited, sure she was going to tell me.
“you have your necklace,” she said vaguely.
i smiled at her. “yeah, i kept it! for you.”
“forget me…”
her voice trailed off, and i can't help but think that was quite prophetic. she really did know what she was talking about, all those years ago.
forget me not.
“you never told me the secret, mama.”
she didn't reply.

☘︎

“morning, ms. liu?” i turned, my shoulders instantly straightened. this was the voice of my new superior, and i was determined not to mess up, even after three months on the job.
“we're so glad to have you here,” the man said. “listen, i need your help. you're well known for your blend of charisma and logic. it's what makes you such a coveted employee! you know, you can have all the math you want, but in the end, people can't listen to numbers.”
i stayed silent.
“well, the city's tasked us with creating a more cost-effective bridge than the one proposed by this company. the problem is, our model uses a plot of land near the river. we've learned that it's mostly uninhabited, but our people haven't been able to find out more — there's no one there whenever we turn up. it's around 1/2 acres or so—”
i took a glance at the plans. “3/5 acres, 300 feet by 700, approximately 300 by 200 feet garden, including an arbor, a few trees, some pavement. it's my family's house.”
“ah.” the man seemed slightly discomfited, though i knew this had probably been his plan all along. “are you…still using it? we would, of course, find an appropriate dwelling for you. it's just that we need this space — for the good of everyone, you know!”
“yes, of course. i'll look over things and see if i can ready everything in a fortnight or so.”
“i knew we could count on you!”

☘︎

my mother always told me that when you enter a garden, you have to give up something of yourself.
i walk under the arbor that was the cause of all this trouble so many years ago, then stop. i have nothing to give, except this secret, that i am forgetting my mother by giving up the house and garden she built, and the juniper tree doesn't want that.
the only other “part of myself” i can give is that necklace.
my hand reaches my throat, spins the delicate gold chain in circles. i still haven't taken it off, even though it's a bit shorter now. i don't have to tuck it under my shirt anymore — i can't, in fact. slowly, i unclasp the golden chain and let it puddle in the earth at the foot of the tree. some instinct seizes me and i press it deeper into the dirt.
the garden goes silent, the fronds stopping their rushing for a moment. then — whispers fill the air, crowding over each other to be heard.
i have a daughter.
i don't know how to raise a child.
this isn't something they taught me about.
i wish my parents were here.
i wish mari understood.
mari is rejecting everything and i don't know if it's for the better.
i'm dying.
i love my daughter too much.
i catch on that last one, and every barrier inside me breaks, my tears salting the earth. this, finally, is a part of me.
fine, weblike rivulets form, digging deeper and deeper into the ground, until a small pond has formed, with a glint of gold at its bottom. i fish out the forget-me-not necklace, astonished, but it isn't blue anymore.
color bursts around me — yellow, orange, the exact gold of my mother's eyes. soft, fluffy petals, circle me, and i drop to my knees, amazed and horrified.
i hold a necklace now dangling a pendant of the flower marigold, my namesake.
i suppose my mother really was prophetic after all. the magic does work.
marigold, the flower of grief.

⋅ first weekly! i'm doing it as a theoretical distraction from the election… (i said theoretical okk)
⋅ i'm back 24 hours later…

part one: consistent character voices
[ word count: 555 words ]

geneva: tentative, shy, quite shrewd and empathetic — has all the street smarts but struggles in using them because of her shyness, intelligent because of her “city education”
rowan: attempts to project calm but often angry on the inside, has all the street smarts and uses them but tends to underestimate people especially when he is annoyed, when interested in or incited by a particular subject, he gets intense and passionate quite quickly, though he tries not to show it

the streets of the city are abnormally busy, rowan thinks as he crosses a road just as the light ends. a cacophony of honks explodes behind him, and he spins angrily, practically a pirouette in the middle of the street, because who says these cars have the right of way? he's a pedestrian with no money for a fancy vehicle that needs fuel every four days or so, why should he even care—
“the theatre's that way, i think,” a voice murmurs, soft as snow.
“thanks for the information,” he replies coolly, too coolly for how angry he is.
“you…you want me,” she says carefully, and he refrains from rolling his eyes, “to tell you—that that, that was—”
“i have places to be,” he drawls.
“sarcasm.” the word energizes her, and she restates her claim like an enthusiastic english major. “you want me to tell you that was sarcasm.”
he frowns. excellent, now he's got to deal with this random city girl pointing out all his flaws, when she's no more right to be here than he does, the city isn't just for people with perfectly shined boots, after all, it's for everyone and that's why he's here—
“but i won't,” she adds, “because that would just fall right into your trap.”
“is this what the city teaches you?” he tosses back.
“no. it's what you think — want, i mean, what you want. you want the city to teach me this. you want to, you're biased to blame the city, because city folk supposedly have more intelligence, and you want me — no, you think that i fill, i mean fit, the stereotype. you want to say the only reason i'm smart is because of city teachers.” she levels him with a shockingly icy look. “like i said, the theatre's that way.”
“i'm not a ballet dancer, and i don't appreciate your commentary,” he answers, letting a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. she seems like someone who would appreciate a matching of wits, although she'd clearly fail a debate.
“i wasn't telling you, not because of the ballet. because you seem like an actor. you've got talent. at acting.”
“well, that's very appreciated, but i've got to be going now. not to the theatre, despite all your delusions. we don't all stream in from the ‘sides as artists and activists. some of us have actual, genuine jobs we have to go to. if you’ll excuse me—”
“i haven't.”
there's a pause. he notices only now that the entire crowd is just flowing around them, like they're a boulder in a stream, because city folk are clearly quite used to these interruptions. he doesn't fill the silence, though, just examines his watch as though he's got somewhere to be. that'll show her.
“and i won't,” she adds, almost an afterthought.
he waits. she'll give up soon enough. he knows her type.
“good day, rowan,” she says, almost, almost smiling.
rowan waits a good forty seconds as her figure disappears into the crowd, then almost screams in frustration.
he should have known earlier — that was geneva vale. the closest thing to royalty you got in a city like this. also rowan's old — well, he'd call them acquaintances. “person-i-was-friends-with-because-of-my-parents” was far too wordy, though after all, he figured she'd appreciate his attempt at humor.

part two: using dialogue effectively
[ word count: 216 words ]

“sit down,” imogene alarie tells her. geneva obeys, eyes fixed entirely on her mother's.
“what have — did i do?”
“nothing,” imogene says, dragging out the words. they linger in the air, drawing a new sharpness to her mother's sweet smile. “i've done something. something wonderful.”
“oh. you have?” geneva returns, crossing her arms. imogene's a master at hiding all the emotion she wants to and letting the camera-ready parts of her spill out. she does so right now.
“you're to work with an intern from the country on these cases.” her mother drops a pile of papers into her hands, and geneva lets that shock be the part she shows. papers like these are terribly heavy.
“which — what intern?”
“rowan cressen,” she replies. “you remember him.”
“the one the entire village hated after he threw things at me for being smug enough to move to the city? yes, i remember him. why — will you choose him?”
"you know i have, so don't act innocent,“ imogene snickers. ”work starts tomorrow.“
”maman, why? news travels faster than fire.“
”so don't make it news. you're a detective. you'll figure it out. and if you're my daughter, you'll get a read on him before he even knows who you are.“
overreacting makes something important. geneva dips her head. ”understood."


part three: foreshadowing through dialogue
[ word count: 600 words ]

“can you work today?” rowan asked geneva, watching her from across the conference-styled table. she was still frightfully shy, probably due to the horror of toddler-him and his exploits. still, he knew now not to underestimate her, just as she, he was sure, knew not to underestimate him.
“i'm busy,” she answered slowly. “i'm…taking a walk.”
“naturally,” he replied, annoyed. of course. he had heard that people in the city revered punctuality, but he was starting to learn that they simply revered flexibility. it was obvious she just wanted to take a nap or something, and she hadn't even come up with a good excuse! sure, a walk. honestly, it was delightful for miss geneva vale — she probably had some fancy middle name too, come to think of it — to be able to skip things all over the place, but for him, rowan cressen? unthinkable.
“have fun on your walk,” he told her. there. he was being nice.
“i…will. walks are interesting and educational,” she answered.

☘︎

geneva returned from her walk the next morning, her mind a little clearer. it was nice. to relax, even if relaxation meant solving petty little crimes to keep her skills sharp. things such as “someone stole my wallet! who was it?” and the like.
“this is what we have,” she said, slamming a new pile of papers onto the table. they'd mostly gone through what imogene had started them on in the past month and a half, but there was always new work to be done. “this is the — the most important one,” she added, plucking a file from the stack. “the accomplices will be difficult. they'll be particularly difficult to track. i think the mastermind — whoever they were — did everything through patsies. through patsies and people people who only knew a lit — only a few words of the plan.”
“excellent deduction,” rowan answered. she didn't reply. rowan didn't really believe his words. he was annoyed at her for figuring this out before he could. he frowned when she didn't reply because he was always itching for a debate. he was scribbling something down on a piece of paper. with a whistle, a carrier bird snatched his message and flew away.
“who are you writing to?”
“an old friend. a real one.”
this didn't hurt geneva. rowan had shown that he was incapable of understanding what had actually happened. he always did refuse to see clues until they were staring him right in the face. it was what made him so poorly suited for this internship. she understood why her mother had done it — they needed to eliminate every scandal, and rowan was the biggest possible source of one. understanding the reasons behind an action rarely meant that someone actually appreciated that action, after all.

☘︎

“you said you were going on a walk,” rowan protested, his tone full of far more injury than geneva felt the situation called for. yes, she'd blackmaiIed an old friend of rowan's, but she'd done it for a good cause, and the unlucky victim, an enzo bellwood, was rather a terrible person.
“i was going on — on a walk around the city. the city has many neighborhoods — neighborhoods that, well, are excellent places for finding spies.”
“you can't use my friend as one,” rowan protested.
“i'll…i'll do better?” the words came out tentative and delicate as spun glass. if not cooled properly, it shattered in 24 hours.
“no, you won't.” rowan was cold and disinterested. he wanted to believe he was right and she was a horrible person. she let him. there were better things to be done with her time and she couldn't lose him completely. her mother would be terribly angry.


part four: scriptwriting
[ word count: 257 words ]

GENEVA: so we're moving?
IMOGENE: i told you that five minutes ago. and five minutes before that. and five minutes before that.
GENEVA: i wanted to confirm, though!
IMOGENE (frustrated): you are a worrywart. but you are my daughter and i love you.
GENEVA: i have to tell rowan.
IMOGENE: no. no, no, you don't. geneva, geneva vale, come back here. you are my daughter and i am the boss of you. come on!
a pause.
IMOGENE: absolutely useless. i'll have to pack her things myself, i guess.
scene shifts to a MEADOW full of wild grasses almost as tall as GENEVA and ROWAN, who are lying in a pocket of grass. GENEVA appears quite nervous. ROWAN less so.
GENEVA: i have to tell you something. because you're my friend, i have to tell you something. i have to tell you something because you're my friend.
ROWAN: (tiredly) just get on with it.
GENEVA: i'm moving to the city.
ROWAN: why?
GENEVA: because my mother wills it.
ROWAN: i always knew there was something off about you and your mother. well, good riddance.
GENEVA: i'm glad to see you're taking it so well.
ROWAN: you can always count on me to have your back, and i can always count on you to act like an elitist brat. the city turns people to monsters. goodbye, geneva.
GENEVA does not move at first. after a few moments, she rises and walks off. ROWAN holds a projectile behind her. he lines up his aim.

⋅ this one was fun to write! i chose orpheus and eurydice from hadestown — it was a fun challenge to imagine eurydice as dreamier and happier, and orpheus as the sad, pragmatic one <3 i was intrigued by how eurydice is seen as relatively blameless in the original tale, and even in the end of hadestown — i wanted to convey that she helps goad orpheus into his doubt by pleading for him to acknowledge her, and while i've switched the


"wait for me, i'm coming, orpheus called.
eurydice closed her eyes, losing herself in orpheus' beautiful voice. everyone claimed she was a goddess from heaven, she sung sweet as a honeybee, or a songbird, or whatever warm, mellifluous thing they could think of, but orpheus, she thought, was the greatest musician of them all. he'd unearthed something in himself, a wild and wonderful chord. eurydice supposed it was love.
she'd always loved the world, but loving orpheus was altogether different. the songbird was free from its nest, and there was a whole sky to explore.
"wait, i'm coming with you.
her steps slowed but never faltered. left and right, left and right, on and on until her feet ached, and even then she pushed on. it was the only thing she could do to repay what she'd done to orpheus. leaving him, sad and alone and abandoned (she'd hardly thought he would follow her) just for the chance to “bring the world back into tune.” how foolish she'd been! she hadn't changed anything, or if she had, it was due to orpheus' bravery in coming down to get her. persephone's generosity wouldn't have lasted forever, and she would have died, alone and trapped. it was orpheus, in the end, who had saved everything.
her epic still lingered in the air, like smoke after a candle is blown out. the fire doesn't burn, but you feel it there, and so too, she was sure, did hades and persephone feel the weight of her song. they couldn't shrug it off, like gods were prone do to. surely, the two of them had changed something.
“why am i all alone?” orpheus cried, and something in eurydice cried out, the bird of her heart, caged by hades' condition, longing to break free and turn to him, embrace him. but no. she must stay strong for the both of them.
“the darkest hour,” she replied, her words in rhythm with each footstep, (left, right; left, right; left, right) “comes right before the dawn.”
mist shrouded her. the sky was lightening, but the smoke thickening, and she swore she heard hades' laughter. “sing all you want, little songbird,” he murmured. “you're still caged in the end.”
“where is she? where is she now?” she could hear him, still calling to her. she refused to turn — they were so close! — but heard him again, voice wavering, but as love-softened as the day they'd met. fear shimmered in every note of his cry. the mist was so thick. she was so alone.
“orpheus,” eurydice murmured, hardly aware of her body as it turned to face him. the mist melted. the sky lightened fully. his perfect face, bright eyes, clear voice, one last time.
orpheus smiled, fading softly to smoke.
“eurydice,” he whispered. a question. an echo. a haunting.
eurydice fell to her knees.
“come back to me,” she pleaded, but it was too late. the songbird had flown.

“how terribly impolite,” my friend drawls, slouching over the table to meet my eyes. it's a ridiculous performance, as i'm much taller than she is, and i'm often the one crouching down. she's trying to intimidate or annoy me, and i do not like it one bit.
“face it, they're useless. we need to find someone else if we want an actually good senior year.” i answer furiously.
“that is the student government head! it's not my fault you're just blind to reality,” she replies coolly. it's annoyingly difficult to get her angry. i wonder why that is.
“no, it literally can't be.”
“go ask, then!” she's really annoyed now, which i utterly fail to comprehend — the “student government head” really does look like a five year old who's skipped a dozen grade. a very pretentious five year old — who in their right mind wears formal wear to school? sure, we're an alternative school dedicated to the practice of alchemy, but that (time ends)

⋅ story soup! this one was fun to write, prompt from arrow. it's fascinating how delightful it is to write about souring friendships — i can already see a theme emerging from this session (not you all, of course! you guys are the best i love swc smmm)



there is something infinitely childish about simplistic rhymes.
for some people, they belong to rap lyrics, spat fast and furious, one after the other, until you're drowning in a wash of syllables. not for me, and not for you. we shunned rap music and nursery rhymes, although the two weren't connected, really, in our minds. we were too old for such things. we were sophisticated and wise. we battled over whether song-scene or purely sung musical theatre was superior. we analyzed the stories left behind in the english curriculum's haste to cover too many topics in too little time. we were nerds, and we wore the acknowledgement like a badge.
something had happened in those last few months. your erudition was something you flaunted, and yet you refused to help those who ask for it, calling them all sorts of delightful names because they struggled where you do not. you cast off the areas where you did badly, and scorned those who scorned themselves in defeat, then berated yourself because you missed a few points on a math quiz worth almost nothing to your final grade. you were a hypocrite and named others as such.
so i pulled away from the seething swamp that calls itself a meadow. maybe my new friends are wrong, but none of us tries to be right the way you do. we're all ruining each other, but you're the only one who makes it feel like a final kindness. and i say final because you haven't given me one since. just exile, pure and simple. i was bad. now you are mad. everything's easier when you're a toddler, isn't it?
this is the letter you could send, but don't.
this is the apology i could make, but won't.

⋅ fun fact: i wrote this daily! anyways hope y'all enjoy — this is going to be super chaotic, i can already tell ahaha. names are, in fact, inspired by blackpink — apt is the best hype music ;) (keep in mind that a great deal of the science in here is made up)



“i,” rose announced, leaning against the lab table, “have an absolutely brilliant idea.”
“share!” elise said excitedly.
“so.” rose said. “our mission is to make a seemingly impossible clean energy source possible and use it to solve a major energy problem!”
“yes, it is,” elise replied. “unfortunately, i have no earthly idea how to do that.”
“remember that project you did way back when, using lemons as batteries?”
“of course. but i don't see what that has to do with all this.”
“it's simple! we just develop a way to use acidic power on a much larger scale, and we'll be the future of the world!” rose struck a dramatic pose, which was mollified considerably due to the neon-tinted eye protection resting atop her head.
“well, how do we do that?”
“we need a much stronger acid — like extreme lemon juice! — and then we'll have a much stronger battery! then, we can use it to power something amazing.”
“it would have to be something spectacular,” elise said, warming to the idea. “something that tells the universe ‘pay attention! we’re in charge!'”
rose grabbed a pen and notebook and started scribbling down ideas. "flashlights. an international alarm clock. what if we put the batteries on a spaceship going to jupiter? or saturn? or pluto?“
”well, we can worry about that later,“ elise said, regretting immensely that she'd brought up the topic. ”first, we have a battery to build.“

☘︎

”you did not mention,“ elise whined as they neutralized and cleaned the hole in the floor — again, ”that we would have to include a floor and table budget in our plans. that's the fifteenth table and seventh floor we've burnt! the people below are getting terribly annoyed! one of them actually slid a forty-seven-page document under my door detailing the dangers of acid rain! i don't have enough money for this, i'm a broke mad scientist!“
”all in the name of progress,“ rose sighed.
”is progress now?“ elise replied. they filled a new vial of extreme lemon juice — the stuff had to be contained specially and they both handled it with tongs and three layers of gloves — and placed a copper-coated wire into it. rose connected the last few things, and they stepped back and watched it happen.
thankfully, no new hole in the floor appeared. electricity sparked and popped — and finally, finally, their incredible lightbulb setup glowed with heat, yellow and shining. the sweat of stress pouring down their faces reflected the glow, making them strange and otherworldly. here, they thought, was the secret to becoming gods.
”it works,“ rose murmured, her eyes huge. ”now what?“
elise surveyed their lab — covered in piles of paper, bushels of lemons, carefully sealed and labeled vials of acid, copper wire trailing onto every surface. this was what they had fought for.
”now, we show it to the world.“

☘︎

”are you sure we have to do it at the eiffel tower? couldn't we have chosen a, you know, less important landmark?“
”no! the more important of a landmark we choose, the bigger of a message it will send. and this isn't any old landmark — if it was, we would have found one in the us. the point is that the eiffel tower is important to science. it marked the entrance of the 1889 exposition universelle. a beacon to science, and that's what this discovery is.“
”you know best, elise.“
carting bags full of lemons, copper wires, and lightbulbs, the two began to set up, an exhausting task that took nearly two days. by the end of it, rose was ready to pack up again and fly right back home. but they'd come so far. this was their chance to show the world!
carefully, they connected every last wire, timing the grand reveal for right around sunset. as everything was set into place, the sky began to darken, and for a glorious, glowing moment, the eiffel tower was the brightest thing around.
it had been covered in lemon-powered lightbulbs, which were set to work, and now, the thing seemed to be on fire, its typically red paint ignited into the spark of a new, lemon-battery-powered age. then, an actual spark ignited. and a few more after that.
”rose? is it just me, or is the floor melting?“
”it isn't just you!“ rose screamed as her shoes began to sink into the oddly softened metal. ”i don't think this works on such a large scale! one of the vials must have tipped over!“
”well, what now?!“ elise yelled back. the floor was now tilting at a significant angle. she had an excellent view of the river seine.
”i guess it's back to the drawing board."

Fear was what should have defined Nisha. She stood on the grounds of Aldryn College, the most prestigious place for those with lunar magics in all of the known world, let alone Elegy. She was a powerful Sower, yes, but power and magic wouldn't be enough to get by here. As she walked through elegant halls, tall domes capping libraries and arches and rooftops soaring practically to the moon, she wasn't afraid, the way she should have been, the way her mother had told her she should have been. She should have been terrified of these other students — at home, she'd been a prodigy among prodigies, but here, she was sure to be out of her league. The competition would certainly be fiercer, even for someone like her.
Still, excitement filled her, especially after she visited the greenhouse, which brimmed thick and wild with untamed plants, green lace snaking out of pots, flowers scrambling to be the highest climber on the ceiling. Still, her happiness spilled over at the sight of the vast Vault, hidden in the depths of the college, full of rare and mysterious books. This, she thought dreamily, this is my place.
Her parents didn't believe her. Sheltering their only daughter, their only child, had always been their main philosophy. They hadn't allowed her to live, swaddling her in blankets, refusing to let her practice her magics until she finally got into a prep school that proved her talents were more than a flash in the pan. They'd never allowed her to live.
Nisha was ready to live.

“The Selenic Order,” Nisha murmured, letting her lips flow easily over the words until they became natural.
The first invitation had been a fortnight ago — a series of tests and trials, all for a new legion of power and magic to join the already vast ranks. Lizaveta, her standoffish roommate, had received one as well, though that was hardly a surprise; she was just as talented an Amplifier as Nisha was a Sower. She was a legacy; some relative of hers worked as a Regulator at the Institute in Cadence, though Nisha had hardly asked for details; Lizaveta, despite her fiery red hair, was icy as anything.
“You're going to try for it, aren't you?” she asked Lizaveta, who was doing selenography homework at her desk.
“Going to? I have to.” Lizaveta's tone was scornful; no doubt her apathy, combined with beauty and talent, had gotten her a place as one of the elite students in the college, even if she was only a freshman.
“You don't have to. You could fail on purpose, or decline, or just decide to do something else with your time. I'm sure you'll do great things either way.”
“You don't know anything about it,” Lizaveta answered coolly.
“Don't I?” The words burst from Nisha before she could stop them, and surprise flashed over her, fast as the way the tides were said to come in in Dovermere Caves. She had always thought of herself as easy-tempered, but something about college, about her roommate, about the Selenic Order, had driven her to become something else.
“No. You're just grabbing at power. You don't understand what actually drives us. You don't really want to become an innovator, a groundbreaking force. All you want is to become elite. Like me.”
“You know nothing about it,” Nisha replied. “You think I spend all that time in the library because I prefer it to this room? I spend all of my time working, and reading, and searching for something you couldn't imagine, Lizaveta.”
Lizaveta considered her for a moment, and impossibly, a soft smile played at the corner of her lips. “Kieran didn't believe in you.” At that, Nisha wasn't surprised. She may have been a powerful Sower, but power in lunar magics didn't give her the magic people like Kieran and Lizaveta had, the magnetic force that at once drew everyone to them and warned that to get too close would be to fly too close to the sun.
Lizaveta tipped her head, and Nisha felt herself unfolding, some small part of her reaching for the sun in her roommate's words, like she was a plant who needed them to flower. And — she knew, then and there — that she would bloom, bright and shining, far beyond anyone's expectations. She would live.
“I knew you could do it.”

The group of six met on the outskirts of the college, just before the path to the caves. This was the last point at which they could turn back; the last time when they could say maybe we shouldn't do this. After these last few steps, there was no going back. They'd have to initiate, wholly and truly, pledging all of themselves to the Order. It would be powerful and Tides-blessed and impossible to reverse — and there was a strong chance not all of them would make it through. They'd already lost one: the Darkbearer who had failed initiation. They'd mourned him, of course, but Nisha knew that under their tears, there was an undercurrent of knowing that the boy hadn't deserved to be there. That they did, and they were going to make it out, like it or not.
Kieran raised his hands, and a faint streak of light illuminated the path ahead. The seven of them forged onwards, Nisha tracing the spot on her wrist where her sigil would go over and over. The next six hours, she knew, would test them to the edge of their magics, not that she'd be of much help. It was a new moon, not the waxing gibbous she needed for her power, and Sower magic would be of very little use in water-filled caves. Just the thought of having to enter without knowing when the tides would come filled her with a mix of fear and apprehension; the trials she'd faced alone couldn't possibly compare. Those, she'd known, would be easy for her to pass; it was no different than studying for a test. These trials, on the other hand, would decide everything. Her fate all rested with this.
Lizaveta grabbed her hand, if only for a moment, and Nisha squeezed back. They'd never have anything more than the apathetic friendship Lizaveta gave to anyone in the order, but even this moment of companionship gave her hope. The seven of them would join the Selenic Order, she knew.
Nisha gazed at the crescent sigil on her hand, intertwined with a vine of indigo hollyhocks. Just above it would be the sigil of the Order, proof that she belonged to them.
They entered the caves. Nisha smiled to herself. She was ready. And once she joined the Order, took hold of synths and amplified magic and all the other Tides-known things developed there, she'd be a legend to rival those in Song of the Drowned Gods, her favorite book even years later. They gazed at the Hourglass, and Nisha spoke the prayer along with the rest, knowing that her world was just beginning.

Nisha stepped onto campus in the first week of September, already scoping out the incoming freshmen, wondering who would be tapped for the Order this year. The spiral's silver had faded a bit, but she still hid it with long sleeves and bracelets, keeping the enchanted secret to herself.
There — a pair of twins, both with a slightly dreamy aura about them, flanking a Darkbearer with reddish-blonde hair. The Darkbearer, she knew, was probably no one of importance; just a girl who would end up with a moderate position if she didn't completely flunk out. But the twins had promise; Nisha thought their last name was Azula.
“Those ones,” she murmured to Lizaveta as quietly as she could. She'd kept Lizaveta as her roommate, and the girl remained standoffish and icy; even more so after the loss of Farran. Nisha hadn't known him, not really, but he had been far more important than the Darkbearer they'd lost the year before. A brilliant Reaper, an excellent friend and person, a legacy like Kieran, well liked by everyone. Even and especially Lizaveta.
“The twins? They'll be perfect, assuming we don't lose them first.” Lizaveta painted an attentive expression over her face as they listened to the Dean drone on about the start of school. In between sections of the speech, Lizaveta added a few more she thought were worth watching — a tall, dark-haired student of Noviluna Hall called Serena Velan, and a redheaded boy who supposedly had a talent for healing: Quince Travers.
“There!” Nisha was whispering, as always, but she couldn't help the delicate bit of emphasis she put on her words as she nodded to a girl with short, messy brown curls, standing protectively in front of a blonde girl with the New Moon sigil on her hand. The blonde, she knew, was probably unimportant. But the brunette — Nisha was sure there was something there. Even from these first few glances, Nisha sensed mystery, magnetism, all the things Lizaveta had in spades, and a compassion and friendliness Lizaveta couldn't possibly hope to posess.
“Who is she?” she asked her roommate, not actually thinking she'd get a real, proper answer. No doubt she'd just get a vague “Someone important, I suppose” and be left to the greenhouse, while Liza went to the bonfires, laughing and socializing with the real elites, not Nisha, who was barely anyone.
“Rosemarie Brysden,” Lizaveta hissed furiously. “She looks unimportant, and we're not going to take her even if the world depended on it.”
“Why?” Nisha queried. Lizaveta's anger was so foreign; the other girl had always been adept at hiding her emotions.
“She's a Brysden. Sister and daughter of Eclipse-born.”
Nisha studied the other girl. “She's Waning Moon, I see it on her wrist.”
“Maybe, but she's spent enough time around them to be corrupted. And like I said, she's nothing special. We don't need her.” Lizaveta's voice was firm. There would be no arguing with the queen of Decresens Hall, a sophomore regarded above some seniors. Nisha nodded, following her friend out of the room as everyone dispersed to prep for the first day of classes the next day. They didn't need this magnetic, magical Rosemarie, not if Liza said they didn't. It was Liza, after all. her roommate-friend-person. She could trust her.

“So tell me,” a girl's voice whispered, interrupting Nisha's very important thoughts. “Do you always dream about enchanted caves and the like, or was last night just special?” It was Rosemarie Brysden, miraculously without her friend in tow. The girl's name was Emory, Nisha thought; she was a mediocre Healer, but certainly not one they'd considered for the Selenics. Rosemarie — or Romie, as she was known to her friends — was quite another story.
Most of the Order had already picked their two Waning Moon candidates, but Romie was lobbying everyone she knew was in the Order, or at least thought was in the Order and likely to listen to her, constantly. She'd shown up in Kieran's dreams a few times, according to him, although Nisha hadn't known the girl had visited hers as well. She would have screamed at Rosemarie if there wasn't something so Tides-* enchanting about her. The way she could capture a room with a single breath, the way she charmed students and professors alike. And her power; she was considered one of the most powerful Dreamers of their generation, if not the most powerful one. Her skill would have rivaled Farran's in Reaping if he'd still been there.
“I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Rosemarie,” Nisha replied. Dream-stalking did not nickname-friends make.
“Have you the faintest idea of what this is about, then?” Rosemarie replied, dangling a delicate piece of paper covered in spiderwebs of silver cursive. It was an official invite to join the Selenic Order. So Romie had gotten in after all. Rosemarie. Nisha really needed to stop her thoughts from turning them into friends. Look how it had turned out with Lizaveta.
“You've been accepted to the Order, then, Rosemarie? You'll stop bothering my dreams.”
“You barely noticed me, so it couldn't have been a bother,” the other girl replied. “Also, call me Romie.”
“What if I don't call you at all, and you leave me to study in peace and go off with Emory?”
“As you wish, Nisha Zenara,” the other girl replied, smiling. “You're so like my brother. Always buried in a book and whatnot.”
Romie's brother — the Timespinner. Lizaveta hated him and anyone connected to him, but she didn't get to control Nisha. Never had, really.
Romie went, to go off and talk to her friend Emory, and Nisha forced herself to study her book and the nonsense selenography she had tests on tomorrow, or she wouldn't have known how to stop herself from smiling.

Nisha raised her hands, thanking the Tides that finally, her moon phase had come around. Magic, for some, was work, but for Nisha, it was — what had Romie said? — as much a part of her as her blood and bones. Magic was easy. She concentrated, and the plants in the greenhouse reached for the roof, growing and unfurling and becoming taller and bigger and stronger. Flowers burst into bloom, and Nisha picked a few to weave into her hair. There was another Selenics - only party tonight, and she'd worn her best dress for the occasion — a deep violet, almost black, that made her brown skin and golden eyes glow. The indigo sigil, proof of her membership in Crescens Hall, was the only adornment Liza had thought she'd need, but she couldn't resist adding a few hollyhocks to match.
The door of the greenhouse swung open, and Nisha gazed at what had become one of her favorite students in the school. “Romie. You're here.”
“I am here,” Romie replied, stopping to press a kiss on Nisha's cheek. “This is a Selenic Order soiree. I was invited. You do know that, don't you?”
Nisha smiled, delighted that this mysterious, magnetic girl had chosen her, of all people. Even if she was a freshman and far too kind to the other random girl who tagged along with her. Emory Ainslef; a decent Healer, but nothing special, she knew. Nothing worthy of the Selenics. But that, she supposed, was Romie's gift — to see the most boring people and know that they were extraordinary, worth something beyond what the Selenics said. And to be honest, Nisha trusted Romie more than most of the Selenics, excepting maybe Lizaveta. Romie believed the best of people, true, but she was a Dreamer, meaning she could see what Romie had said were often the truest parts of a person. After all, you could control how you acted, spoke, went about the world by day, but you certainly couldn't control your dreams unless you happened to have that tidal alignment. Romie had visited Nisha's dreams several times and claimed, amused, that Nisha dreamt about her an alarming amount.
“It's like you're obsessed with me or something!” Romie had laughed then.
“Of course I know,” Nisha replied, busying herself with another plant. Maybe digging in the dirt wasn't the best idea right before the soiree, but plants were simple, and she would have to display her powers at some point. Best to have some practice.
“Here, let me.” Romie adjusted one of the hollyhocks in Nisha's hair, humming softly to herself. It was a song Nisha had never heard before; curious, she asked about it.
“Oh, it's nothing. Just something I hear in my dreams. Catchy, no? But nothing important, I'm sure of it.” Romie's words were fast and hurried, and she was strangely defensive, as though trying to convince herself more than Nisha. Nisha frowned, but said nothing about it. Romie was probably just stressed; this was initiation night, after all.
“Come on! We've a party to go to, don't you remember?” Romie tugged Nisha from the room, and she noticed her dress for the first time — a slim black sheath, sophisticated in every way, but with a flourish of rainbowy silk at the hem, cascading into a delicate train. Pure Romie. They walked towards the party, and Nisha pushed her concerns about that strange song from her mind.

“Thursday next?” Nisha asked, noting her girlfriend's exhaustion. They'd planned to meet that day, but one glance at Romie showed she was exhausted. Nisha wasn't entirely sure what she'd been doing, but she'd been pulling away more and more.
“Naturally, I—” Romie broke off in a yawn.
“What are you doing that's exhausting you so much? Surely you're not spending all your time Dreaming, are you?”
“It's nothing. Just classwork.”
“I stopped for you after your selenography class and the professor was telling you you needed to start coming to class, Rosemarie.” Nisha felt badly about using her full name, it was less … friendly, somehow, but maybe it would get through to her if nothing else could. “You can't be skipping class for this stuff! You're not, right?”
“I think I was the one born under Waning Moon,” Romie replied tiredly. “I know what I'm doing, Nisha.”
“Do you? Romie, I just want you to be alright, and protected. And it's only Waxing Moon — you can't be bIoodIetting all the time, it'll—”
“I have to be somewhere,” Romie said, cutting her off. “I have … an appointment. I'm sorry, Nisha. I'll speak with you later, alright?” She ran out before Nisha could reply, but Nisha couldn't shake the aching feeling that wherever her girlfriend was going, it wasn't to make up her classes. Something was happening here, beyond the Order, beyond anything, but she was powerless to stop it.

why fanfiction or adding on to original projects is the best way to gain more words in cabin wars, by river.
so firstly. it gives you a basis to work from! you don't need to waste time thinking about characters and worldbuilding, you just need a concept for a plot and sometimes you don't even need that — i wrote a curious tides prequel yesterday detailing how a minor character experienced many of the events in the book. it's very easy to just extrapolate from the most random details. if you actually start something new, you have to stop constantly to think about lore or what this character is like or what those characters are doing and the names! of! things! how many of you have been stopped in a perfectly good writing flow because you have to think about someone's name? i know i have, it is inevitable and so so annoying. i mean really, we do not deserve this… so obviously fanfiction is the best way to go. you just need to get started, you don't really have to think about anything.
secondly, you're already in love with the characters! i know from experience that it takes time to fall in love with characters that you're writing about. sometimes, it is instant, but more often, they creep slowly and carefully into your heart, and it takes you a really long time to love them and feel comfortable with how they walk and talk and act and whatnot. with fanfiction, however, you're already in love ! you already want to swaddle your characters in bubble wrap and hope they never face the real world (of course, they will, because that's where all the fun happens) and you know how they will react. it also breaks your heart twice as much when you have to end them or one of their loved ones, but that's part of the fun of writing! i don't really write a lot of scenes in which people are ended, i prefer evil betrayals because then you have room for a friends to enemies to lovers plot and that is just the most fun ok but still!
also: you know what character development these characters have already had, and you know when to place your piece in the timeline. are you rewriting novels of work from one random character's point of view? (highly recommended, by the way. i plan to return to my nisha zenara piece right after i finish this sad attempt at an argumentative essay) are you taking a scene of betrayal and really diving into it? are you writing a prequel? a sequel? an epilogue that the author should have added but didn't? whatever the case, you're already there. you can just start, and poof! you're off, speeding along with words faster than the speed of light. it occurs to me that these past two paragraphs are really just restating my first paragraph, but whatever. it's cabin wars! who needs to be succinct? not me, that's for sure.
wait i just completed a fifty headed hydra! i could have done that with fanfiction in four minutes, because writing fanfiction during cabin wars is awesome and super easy. back to the main point of this essay, folks!
so. in addition to my above excellent points, there is also so much more for you to discover because that's the thing about fanfiction — there are always going to be gaps in the story that you, with your excellent writing skills and unlimited motivation, can fill. for example, why not write about piper after the trials of apollo series? or write about percy and annabeth going to college in new rome? (i actually haven't read percy jackson in a while, but since i'm in the myth cabin i've chosen to use those examples.) you could even write based off of the original greek myths and write a life series all about the strange stuff helios sees from his sun chariot each day!! (i can see that as a tv series, by the way. “the life and times of helios”. it would be excellent, and i definitely did not steal that title from wicked's novel. back to the essay, y'all.) there are gaps in the story waiting for you to fill! it's calling out to you! it's saying , write about me! i am shiny and important and so super cool! write about me! i deserve acknowledgement, and i do not deserve to be ranted about the way river is doing right now! what? i didn't say that! i will stop writing with exclamation points because it is only eight in the morning and y'all do not deserve this!
ok back to the point actually this time. finally, a word about writing fanfiction off of movies or tv shows. it's a really interesting excersise, because it allows you to describe with words what is normally described in images, which stretches a whole different part of your brain! i'm not sure if that quite makes sense, so let me give you an example. imagine that you're watching a studio ghibli film, maybe howl's moving castle. so you're watching howl's moving castle (oopsies just realized that howl's moving castle is a real book i'm ignoring that for the sake of writing this essay point) and you see the castle. you know, typical studio ghibli stuff — crackling fireplace, curtains shivering softly in the wind, the talking fire yelping and annoying sophie, our favorite grandmother who's also a teenager. the usual. see how i just described that there? can you see the scene in your mind, drawn in gently 3-d animation, because studio ghibli films are awesome and adorable and animated? if you can, you should try, too! of course, simply rewriting the plot of a move isn't an option, but you could easily write about something that happens before or after, or simply describe the characters through each others' minds, all while using your techniques of imagery to make it all happen. the world is your oyster!
well, i've hit one thousand words, so i think i'll stop, add this mess of an essay, and try and write another 1000 before i have to go. thanks for staying with me so far! you get a cookie unless you're in an enemy cabin. then you get no cookies. love, river

⋅ aaaa this weekly is going to be so much fun! magical realism has been a dream of mine for years! and i'm so excited to develop it here — the only question is whether i can stay within the word limit :0 enjoy! please join the magical realism maze march '25 if it becomes a thing <3

part one: cabin storyline
[ word count: 298 words ]

how did you get here?
the question chases you as you stand, brushing leaves off your clothes, and find yourself in the middle of a magnificent hedge maze. paths branch off from your little nook every which way, and as you stand and follow one, fear fills you — you know all too well that you might never find your way out. the déja vu is sickeningly redundant — once you somehow maneuver yourself into a dead end, you crumple to the ground once more, declaring yourself lost.
you wonder if things can possibly get worse, and somehow, they do. the maze shivers, once, twice, and magically, leafy green hands reach for you, clawing at your hair and shoes. you scream and run backwards, but the maze continues to spin and move around you, the leaves still trying to close you in. you take turns without a plan, dodging twice out of dead ends, until finally, the maze stops chasing you.
“there you are!” a girl calls, relief filling her face. her strangely old-fashioned clothes are covered in leaves and vines, as though she's been diving in a leaf pit. she leans against the base of a tall statue made from marble, overgrown thickly with ivy. as you watch, amazed, the statues unfreeze and turn to people, similarly ragged and leaf covered.
“lynn,” one says.
“alexis. we've been looking for you.”
“the maze gets … hungry, often,” the first one says. “we've got a base in the heart of it, and we're going to find a way out.”
“before?” you're not sure you want the answer.
“before it swallows us all,” alexis whispers.
“the way it's doing us,” lynn says, gesturing to her marblelike pallor.
“help us,” the first says. “or we'll all be lost to the maze.”


part two: cabin aesthetic
[ word count: 000 words ]

magical realism maze ~ cabin aesthetic


part three: cabin parody
[ word count: 218 words ]

based on welcome to wonderland!

we are the labyrinth, come on, look inside
ten years don't convey all the secrets we hide
green every which way, getting harder and harder to walk.
we are the labyrinth, here statues abound
and ivy unfurls from the skies to the ground
watch out for the statues, they used to be able to talk.

once you've arrived, you'll stay with us for life
wandering ‘til your feet fail
everyone here will grow to love it in time
each turn brings you back to where you’ve begun

we are the labyrinth, unravel our hearts
careful you don't break our statues apart
flesh into stone, it'll come for us all
we are the labyrinth, and we're watching you
ivy so thick that you can't see the blue
we're turning to marble, the curse for us all

once you've arrived, you'll stay with us for life
wandering ‘til your feet fail
everyone here will grow to love it in time
each turn brings you back to where you’ve begun

nothing around here's quite what it seems
not the leaves, not the statues, in iv'ry and cream
yes, come on in! but you'll never come out
every turn leaves you riddled with fear and with doubt

we are the labyrinth…
we'll enchant you like hyacinth…
so, now you know, welcome in!


part four: cabin story
[ word count: 484 words ]

“well then,” river says to you crisply, unfreezing from her plinth and ruffling her hair, “we've got a great deal of work to do.”
as far as you can tell, the statues work like a teleportation system for river, lynn, and alexis — they can travel between the various marble outcroppings, which is certainly useful; with that and their prior knowledge of the labyrinth, they get lost a great deal, of course, but you spend every night puzzling over the rough maps they've attempted and you still run into dead ends all the time. still, such magic has a price; river's dress and hair have begun to wither away into leaves; when you first arrived, her hair hit her waist, and now it's barely to her shoulders. her skin seems paler too, as though it's trying to merge to marble once and for all.
“the riddle,” you say. “well, how much progress have we made?”
lynn comes over and squints at the carvings on the bottom of the marble. you, along with everyone else trapped, have discovered that all the plinths bear riddles and coded messages. deciphering them has been, to say the least, difficult.
“19-01-03-18-09-06-09-03-05,” another liminal says, peering at the image. lynn, alexis, and river take to calling everyone who's not yet turned to stone at least once a “liminal” — trapped in the maze, but not yet shifting — and themselves the “statuesques.” you find it slightly odd, but far be it from you to object. the statuesques are, after all, the leaders of this strange place; they've been here far too long to not have authority.
“seems like an alphanumeric code,” the liminal says thoughtfully. “see — there's numbers in here ranging from 01 to 26; just the right number of letters in the alphabet. and they seem to be arranged like words too; longer ones, and then clusters of shorter. it looks like language.”
“well, that's something,” lynn says, relief flooding her voice. “do you think you can decode it?”
“yes. i can try,” they say, brushing pieces of bright red hair out of their face as they start to work. you begin to pace angrily, wondering what will happen now. finding your way around, you can do decently. but solving riddles? that's a whole other story.
“by now, there's nothing you'd not sacrifice,” the liminal reads aloud. “but you haven't yet seen this price.”
“useful,” river says, deadpan as always.
“it is, actually,” you point out. “someone's been watching us. this riddle must have been specified. so maybe if we can find them, they can help us get out. or…we'll make them help us get out.”
“i suppose,” river answers thoughtfully. “but i'd also like some more information on that sacrifice, wouldn't you?”
“that's true,” you sigh. a breeze ruffles every leaf, making the maze appear to shimmer. “information. just another thing to add to the things we need to find.”

hey vicky! i loved reading and critiquing your piece <3 here are my thoughts!

“i cautiously stand up, / no haste overwhelming me, / no pressure overtaking me, / no expectance comes with the silent knock of fate at the door.”
you use commas a lot in this piece; it seems to be your main way to end lines. i suggest varying it a bit, as not only does that provide more enjoyment for the reader, as it gives them variety, but some forms of punctuation are quite specific whereas commas are more vague. for example, you could end the first line with a colon: using this emphasizes the listlike format of the next few lines. in addition, i would suggest reworking the last line to keep the “no … me” structure you have — perhaps something like “no expectance coming for me…”

“the anger, joy, jealousy, and happiness”
pure nitpicking here, but joy and happiness are kind of the same thing? perhaps you could add a more defined, negative emotion, like pain or sadness, so you have all of these terrible things about being alive and then, after the and, a lovely thing — happiness.

“ash-blonde hair”
no idea if i'm misinterpreting this (if i am just disregard) but apart from this one detail, the only thing described about our narrator are the things they've done in life (guilt, jealousy, etc.) and their feelings upon being confronted with their end. adding this random and unnecessary part really takes away from something conveyed so beautifully in this poem, which is its universality. you've done such a brilliant job with that in the rest, and just cutting this makes it even stronger!

general critique: you use a great deal of fonts and effects to convey emotion and emphasis — the bold, the underlines, the italics and slashes, the asterisks, the quotation marks, the changing of case (CAPITAL Uppercase lowercase). while of course using these things in moderation can be very beneficial, especially for poetry, i urge you not to rely on them and instead, develop ways of emphasis relying more on your own skill as a writer. which is great, by the way — i really enjoyed reading and critiquing this, and i hope you'll continue developing it!

⋅ lipograms! chose to cut the letter s — this resulted in absolutely destroyed grammar, 2nd person, and a story featuring references to loss of family members (plus some attempts and failures at references to time travel)— please keep in mind if you choose to read



you look at geneva, and you are filled with everything. and nothing. all at once.
geneva — the root of your joy and laughter.
geneva — why you cry when you think of your family, lying underground in a field filled with flowering quince.
once, you were there, and every tear fell meant a fighter gone.
one, two, three, four, five, you counted.
but — then — the reality of geneva, the truth of the glow given to the world by her? no longer.
if geneva can look at you, her face filled with every kind thought, your family cannot. one or the other. time will not bend to you, even you, talented at travelling time. it will give you only half of what you demand. time will be adamant forever. the continuum of time and the continuum of the determination of the above. the harmony of the two — there! can you fathom it? geneva, can you fathom it?
no. a murmur from the her in your head. the her in your head, not the her here in front of you.
try again. that demand, too. adamant. it will not forgive until you have done what you were told to.
“the tale — take it,” you begin. geneva, why not? you are trying. very, very, hard.
“the tale. my tale.” — a light in her face! hope will help to go on.
“it began with flowering quince.”

⋅ aaaaand today we'll be interviewing gurtle about his passion for eating links and setting things on fire! welcome to another episode of swc daily.



(river clears her throat and leans towards the mic.) river: well, hello and welcome, lovely listeners! on today's episode, i'll be interviewing everyone's favorite turtle! gurtle! gurtle is a beloved mascot of swc, most well known for gobbling up links, because, quote “they look yummy,” end quote. gurtle, would you mind telling us a bit about yourself?
gurtle: of course! i'm gurtle, everyone's favorite mascot! i like taking very, very, very long walks on the beach and devouring delicious swc links in my spare time. my favorite color is the fiery orange of burning enemies!!
river: isn't that…lovely. may i ask, why do you find links so delicious, and not a more conventional food? i know many swc'ers, including myself, absolutely adore eating mangoes. persnaps you could try those instead?
gurtle: no, never! never ever! links are the only source of deliciousness left in this desolate world! gurtle breaks down crying. a pause. and they just taste absolutely delicious. like…you said you like mangoes? imagine all the mangoes in the entire world condensed into one shimmering sphere of culinary perfection. that is what a link tastes like. oh, and a little crunchy, too.
river: well, gurtle, i do like the sound of mangoes, but we swc'ers really do need our links for this camp to run. what do you have to say about the way you have aggravated many swc'ers by devouring their necessary links?
gurtle: hahahaha! i am far more important than a couple of puny swc'ers. if you dare cross me, you will feel my wrath! besides, my full belly is much more important than whether this camp runs on time.
river: well, gurtle, i don't know if that's true. you see, swc'ers created you. without us “puny swc'ers”, you would not exist. wouldn't you much prefer existence over gobbling up another link that you probably don't need anyway?
gurtle: ha! like i would not have come to life eventually, swc'ers or no swc'ers. i am the almighty gurtle! no one can stand against me!
river: …what about the march '24 cabin wars?
gurtle: well, that was clearly a fluke. flukes, as anyone of any importance knows, are for whales. i am a turtle, so flukes are obviously not my thing. i will rise again, greater than ever! you'll see. who needs whales anyway?
river: …the ocean's ecosystem?
gurtle: what was that? did you question me, the great and almighty gurtle?
river: no, of course not! anyways good day good bye see you soon never again never ever everest. (pause) stop stealing our links!
(river runs out of the interview room, leaving her microphone behind. loud crunching sounds are heard, as though someone is eating a very hard object — maybe a frozen carrot stick? eventually, the audio cuts off completely.

⋅ write a story based off of a song! written fast because i didn't have much time hehe, but this is inspired by “buttons” by lyn lapid — go stream it about twenty times right now pretty please



if you're obsessed with someone — in a way that's not terrifying exactly, just in a you - notice - everything - they - do way, the smallest details suddenly become of incredible importance. facts light as feathers send you spinning into whirlwinds, heaven forbid something truly of consequence was revealed.
i've discovered recently that elodie lyn is one of the most talented seamstresses in the twenty-first century. i say twenty-first; of course she'd have been nothing in a time before automized sewing machines, but when everyone's just ordering fast fashion with a few taps on their phone, she is incredible. cotton-soft gestures, but swift, too, as she whips the needle in and out. ribbons lace her hair and her second-favorite dress; her first-favorite dress is covered in wooden buttons. not completely coated, just miniscule circles of wood packed tight at the waist line, slowly thinning out to let the simple white linen show through at the hem. she wears it on every special occasion and saturday. not that i'm counting or anything, but when i'm walking to the bus stop and i see elodie, twirling through a host of fire-colored leaves in that button-covered dress, how can i not?
“i need to say something to you,” she tells me at the sixteenth bus stop of the school year. i stare at her, wondering what will happen. the hurricane prepared to devastate my perception of her is already at category one. i close my eyes, and the last flutter of her is my button-covered dress.
“tell me,” i begin, and she stops me with a kiss.
my eyes were closed. i couldn't watch her the way i wanted to. but if i were obsessed with this love story, in a way that's not terrifying, exactly, i'd tell you what you were looking at in words as much poetry as her features: a slip of a girl, with muted red hair rippling in the wind leaves swirling around us at the bus stop like a homecoming, and me, joy written into every inch of my face, closer than the buttons on elodie's dress.

⋅ completed the first part of the bi-daily with kiara and surf!
⋅ our clues were a two-way mirror the detective thought was a window, a note written in an invisible ink code, and a mood ring that doesn't just change based on people's moods; our red herrings were someone's hairtie left behind at the crime scene, smudges of paint matching the crime scene's newly painted walls on someone's jacket, and a post-it with the date scribbled on it.
⋅ i did my best to stick to the clues, but they've been worked around a little — apologies for that and the incredibly long piece, hehe.



maisie was really starting to hate her name.
it was so classically unusual. so autumnal, so innocent, so main-character-in-a-detective-novel. the fact that she wanted to become a detective one day just added to the irony no one else believed existed. her name was a walking, talking stereotype, and there she was, calmly existing within the mold. and even better, no one was going to take her seriously about it, and she'd just be stuck questioning infuriating suspects until the day she died. which would be soon, probably; she was only twenty-four, but she felt ancient and exhausted and why couldn't laurel thames just be silent for one! second! so maisie could question her properly.
“you haven't allowed me to finish my question, ms. thames. did you or did you not have any conflict with isadora farren before—”
"honey, you're pronouncing her name wrong. it was is-ah-do-rah, not is-ah-do-rah. are you sure you're senior enough for this? where are your superiors?“
”honey,“ maisie said, steel creeping into her tone, ”all my superiors require me is that i get my answers. so. did you or did you not have any conflict with isadora farren before her death?
"honey, you're pronouncing her last name wrong now, it's fay-ren, not fah-ren. but yes, i did,“ laurel replied.
”tell me the source of that conflict and how it ended.“
”well, honey, there's not much to say! i entered my recipe for cranberry-apple pie in the town contest for thanksgiving, and i received first prize, and she got second, and she's hated me ever since!“
”it's only been two weeks, ms. thames.“
”yes, well…still, i wouldn't end her! i don't even know why you're here. i don't even know her.“
”i'm here, ms. thames, because your hairtie was left at the crime scene.“ maisie dangled the offending scrunchie from two fingers.
”well, i wasn't even there! i don't know — lots of people have that hairtie.“
”very well, ms. thames. thank you for your time. these were also found at the crime scene.“ maisie held up a blank piece of paper, a post-it with the date scribbled on it, and a broken mood ring.
”pretty ring,“ laurel thames said. ”mind showing it to me, honey?“
maisie held it in front of her eyes. laurel nodded approvingly. ”when's the wedding?“
”good day, ms. thames. thank you for your time.“ she stormed out of the house, leaning on a pillar supporting the porch. she has two other suspects to question. she glances back at the house; there's been a mirror treatment on the windows, so the inhabitants can't see out and she can't see in. she doesn't understand the point of it in a small suburban neighborhood, but she doesn't think too much about it at the time. she's got places to be.

☘︎

”sir. sir. sir! are you awake?“ maisie sighed, prodding the old man gingerly. his eyelids fluttered a few times, and finally, finally, he yawned and awoke.
”miss, i really don't have time for this.“
”the law dictates that i have the right to question you if i please.“ maisie replied. ”we can do this here or at the police station. the choice is yours.“
”how do you expect me to go to the police station? i can hardly get out of this bed?“
”and yet you've got the ability to schedule an event for monday, october 26, the day of isadora farran's loss? may i remind you that isadora had stated multiple times that she had an uneasy relationship with her father?“
”are you actually suggesting that i ended her? young lady—“
”what i'm suggesting is that you cooperate.“
”well, dora wasn't really cooperating with us. never had, really. she had a lovely life all lined up, and she threw it all away to go to college in england, no matter how many times we told her she'd be fine here. well, she didn't even call us or anything, just lived across the pond until a few months ago.“
”alright. what was the post-it for?“
”i had a health appointment.“
”who is your doctor?“
mr. farran gave her the number, and a couple of phone calls lately, she'd confirmed his story.
”do you know anything about this?“ she held up the mood ring and blank paper.
”the ring, i've never seen, but the note…dora loved writing in invisible ink and codes and whatnot. long hair, never liked tying it back. she was always with her mother, and she made decent grades in school…" exceptional, maisie knew. isadora farran wouldn't have just left the world randomly. she was a capable, bright person. “and she threw it all away. for a useless english university.”
“you said that already. good day, mr. farran.”

☘︎

“thank you for cooperating, isolde. honestly, you can't imagine how grateful i am.”
isadora's younger sister nodded. “least i could do. what did you want to know?”
“just about this,” maisie said, holding out the paper. “i've been told that it's got some sort of invisible ink on it. would you mind showing me how to reveal the message.”
isolde's eyes widened, but she nodded, ironing the paper until the heat revealed a note.
cranberries look like something else.
meet me tomorrow, or this bond melts.
maisie nearly gasped, but tried to show an innocent façade for isolde. “is this your sister's?” she held up the hairtie, stained slightly.
“yes.”
“what is this ring for?”
“it's supposed to detect lies. my sister loved it. she valued honesty over anything. my favorite thing was to prank her and see if i could get away with it. it worked about half the time.”
“final thing, isolde. can you tell me anything about your sister's relationship to laurel thames?”
“they were close as anything once,” isolde replied. “but something soured between them. i don't know what. next thing i knew isadora had left the country and laurel's kindness turned saccharine and slightly evil.”
“thank you, isolde. thank you.”
maisie raced out, a smile spreading over her face. she really was long overdue for a promotion.

☘︎

“nice jacket, isadora.”
laurel thames' house was locked. lucky, then, that lockpicking was one of maisie's skills.
“although,” she added, “it's a bit stained. paint, maybe? you've been wearing it since elementary school, haven't you?”
isadora farran paled beneath her makeup, but all she said was, “took you long enough.”
“mind wearing this ring for me?” isadora laughed, but willingly slipped the ring on to her finger. “lay it on me, detective.”
"so. why fake your death? everyone knows laurel here — they all think she's sick with grief, but once you start going out and about they'll all know you. makeup won't work forever. and why end laurel, anyway? what did she do to you?"
the question echoes around isadora's head. what did she do to you? what did she do to you? what did she do to you?
“why should i tell you? you've solved it. you can go back to the police station, turn me in, and we'll all hold a funeral for laurel thames — except me, of course. i'll rot in prison. why do you need me?”
“we like to have full records of every case. explain, isadora farran.”
“as you wish.” isadora ran a hand through her long, long hair, despite her paint-stained fingers. “but trust me, you aren't going to like this story.”

⋅ i also wrote this daily! didn't know what to then and don't know what to do now xD enjoy!



“what are you wearing, cousin?” the honorific, used to refer to acquaintances of one's own age and below, is pointed. i glance down at myself — uniform done in just the right way (jacket zipped to the right length, everything the right size, clean, unripped) and my shoes: the sneakers everyone else has got, with black laces i've knotted into neat bows.
"i don't understand, cousin,“ i reply to tessa. ”this is exactly what you're wearing.“
she scoffs. ”no, it's not. look at your shoes!“
i look at my shoes.
”what have i done?“
”the laces,“ she sighs. ”why are they like…that? shoes are practical and flexible. they are not meant to be pretty.“ tessa's own shoes are tied the way everyone else's are: they aren't tied at all; they just have the laces pulled far too tight. this forces everyone to complete drills with laces flying — another hurdle for us to overcome, i suppose. in my last division, the division leader didn't really care how my shoes looked as long as i comported myself well, and then i became decision leader and used a very similar policy. tessa is very different.
”tessa, i don't understand. what's so wrong about tying my shoes?“
”the whole point of tying our shoes, cousin, is to conform with everyone else. perhaps they had a different policy in quaesin. i don't know. but on this planet, we become so like each other that we are one another. perhaps we had different lives before coming here, but now, we are all in service of the planetary alliance. no one else does that to their shoes, so you may not either. aesthetic concerns are last on our list of priorities.“ her response is quite literally textbook; i've seen it in the handbook i got to help me as division leader in quaesin. of course, no one actually followed it. except tessa, apparently.
”cousin, this isn't an aesthetic concern. people trip on their laces all the time; i was just trying to save myself from it! honest, everyone should do it. even you! it really is so helpful.“
she gasps. ”how dare you, cousin!" cousin really is arbitrary now, but tessa tenden will conform to rules if they kiIl her; and maybe they will one day. “i have always and will always follow the rules. usefulness is beside the point. fix your shoes now, and hurry; we'll be late for breakfast.”
“tessa, that makes no sense. don't we want to make things simpler for ourselves?”
“don't be obtuse. if you keep your shoes that way for a week, your dexterity in training will decrease by half. i won't hear any more of this.” she storms out, scoffing to herself, “what they did in quaesin i don't know.”
they actually get things done in quaesin, i think, but i untie my shoes and follow tessa to breakfast. it's not worth it.

⋅ the prompt i got was “secretive wishes collected” by crim; i gave the prompt “softly whispering cinders”
⋅ the line “secrets hold far more value than coin ever can” is inspired by a line in six of crows by leigh bardugo! go read it if you haven't already
⋅ using purely dialogue was an interesting challenge here, but i really love how it's turned out! enjoy <3



are you listening?
there's a certain amount of intrigue in being a wishing well.
to start with, you're very rich, of course. people throw coins at you all the time. i've got a fortune in me. and of course, their secrets. their hopes. their dreams, even. secrets hold far more value than coin ever can. that's why you came to me, isn't it?
i came to you to avoid mindless drivel.
and yes, i need your secrets.
well, surely you know that you can't just take things from a wishing well and expect me not to take something from you, can you?
i'm a witch. a wicked witch, or so they say. i can do what i please.
and are you enough of a witch to know that stealing from the rules of magic makes you nothing at all?
what do you want from me?
the same thing i want from everyone else. payment. they all toss coins in for wishes granted. if you wish to acquire a coin, you must give me a wish. perfect, isn't it? a witch's wish from a wishy-washy wish.
i'm not at all wishy-washy. and i'm not giving you a wish.
are you really still arguing?
fine. i wish…to be free.
wishes are such beautiful things, don't you think? look — there, shimmer, sparkle, gone.
the coin.
as you…wish.
oh, very funny. really clever. how long did it take you to come up with that?
not as long as it took you to figure out just what you needed for this spell.
i know now, don't i? a wish whispered to a well, unfulfilled, yet fully paid.
oh, who said it was unfulfilled? i may not grant every wish, but i send everyone who leaves here with a little magic to help them on their way.
so this wish is granted?
there's no way of knowing.
i need a coin that falls for an unspent wish.
wish yourself, then. we both know freedom isn't what you're really after.
you're wrong. this spell is how i get freedom.
well then, little witch. do you wish to pay the price?

⋅ used “you're standing in a crowd, watching a magic show. but you seem to be the only one noticing the strange happenings. the performer has wings. actual wings, you're sure. and fangs. not fake fangs. you're sure. and the magic seems too ethereal to be real, with whispering voices and fairy dust. and then you notice the swirling eyes of the crowd- they're hypnotized!” by @starunicorn_5



entrancing.
it's a word you've always thought of as so unnecessary. not quite fancy enough to be on the sats, but too specific for daily use. we've got enchanting, haven't we? no, you don't need it. but now, watching everyone else watch the magic show — is that a real fairy on the stage? and fangs glaring from her mouth? — you know exactly why it was invented.
thank the gods i chose an aisle seat, you think as you slide slowly from your seat and walk calmly but quickly up the aisle. it's the perfect speed, it has to be. any faster, and you'll look suspicious. any slower, and you'll block the show. not that anyone would mind — their eyes really do seem glued to the stage. the enchanter waves their hand, and the air shimmers with iridescence before films of silk descend over every seat. you stare at the floor and keep moving.
“name and purpose?”
you backtrack almost involuntarily. of course, you'd seen the greeters when you entered, wearing fine pastel suits and necklaces of lacquered popcorn, but now, trying to escape, the sweet costumes read more sinister.
“deva,” you stammer. “i was just going to get some water — all that popcorn made me a bit thirsty!” your laugh is slightly hysterical, but unnervingly enough, no one sitting nearby notices.
“well,” says the enchanter, even though they can't possibly hear you, “we can help you with that.” the enchanter and their servants wave their hands, and rain pours from the sky. you don't sip a drop, though — the same eerie shimmer is apparent on each and every watery sphere.
“go on,” the enchanter murmurs, with what you think is an echo until you realize that everyone in the tent is speaking along with them. you stumble back, but there's no “back” to stumble to. the people in pastel suits close around you, and you think how like a twisted, venomous flower the arrangement is.
suddenly, your head jerks up. you're sitting in your seat again, and around you, everyone else has the same glazed expression. you tune in with them, watching, watching, laughing just like everyone else.
amazing! it's just like magic!