NOV SWC
POETRY FOR THE WINNNN

ww #1 (no prompt)

Red. Autumn flowed through the city, bright red leaves flying everywhere as Annalise walked to her favourite place in the world. A fairly well-built woman with eyes of salt and a head full of wavy dirty-blonde hair, and only about twenty, she fit right into the city landscape, with multiple other girls who looked extremely similar to her walking around.
Seven Shades of Sunshine Bakery on Swanlake Lane was covered in autumnal decor, decorative pumpkins lining the sides of the steps and an incense of pumpkin spice floating through the air. Pumpkin and cinnamon themed cakes decorated the front windows, but the appealing decor did not seem to work because nobody was in.
John was waiting by the door when she entered, a signature dimpled smile on his face. “What begs Annalise to come early today? I thought she needed her beauty sleep.”
Anna rolled her eyes. “The offer of a raise was way too appealing. I hate you.”
“Understandable. Wait, actually not. I'm a sweetheart. Anyway, can you hang up the menus? And get the pumpkin lamps on the table.” John belted out another bunch of tasks, and Anna immediately set herself into it.
A raise did sound pretty appealing to a broke college student studying history, John contemplated from his place in the corner, a half-baked smile touching his lips. The thirty-year-old looked at the young lady setting up the lamps and boquets of autumnal flowers on the tables.
“Stop staring at me, John!” An indignant voice quickly pierced his quiet.
And so we leave a autumn prettier than all of the autumns of the past, a city wrought with a fabric of present, and two people in the bakery, full of the future.

Daily #6


Beth sat on the chair in Jo's room, looking at her sister writhing on the nest of pillows she and Meg had made, unable to get warm despite all the blankets covering her. Jo had contracted scarlet fever because she had gone to meet the Germans to help them, when Beth was far too busy on her piano. Beth couldn't help but blame herself for her selfishness, the lies catching in her throat as she told Jo that all was well and that she was getting healthier by the day, and so was Papa.
Marmee asked for updates on Jo every now and then, and the girls replied to them with pain-filled hearts, because it felt like all Jo was doing right now was getting worse by the day. Beth kept all of Jo's numerous books on her bedside tables, and flowers filled in Jo's favourite vases, just in case her sister woke up and wanted to read, though Jo was spending her waking hours in delirium brought by the fever. But it was all that Beth could do, and she would keep doing it until the worst took place, or Jo got better.
The doctor still came in annual periods of time, examining Jo carefully. Every week his face turned more grim and the shadows under his eyes turned more prominent. In the recent visits, he had told them that if she only got worse after this, then she would be dead. Beth had flinched at the bluntness, and had tried not to imagine a life without her exciting older sister who she considered like another mother.
Beth was afraid that Meg half believed it, because now all the roses in the vases were pearly white and Meg's colourful home dresses had turned black. Meg insisted that she had bought some so that no stains would fall upon them, but Beth knew better as she watched her sister's eyes well up every time she saw Jo in that state. Even Teddy's enthusiasm had dampened after he had heard the recent verdict, his movements slower and his voice duller.
As the midnight bell tolled, Beth shifted in her chair. Her eyelids drooped, and she realised how tired she was from looking after Jo day in and day out. Her arms and legs felt sore and so did her neck and back. Before she could stop herself, her exhausted body pulled her into sleep.
Beth awoke with the early morning light, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she looked to the bed. The fright of her life met her when she saw the bed empty and the sheets in a pile in the corner.
She leaped up, her eyes burning, ready to cry if what her brain was saying was really true. She ran to the dining room and saw Meg, Teddy and Marmee sitting in a circle around Jo, their eyes red and smiles on their faces really real. Jo had a shawl thrown over her thin shoulders, and she looked up at Beth, a shadow of her joyful grin on her face. “Hello, Bethie.”

Daily #6

The florist was back. Lisa picked up a bundle of flowers on her doorstep, smiling as she placed them in the jug-vase on the kitchen counter. Lisa had thought that they had given up, but clearly Lisa was wrong, because here they were, back again. She smiled once at the lilies that fit in perfectly with the house decor before shutting the white door behind her.
Bea was already waiting at the gate, her schoolbag clutched tightly in her hand. Mrs Roche waited in her car, and smiled when she saw Lisa. The two girls got into the car, already talking about the mysterious flower-giver.
“He must really like you, Lisa,” Bea said as she banged the car door shut and Mrs Roche began driving.
“It can be a she, too,” Lisa protested. “Maybe they just like giving me flowers.”
“As if,” Bea said. “You're pretty, Lisa. Not that you know it.”
“Girls,” Mrs Roche said. “School.”
They jumped out of the car and waved goodbye till Bea's mother's car disappeared.
—
That evening, a note was left on Lisa's doorstep, wrapped in a crumpled newspaper. Same as all of the flowers.
The oak tree at six p.m.
Lisa looked at her watch once, and then ran outside, the exhiliration pumping through her veins. This may be the only time she would ever get to see the florist!
She reached one of her favourite spots by the lake, an oak tree. But this evening, it was…different. Fairy lights were strung across the branches, and candles burned on the knarled roots. It was… magical. A cushion lay against the bark, and on it was a letter, tied with a string.
Lisa opened it, and her eyes flitted over the beautiful cursive.
Dear Lisa, you will never know who I am, and I will always know who you are. Thank you for picking up every one of those flowers, thank you for not investigating further. Thank you for giving me a purpose when I was lost, and making me feel found. I have my life to thank you for, so please know that I will be grateful for you forever. -The Florist.

Daily 8:
MY SCIENCE JOURNAL:
-Day 1: Experiment going smoothly, mangoes being collected in large amounts to present to the SWCers.
-Day 2: SO MANY MANGOES! At least a 1000 of them arrived today, and my goal of two billion does not seem too far away! Being diabolical is fun.
-Day 3: Okay, at least fifty thousand arrived today! Only seventy five thousand more to go! My butler is saying the storage rooms are too full with mangoes. I do not care, I tell him. He quits. I may be a bit crazy now.
Day 4: ANNNND CLIMAXXXX here we have it, my two billion mangoes all ready for me to experiment with! Even managed to capture an SWCer! Tame at first site but hopefully feral-ty will be released by the hormones of the mangoes…
-Day 5: Sixteen SWCers! Even a host! I am good undercover > Journal, we shall reshape the world to form a MANGO with my feral SWCers!
FINAL REPORT *splattered in mango juice*:
Dear Journal. I was right. They do get feral around mangoes, but they also get smarter. I am in a cage writing this with mango juice. Help me, somebody. On the good side, I am getting really good mangoes everyday. My donors were good, I suppose. Also, why isn't Mango spelled like Mangoe? It would certainly save time writing the plural form. Good bye Journal. I am throwing you to the mangoes now, a brave and noble sacrifice. You did well, journal, but anything that documents my faliures is not allowed here.

Daily #10 :

all of the shreds
of the friendship i worked on
are now shattered
all of the dread
i harboured
at having to wake up everyday
is gone

i have to assume
it was you
yeah, it was you that tore my world apart
maybe if you
had tried hard enough
you and i
wouldn't be in the state we are now.

trust me, my darling,
you're not what you look like.
you look beautiful,
your heart certainly isn't that way.
how long did i spend
trying to find a reason
for your behaviour?

now all i'll have of you
is half a memory
a torn shred of paper
i'll remember the places we went to
but you, you are erased from my mind

half a memory
all the happy parts
the parts of the film
you featured in
are cut out of the final screening.
half a memory,
that's all i'll remember
you're not worth my mind.

daily 11 :
the letter i'm omitting: j


Fly, my little bird.

I still remember her, her eyes green and her hair blonde, her smile like the brightest sun in the whole world. I still remember her overalls, grey and worn, stained with the days we had spent abroad before finally finding ourselves in the land where I was to grow up, though without her. I still remember the house, too. A small cottage by the woods, where winter unleashed its wrath like never before, and with shelves filled with containers of the sweet pulp of fruit that she sold at the markets to get the golden pennies that we treasured.
She used to tell me stories, too. Beside the dying embers of fire, we would cuddle up, and she would tell me stories. “Your father, if he was here, then our lives would be much better,” she could say. “Yes. We would live in one of the big manors, by the river, where they have huge fires, and we would be so warm, we would burn!”
She would tell me this when the winter was coldest, to pacify me.
Every time she talked of this, a question lingered in my head. One day, when I was seven, I asked her, “Why isn't Papa here?”
Her eyes turned dull, and she drooped at the kitchen table. A single tear fell from her eyes.
“Maman!” I quickly hugged her arm. “No need to answer, Maman.”
“No, Sophie. You need to know.”
She rubbed her eyes. “He passed away on the barge here. He loved us so much..”
“No, please, Maman. I don't need Papa. I am fine with you. You are alright.”
“No, Sophie. What do you remember of your Papa?” Her eyes were suddenly hard, and fear curled in my heart.
“Everything. His laugh, his smile, his face…”
“Very good. Now, help me.” She turned to her pots again.
—
My Maman died when I was eight. She passed of a sudden fever, and the doctor who tried everything to treat her took me in at nine. His wife became my Maman, and he was my Papa.
And to the day, I still don't remember my Papa, and my Maman is just a shadow in my mind, frozen seconds of hardship and love. Those frozen seconds curled by frost, shiny on the window of my life.

Daily 13

They call me crazy.

I know my reputation. It follows me down the halls of my school, it tails me as I try to block out the hidden eyes with loud music on my headphones, and it talks to me in the nights. That's why they call me crazy.
I know that eventually, he will think I am crazy too. I know that he will bow his head and look away when I try to talk to him, or…well, look at him. He will flinch when I hold his hand, he will suddenly disappear. I know that they hate me in the end, and then they feed my reputation.
My reputation is like a beast. It asks for more, more, more. More rumours. More secret words that hide underneath a thin veil. More moments of the lump in my throat never going away, of my heart bursting so much I think I will die.
Why? Because they all know what happened five years ago, on that rainy street just outside our school. The very first time I had a panic attack, I nearly died because I collapsed in the street. I fell on the floor in the cafeteria a couple months ago, and they're still talking about it like it happened yesterday.
That's why I have no friends. That's why my bow is always strung with an arrow, in case in the the next ten minutes, I am attacked by the enemy.
It is a dare, and I hear them murmuring it in the classes.
“I dare you to ask Anna Menon out.”
The boy freezes, and then laughs. “Yo, man, how could I do that?”
Nobody.
The crazy girl.
These words hurt more than they should.
But I am the archer, and I am always the prey.
How I am both of them, I wonder sometimes, but the answer comes to me quickly enough. I am the archer because I can use their fear to my advantage. But I am the prey, because it hurts. It hurts so much.

Daily #15

The sky is in ashes. Dark clouds trawl over the grey sky, as though the air itself is moaning. I push my hair out of my eyes, and continue working, my arms pumping the handle, to fill up my bucket. Mum would be waiting back home, so I need to get home quickly so we can bathe.
Ty doesn't care, anyway, if the water is cold or hot. I look enviously over the wall, which stands broad and tall, barbed wire hanging lazily over the baked brick. Blood drips down one end, showing where people tried to climb over to the other side.
My arms flickered gold, and I took a deep breath, drawing the numbness from my skull into my fingers. My brother was like me, and he paid for it with his future. My brother was the one who taught me how to conserve my numbness to steal away the shreds of emotion that gave me powers, powers that scared me.
The announcements, louder this time, ring through the Shacks. "Every human being, please assemble below the big screens in the Grounds. This is an important announcement. I repeat, an important announcement.
I can taste betrayal on my tongue, but I get through with it and carry the bucket through the alleys, my muscles pulsing below my skin. Years of living in the Shacks does that, makes you stronger than you should be. Older than you should be, too.
The final staircase to home is dustier than usual. When I walked up it, my feet left marks. I coughed as the dust rose, the announcements still ringing in my ears.
Mum is sitting by Ty's bedside, her hands shaking.
“Come on, Mum. Bath time,” I say quietly. My brother moves a bit, his hands shaking. His shoulders twitch and he sits up, a hiss of pain emitted through his teeth. “Come on, Ty. Let's go.”
“I heard the announcements,” Mum whispered. “You should go.”
“I shouldn't. I don't need to, after all the President has done for our family.” Sarcasm burns on my tongue.
Mum smiles wanly. This is as much happiness as I'll see in a long time. Even the fake moments of joy.
“Right. But still…maybe it concerns you, or…” her eyes drift to my hands. “Maybe they're finally putting up training camps. Maybe…”
“Alright, Mum. I'll go, but promise me that you'll bathe. Maybe sleep.”
“I'll try.” She moved slowly up and her skeletal hands took my head and she kissed my forehead. “You grew up so fast. I'm sorry.”
“It's not your fault,” I said quietly. “It's the fault of whoever I'm going to see on that screen.”
When I left our apartment, she didn't say goodbye.

weekly 3

Part 1:

The sailors spoke of her as though she was a god. A god who lived on the Earth. In hushed voices, they'd travel from tavern to tavern, drinking the mulled wine as they related the fragmented seconds that they came in contact with the beautiful voice of the Everland Port. They said they had gotten a glimpse of her hair, a glimpse of her skin. Red, her locks flow down to her feet, they whisper as if it is a secret. Blue, her eyes as glorious as the clean blue sea, they say hoarsely, drinking from the tankers all the while.
Many think they do it for money, describing this voice and leading people to Everland Port, for it is renowned with being the worst port of them all, the one that leads into the Whirlpool of Tamaris.
But still the sailors walk among us, talking of the Siren of the Blue Sea. She may be human, as well, but we all call her the siren.
And today I'm going to find out if she is real. Imagine, Layla Svenns, journalist-in-training, actually snapping a photo of the Siren.
I walk among the sailors, my shoed feet clacking on the dirty wood leading out into he Circle Port, something unique to the Kayle Peninsula. My hands shake, as they wrap tightly around my camera. The date flickers on the screen. 14/11/XXXX.
On this day, somebody will see the Siren of the Blue Sea and document her beauty. I am sure, I shall do it. It is nearly noon, and this is when her voice supposedly rings out over Everland Port. The sailors stand still, looking out onto the horizon. I creep among the Port cottages. God, I must look crazy.
That's when the first note hits the sky, sweet and high and beautiful. The song seems to fall out of the sun itself, and it takes me a moment to realise why I am here. I follow the tune carefully, weaving between transfixed people and transfixed animals, my camera clutched tightly in my hand all the while. The voice seems to lead to the edge of the port, which makes me wonder— how is her voice so loud?
I finally reach the last line of cottages, my chest heaving and a stitch in my side. The song is nearly over, and I have only a few more minutes to go.
There are less people here, and I easily get through the to the most ramshackle cottage at the edge of the port, which smells like dirt from animals and looks half like it too. I duck into it, surprising a chicken or too and look out of the window, my heart sinking. She's not here!
And then I see her— ebony hair chopped close to her scalp, eyes closed in song and her mouth open wide. She's in a boat. I raise my camera and snap a picture. The song stops as abruptly as it started, and she begins to row back to the shore, her muscles flexing.
A breath hisses through my teeth and I dart back into the safety of the port, though my hands are shaking and my legs feel like jelly, I am delighted. Perhaps Master will be proud. But I am proud of myself, too. Layla Svenns, the first woman to catch a glimpse of the Siren.

part #2

https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/786802/?page=19#post-8240113: The Prompt I used, by @TheDisney_Writer


ARTICLE 1: BIASED

CAR THIEVERY COMMITTED IN STREET, NONE ARRESTED YET

A Chevrolet 2017 was stolen off the streets of Los Angelos yesterday. The police arrived on the scene, though no arrests have been made yet, and the Mayor of California has given a heads-up to the citizens about safety measures to implement in their cars through the popular television channel ‘Channel 7 News’. He said that the ‘police department and the fire department are there to answer any questions you may have’ and advised to lock your cars, keep them safely and lock the doors of your home just incase the thefts increase or the thief gets more greedy. . The suspects appear to be from the notorious ‘Galley Gang’ and even a motive was presented, since Owen Dass, the owner of the Chevrolet had a heated arguement about politics with the suspect(s) prior to the theft.
The suspect, a man, claimed that ‘That is my friend. Friends don’t tell the location of friend to get arrested. I would be fake for that and that is not okay. I’m sorry but I don’t want that to happen.’ He denied any more press interviews, and as far as we know, he hasn't had a trial yet. The mystery of the stolen Chevrolet is being looked in seriously by the police department.
The police's lack of action may lead to us all being vulnerable to the thief's greed. It is recommended to stay careful and vigilant, especially when going out with your cars or keeping your cars in a shared garage.

ARTICLE 2: UNBIASED

CAR THIEVERY COMMITTED IN THE STREETS OF LOS ANGELES

A Chevrolet 2017, an expensive car, was stolen off Street 21 in Los Angeles, California. Channel 7 News, a fairly famous channel in the Californian parts, covered the topic and the Mayor of Los Angeles gave a brief about safety measures on the same. He highlighted the fact that many people did not lock cars or keep them in a place that was safe and locked.
About the case, the Chevrolet's thievery is being looked into by the police. When it was stolen, they arrived at the scene immediately. No arrests have been made so far, but the police have identified suspects, though only one was caught. He appeared to be part of the Galley Gang, a gang quite well known around the Los Angeles streets. The motive was also clear, since Owen Dass, the owner of the Chevrolet had had a heated arguement about politics with the man earlier. It is sure that he has an accomplice, because the man did not have the keys, and the car was also missing. Though when questioned by both the police and the interviewers, the man stated that ‘friends don’t tell the locations of other friends to get them arrested' and that he would be ‘fake’ if he did so. His friendship is admirable, but the situations may have called for a different reaction.
It is advised to keep your cars under lock and key until further notice from the police, like the Mayor said. The thievery is sure to be resolved soon, because of how the car is.

Part #3:

It's Role play Day in the SWC Main Cabin, and campers are doing all sorts of odd things, such as making an effort not to drink fellow campers or, like me, coming in with five kittens latched onto her body. Two are already given up to willing campers, who I have caught in my trap. I keep the sweet ones, you take the nasty. But that way, cats. None of them are sweet. It appears somebody is handing out special effects you can take along to the other role plays. I appreciate one in particular, cast upon a SWCer, which turns them into a giraffe with explosive water balloons. The SWCer appeared a bit scared with all the height. At least they won't ever have to worry about things put on high shelves anymore. I have signed up for that with hopes of the craziest one going to me. A certain SWCer is forfeiting sleep for the benefit of finishing her book, and to be honest, who hasn't been there?
The Role play daily is one of my favourite dailies only because of what it goads out of the campers and the amusement when somebody forgets to role play. Even though you don't earn any of your beloved points, you also socialise with people (unwillingly) and have a few laughs.
Week #3 of SWC is getting over slowly, and yours truly is speed running her weekly last minute (Rather, what she considers last minute– I have read panicked comments in the main cabin about people doing them in the last twelve hours, my worst possible nightmare and I hope that somebody else also thinks its unhealthy…) Overall, the weekly is an insightful approach to journalism, and you learn about how to write a biased/non biased article, you write short stories and even write an article on SWC happenings! The Polar Bears always design such good weeklies. (How yours truly does not know a thing after living in a household filled with newspapers, nobody knows.) SWCers are crazy that way – cabins filled to the brim and overflowing with procrastinators doing their procrastination thing.
According to the leaderboard, the tally of points is : Bangsian ranking highest with a whopping sixty-seven thousand, nine hundred and fifty, and the runner ups are : Apocalyptic with fifty-three thousand five hundred and seventy five points, and Mystery in third place with forty-nine thousand, four hundred and seventy five. Unfortunately, Poetry, Paranormal and Steampunk seem to be lagging behind, Poetry and Steampunk only over ten thousand, and Paranormal in the realm of twenty thousand. I hope the members of these cabins will work hard to get the cabins to the first place! (No offence, since I am in Poetry.) Good luck to everybody in the world of SWC – write more and better every day!

Part #4

Okay, I'll start this out by saying : it reads really well! The flow of sentences and paragraphs was excellent. I could even imagine that was an actual article!
However there are some mistakes.
'Zy asked in the main cabin for toe donations, and received many more than he’d expected—67 and 1/58 in total.' The first part is alright, but when it comes to the numbers, I don't really get it. Keep in mind that articles usually go to people who don't know a thing about these things.
Again, a sentence I personally found strange : ‘A few smaller businesses also sprung up. Ayla’s Cat Hair sells hair gently harvested from the four pet cats of Ayla (@FairyAyla)’. The words ‘gently harvested’ should have been double-quoted, because though the company sells this, the term ‘gently harvested’ isn't a term used here and there, so for the reader's clarification I believe that it should have been double quoted.
Other than this, your grammar was perfect!

Daily #18

Crack.
The whole class looks towards Carrie, who flushes, her knuckles still poised inside her left hand. Ms. White looks at Carrie once, her eyes travelling down the rows. "Carrie, if you don't mind, keep your hands silent during English class."
It had only been one semester in but every class in eighth grade knew that Carrie King's nervous habit was cracking knuckles. Ms. White, the bane of every student's existence was the only one who hadn't heard it yet, but clearly midway through proper and common nouns, Carrie couldn't help herself. Not that the class cared, they just liked Ms. White shouting at somebody except for them.
But Ms. White was feeling kind today, so she let them go and continued her monologue on the usage of common nouns. Only about fifteen minutes later, another crack sounded through the classroom. Ms. White bristled. “Carrie, what did I say?”
Carrie flushes again, this time her hands beneath the desk. “Ms. White, it wasn't me.” A quiet whisper travels through the class.
“Quiet, children!” Ms. White screeches. "Carrie, come stand in front of the whole class so that we can see you properly.“
Carrie inhales quickly and moves towards the library, her legs shivering as she stands before the class. A couple snickers run through the crowd of juvenile Americans, and Ms. White whips around once more. ”Who's next? Anybody else want to stand with Carrie?"
The class is so quiet, you can almost hear it.
Crack.
“CARRIE!” Ms. White is furious now. “What the—” she catches herself just in time. “I will inform the headmistress.”
Crack. She hasn't even turned around to finish the notes, yet, and Carrie's face is a dull mauve.
“Carrie King,” Ms. White stalks towards her.
Crack.
“It wasn't her, Miss. The last three weren't her.” Angela Johns's face is bright red, but her hands are shivering.
“What do you mean they weren't her? Of course they were her.” Ms. White raises a hand, ready to strike the cowering girl – crack.
It's so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Ms. White looks down at the girl below her palm. She hasn't moved for the last fifteen minutes.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
“Ms. White…” a brave student from the fourth row calls. “What's…what's happening?”
Ms. White looks up at the class. “I…I…don't…” her face is pale. “I don't know.”
Crack.
Cra-a-a-a-a-ack.
Someone moans softly. “I don't like horror stories, Ms. White.”
“Nor do I.” The teacher looks more scared than anybody had ever seen her before.
Crack.
That's when everything went dark.

Daily #19 : sleep was cancelled

Yes, Andy had pulled all-nighters. No, he was not regretting it. Not. At. All.
"Two hours of sleep, you're a miracle boy. I doubt anybody has lived on two hours of sleep.“ Becca, his sister who was only half a minute older but still found it right to call him ‘little brother’ sat looking superior as her brother lay face down on the desk, words swirling from his book into his brain. This was getting a bit scary, especially since he thought that words flying off the page wasn't something that normally people experienced.

”Four hours. Six hours.“
”Yeah, because that's so much better. Pulling two all-nighters in a row isn't even something I do?“
”Well, you're guaranteed full academic success, I always get the short end of the stick.“
”So you stay up all night?“ Becca sighed. ”How did you do your exam, anyway? It's miraculous, the amount of strength that it must have taken just to lift up that number two pencil.“
”It took away nearly half of my energy,“ Andy drawled from inside his books. ”Happy now, Smart Aleck?“
”Mostly. If you fail the exam, then my reputation will go down the drain.“
”Right. Because right now all the focus should be on your reputation, not your brother who is literally hallucinating.“
”What are you seeing?“
”The words are lifting off the pages and flying into my eyes.“
”Thats…“
”Creepy. Yes. Sleep was cancelled and now I pay the consequences.“
”'Sleep was Cancelled'?“ Becca looked amusedly at her comatose brother. ”I feel like you're acting like you're on anaesthesia.“
”God, wouldn't that be nice,“ Andy said. ”Two more hours of school… Anyway, what do you know about anaesthesia?“
”My appendix surgery. Mom recorded everything, and… god, was I weird.“
”Right. Now can we stop talking?"

Daily #20:
(Inspired from The Empty Child – one of the only Doctor Who episodes I have watched)

Dust flitters into my nose, and I sneeze. My eyes fly open and I look around, sneezing again. “What the-”
The air smells of loneliness.

Daily #22


Dear Polar Bear Team,
I give this message in peace, and filled to the brim with bribery muffins (which taste like cheese – raise your hand if you know the reference!)

WEEKLY #4

INUIT PROMPT

There I was, ready to take off for my adventure of the Lands of Nevse! My dragon, Fenrir, stood elegantly at my side, his chevron patterned scales undulating as he pawed at the icy soil of the land of Leannere, my home land, ready for our weekly adventure. I was so excited to go, finally, out of the Ice Palaces and learn how to be a Queen of Nevse by exploring the various kingdoms. Princess Kalistra Madihomes and her dragon, Fenrir, the cymbelers would announce when we arrived. It sounded elegant.
“Come, Fenrir,” I said, putting a hand to his side “I'm ready, and you look ready. I think it's time. Fenrir sunk to the soil, letting me clamber up his side like I had so many times before when I was still learning how to fly. He began to glow, his power to fly through the thick skin-like structure of TimeZones, the border of the the lands activating slowly. A growl rippled through his body, letting me know that he was going to take off in–
And then we flew over the land, Leannere whipping below us. The wind was deflected, and I felt like a blanket had been put over me. Suddenly, we were stuck in the TimeZone of the East, a gloopy, meshy thing that smelled of oranges. And just as quickly, we were gone.
”Fenrir, you clever boy!“ I patted his side. ”How did you know I wanted to go to the Bays of Smirkir first?“ The islands were situated far away from Leannere, and were a bit of a fever dream in my eyes. ”Thank you, boy!"
Fenrir scanned the clear blue waters of the Freshwater Oceans below us, looking for one of the sandy beaches that we had been told about. We found one, then, and we landed in a whoosh. I dismounted, my head spinning at first from the rush of the flight, and then when my eyes cleared of yellow spots, I looked around at the flaming sun and the freshwater fish which swam happily in the waters. We played with the water for a while, then, and eventually we were sopping wet and covered in sand.
“CAW!”
I whipped my head to the side, my sopping hair smacking my face. “Oh no!”
A small baby turtle was being attacked by a Flying Kite, and the red brute was smacking its claws against the turtle's soft, green skin. I darted over, smacking its wings as it cawed and cawed, and finally left alone after hearing Fenrir's menacing growl. The poor turtle was awfully tired out, bl!od seeping from its wounds. “Fenrir,” I whispered. “Is there any hope for it now?”
Fenrir growled, and gestured out a calloused paw, his claws sheathed neatly into his scales. His paw began to glow, then, and the turtle slowly opened its large grey eyes and the wounds closed up easily. It jumped from Fenrir's paw and uttered a squeak of thanks, before plodding down the shore, knowing it was safe with us around.

Aztec Prompt

We flew over the deep blue oceans of the Skirmir Bays. I have to say, I enjoyed the trip a lot, especially the water and the fish and the turtles, all animals that were foreign to me. Ice bears and dragons – that was my life. Fenrir wasn't particularly tired – he had spent the rest of the afternoon and evening sleeping so that he could carry me to the next part of our adventure : the Seasonal Continent, which we would spend about four days exploring, since there were four seasons according to the Calender of Nevse. I was sleepy, though, and soon my eyelids began shutting as the night sky spanned before us, feeling like a never ending span of silk, like the carpets which coated the floors of the Ice Palace.
Fenrir's chevron scales felt like silk below my gloved hands, and I closed my eyes, resting my head between his large shoulder blades. “Is it true that the toll of the TimeZones is less if you sleep through it?”
An assenting growl rippled through Fenrir's body, and I settled, my hands gripping his shoulder blades so I could sleep comfortably and safely. The world tilted and blurred, and then vanished, a deep, dark sleep consuming my mind and body.
I woke up early that morning, and we had already landed in the Land of Summer, the pale sun still scorching, because it was winter in nearly every place else. “Very off-season, Fenrir,” I said, and the dragon rolled his great blue eyes. “Right, yes, I know. It's not summer in every place of the world right now.” I slid off his back, freshening up quickly and then looking around. “Right, the Summer-folk will be out into the Springlands, because of the eternal good weather they have over there,” I said. “Nobody around.”
Fenrir straightened up from his cat-like crouch-pounce, surveying the empty land, his pupils dilated in such a way that I knew he was sad. “Okay then,” I said, climbing up to undo the bags on his back, untangling the tightly-knotted straps and letting them fall. I served Fenrir his portion, and rummaged out some stuff for myself from the inner pockets. “An early breakfast.”
Suddenly, something toppled out of the bag, falling onto the ground. I lunged for it, cool glass slipping underneath my fingers. I raised the symbol to my face and at once a memory flashed through my mind. A white ice-bear, alongside a dragon.
Eight-year-old Kalistra jumped out of bed, her hands shaking and her face covered in a delicate sheen of sweat. “Mama!”
Queen Saprodine rubbed her eyes, looking up at her daughter. “What now, Kallie?”
“I'm…scared!” Kalistra sobbed and shook, because the war in which her father had gotten grievously injured had only passed a few weeks ago. Saprodine sat up and hugged her daughter tightly. “I know you're scared for your father, but you need to sleep, Kallie. It's important for you to survive, even if your father doesn't.”
“But…another war can start at any moment!” Kallie sobbed into her hands. “I-can't-sleep-then-” Another sob punctuated her voice. “I have to be vigilant.”
“No, you don't.” Saprodine hugged her daughter to her chest. “Wars will come and go, little spats as far as we go. It's okay. And if you still don't feel safe–” She dug into her nighttime drawer and drew out a little glass sculpture of a dragon and an ice bear standing side by side. “When I was young, the monarchs were still taking up power, and war hit Leannere so often, I was so, so scared. My father was a glass smith, so he crafted this for me, so I'd always feel safe. I call the ice bear Norfold, and the dragon Ilmansov, after my own when I was younger. Tell me, who are they to you?”
“My ice bear will be Gentorli, after the kindest one in the stables,” Kalistra said happily. “And my dragon— I'm going to call him Fenrir!”
“Fenrir and Gentorli,” Saprodine said, combing her daughter's hair. “So pretty.”

Mayan Prompt

“Do you want to hear a story, Fenrir?” I leaned my head against his flank. “I'm in the mood for story-telling now.”
A growl of assent was met by my waiting ears. “Great!” I moved so I was in a crescent formation, tucking a shawl over my legs though the ground was heated to an extent. The bright moon of Winter-Summer shone above, the stars twinkling in the night sky, ready to hear my story.
“Once upon a time,” I started, and Fenrir shifted, his large eyelids closing over those bright amber eyes. “Once upon a time when the stars shone brighter and the night sky in Leannere smelled of the ashes of the Winter Festival, a woman went into labour. No ordinary woman, not a woman who you could consider small or worthless to the story, but a woman who was the Queen of Leannere, picked from the mews of the Horse Districts and who flew straight into the king's heart. She laboured long and hard into the night, till the crown princess of the Ice Palaces, arch-duchess of the Leannere Islands and the Princess of all of Nevse was born. Her husband was ecstatic, and they laughed into the wee hours of morning with their little baby girl. She was named Kalistra, after Kallis, the god of the sun, for she was like the sun to so many, bringing hope and joy and light to millions.
A new hope, a new promise, a new baby. Three things that went side by side.”
Fenrir's deep breaths told me that the dragon had already fallen asleep, but I didn't care. I'd tell the story of my life to the night sky, and perhaps the stars would listen. “Kallistra grew up happy. Till she was eight, her life was filled with romping about with the courtier's friends and family, smiling and laughing with the beautiful ladies of court. And then, when she turned eight, disaster struck. Her father was injured badly in his limbs and tailbone in a war which led to many grievances in the kingdom overall. He was paralysed, and could not be the father she needed as she grew up into a young lady. Her mother fell into caring for her father and left off loving her daughter, the previous joy of her life for her husband who was in a critical condition. When Kallistra was eighteen, the life support failed and her father left the world. Racked with depression, her mother was no better, locking herself into the confines of the Internal Chambers, scared of light and her own daughter, for she looked too much like the King. Kallistra was trained by the King Regent, her uncle, to the court life and left at the age of twenty one to explore the land that she would be ruling one day.”
“And that's what I'm doing now,” I said aloud to the sky, and the stars flickered as though they heard me. Sleep took over me, then, and conquered my body.

Minoan Prompt

There we were, trudging through the tropical forests of Springland. Fenrir growled, shaking off a Devils' Vine that had plastered itself soundly onto his back. “Yes, I know this is irritating. I want to see the Caves of Kallis first!” I said. The oldest caves of worship for my namesake lived here in this horrible wilderness. The tropical weather was horrible, and I guess Springland too had to make up for the loss of crops with horrible heat.
We climbed through the final set of vines and finally, the large, rocky cliffs stretched before us. “Think you can do it?” I asked Fenrir, who looked disdainfully at the choppy rock. “I'm taking that as a yes.”
I climbed on, and he whooshed up the cliffs in a vertical line, making me scream with glee. We disembarked close to the caves, and I shook off my sandals, keeping them on a rock nearby. It was customary and respectful to take off your shoes before entering the temples, and I wasn't about to disrespect the god of the sun.
We walked into the caves, the large boulder at the entrance moving as we payed our first penance to the sun, the unknown script which littered the cold stone shining as we walked in. The caves inside made me laugh, because they were so dark, so unlike everything the sun shone for. The script littered those halls as well, certain words bolder than others. I pushed back the panic, trying not to scream. It was a temple. It was a TEMPLE.
Suddenly, the boulder rolled over, knocking all the light from the chambers. I forced back the panic and Fenrir growled, the sound echoing through the chambers. “We have to fix this!”
He raised a clawed paw and light shone through the chambers. I took a deep breath. “Right. Let's figure out this script.” I ran a hand over the walls, my hands bumping over the uneven letters pushed into the walls. The highlighted words had more bumps than most, and as I ran my hands over them over and over again, especially when I ran and let my hand flow over the walls, I noticed that I made a little involuntary ‘ah’ sound every time I did it. Maybe they were … a's?
“Fenrir,” I said quietly. “Just run your claws over the scripts?”
He did, and the bumps led him to form an S, and L, and so much more.
One message repeated over and over: Where the Sun too is Lost.
Darkness!
“Darkness,” I said. “Darkness.”
The boulder rolled over, and the sun was let back in. “That was close,” I grinned. “Come on, Fenrir.”

mesopotamian prompt

We were travelling through the last of the winterlands when the letter came, in the beak of the bird, who cawed loudly. A raven, a message from Leannere.
I took the message and thanked the bird, and opened up a letter. It was a song, etched in shimmering cursive of the Regent. My heart thudded against my chest. We were in a safe place, so I patted Fenrir's side, telling him to stop. He did, and I climbed onto his back.
Dear Queen of the Ice Palace, this is an ancestor who'd like to be remembered by everything but name. If you are reading this poem, you know why you are, and I hope you understand its meaning well and true and clear.
I pledge to keep the Ice-Palace safe
From any coming intruders
To keep the people in my hands
And to try to guide them to the light
I pledge to keep the kingdoms safe
As long as they stand
And I pledge to be the rightful queen or king
Of the land
Where seasons romp and seas are fresh
Where birds and trees and plants and ice
Are welcomed with equal gusto
Where parties reign supreme
And wars are less frequent
Where glory lives and peace resides.

-The King Regent and the Queen of Nevse and the Rengente of the Ice Palace

“Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.” My first teardrop fell, cold and hard on Fenrir's back and the dragon turned towards me, his large amber eyes seeking out mine and a question simmering between all that icy fire. My sobs came cold and hard and quick and they shook me to the bone, and I could not breathe. Fenrir slid me off his back and curled up around me while I cried, his soft and smooth tail my pillow as I shook and shook and shook.
He did not ask, and I did not tell. Until I had stopped with my sorrow, he did not try to comfort, either.
I told him, in a rush, "My mother is dead and so is the Regent. War, though diverted for so many centuries, has come to both Nevse and Leannere. Somebody has attacked the Ice Palace. We need to get home right now."