swc megathread ⌕ nov 2024

Le_lake

11/27 - 520 words
“I know that you mean so well, but I am not a vessel for your good intent”

“I could hear you thinking from the house.”
As per usual, Ronye hadn’t heard their partner coming. But now that they knew she was there they could picture her perfectly, even without their sight. Her bare feet sinking into the grass, arms crossed as she leaned against a tree. They heard a rustling and then a plop next to them.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
They hesitated and inhaled deeply, “I have been thinking,” their Russian accent made the words thick, like a balm that was difficult to squeeze from the tube. “We should not be here”
“What do you mean?”
“It is not right for us to hide from the world, to have this little paradise of our own.”
“Why not? We’re happy, aren’t we?”
Aren’t we?, the rhetorical question held a real weight to Ronye. The longer they thought about it the more allusive the answer became. Allie was happy, they knew that much, but were they? And how were they to find a simple statement out of the millions of thoughts floating around in their head? Ronye, ever the dreamer, wanted something that most had given up on. Peace. Out there people were suffering, they couldn’t stand for that.
“I am a thinker, Allie,” they turned to the woman, looking at her blurry form with their clouded eyes, “I have always been a thinker. I will always be a thinker. I’ve come to the conclusion that this may mean I can never be satisfied with something. Because in my head I have weighed all possibilities, all outcomes, all drawbacks. You are happy, my love, and I am content. But is anyone else?”
They heard the hitch in Allie’s breath and knew the familiar phrase was coming. “Why must we be responsible for the world’s happiness, Ro? Why must you fix everything?”
“If I leave the world like this I will never forgive myself.”
“Ronye, why can’t you stop playing god? You’re not a savior. Neither of us are.” Her voice was tearful.
“I am not playing god,” they said the words slowly, as if speaking to a child “and we can be saviors if we try.”
“For self proclaimed ‘thinker’, you can be really stupid sometimes. When will you stop seeing the world through rose-colored glasses? We live in a hellhole, Ro, you can’t fix that! Why can’t we just be happy?” There was a real bite to her words that likely should have taken Ronye aback. Yet they held their ground, voice even as ever.
“No one else is happy. Why should we be special?”
“Because we’re kids, Ro! 17 and 18! We’re not messiahs, we’re children. Your suffering with not save them! Pain is not virtue, it’s just pain. And I’m sick and tired of being in pain.” They could hear rustling and grabbed Allie’s wrist before she could go.
“Wait,” they stared imploringly at their partner, “Allie, don’t leave me alone. I can’t do this alone.”
“You’ll have to.” They heard an object clatter to the floor as Allie yanked her hand away. They could still feel the warmth of their partner’s skin as they reached out, holding the object gently in their hands. They ran a thumb over them. Goggles. Curious, they put them on. The pink tint made the world more blurry.

Last edited by Le_lake (Nov. 30, 2024 19:00:36)

Runaway--

Daily
424, Damsel, Tragedy, Family, cliffhanger.

Tara smiled, spinning a blade in her hand. She remembered when she was just a kid, learning to throw and shoot with her older sister and swearing that they’d protect their younger sisters, so they never had to do the same. Allie and Atlas, her whole reason for being.

She and Tessa were meant to finish this together, to finally rescue them away. But then Tessa had left to the city, swearing to come back with the means to take them away for good.

That was 5 years ago. Tessa wasn’t sure what she was meant to do now.

The first year, she had waited. She had told Atlas stories about their older sister, and laughed with allie.

The second year, the laughing had stopped.

The third year, she barely spoke to her siblings at all. Instead she practiced- the same fighting drills over and over.

The fourth year, she kept training. Allie and atlas grew closer, and it was like everything she knew was drifting away.

The fifth year, she had had enough. And that was why she was here, blade in her hand and bullet casings around her feet. The farmhouse rose up in the distance, and after a moment she walked forward, white knuckles holding the knife tight. She took a deep breath, spotting the figure of her father in the window. Her eyes met the window, and she swung the knife back in her hands, hurtling the knife towards the glass.

Tessa withe her sister standing in front of her, hands gently guiding the younger girl as she taught her how to throw with proper technique

It made a perfect arch through the air, as if guided by some invisible hand.

The first time she hit the target. The first time she hit the center, the way her sister’s face had lit up with such unfiltered joy.

The glass shattered as the blade splashed against it. Shards of jagged triangles sprayed across the whole room.

Watching her sister grow restless, her anger when the she had to sit by- watch and do nothing. Her refusal to finish it all- insisting they needed a plan for afterwards.

The knife hit her father in the chest, surrounded my tiny pieces of glass.

Watching Tessa get on the train. Promising she’d come back with the money to support all four of them.

Five years of silence.

Tara watched him fall, and turned without another word to the woods where her siblings were playing. The smile still on her face, she didn’t look back.

ChueyTheCat

literature spinner : caregiver, poetry, place of studying/strategy, non sequitur
512 words

if you did not look, you would not find it
there are a lot of things that you cannot find if you don’t look
there is a cat sitting on the doorstep that looks like
nothing ever seen on earth before (it’s not his fault),
bend down and he’ll whisper the secret in your ear
knock and come in.
inside there is woman who smells of good things to eat,
who looks soft, like a rose, silky petals gleaming
she knows all the wiles and paths of this labyrinth
(and don’t cross her, she has thorns)
who’ll tell you good advice that you’ll wish you had taken
a decade from now.
further on there is a man in a chair, always reading,
who may or may not look up and say something odd,
just now I believe it was “the snake coils around her wrist”
don’t mind him, he’s only looking in the future (maybe the past)
and telling what he sees; he always did get time mixed up.
the storyteller is here somewhere, but don’t be afraid if he turns up.
he hasn’t really got a body anymore but he’s awfully good at slipping
into cracks, I mean in your head. he might tell you a story if you ask nicely.
it’s wonderful and strange, the library, and only some can find it
and some find it and never come back (when I can’t find them, mostly)
because sometimes the books don’t stay shut when they should
(they just want a stretch, is all, to let their inmates out to play
for a bit. even prisoners can’t stay cramped up in the pages all day)
and the ghosts don’t mean any harm, really, most are just confused.
but in here is where your kind like to gather, I think, just past the fish
yes, they are swimming in the air, they forgot it’s not the ocean, they aren’t very bright
fish are magical because they can drop reality from their memory like apples from trees
and now beyond the wooden bookshelves that smell of old paper and ink
is where the outer library is (compared to the inner, it’s quite tame)
here’s where the people you’re looking for are.
they like it here where the books mostly remember they are books,
and it’s too bright for the dark ghosts
(all except the storyteller, and nobody know what he really is anyway)
watch out for that shark there, how did she get up here?
that’s miss muffins and I know it looks like she just bit some rather important pieces off
but like the fish she isn’t too smart and she forgets that up here her teeth are dull
run if you ever hear her further in, though, there’s nothing wrong with her teeth there
and sometimes I think she remembers how to be smart in the dark and the deep.
anyways, I’m fine, look - everything is still attached.
now I think I’ll leave you here.
if you ever get lost, call me by name and I’ll come, no matter the danger.

Zyzeryko

Purest white surrounded me. Was this death? Every direction was indistinguishable from one another, even up and down blurring into one. No pain existed anywhere in my body, not even in the places where it had just moments earlier. This must be death.
Maybe I could live with that. It was surely a peaceful place.
I brought myself up to my feet by only willing it so. And I began to walk, first in idle circles and then in one direction.
It was frustrating, to never know in what direction you are walking. In life, it seemed, I could always tell which way to go. Which way to go to save myself. Here there was nothing, not even a feeling to guide me.
And then I was in a room, objects of all kinds lining the walls, including a syringe, a golden masquerade-style mask, and a bottle of presumably, water. But how was I here? In death was I left to watch my acquaintances be killed as I had?
Or had I even died at all?
My eyes fluttered open again, but this time the whiteness was colder. Not like snow, never like snow—- I was in a plain, padded white room. Alone.
I sat up, my shoulders feeling as though they were on fire. What had I become? This was not humanity.
I was too much alive for this. My death had been planned, perhaps from the very start of my life, and I had defied it. My heart was no longer beating, no longer alive. I was lost and I had died.
The floor opened slightly, just a gap. Were they trying to kill me? Hope I would fall down another well and die?
A swan emerged. Her eyes were violent, bloody. A snake dressed in white.
And a snake she was, standing upon a white pedestal. A golden mask covered her face, but it could not hide the fury in her visible eye. She was a monster, and she was responsible for her own cruelty—- something not many monsters could brag of.
She was a saint. Evil in her glory, cold in her death and violent upon her return. You can never stop someone like that, someone so deprived of their own humanity, high off power they stole. I doubt there is any sort of way to save yourself from one of these people. They are too far gone from their own morality.
Run.

booklover883322

How dare you make me do a literary analysis >:000 /j

Opening Thoughts
Hey Fi! You did a great job on this, I loved reading it! It was really cute- I’ll start with specific feedback, then I’ll end with my general feedback and final thoughts! You made my day, it was so fun to read <3 Also, sorry for not getting this to you sooner!

In my childhood, I spent a month every summer at Aunt Claire’s lake house. It was a half-hour into the middle of nowhere and had neither cell reception nor air conditioning. The woods surrounding the lake could’ve been exciting, but the trees were frail and spread thin. I’d poked around enough holes to know the most dangerous thing out there was yellow jackets.
This is such a cute opening! I have some thoughts, but I’ll leave those for the general feedback section <3

What I remembered best was the dog. Bella was older than me, a lapdog with matted fur and beady insect eyes. She never seemed to age. In every memory, she appeared disheveled and on the verge of death.
This is such a good description. It doesn’t overstay its welcome, but it also paints the clearest picture in my head of Bella, it’s perfect! One small thing that’s just personal preference, but I think that this paragraph would be a bit more effective if it was attached to the end of the first one instead of being its own paragraph.

One night, when I went to close my bedroom window, I saw her outside. In the squat porch light, she was especially corpse-like. I stared her down. Bella didn’t so much as twitch.

I considered leaving her there. Nothing would get her, I reasoned. She was skin and bones—not much of a meal. I didn’t trust her not to get lost, though, and then Aunt Claire would send me tromping through the woods. I grabbed my rain boots and headed out. Only after I got close did Bella dash for the treeline. I ran after her. Once the house was out of sight, I shouted Bella’s name, but she didn’t stop. I thought I’d catch her easily, but to my embarrassment, I had to pause to catch my breath. Hands on my knees, I looked up, and there Bella stood, watching out of reach.
The same thought occurred to me here. Maybe the first paragraph that I’ve quoted would work being just the beginning of the second one? Again, just personal preference though. Also, are there stronger verbs that you could use? The verbs are fine right now, but verbs like “ran” “looked” “stood” “watching” and others are a bit weak and your sentences may benefit from some stronger synonyms. One example I can give would be changing “watching” to “scructinizing”.

I cursed her name. She trotted off. I really should’ve let her go. If she fell in a ditch or drowned in the lake, well, that was her fault.

We went deeper into the woods. My attempts to grab Bella grew more and more half-hearted until I didn’t bother. I began to see a structure among the trees, and I remembered this place, abruptly. When my cousins were young and I was younger, they had found a rundown log cabin and made it a refuge from Aunt Claire (who was never all that bad in my eyes), hauling lawn chairs through the woods with backpacks of food slung across their shoulders. Now, I made out the stain on the wood and paused. Bella forged ahead, up the porch steps with an awkward gait before she bowed her head over a bowl. Her tail wagged. I went to her side and tugged at her collar.
(just doing these together for my convenience this time-) This is probably just me being picky but I think that you should remove the comma where I have it bolded above. If you want that type of cadence to stay the same, “—” would suit that purpose better.

“Stop,” I said. “Bella, stop. That’s not yours. Bella. C’mon. Stop it.” She did, then nipped my fingers. I shrank back and wiped her slobber on my pajamas. The porch lights flipped on over my head.

I snatched Bella off the ground, ignoring how she swam in my arms, and I backed away from the now-empty bowl. The door swung open. A girl, the ends of her hair jagged and asymmetric, like she’d taken a pair of scissors to it. She was six, maybe seven. Not an adult here to scold me. I relaxed.

“Are you Cousin Jordan?” the girl asked.

“Yep. That’s me.”

“I thought you were getting here in the morning,” she said. I remembered that it was the middle of the night, and I wore my pajamas and a mud-caked pair of rain boots. I had no luggage. Bella bit my arm.

“Well, this one”—I held Bella aloft, á la Simba—“was possessed by an evil spirit and ran away from me. So I had to chase her all the way out here. Wanna pet her?”
I just really like this in general, and “I held Bella aloft, á la Simba” made me laugh out loud! No notes for this section, just in the general thoughts area <3

The girl looked at the dog, then stepped forward cautiously. I eased Bella back into my arms and held very still. This felt familiar. The girl reached out. Bella sniffed her open hand, then licked it. The girl giggled. Aunt Claire had done the same when she introduced Bella to me. I’d been crying at the time, and she’d told me Bella was best behaved when someone was upset. “She’s a little sad!st,” were her exact words.

“Her name is Bella,” I said to the girl. She looked up from where she intently scratched Bella’s chin, then back at the dog. Her brows furrowed.

“Hello, Bella,” she said very seriously. “My name is Mabel.” She looked at me. “Let’s go inside. I wanna introduce Bella to Mom.”

“Oh, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I don’t have any of my bags.” I nodded at the ground, and we both stared at the shine of the porch underfoot. No luggage indeed. “I’ve gotta go get it. I’ll be back in the morning. Also, I have to free Bella of the evil spirit.”

The girl scowled. “She doesn’t look possessed.”

“She is,” I said.

“Well.” She paused. “Okay. What time will you get here?”
This section is also so light-hearted and adorable, I love their interaction! One thing I would suggest would be changing “very seriously” to something else a bit stronger. Maybe “gravely” or something to that effect.

“You’re a little sad!st,” I said and returned the phone to my suitcase.
Shh, I ran out of time, sorry- I’ll cover the whole thing in the next section, I promise- I think that this would be a bit more effective if you changed it to “You are a little sad!st.” I dunno, it just makes more sense as an ending.

General Feedback
Overall, this is great! Overall, I think that it’s pretty cohesive. One thing I think would be good though would be if you explained a few other things that are left hanging, such as why the other cousins wanted refuge from Aunt Claire. Also, one thing that was a bit confusing was why people were living in the rundown log cabin. I could’ve just missed something, but it feels like a loose thread. As for the theme, I don’t think that I can really distill it down to a word. I think that it’s presented somewhat coherently in the passage, but I can’t put my finger on what it is exactly. Again, it could just be me, but to me, it’s a bit unclear. Are you trying to get Jordan to feel playful again? Are you trying to have Jordan bond with the area again? I don’t know, but to me, it’s a bit jumbled.

Final Thoughts
I think that you did a wonderful job! It was so fun to read, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself! Thanks for letting me critique it <3

-WildClan-

(sidekick || horror || economic hub/workplace || stream of consciousness)

The shadows dance on the walls, but this time, it isn’t my doing. The flicker of the flames in the distance throws twisted, jagged figures across the stone, and they seem alive. They seem… mocking. I’ve always made shadows into friends—puppets to make others laugh or cry or feel anything at all. These ones? These ones are monsters. I can’t make them friendly. They bite at the edges of my vision, curling claws, gaping maws. I want to look away, but I can’t.
I shouldn’t be here. Storytellers don’t belong in battles, not unless they’re retelling them, shaping them into tales that sound clean and noble, not… not like this. The air stinks of blood and fear. My paws are slick. Is it mud? I tell myself it’s mud. It’s safer to believe that. Safer to look anywhere but at them.
Laurel. I should do something. I should move. But my legs—they’re stone. Heavy. Unyielding. I hear the growl of Summit’s orders cutting through the chaos, sharp and cold. He always sounds so sure of himself. Like this is just another performance, and he knows the ending. Like this… this horror will be worth it. Will it? Will it? I can’t stop asking, even though I know the answer won’t come.
Laurel’s howl cuts through the air, and it’s a sound I’ll never forget. High and broken. It doesn’t belong here. It belongs in the safety of a campfire tale, a story with an ending I’d rewrite a thousand times to make it right. But it’s not safe, and I can’t rewrite this. The shadow of him slumps in the firelight, a jagged silhouette that used to be strong, brave, alive.
I should… I should.
That thought loops in my head, a mantra. I should. But I don’t. My chest is so tight it hurts. My claws dig into the ground, anchoring me to this spot. If I move, if I take a step, then this is real. If I don’t…
What kind of Storyteller am I? The one who’ll weave this into something beautiful later? Pretend I wasn’t here, wasn’t frozen, wasn’t watching one of my own die while I did nothing?
The firelight catches the blood—yes, it’s blood—and it shines. My stomach turns. I should be strong. Like Hurricane. He wouldn’t freeze like this. He wouldn’t… wouldn’t let Summit’s orders pin them to the ground. But I’m not Hurricane. I never was. I’m just the replacement. The second choice. The shadow of a Storyteller, cast by someone else’s light.
I watch as Laurel’s chest rises once, twice, then stops. The shadows are still for a moment, and it feels like the whole world holds its breath. My own is caught in my throat. I think of his laugh, his kindness, the way he told me once that my stories always made him feel a little braver.
And then, Summit’s voice cuts through the stillness like a knife. “Move on.”
I don’t know if he means us or the battle or me. Maybe all of it. The shadows start to dance again, and I’m still frozen. Still useless.
I don’t tell stories for myself. I’ve told myself that for years, but now, I wonder. I’ve been shaping others’ lives into happy endings for so long, and this… I don’t know how to shape this.
I should… I should. But I didn’t.

Zyzeryko

warning for violence

You are a monster unburdened by your curse, and now you are a monster alone.

I don’t want the peace of forgiveness. I want the peace of revenge. You may curse me with your death, but I will sleep soundly knowing you will never harm another. There is no high road I wish to take, no violence I do not wish returned, and no man big enough to pay for your sins.

You steal my vision and have the audacity to preach at me your own morality. “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind,” laughs the liar with both eyes.

You say that if you fight fire with fire the whole world goes up in smoke, yet only one of us wields a match; and if you are so willing to light that match as you blame me for the ashes, there is nothing that would please me more than to watch the world burn if it means you go up in flames. We will build our castles on your ashes, and the only thing left from your forgotten era will be the smoke.

You claim violence for violence is the rule of the beasts, after terrorizing the people whose mercy you are now at. You have no right to sit alone on your throne of blood pretending to care about retribution when you fear only merciless justice, cold with a one-eyed stare. The only beast in this room is you.

Revenge seems only a two headed snake after you have bitten us and fear our teeth. Karma’s bite is worse than poison, her wrath more deadly, and I intend to prove it to you. You had your chance, and now I am the snake.

You scream at me to take the high road from the pits of hell.

The bigger man. The better person. If allowing your filth presented as morality to thrive is bigger, better, higher, and somehow right, evil can overcome me. You will know the price of your actions when they are reflected back upon you. You cannot escape from your fate—-take it from me.

You are the worst kind of monster. The kind who pretends to give whilst you shove your knives deeper into our backs—-the only thing you have given us is pain. You are a monster who pretends to care while encouraging the suffering of innocent people. Your facade is glass, shattered and next to your bloody crown. When you are dead and gone, all that is left of you is a violent memory. That is your legacy.

You are the instigator of our suffering. You killed us to blame us for our own demise—so if your demise means mine, I will relish in your suffering. Stop telling me to be better than you when, solely for your display of such horrid evil, I already am.
I hope you feel my anger as the steel blade of a knife to your throat. I hope you think of me in agony when you rejoin with the stars. What kind of god must you think yourself to take the lives and innocence of others, only to feel rage when it is done in return? I may have as equal wrath as you, but I did not start this fire. I only fuel the flames of the war with my hope—-promise—-of justice. The day you stop telling the people whom you forced to adapt to your evil to become the bigger man and the better person is the day that you may find your peace with the sky. Don’t you dare preach at me morality that you don’t even follow.

Call it revenge. Call it justice. Call it retribution. Hell, call it karma. Payment, atonement. A score now settled. Give it any name you like—-fate chooses its victors, and when I win, the word they call your death will have no effect on a world without your presence.

“How quickly the hawk becomes a dove when faced with the barrel of a gun,” they say. And for once, I agree.

I will not be the bigger man for someone else's crimes. We will not walk away in silence. You will feel our suffering in full, and maybe then you will realize that for the suffering you alone have brought us, the pain you inflicted upon the innocent, the rage that now fills the stomachs you starved, no man is big enough.

Now the cards are in your hands, faded in red and black ink. Your path is not engraved, yet you blindly follow it. You know that monster and savior are two sides of the same coin. One and the same. The sisters of life and death, in another world.
You have made the same mistake over and over again. Time after time, you continue your embrace of true evil.
There are no more second chances.
You are no savior.
And I fear, for your sake as well as mine, I get smaller with every chance I give you. The bigger man is myth, and you are all alone.
I am the monster now.

iinspirqtion

an english breakfast

“Here,” I say gently, putting the cup of tea in their hands. “I made it just for you.”

I stare at the china cup in my hands, the one you bought from France all those years ago, when everything was better.
If I told you that, you’d say that everything is still perfect now, and I’d just stare at you sadly because we both know the truth—the real one. At least I hope we do.
The edges are rimmed with fake gold. Not that I can tell, but because you'd told me that the set was only twenty dollars, what a steal! Still, far more than what I deserve. I wish I had told you that you should drink from it, not me. You need it far more than I do.
I blow my nose into a tissue and hug the cup tighter. Looking into it, I can see the tea leaves floating around inside.
I once heard a story that reading the leaves could tell you the future. Shaking it, I see nothing but a whirlwind. Maybe if I squint hard enough it would mean something. Perhaps an omen of death.
If only I could’ve known what they were trying to tell me before it was too late. If only the leaves had whispered and spoken to me, just for me to hear and understand.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay,” I smile as I walk back into the kitchen.

I’ve never understood why you love tea so much. I’ve always been a hot cocoa person, but we never have hot cocoa powder mix at home. We can never find it whenever I go to the grocery store with you. I’m sure you’ll buy it someday. Maybe we’ll go on a road trip across the world, trying to find the best hot cocoa and bringing tens of thousands of those mixes home. Maybe then we’d both smile more.
I would make sure you didn’t bring any of your knives and we wouldn’t have to think those thoughts.
I’ve never understood why you’re such an avid collector of knives, why you feel the need to buy so many, except you never bother to wash them either. I can always see blood on one of them, whether it’s fresh or has been there for a few hours. The collection grows larger by the day, and I see packages coming in even now. I wish you bought tea and hot cocoa instead of knives. I wish I didn’t have to wash them for you every day, hoping they wouldn’t be used at night.
You once told me I deserve someone better than you, that you were lucky to have me. I am the lucky one, not you. I don’t get why you’re still here and I don’t get why you chose me, yet you’re here, bringing me tea every day, and caring for me even when all I do is ruin things. Smoke drifts from the kitchen and my nose feels even worse than before.

I want to be better for you. I need to be better.

I want to ask what you’re doing, pretend like I don’t know, but I don’t want to finish the tea you gave me, and I think that if I were to ask you, I should. To make you think that I like it, to see another smile on your face. So I won’t, I won’t ask you. Gingerly, I take a sip of it. “English Breakfast”, that’s what you called it. I never know how you can remember the names of different teas, which is something so insignificant to even think about. I’m sure I have something that I like that I can remember too.
Gagging, I put it aside. You lit the fireplace for me, telling me to sit next to it and wait for you to return with food. The crackling fire was a warm touch to such a cold home. I can’t help but be excited about that, even though you’ve never been the best at cooking. You’re better at stitching up wounds.
An anguished scream comes from the kitchen.

I need to cut away the parts of me that are imperfect. All of them.

I pretend like I don’t hear anything, and instead inhale the smoke into my nostrils. Maybe if I inhale a lot, I’ll be like you, caring about everyone but myself. I remember the first time I heard your scream. It was fragile, it sounded like you didn’t want to be here anymore. I ran down to the kitchen immediately, to find you bleeding from your arm, and a knife dropped carelessly on the floor.
You told me that it was nothing and you could handle it. You told me that you would make a cup of “English Breakfast” to make up for making me worry about you. That was the first time I had it. It’s grown on me since, in a weird way.

I can imagine the trickle of blood that must be spilling from the wound. Your body is littered with similar scars, some deep, some shallow, painting you as the person you are.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m sick, but this time I don’t go to the kitchen. I listen. It’s dead silent, and I don’t want to think about it, but I do. Snot builds up in my nose, but I ignore it.
Drops of water plop into the teacup as I hold it again. I feel my eyes water and everything turns a bit blurry. It swirls the tea leaves, making another tornado as I pray and wish that everything was like it was back when we were younger. A bad omen, yes. I tell myself that it will get better, but when I try to make it better, you refuse. You say you can handle it. You can always handle it. You always give me a cup of “English Breakfast” as I watch you slowly start to die but never quite finish.
You’ve never been in the hospital and I’ve never been able to get you to go. I never knew what to say, and now I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know how you’re able to die and die and die and die all over again. I’ve tried to stop it, but you’ve never finished the last cut so I’ve never had to. It’s a habit now, I think. A hobby of yours. Like how you love collecting teacups and knives. My favorite is the baby pink one with paintings of flowers on it, and the knife that is short and stubby, because you’ve never used that one before.
I know that if I walk into the kitchen now that I’ll find you on the ground again, toast still in the toaster, knife on the ground, and it will happen all over again. Or maybe one day you’ll finally give me a cup of hot chocolate, with the mix we bought online since our local grocery store doesn’t have one, and it will be over, just like that.

…………………….

I want you to tell me what’s wrong. I want you to stop giving me tea.

Since I was little, I’ve always hated knives, needles, flu shots, and anything that pierced your skin. I was too scared to get earrings, so I never did. The thought of blood had always been sickening, so why am I here?
Something draws me to the silver tip as I bring it down onto my skin. Is it because of the fear I’ve had as a child that taunts me, daring me to try it? Do I deserve to be hurt by something I’m scared of?

Yes.
I know it from the look in your eyes, that pleading face that you give me, telling me to stop. I want to stop too, but now, I can’t. I don’t know how.
Now the cuts don’t hurt anymore, instead, they feel like something I have to do every day. It’s almost as if it’s a chore, and I don’t question it anymore. Each drop of blood on my skin is the same as a cloud in the sky. I’m not scared of it anymore, in fact, I don’t even flinch when the blow comes.
I can tell that you want to ask me why you are doing this, and it’s because it’s too hard for me. It’s too hard to buy your favorite hot chocolate for you, to keep you healthy. If I was a good person, you would’ve never gotten sick. I would’ve been able to protect you, but I can’t. I’ve never been able to protect someone, I’ve never been able to keep someone safe. I deserve to be punished.
Only a few minutes ago, I handed you your daily English Breakfast, and you received it with a frown. It’s a bitter tea, but if you drink it every day you’ll get used to it. The tea won’t taste weird, and soon you’ll start to like it. I want to tell you that, but I know you’ll brush it off, the only thing you’re never able to brush off is my knife collection.
Only a few minutes ago, I told you I’d come back with food, but that might take a while because more important circumstances have come in the way. Though, I’ll keep the bread in the toaster for now, until I’m done working.
Just like I give you English breakfast every morning, maybe someday you’ll get used to it. Someday that sour face you always have when drinking will disappear, just like how one day the thought of pain didn’t seem so painful anymore. It seemed like salvation.

I miss the times when we had hot chocolate, the little marshmallows floating in the endless sea of cocoa, like little ships, slowly sinking into the ocean. I look at the teacup in my hands. Suddenly I have the urge to throw it on the ground and watch it shatter into thousands of little pieces.

Everything is perfect now. The smell of smoke surrounding me, the cool tile underneath my skin, the tantalizing drip drip of blood, and you in the living room, alive. I’ve been punished rightfully, and you just don’t understand why this has to happen. It’s fine. That’s fine. It’s alright, you don’t need to know. You don’t need to be burdened even more than you are now. If you were to see me now, eyes glossy, hair spread on the ground, you might make us both start only drinking water, but for now, you like hot chocolate.
I never understood why you liked hot chocolate or why you hated English Breakfast so much. I’ve always been a tea kind of person. Hot chocolate is too sickly sweet, too unrealistic. It covers the imperfections behind a person, but they’re still there.
I don’t think you understand why I give you English Breakfast every morning instead of hot chocolate. I don’t think I exactly understand, but I do understand that it’s too late to go back. Stopping is something above my power now.
Tea, on the other hand, shows the truth. It’s bitter, but that’s what makes it real. I’ve never tasted my blood, but I’d imagine it would taste like English Breakfast and iron. I don’t think you remember, but back when we first met, you loved tea. Then I happened, English Breakfast happened, and suddenly you hated it. Hate makes you forget love, so if I’m the reason you hate tea, then I hope someday when I’m not there, you’ll learn to love tea again. Maybe someday I’ll learn to love hot chocolate again.
So maybe I’ll lie here like every morning, seeing red, and forgetting to tell you that there’s still some hot chocolate in the cabinet that I hid so you couldn’t find it. I hope you’ll save some for me, even when you know the truth—the real one.

Runaway--

Writing comp entry <3
826 words, with 206 words bonus at the end for. reasons

A tone beeps, and the air is filled with the crackle of gentle breathing.

‘Listen closely, and know I wouldn’t dare contact you in the circumstances were anything less than dire. It’s about- well… Your area of expertise, if you understand what I'm trying to say. I’m sorry, you were the only one I- I'm rambling but- This is stupid, I'm just going to say it. When I woke up yesterday, I wasn’t in my house. It took me just under an hour to notice it, but once the thought entered my mind it just wouldn't leave. Everything looked the same, sure, my bed was the same, with the same dark gray spread and the loose corner where I can’t reach to tuck it in. My cupboard was the same, same food and same empty wrappers. Despite all this it was just off- the doors felt too tall, and everything was the wrong temperature, like it had all been switched but put back wrong. I knew one thing with certainty: This wasn’t my house. ‘

‘And then things stopped working, like the windows, left in a blur of white. I couldn't see anything outside, as if a thick cloud had settled over the house. Other objects were wrong, too. When I looked at something it gained figure, however everything else was unclear, roughly scribbled like a children’s drawing. It was like I had been placed in a rushed painting, the artist focused on only what would draw the eye, not the landscape behind it. Then I opened the door. Before then you could write my discomfort off as the rambling of an old man, but this, this was real. Their eyes were felt almost sticky, holding me in place. I was shaking, screaming but I could hear nothin- I'm sorry they- Let me try again. When I opened the door, someone stood there, back to me and bent over a rosebush, working in silence. All I could hear was the rhythmic cutting of metal against stem, jarring in the quiet. I called a greeting, desperate to prove my earlier delusions wrong. I wasn’t the only one in this world after all, and my mind had already switched to the conversation I was to have with my daughter about hiring a gardener without asking me. I can look after some flimsy old flowers just fine by myself. The figure froze, shoulders tensing, and the cutting stopped, resting us once again in an uneasy silence.’

‘When I asked his name, he seemed to take great offence, spinning around towards me at a speed not quite explainable. He held his hands in front of him, blister-covered palms to the sky in a strange gesture that felt vaguely threatening, a suspicion that was confirmed when he pulled them down into fist and opened his eyes. Nothing human has eyes like that. I may have retired, but I still live like a scientist, in the rational world. (Probably why our last collaboration blew up so horribly, though I continue to hold that to your fault) It pains me to admit it, but my normal explanations failed me in that moment. Living things do not have eyes of a milky white, covered in sticky webs that can hold you in place with a glance. Living things blink, move, and living things don’t feel so wrong.’

‘I’m afraid to say I don’t remember much that occurred after that, but the lingering feeling of fear, that does stick with me. I remember swollen, baleful fingers curling themselves around my arms, a finger placed on my head paired with a snake-like whisper, and then I remember nothing. I woke up thirteen hours and eighteen minutes later, or that’s the amount of time missing from my memory, anyway. It’s a little blurry, but I was sitting on a park bench, a jam bun sat in my lap just like every other Thursday. The park was full, in stark contrast to the empty city I so distinctly remember. People ran past me on their way home from work, back to loving families and freshly cooked meals. When I tried to move my hand, I felt this horrid, raging pain in my arm, and when I pulled up my sleeve there were words written there, fresh cuts evident by steady streams of red. Stay away, they read. Ignoring my shaking legs, I stood up and left, leaving my food at the bird’s mercy.’

Through the phone line comes a banging, and the caller’s voice becomes relaxed.

‘My daughter’s stopped by, this will have to be quick. I’m sorry to call you like this, but I hope now you understand why. Please, please message me if you have even a faint inkling of what happened to me, I’m getting more and more desperate with each passing minute.’

After a moment of silence, the message ends and a thin, swollen hand reaches across the table to type out an awaited reply.

Hi, first of all, thanks for reading! I wanted to take a minute to talk about the influences for this story, because it’s not exactly the usual style you’d get.

For the last while I've loved reading gothic horror from the early 1900’s and earlier. The point of gothic horror is to portray a feeling of fear/haunting in relation to the supernatural. However the twist is that gothic stories tend to avoid direct action with the ‘monster’, instead playing on suspense and fear of the unknown.

One of my favorite authors from this time and genre is HP Lovecraft (Who luckily is long dead and doesn’t profit in any way from people reading his work, because that man was a piece of work. That’s another day’s topic, though). When I wrote this story the style was very much drawn from ‘The shadow over innsmouth’ and ‘A color out of space.’ :3

I actually wrote this on a prompt my sister gave me, which was to try writing in a podcast style. The prompt didn’t really sit right for me, particularly because I was in the middle of a lot of writer’s block, so I figured i’d try something different and write it like a voicemail.

Last edited by Runaway-- (Nov. 30, 2024 09:35:07)

ChueyTheCat

A list of ten things I love (you aren't on it anymore) || 2000 words

Dying was easy.
It was being Death that was hard.
Especially now, when his latest (and best) assistant had just quit. Death riffled through job applications while keeping an eye on his assignments for the day. The man who was going to jump off the building’s 44th floor (or 45th? Death wasn’t sure) could wait until later, he decided. He didn’t have time to deal with him right now. (Perhaps he could even assign it to one of his more competent reapers instead.)
“Hello?”
Death turned, expecting to see his boss standing behind him. The relief that he didn’t sent phantom shivers down his spine.
It was a woman, her extremely red hair pulled neatly back into a businesslike bun. She stuck out a hand. “I’m Diane.”
Death blinked at her.
Her smile didn’t waver, and there was a long moment where neither of them moved or changed expression. He started to count the freckles on her nose and cheeks. (Seventeen.)
“I’m…Diane,” she repeated. “Your new assistant?”
Death stared at the pile of paperwork and wondered if he was going mad.
“I already hired you?” he asked. “I just started looking at job applications.”
“I’m here to save you the trouble,” Diane said promptly. “Where should I start?”
Death didn’t have enough time to deal with this. Plus, now he didn’t have to look through job applications.
“Over there,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards more heaps of paper. “Busy day today. Assign deaths to the reapers with less.”
His past assistants had complained that Death’s instructions were confusing, forcing him to waste precious time explaining himself, but Diane appeared more than capable of diving right in without further communication.
Death sat for a few seconds without doing anything (a luxury he rarely indulged in).
“Is it still legal without the paperwork?” he asked himself, before snapping out of it and getting back to work.

Death didn’t know much about his new assistant, but before twenty-four hours had passed he knew she was scarily good at her job. A week after hiring her (did it count as hiring? Didn’t that involve job applications? Death thought guiltily of the forgotten stack of papers on his desk), he found himself, for the first time, with nothing to do for at least an hour.
“Where are all the assignments?” he asked, bewildered.
“Taken care of! And now you,” Diane said, steering him firmly over to a chair, “are going to drink a cup of tea and do nothing for a few minutes.”
“What?” Death asked, but she had vanished.
She returned a few minutes later with two steaming mugs. Strange, because Death didn’t remember keeping mugs around. Or tea. Or anything to boil hot water in. He decided not to ask and took one from her.
Diane plopped herself into a chair with a mug of her own and looked out the window at the night. Her lashes were thick and dark, and they made her green eyes look deep, like…like he was spending too much time looking at her face instead of focusing on how he was going to get up from this chair and back to work. It was comfy, and the mug in his hand was warm.
“Aren’t you going to drink it?” Diane asked.
Death shrugged and sipped it, mimicking his assistant and looking out the window. He felt, somehow, that it was safer than looking at her.
“What do you do in your free time?” Diane asked, pulling his attention back towards her.
“Free time?” Death asked. “I don’t have free time.”
She stared at him for a moment as though trying to decide whether he was joking or not.
“Oh,” she finally said. “Well. Maybe you should try taking a break every once in a while. It’s good for you.”
“What do you do in your free time?” Death asked, curiously (and without any intention of taking her advice).
Diane brightened. “I make a list.”
Death blinked. “A list?”
“It’s something I do whenever I’m sad or tired or bored - make a list of ten things I love. Thinking about the nice things in my life adds a little positivity to my day.”
She glanced up at the clock and sighed. “Got to get back to paperwork,” she said, standing. “How much of it do you have, anyway?”
“I don’t think it ever ends,” he answered seriously, and wasn’t sure why she laughed.
(Part of him was confused, and the other part wanted her to do it again.)
“You should try a list of your own sometime,” she said as she left.
Maybe he would.
But right now, it was time to go back to work.
Her laughter replayed itself in his thoughts for the remainder of the night.

It was a month before Death had a break again. His boss had more work than usual for him, and while he, of course, was Death, it didn’t mean that he was completely immune to feeling slightly…stretched sometimes. If he were a human, he would describe it as being tired. But he was Death. He didn’t get tired.
So he wasn’t sure why he collapsed so totally and shakily when Diane next showed up to push him into a chair with a mug of something hot, this time coffee. “You’re working yourself too hard,” she scolded. “I see how much you do every day.”
“It’s my job,” Death said. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” Diane said firmly. “You’re exhausted. Take a break. Nothing bad will happen if you rest for a few minutes.”
She walked away, shouting out orders and sending reapers scrambling, and Death found himself, once again, with nothing to do.
Well, not quite. She’d left a pen and a pad of paper on the other chair, though he wasn’t sure if it had been intentional or not.
He retrieved them and settled back into his chair, clicking the pen.
A list of ten things I
He paused here, uncertain. That he liked? That he enjoyed? Love was out of the question, of course.
A list of ten things I appreciate
10. the reapers
Something about that rang false, even though it was perfectly true. His job would be impossible without them. (They just weren’t the best conversationalists - unlike him, they had never been mortal, being minions created by his boss.)
9. my job
8. paperwork
7. my desk
6. the chair
5. the window
4. tea
3. coffee
2. the color green
That one surprised him. He’d never felt much of an attachment to any color (they were just colors, after all), but now he knew that green was absolutely his favorite.
1. laughter
That one didn’t surprise him.
But he sat still for a long time, thinking about it.
Then he carefully, neatly, tore the page out of the notepad and folded it up and threw it away.
He didn’t have time to sit around making silly lists.

“How did you get this job?” Diane asked him once. She had, for the third time, maneuvered him into the chairs with a mug. “I mean, were you ever not Death?”
“No,” he said immediately.
Then, “I don’t know. It’s hard to…I can’t really explain. Yes. But the answer may as well be no.”
She waited patiently.
He gave in. “It’s like…I made a deal, found and rang the- accepted the bargain. As part of the deal, I got this job. It was a trade. I get something, I give something. This. The work I do.”
“Why? I mean, was it worth it?”
Death didn’t know how to answer. “I don’t remember,” he said finally. “It comes with the job. Memories, emotions - they just get in the way.” He stared into his mug for a long moment. “I don’t know. I don’t know if this was worth it.”
He didn’t see her get up from the chair, or the expression in her eyes.
But he heard the click of her heels as she walked away. And he’d felt the brush of her hand against his arm as she passed.
Somewhere within him, the heart that had stilled when he donned his role twitched rebelliously, almost like it wanted to start beating again. Almost like the immortality surrounding him had thinned like an elastic band stretched too far, revealing the mortal still underneath.
She’d dropped something into his lap; he unfolded the paper and read it.
A list of ten things I love
7. the look in your eyes after you finish solving a difficult problem
He tossed the paper aside, stood, and walked away without finishing his tea.
Maybe if he gave it enough time, his blood, like the mug, would cool again.

“I’ve been thinking,” Diane said the morning afterwards.
Death didn’t answer. He deliberately turned over another sheet of paper and clicked his pen.
A lock of red hair tumbled in his eyes, and he blinked, looking up in surprise.
Diane had her hands firmly planted on his desk, eyebrows raised. She looked as serious as he had ever seen her.
His fingers twitched to replace the lock of hair, but he squelched the very un-Death-like urge and raised his own brows.
She didn’t say anything further. She didn’t even stay for longer than a few seconds.
She left behind another list, and the phantom sensation of her lips against his.
His treacherous heart beat once, twice, three times before stilling again.
Death cradled his head in his hands, letting himself wonder for the first time if it really had been worth it.
A list of ten things I love
3. the way you act when you’re surprised

The next day was silent. He didn’t talk. Neither did Diane.
He didn’t see her go near his desk, but he found a cup of steaming tea left next to a stack of papers. Death drank it, because the sweet flavor helped wash away his fears. It wasn’t until the room tilted and swayed that he knew he’d made a mistake.
Slender hands were reaching past him for the silver bell that summoned his boss on his desk, the one he’d hidden behind a stack of forgotten paperwork, and it was already chiming sweetly. Terror and anxiety (emotions that should have been safely locked away) bled into the fog that wrapped around his thoughts - that bell was never supposed to be rung.
“I had to,” Diane whispered, and Death stared numbly at the glittering diamond that shimmered down her cheek.
Mocking laughter rang out, and fingers of mist reached for Death, dragging him into darkness.
“Some will pay any price for a life,” his boss whispered. “You of all people should know that. You made the bargain too.”
She paused, and added, “You’re fired, by the way.”
And then there was nothing.

The man was walking down a street. It was gray, and so was the sky, and so was the man, although he was only middle-aged. It was more his unsmiling demeanor that suggested the grayness.
He stopped when he reached a small, cozy-looking coffee shop, its sign decorated with fanciful swoops and swirls.
THE TREE AND BEAN CAFE, it read.
He turned and went in, and the bell jingled, making him flinch.
“What can I get you, sir?” the barista inquired cheerily. Her apron was green, his favorite color.
“I’ll take a coffee. Black.”
He paid for it out of a wallet he dug from one of his pockets and then sat down with the steaming cup in his hands, feeling strangely blank, like he was missing something. Or perhaps forgetting.
He’d felt something else in his pocket when he pulled out the wallet. Idly, he rifled around until he found it.
It was a pad of paper with a pen clipped to it. He laid it on the table and clicked the pen, and his hands moved on their own to write a title across the top in stark black ink.
A list of ten things I love
1. you aren’t on it anymore

thanks to briar, vi, and yanna for critiquing!! <3

Last edited by ChueyTheCat (Nov. 30, 2024 18:10:08)

booklover883322

I’m on mobile rn but I really need to get this critique done

So, uh, this format will be different than the last critique I gave you. It won’t be as long (but gotta get above that 300 word threshold >

) and I’ll just be quoting certain thingies. Pray for me as I try to do this on my tiny tiny phone-

Piece for reference
Warm, fresh sun, yet a winter breeze graced Zara's skin. Her arms carved through the air. Day three of the new year- and over a year into her relationship with Renji. The draconic shapeshifter was visible on the park bench. He was currently an alternative of his human form. Dark hair with little horns poking out, a warm sunset tan, and sharp but kind emerald eyes. Zara's heart fluttered just seeing him, something she'd finally become comfortable with after all this time. She was a poor judge of character, which had lead to a lot of heartbreak in past relationships. This time though, she was pretty confident that she'd picked right.
After popping a bite sized caramel into her mouth, Zara came over and sat on the bench next to the shifter, smiling. She rested her four arms on her lap as Renji returned the smile. “You're early.” He mentioned, his voice calm and contained. Every word flowed like a cloud, making Zara's brain melt into a happy little puddle. “I uh figured I should try being like you- I feel a bit bad for making you wait half the time.” “I'm more than happy to wait for you.” the transformed dragon reassured. “Anyways-” Zara wanted to stop this train of thought before it transitioned into a lot of “No it's fine” and “I mean it” and stuff. “It's a great day today! Not freezing cold like yesterday-”
The transformed dragon nodded. “I'm eager to see the seasons change…”
Zara nodded, agreeing. “Man I could go for some hot chocolate or something-” Renji tilted his head. “Are you cold? I can grow a wing for you. Or- I could find you a blanket.” Zara booped his nose with one of her left hands. “Your general concern for my well-being is really sweet, but I'm honestly fine.” She giggled, laying back into the bench a bit. “Althouuuuuugh I wouldn't mind if you bought me some hot chocolate.” They both chuckled. “I'm happy to. Shall we?” Zara nodded, and Renji helped her stand from the bench. She saw his body shift, his clothes shifting into vibrant orange scales. He leaned forward as his limbs thickened into strong dragon legs, the back of his shirt unfolding into wings. She smiled. She was always in awe of this, but she'd gotten used to the transformations. Didn't make it less amazing though. Renji offered one of his claws to help her climb onto his back. She took the help happily, hugging his neck as they took off.

“Warm, fresh sun, yet a winter breeze graced Zara's skin.”
This sentence is a bit convoluted- I would make a better distinction between the two opposing elements of the setting. Here’s what I would do: “Warm, fresh sun graced Zara’s skin, followed by a gentle winter breeze.”

“*Renji’s description*”
*makes notes for fanart*

“She was a poor judge of character, which had lead to a lot of heartbreak in past relationships.”
One, it’s led instead of lead. And two, just a bit of a nit-pick, but I wouldn't necessarily say that’s why she ended up with a cheater, y’know? More his fault

“After popping a bite sized caramel into her mouth,”
“Bite-sized” looks better

“being like you-”
I think that “being a bit more punctual, like you-” works a bit better.

“happy little puddle”
I love. I love it. I love it a lot- All the love. Alkdlakdskmddf-

““I'm more than happy to wait for you.” the transformed dragon reassured.”
Just a little grammar nitpick (as you can see I am very nitpicky

), but the period at the end of the dialogue should be a comma.

“Zara nodded, agreeing. "Man I could go for some hot chocolate or something-””
I would add a comma between Man and I. Also, again, nitpick, but I would also remove “or something”.

Final Thoughts
I really enjoyed reading this! It warmed my heart so much- I forgot just how giggly I get when I read about them but now my family thinks I’m even weirder than normal today so here we are- Curse you for your natural and adorable relationship interaction writing- *sob* Anyways, a few things I would add would be a reason for the date. Just an off-handed mention would be fine. Another thing I would add would be a bit more description of the setting, as well as Zara’s and Renji’s appearances. What clothes are they wearing? Are they dressed for the weather? What about the weather? Is the sky clear? Is it cloudy? Be more specific.
I loved this so much! You’re amazing at this, and I love how you portrayed Zara! Can’t wait for more!

-Tinywillow-

♕ the queen is dead! ♕

“The queen is dead! The queen is dead!”
These were the words that rang out throughout the party. It was definitely a party you could call magnificent—after all, the queen had invited most anyone who was anyone—so it seemed suiting that such an event would happen. Rather ironic, isn’t it? The very reason the party was together would also be the reason the party would break out into chaos.
Well, technically, the Queen of Hearts was not the one who caused herself to die, so in a way, she was not fully the reason the party’s atmosphere shifted into chaos. Wait. No. Chaos was not a strong enough word for what was happening. Extreme destruction and an irreversible mess, perhaps? Still feels like a bit of an understatement, but it’s impossible to describe just how much of a mess it was. If you were there, you could have easily understood what had been happening, but you, however, were not there, so you cannot understand it so easily. A shame, really, because the party was a truly wonderful event, minus everything that happened about the queen’s death.
Ah, that reminds me—I suppose I should tell you a few more details about the tragedy, should I not? The party started out beautifully, just a modest and simple celebration to honor the banishment of the monster Alice—well, as modest and simple a celebration hosted by the Queen of Hearts could be. Which, as you would know if you had ever attended one, is not much.
The queen had decorated the castle with balloons, streamers, and tapestries as far as the mortal eye could see, and with one of the most amazing selections of colors and creations that one could choose. The food consisted of marvelous cakes, such as a 7-tier red velvet cake that was clearly the queen’s favorite, wonderful appetizers, like the fruit salad consisting of cherries, strawberries, raspberries, apples, and many more delightful fruits, and, of course, the main course, a beef Wellington thought to have been made by the queen’s very own private chef.
Now, onto the events of the night. There were a few games, a couple of riddles (oh, you know how much Wonderlandians love riddles!), and then some time for guests to socialize and eat. It was during this time, however, that the panic began. It started with the queen’s guards not being able to find her before a big speech she was supposed to announce to the party’s guests. Everyone simply assumed she had been taking a walk, but you, dear reader, know that this is not the case, and soon enough everyone realized this as well.
All living creatures (and a few not-so-living ones, mind you!) began to look for the queen, but she could not be found. After a while of searching, the truth started to sink into the Wonderlandians—the Queen of Hearts was missing, and at her very own party! It was truly a traumatic moment for all of her poor guests.
At first, it seemed simple enough—find the queen, restore the peace, and then we wouldn't speak of this ever again. But it was most definitely not as simple as it seemed. It seems that, in fact, it took them long to realize she had, in fact, died, but when they did, their reactions were similar to the words I told you—which, in case you forgot, are four simple little words that are not simple or little to the people of Wonderland in the slightest: the queen is dead.
And, of course, I suppose it’s rather rude of me to tell you all of this without even telling you what I intend to do! It’s dreadfully inconsiderate of me, truly. But I will fix this mistake by telling you something that really is simple (though maybe not so little!): I will find out who did this, and they will be sorry.
So, let’s start our investigation with a cup of tea and the maddest guest at the party, shall we?

word count: 674 words!!

Last edited by -Tinywillow- (Nov. 29, 2024 00:20:21)

Natt519

Deals of Death
Words: 1006
Paranormal

“Tell me a story. A scary one.”

“A scary one? Are you sure?”

“Mhm. I like your scary stories.

”Well. If you insist.“

*

Once upon a time, there was a man who owned an orchard. He usually made plenty of money, but this season his apples did not grow. He could not pay off his debts, and if he didn't pay them soon, he would lose the orchard, his only source of income.

Late one night, while his wife and daughter were asleep, he crept out of the house and to the very edge of the orchard beneath a shadowed tree. A figure appeared. The man could not make out what it was; he could only see its hands. They were long and slender, and sharp, too, like claws. And the color—they were an inky black. They gleamed menacingly in the darkness.

”I've come to make a deal,“ the man said. ”I need money to pay back my debts, or I will lose my orchard.“

”And what will you offer in return?“ the demon hissed.

The man thought for a moment. ”I do not have much to give, only the fruit from my trees. In return, I will give you some of my harvest.“

”Ah…your apples. That is a fair trade. I will give you the money to keep your orchard, and in return, you will give me four of your apples. I will keep my master, Death, from you until the price is paid.“ The demon extended a hand.

*
”He's tricking him, isn't he? Why would a demon promise him that he can't die?“

”Hush, dear. I'm in the middle of the story.“

*

The man shook it eagerly, sealing the deal. He couldn't believe the favorable trade. Only four apples? He could live as long as he wished and give the demon the apples whenever he pleased.

But the demon was quite cunning. The next growing season, there was a drought. ”No matter,“ thought the man. ”I do not wish to die. I am only 40 years old. I needn't give the apples up yet. I will wait sixty more years, and then I will fulfill our trade.“

His apples grew in abundance for those years, and he made good money off of them. But when the sixtieth year approached, his apple trees were bare.

He called to the demon again for the first time in sixty years. He had grown old, but the demon remained the same, still with claws as black as the night and sharp teeth in his horrible grin. ”This is your doing!“ he cried. The demon simply looked at him and said, ”You cannot prove to me that your claim is true. Our deal still stands. I have kept Death from you for sixty years, but he grows impatient. If you do not supply your end of the bargain within two years, then he will give you a …special fate. I will not stop him.“ With that, the demon melted away.

The man did not sleep that night, for his mind could not stop repeating the demon's words. A special fate? What did that mean? Surely, he thought, there was no worse fate than death, but that was not special. Death was not his fate. He would take what he was given from Death rather than be taken by him by fulfilling the demon's deal.

*

”That's a really stupid idea, Gramma. He's probably gonna get eaten by bears or get a disease or something.

“Firian, if you keep interrupting me, I won't be able to finish the story.”

“Okay, fine. I'll be quiet.”

*

And so the man did not give up the apples he had promised. His fear that Death would come for him kept him awake for many nights at first, but when months had passed and he had gotten no visits from him, he lost any worry that he might be in danger. I have tricked him again, he thought. I have tricked Death himself.

He lived in peace for many years, or so he said. He was peaceful, for the most part. But part of him always looked around corners before walking on and checked over his shoulder for fear that a black creature with gleaming claws and a horrifying grin would be there, waiting.

Soon, the man was very old. He was over one hundred, and his promise from the demon had been long forgotten. That is, until one day when he had a meeting with Death.

His apple trees had lost their leaves, and their branches were bare. His legs were weak now with his old age, but he still walked the rows of trees. Suddenly, a tall black figure with sharp claws and fire in its hand appeared.

“You have been kept from me for many years,” it said in a voice that sent chills down the man's spine. “No longer. I have come to take you, where you will serve me, Death, for one thousand years.”

The man's fears that once kept him from sleep reawakened. “No!” he cried out. “I have outsmarted you before; I can do so again!”

Death laughed a cold, raspy laugh. “You think you can? Hear this, then: you shall not die until you find a way to outsmart me again. You will be immortal but suffer old age. Your deal with my demon is naught. You have made a deal with me now.”

The man lived on for hundreds more years, never being able to die but always aging. He could not outsmart Death. Legend says that still, he wanders the earth, searching for a way for Death to finally take him.

*

“Did you like the story, Firian?”

“What happened to his wife and kids?”

“They passed on, like they were supposed to. But their descendants live on. I know one of them quite well.”

“But it's just a story, Gramma. How can you know someone from a story?”

I was silent for a moment. “Some stories, Firian, are not just stories.” But Firian was already asleep.

Last edited by Natt519 (Nov. 30, 2024 17:54:56)

-Tinywillow-

(note: this is no longer a writing contest entry)
an insane history of animuses

gem and jewel and fire and ice
it’s a same these monsters didn’t think twice

When it went missing, everyone knew. It just wasn’t something you could hide. The most valuable item in both continents going missing, and no one knowing anything about it’s whereabouts? That just wasn’t something you could hide for long. Especially not when you thought of the context. After all, there were many powerful;, ruthless, dragons who had just been exiled from normal dragon civilisation, and who had lots of reasons to hate the queens, so it would make perfect sense that they would steal them, right? Nonone could argue that case. That the animus would do that was just common sense. Especially at this point in time,when everyone thought they were terrible, terrible monsters that killed others for fun and who tried to manipulate the dragon world. Which is why, of course, the most reasonable place to look for the missing jewel necklace was in the darkest areas of Pyrrhia and Pantala–right where they kept the animus imprisoned.

let’s start with sky, the very smart
and sea, who teared themselves apart

The SkyWings were the first to be smart about animuses. They made sure that they were all killed when born, not even giving them the chance to do something terrible. Of course, it meant they would never use them as weapons, but it also meant their own animuses could never go insane or anything like that, a good call on their part. The SeaWings, however, were foolish–what happened with Albatross should tell you that much. I shouldn't share much more, as to not cause history to repeat itself, but at least Queen Pearl did rights and outlawed animuses then. The rule later got removed, but it was truly good while it lasted.

night and ice both agreed
that they only caused misery

While the NightWings and IceWings were sworn enemies for many years, the reason for this was because of an animus: the infamous Arctic, as well as his partner, Foeslayer, and his son, Darkstalker. The trio ruined any chance of friendship the two tribes had, and even now they are only slowly learning each other;s trusts back. He also had a daughter, Whiteout, but she, luckily, was not involved in any of the terrible things her family members were. Arctic and Foeslayer’s love for each other caused great distress in both kingdoms, and Darkslayer caused distress in all of the kingdoms, from killing his father to trying to take control of Pyrrhia and more awful things. Luckily, he was eventually stopped by Fathom, a SeaWing animus that somehow remained sane, and is the only ever animus that is currently considered good, and Clearsight, another NightWing Darkstalker was thought to have been close to.

sand truly had a fraud
while rain wasn’t truly involved

The SandWing tribe was victim to Jerboa, a SandWing animus who used her magic to have children and was thought to have lived for hundreds of years before one of her daughters cursed her. They have also had other animuses, but Jerboa is the most notable of them all. The RainWings were one of the only tribes that did not fall prey to the wrath of evil animuses, due to their long separation from most of the other tribes in which they intended to live more peacefully in the rainforest, until Queen Glory took control of the tribe and helped turn the RainWings back into the warriors they once were. She was truly a remarkable queen, and might have been considered the best one in Pyrrhia’s history if not for her many interactions and even support for animuses.

there is still more tribes that fly
but for now we all must say goodbye

While there are, indeed, other tribes that have animuses among their ranks, we believe we have covered the most important ones, so perhaps it is time for us to start truly finding out who took the jewel necklace. Perhaps you could help us find out? This information we have given you might give you a clue, so please contact the AQBC(Association of Queens in Both Continents) if you have an idea for where the necklace might have gone. Please, do not hesitate to reach out! And remember–never should you trust an animus, and never should you let one stay free.

word count: 730 words! yay!

Last edited by -Tinywillow- (Nov. 30, 2024 01:22:33)

Zyzeryko

Golden Child Syndrome is a child seen to be a prodigy- a child who is seen as exceptional in talent. They are expected to excel, and never make mistakes. They are seen and anticipated to be ‘perfect.’ The child wants to remain as a golden child, so they continue to take the burden of it, they feel responsible for their family’s pride. They want to remain to be seen as exceptional, so they expect themselves to go beyond expectations- even if it isn’t what they really want.

I feel like the sentence “they want to remain to be seen as exceptional" is a bit strangely worded, maybe you could change it to something like “they want to remain being seen as exceptional.” Also, I believe the dash is supposed to be – instead of a single dash followed by a space!

Ada Koch has Golden Child Syndrome.

—

“Bravo!” The piano instructor smiled, “You truly are as remarkable as they say you are. It was an honor to be able to instruct you.”

I think the sentence “you are truly remarkable as they say you are” needs a bit of punctuation! Maybe something like “You are truly remarkable, just like they say you are.”

Honor, what a funny word. An honor was something of high respect, so being an ‘honor’ was…remarkable. It truly felt like a peak in life. An honor was usually an object though, wasn’t it? Like a trophy made of gold, was I made of gold?

Using remarkable again after the previous sentence seems a bit repetitive, I think a synonym of that would work a bit better! Unless this was the effect you were looking for, of course. Also, break up the last sentence! “Like a trophy made of gold. Was I made of gold?” or “Like a trophy made of gold… was I made of gold?”

“Thank you, sir.” I ducked my head down, perhaps still embarrassed by the concept of me being an ‘honor’. I grabbed my piano sheets and slid off the seat, I bowed to my piano instructor before leaving. I looked down at the papers and saw the familiar Fur Elise sprawled onto the page. I had played the song so much I could play it by heart.

My mother came out from her sleek black car and looked at me. She came into the building to talk with the instructor.

“How’s my daughter doing? Are her skills improving or deteriorating in any way?”
“Not at all, it seems as if she can’t improve any more from here. She is truly extraordinary.”
My mom smiled, but not one of happiness. More so one of satisfaction.
“Good. That’s what I’d expect.”

This one is definitely personal preference, but I’d reword the sentence “My mom smiled, but not one of happiness. More so one of satisfaction” because it's a bit hard to read! Maybe “My mom smiled, but it wasn’t of happiness. It seemed more one of (insert adjective, maybe cruel depending on what this character feels about her mother) satisfaction.”

She went to the exit door and gestured for me to follow, I did follow and then sat in the back of the car. My entire body tensed ever so slightly, and I improved my posture.

Again a bit of a run on sentence here–it should be “She went to the exit door and gestured for me to follow. I did, and then sat in the back of the car.

“Have your lessons been satisfactory?”
“Of course mother, I’ve been doing well.”
“That’s great, you’ve been doing better than your siblings have been.”
“That’s wonderful.”

One thing I noticed is that these first sections of dialogue don’t have any dialogue tags! That could definitely be a personal choice, but if it's not, I especially recommend one for the third line! It could be her smiling (use a synonym of smiling though!) again, to show she only cares about progress and not about her daughter.

It was a bit of a surprise to me to know that I was apparently doing better than Alex and Adrian, who was years older than me. Was the instructor being serious when saying I was an ‘honor’, were honors really people like me? Was the strong gold really like the blood of mine?

The first sentence you should change “was” to “were.” Also, make sure to fix the run on sentence at the end of the second sentence! Try “Was the instructor being serious when saying I was an honor? Were honors really people like me?”

—

“Ada!” My brother, Alex, exclaimed, smiling as he entered the room, “Me and Adrian were going to go to the arcade, would you like to come with?”

“No, not now.” I muttered, staring at the sheet music of Fur Elise in front of me, “I’m practicing piano.”

Alex frowned, “You’ve been playing an awful lot lately.”

It should be “Alex frowned. “You’re been playing a lot lately.”

“I feel like I’m not doing as well.
“That’s nonsense! You’re the best player I’ve ever seen!”
“I don’t know, I really feel like I’m losing it.”

Alex knit his eyebrows, “Maybe you should take a break then.”
“No!” I cried out, slapping away his hand that was reaching for my shoulder.

Alex pulled back his hand, I saw it start to swell up and turn red, my eyes widened before standing up and running over to him.

“Alex I-!”
“STOP!”

I backed away, as tears filled Alex’s eyes, so did guilt in my body.

“I swear, you’re always pushing us away!” Alex grit his teeth, “It’s always the piano this, the piano that, seriously, why…why can’t you just talk with us like you used to?”
“I-…”
The piano.
“Because…”
The piano.

Omg, I love this part so much!! It’s so good, you did amazing with the character’s reactions and emotions in this scene!

“You can’t even tell me why.” Alex walked through the door frame out of my room. “Have fun with your little piano.”

“Alex…” I muttered, though no one would know I said that besides myself.

I sat back on my seat, staring back up at the notes of the Fur Elise. Really, did I even need the sheet paper at this point?

But I needed to keep on practicing. If I don’t practice then I never will be able to again. Because I’ll just be too bad, and all the gold in my blood would turn into coal. Because I would no longer be an honor.

Once again, love this line!! Amazing, great job!

Why do the notes squiggle so much on the paper?
Why is it a pain to hit every note?
Why am I barely able to hit some notes?

I’d reorder the last two lines! Maybe combine them to something like “Why am I barely able to hit some notes, and why am I in pain when I hit every single one?”

Every ‘why’ I’ve ever had came into my head, but every one had the same answer.

Because you haven’t practiced enough.

Alex seemed to grow further from me.
But it’s okay, because I can still practice.

Love this part, it's perfect!

—

“This is my daughter, Ada!” My mother beamed, “She’s an extraordinary piano player! Don’t let her age deceive you!” This was apparently funny, since everyone laughed. Adults were weird like that sometimes.

This line is so amazing ahksahdakks it really shows how much the character is influenced by the mother, how the mother only chases recognition for someone else’s talents, and how young/innocent/naive the main character is. Great job!!!

“How about you play for them?” My mother smiled, “You’ve been practicing that Fur Elise song a lot, right?”

I nodded, I looked over at the piano and my eyes lit up, it wasn’t a complete waste to come here. I could practice here as well.

Another run on sentence ^^ there should be a period between “lip up” and “it wasn’t”

I hopped onto the piano seat as per my mother’s request, and took a breath that wasn’t so much needed anymore, and played the melody my ears had grown tired of hearing. But things that were tired could still become energized again.

I played the melody the exact way I had always played it, about as beautiful as water in a river, as leaves rustling in the wind. That’s what people said anyway, but was it really so beautiful? What if the river was polluted, or the leaves were dead from winter’s arrival?

As I played the melody I knew by heart, why I had to put effort into it at all was a mystery to me, I suddenly played one painful chord. It was more painful than any other note had been in that song.

Was it because it was the wrong notes? Or was the timing wrong? I didn’t get enough time to dwell on that, as I had to play the next notes before another mistake was made. Were they still smiling? I couldn’t look, not if it would mean a mistake. Were they frowning and shaking their heads?

Being an ‘honor’ felt like it melted away, as if the gold in my body began to rust.

I’m a prodigy.
I’m a prodigy.
I’m a prodigy.

That was the mantra that echoed in my head, until I hit the last note. That was the mantra that played when applause began, that was the mantra that played when people rushed to my mom to congratulate her for having a child like me, that was the mantra that played when they said it must be an honor to be me.

No, I'm not an honor, not anymore. I’m supposed to be, I’m supposed to be, I’M SUPPOSED TO BE!

I’m an honor.
I’m an honor.
I am supposed to be an honor.
I was supposed to be an honor.
I was an honor.

—

The day on my calendar was circled in bright red, the day the recital would be. The day that decided if I’d be able to join the orchestra.

I’d be playing Fur Elise, and if I succeeded I would be able to be the youngest person in the world to join an orchestra.

My mother said that she knew that I could do it.
She knew that I could do it.
What if I couldn’t?

Then I’d just practice.

“Ada! It’s time for breakfast!”
Not now.
“Ada, you should be going to sleep.”
Not now.
“Ada, have you drunk any water?”
Not now.

“Ada have you-?”
“-Ada!”
“Ada you-”
NOT NOW.

All those past, taxing demands were a thing of the past now, a mere echo of what had used to have been.

It felt as if there were weights on my fingers pushing them down on the keys, it felt like it was pulling at my skin. It felt painful. Why was it a pain to play the piano?

It didn’t matter, I couldn’t like a mistake like that happen again, especially not at the audition.

Add a “to” in between “that” and “happened!”

My brothers and parents weren’t home today, they were away on a trip overseas, they entrusted me with myself for the next week or two.

Church bells in the distance played a chime 13 times, since when was a church close to here anyway?

Another run on sentence here!

Why is everything so blurry? And why can’t I keep my eyes open?

I didn’t have time to answer those questions, as I fell onto the piano, making a horrendous sound, any person would wince in pain at the noise, I couldn’t do it right, could I?

This sentence should be three sentences, reworded as “I didn’t have time to answer those questions as I fell onto the piano, making a horrendous sound. Any person would wince in pain at the noise. I couldn’t do it right, could I?”

My mind slipped into unconsciousness, and then it all faded to black.

————————————–

“Ada! We’re home!” I grinned, it was the day of her big recital, we decided to come home early in order to not miss her big day, I went to her room, “It’s me, Alex! I missed you, I erm…wanted to apologize for that argument we had. I wasn’t thinking.

There are a couple more run-on sentences here! You could also add the word “and” if you don’t want to fix the punctuation! “”Ada! We’re home!” I grinned. It was the day of her big recital and we decided to come home early in order to not miss her big day. I went to her room.
“It’s me! Alex! I missed you, and I… uh, wanting to apologize for that argument we had. I wasn’t thinking.”

I knocked on the door 13 times, “Ada…?”

Change comma to a period

I frowned, she didn’t say anything. She couldn’t be sleeping, she never naps, and it was 1pm. “Sorry to be intruding, but I’m coming in.”

I pushed open the door.
“Ada?”
My eyes widened, a scream ripping from my throat.
“ADA!”

She was face down on the piano, and from the looks of it, she wasn’t breathing.

—

I watched as Ada’s body was lowered into the grave, my mother wept into a handkerchief. Part of me thought she was doing that just because she wouldn’t have something to boast about anymore, but I acted like I didn’t know that.

I’m sorry Ada.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.I’m sorry.I’m sorry.I’m sorry.I’m sorry.I’m sorry.I’m sorry.I’m sorry.I’m sorry.I’m sorry.I’m sorry.

Make sure to put a space between all these sentences

She died from severe dehydration, malnourishment, and fatigue, it was all a contributing factor.

Change comma to a period once more

It was that piano’s fault.

I should’ve forcibly dragged her away from the piano, burned it so it could never be recovered again. Then she wouldn’t have died, then she wouldn’t have overworked herself until she couldn’t live anymore.

I’m sorry.

This ending had me SHOCKED. Great job!!! I love how you did not mention much of the funeral, as that tends to make the mood less sad, and how her death was so sudden. Amazing work!

—

Ada Koch has been dead for years now, rumors say that if you approach the manor at 12am at night, the soft notes of Fur Elise could be heard echoing from the house. The notes slowly growing louder in a crescendo. Perhaps it is the ghost of Ada Koch, still making sure she’d be an honor, making sure she’d remain an amazing pianist, even in the afterlife.

Change “12am at night” to “midnight” (or “twelve am,” just don’t mention the word night since that makes it more repetitive) since this sentence is a bit clunky! Also, you should change the punctuation between “house” and “the notes” to a semi colon or dash. Here is my revised version:

Ada Koch has been dead for years now, but rumors say that if you approach the manor near midnight, the soft notes of Fur Elise could be heard echoing from the house, the notes slowly growing louder in a crescendo. Perhaps it is the ghost of Ada Koch, still making sure she’d still be an honor, making sure she’d remain an amazing pianist, even in death.

Ada Koch had Golden Child Syndrome.

Omg, repeating the same line as the beginning? Literally amazing. It makes it so meaningful and eerie. This piece was so good and I had so much fun reading it, great job on this!

Last edited by Zyzeryko (Nov. 29, 2024 02:47:47)

theawesomemarbler

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Critique for @babyoda1546

I walk up to the casket. Tears fall down my face like miniature waterfalls. I had hoped this day would never come, but unfortunately, all good things come to an end. I had hoped my suspicion was wrong. For once in my life, I wanted more than anything to be proven wrong! But no. Life had other plans. Regrets fill my head. There’s so many of those. I wish I had spent more time with him. He deserved my time. He didn’t deserve this. I would do anything just to have him back. I wish I could have another grandpa hug. Those were the best kind. I wish we could have written our story. I always promised him that I’d work on it. I’d come up with ideas, but I never did. Then I realized I was trapped in my head again. I pushed all of my thoughts away for a moment, only to find myself standing over his lifeless body. I take a deep breath and reach for his hand. When I take his hand, a dreadful feeling enters me. Loss. Deep, painful loss. I try to hold back my tears, but I just can’t. I remember the fun times we always had. I remember playing little games that were supposed to test my reflexes. I remember how invested you were when I talked about school or softball. You were a great listener. You would always praise me and tell me how brilliant I was or give me tips for softball. I remember our swimming lessons. I always loved those. “I wish we had more time,” I sigh. I release his hand and redirect my attention to the small bouquet.

The first flower, a forget-me-not. A promise that I will never forget you. That I will hold your memory close to heart. That I will remember to write our book. That I will remember the dad jokes, the hugs, and the encouragement. A promise that I will remember. I lay the forget-me-not on his chest.

The second flower is a yellow tulip. In remembrance of your smile and laughter. I can’t help but smile when I think of you. Your terrible dad jokes always got a groan out of the family. I remember every time I gave you a hug, you’d always tease me and say how it wasn’t tight enough. I lay the tulip on his chest.

I grab the next four flowers from the bouquet. A pink camellia, representing my longing for you. A purple hyacinth, representing my sorrow and pain. A dark crimson rose, representing my mourning and how much I miss you. And lastly, a willow flower, representing my sadness. These five flowers are the pain I feel now that you’re gone. I wish more than anything that we had more time.My heart hurts like there is a hole in it. Tears are still falling down my face. I want to believe you’ll pop out from behind a chair and yell “APRIL FOOLS!!!" but that won’t happen. I don’t want to believe you’re gone. My heart feels as if it’s been shattered into a million pieces. I lay the four flowers down on his chest.

The next two flowers are a zinnia and a periwinkle. Both for the friendship-like bond we shared. We had a lot in common. You were like the friend I could never have. When you passed, I felt like a part of me died with you. I lay the two flowers on his chest.

Then I grab a lavender flower. It represents the relief I feel knowing you are no longer hurting. You are in heaven with your parents and grandma’s parents and God. I’m glad that you are no longer in pain. I lay the lavender down on his chest.

“I love you more.” I say as I lay down the final flower, a red chrysanthemum.

Zyzeryko

“Here,” I say gently, putting the cup of tea in their hands. “I made it just for you.”

I stare at the china cup in my hands, the one you bought from France all those years ago, when everything was better.
If I told you that, you’d say that everything is still perfect now, and I’d just stare at you sadly because we both know the truth—the real one. At least I hope we do.
The edges are rimmed with fake gold. Not that I can tell, but because you'd told me that the set was only twenty dollars, what a steal! Still, far more than what I deserve. I wish I had told you that you should drink from it, not me. You need it far more than I do.
I blow my nose into a tissue and hug the cup tighter. Looking into it, I can see the tea leaves floating around inside.
I once heard a story that reading the leaves could tell you the future. Shaking it, I see nothing but a whirlwind. Maybe if I squint hard enough it would mean something. Perhaps an omen of death.
If only I could’ve known what they were trying to tell me before it was too late. If only the leaves had whispered and spoken to me, just for me to hear and understand.

Ooooo this is super interesting so far! I love the vibe of it, a bit melancholy and eerie. It definitely seems sad.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay,” I smile as I walk back into the kitchen.

Run on sentence, it should be “I’ll be okay. I smile”

I’ve never understood why you love tea so much. I’ve always been a hot cocoa person, but we never have hot cocoa powder mix at home. We can never find it whenever I go to the grocery store with you. I’m sure you’ll buy it someday. Maybe we’ll go on a road trip across the world, trying to find the best hot cocoa and bringing tens of thousands of those mixes home. Maybe then we’d both smile more.
I would make sure you didn’t bring any of your knives and we wouldn’t have to think those thoughts.

“I would make sure you didn’t bring any of your knives and we wouldn’t have to think those thoughts”
AMAZING LINE OH MY GOSH, LOVE IT GREAT JOB

I’ve never understood why you’re such an avid collector of knives, why you feel the need to buy so many, except you never bother to wash them either. I can always see blood on one of them, whether it’s fresh or has been there for a few hours. The collection grows larger by the day, and I see packages coming in even now. I wish you bought tea and hot cocoa instead of knives. I wish I didn’t have to wash them for you every day, hoping they wouldn’t be used at night.

I am literally going to cry this is so well written haksakdhkahha

You once told me I deserve someone better than you, that you were lucky to have me. I am the lucky one, not you. I don’t get why you’re still here and I don’t get why you chose me, yet you’re here, bringing me tea every day, and caring for me even when all I do is ruin things. Smoke drifts from the kitchen and my nose feels even worse than before.

I want to be better for you. I need to be better.

I want to ask what you’re doing, pretend like I don’t know, but I don’t want to finish the tea you gave me, and I think that if I were to ask you, I should.

Personally this sentence is a bit confusing and I don’t really know what’s been narrated! Maybe reword this sentence? I don't understand what's being “asked”

To make you think that I like it, to see another smile on your face. So I won’t, I won’t ask you. Gingerly, I take a sip of it. “English Breakfast”, that’s what you called it. I never know how you can remember the names of different teas, which is something so insignificant to even think about. I’m sure I have something that I like that I can remember too.
Gagging, I put it aside. You lit the fireplace for me, telling me to sit next to it and wait for you to return with food. The crackling fire was a warm touch to such a cold home. I can’t help but be excited about that, even though you’ve never been the best at cooking. You’re better at stitching up wounds.
An anguished scream comes from the kitchen.

Another amazing line afjakldjakan

I need to cut away the parts of me that are imperfect. All of them.

I pretend like I don’t hear anything, and instead inhale the smoke into my nostrils. Maybe if I inhale a lot, I’ll be like you, caring about everyone but myself. I remember the first time I heard your scream. It was fragile, it sounded like you didn’t want to be here anymore. I ran down to the kitchen immediately, to find you bleeding from your arm, and a knife dropped carelessly on the floor.
You told me that it was nothing and you could handle it. You told me that you would make a cup of “English Breakfast” to make up for making me worry about you. That was the first time I had it. It’s grown on me since, in a weird way.

I can imagine the trickle of blood that must be spilling from the wound. Your body is littered with similar scars, some deep, some shallow, painting you as the person you are.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m sick, but this time I don’t go to the kitchen. I listen. It’s dead silent, and I don’t want to think about it, but I do. Snot builds up in my nose, but I ignore it.

Legit yelling at my screen knowing the characters can’t hear me </3 this is so good

Drops of water plop into the teacup as I hold it again. I feel my eyes water and everything turns a bit blurry. It swirls the tea leaves, making another tornado as I pray and wish that everything was like it was back when we were younger. A bad omen, yes. I tell myself that it will get better, but when I try to make it better, you refuse. You say you can handle it. You can always handle it. You always give me a cup of “English Breakfast” as I watch you slowly start to die but never quite finish.

Okay okay okay I know but I feel the need to mention again how amazing this is!!! I am legit mad at you for making me read something this sad and also amazing like literally how please teach me your ways

You’ve never been in the hospital and I’ve never been able to get you to go. I never knew what to say, and now I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know how you’re able to die and die and die and die all over again. I’ve tried to stop it, but you’ve never finished the last cut so I’ve never had to. It’s a habit now, I think. A hobby of yours. Like how you love collecting teacups and knives. My favorite is the baby pink one with paintings of flowers on it, and the knife that is short and stubby, because you’ve never used that one before.
I know that if I walk into the kitchen now that I’ll find you on the ground again, toast still in the toaster, knife on the ground, and it will happen all over again. Or maybe one day you’ll finally give me a cup of hot chocolate, with the mix we bought online since our local grocery store doesn’t have one, and it will be over, just like that.

I literally dont have anything to say except WOW this is so good and meaningful, the emotion translates so well across this piece I can’t even.

…………………….

I want you to tell me what’s wrong. I want you to stop giving me tea.

Since I was little, I’ve always hated knives, needles, flu shots, and anything that pierced your skin. I was too scared to get earrings, so I never did. The thought of blood had always been sickening, so why am I here?
Something draws me to the silver tip as I bring it down onto my skin. Is it because of the fear I’ve had as a child that taunts me, daring me to try it? Do I deserve to be hurt by something I’m scared of?

Yes.
I know it from the look in your eyes, that pleading face that you give me, telling me to stop. I want to stop too, but now, I can’t. I don’t know how.
Now the cuts don’t hurt anymore, instead, they feel like something I have to do every day. It’s almost as if it’s a chore, and I don’t question it anymore. Each drop of blood on my skin is the same as a cloud in the sky. I’m not scared of it anymore, in fact, I don’t even flinch when the blow comes.
I can tell that you want to ask me why you are doing this, and it’s because it’s too hard for me. It’s too hard to buy your favorite hot chocolate for you, to keep you healthy. If I was a good person, you would’ve never gotten sick. I would’ve been able to protect you, but I can’t. I’ve never been able to protect someone, I’ve never been able to keep someone safe. I deserve to be punished.

My only critique here is to add an “and” between “I’ve never been able to protect someone” and “I’ve never been able to keep someone safe.”

Only a few minutes ago, I handed you your daily English Breakfast, and you received it with a frown. It’s a bitter tea, but if you drink it every day you’ll get used to it. The tea won’t taste weird, and soon you’ll start to like it. I want to tell you that, but I know you’ll brush it off, the only thing you’re never able to brush off is my knife collection.
Only a few minutes ago, I told you I’d come back with food, but that might take a while because more important circumstances have come in the way. Though, I’ll keep the bread in the toaster for now, until I’m done working.
Just like I give you English breakfast every morning, maybe someday you’ll get used to it. Someday that sour face you always have when drinking will disappear, just like how one day the thought of pain didn’t seem so painful anymore. It seemed like salvation.

I miss the times when we had hot chocolate, the little marshmallows floating in the endless sea of cocoa, like little ships, slowly sinking into the ocean. I look at the teacup in my hands. Suddenly I have the urge to throw it on the ground and watch it shatter into thousands of little pieces.

Everything is perfect now. The smell of smoke surrounding me, the cool tile underneath my skin, the tantalizing drip drip of blood, and you in the living room, alive.

I’d add a comma between the drip drip to make it more eerie and sad <3

I’ve been punished rightfully, and you just don’t understand why this has to happen. It’s fine. That’s fine. It’s alright, you don’t need to know. You don’t need to be burdened even more than you are now. If you were to see me now, eyes glossy, hair spread on the ground, you might make us both start only drinking water, but for now, you like hot chocolate.
I never understood why you liked hot chocolate or why you hated English Breakfast so much.

For the rest of the story you’ve put “english breakfast” in quotes, if this was intentional ignore this piece!

I’ve always been a tea kind of person. Hot chocolate is too sickly sweet, too unrealistic. It covers the imperfections behind a person, but they’re still there.

I would change “but they’re still there” to “even though they’re still there.”

I don’t think you understand why I give you English Breakfast every morning instead of hot chocolate. I don’t think I exactly understand, but I do understand that it’s too late to go back. Stopping is something above my power now.
Tea, on the other hand, shows the truth. It’s bitter, but that’s what makes it real. I’ve never tasted my blood, but I’d imagine it would taste like English Breakfast and iron. I don’t think you remember, but back when we first met, you loved tea. Then I happened, English Breakfast happened, and suddenly you hated it. Hate makes you forget love, so if I’m the reason you hate tea, then I hope someday when I’m not there, you’ll learn to love tea again. Maybe someday I’ll learn to love hot chocolate again.
So maybe I’ll lie here like every morning, seeing red, and forgetting to tell you that there’s still some hot chocolate in the cabinet that I hid so you couldn’t find it. I hope you’ll save some for me, even when you know the truth—the real one.

The only word that comes to mind is wow. This whole piece is so amazing. It’s very sad, and I think you did an amazing job of showing emotions through the words here. You’re an incredible writer and I love this piece wholeheartedly (though I wish you’d given it a happy ending </3). If this is your submission for the writing contest, I think you should maybe give it a more extreme warning as this definitely has more than “hints” if you know what I mean. Other than that, I don’t really have any notes–this is amazing. It isn’t repetitive, while still being long enough to be meaningful. Great job Em!

Last edited by Zyzeryko (Nov. 29, 2024 17:30:00)

silverlynx-

Heart of Gold
1376 words

Based on Cogheart, written by Peter Bunzl.

Be a good mechanical. Follow orders. Do not disobey otherwise you will face the consequences.
These thoughts echoed throughout my mind, my master’s instructions hammered into my cogs, repeating themselves relentlessly to me.
Be a good mechanical. Follow orders. Do not disobey.
Face the consequences
Face the consequences
Face the consequences.

I creaked my way through the dark passage, flakes of rust peeling off from my hinges, coating the floor in a crimson carpet.

“Hurry up, you lazy thing!”
I flinched, my master’s sharp voice startling me out of my thoughts.
“Coming, master!” I called, my voice metallic and grinding.
I pushed my way through the soft oak door, bright light flooding into my lenses, making me blink slowly for a moment as I adjusted to it.
“There you are, Robot 8. I’m afraid to say that I will have to remove a few cogs as a punishment for your terrible behaviour earlier today. My needs are more important than yours. I should have hoped you would know that by now!” He shouted harshly, his voice a crescendo of boiling rage.
“Apologies, kind master.” I told him softly, curtseying politely. My voice was laced with malice and bitterness.
He narrowed his eyes.
“Now, I want you to bring in that tea that you made for me an hour ago. Now!” He barked, his eyes bored and unfocused.
I scrambled out of the room, fury surging through me. At least his tea would be cold.
“I knew it was a terrible idea to make a mechanical out of gold. Heart of gold, they say! Heart of an idiot, I say.” He muttered furiously.

My heart pounded with anger. I listened to the gentle whirring of my cogs, the soft grinding as they rubbed against each other. And the endless ticking.
Boom.

Tick.

Boom.

Tick

I had been working, slaving away, for so, so long. I just felt an itching deep inside me to disobey. Did he think I was going to follow his orders like all the other poor emotionless creatures that he had created? I was better than that. I could think for myself.

I snapped my eyes open, and immediately felt the frustration building up inside me again. I wanted to scream. I want to yell. I want to punch my stupid master in the face. But I knew if I did that he would just take out a few cogs and I would be the perfect little mechanical that he so wanted. I punched my wall, my hands balled up into fists. A small dent appeared. I didn’t care. This man had made me a vile creature from the moment he created me and nothing was going to change that now. I couldn’t control it. But at least I had emotions. I had seen the other mechanicals. Their eyes were dull, their movements robotic, their voices monotonous. At least I could feel anger, and sadness and I could make my own decisions. Sometimes I even felt… joy.

“Robots!”
I snarled and flung myself onto the floor with a metallic bang. I wasn’t going to follow his idiotic orders today.
A hollow knock sounded on the door.
“Come on!” Ordered a whining voice. “I want my breakfast.”
I snarled poisonously. Master had brought up his daughter like a spoiled brat. Her name was Lily. I had seen her skip around the vast lawns, in her pretentious clothes, yelling orders to the mechanicals, like they were slaves. We were slaves. We had no choice.
“I’m… ill.” I responded mutely.
I heard her stamp her foot. “But I want my breakfast! And so does Malkin!” She complained.
I grinded my teeth. “Get used to it!” I shrieked. “I don’t know what it’s like to eat! Half the time I don’t even have control of my own mind! You should stop ordering me around like I don’t have feelings and start having some empathy! For once! And make your own breakfast! You’re 12 for goodness sake. You should know by now.”
I trailed off, panting for breath after the steady stream of words. She stifled a sob.
“Well… you’re not supposed to have feelings!”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have the energy. She huffed crossly.
“Fine. I’ll go to Mrs Rust. At least she knows how to be nice to poor little girls.”

I gazed wistfully out of my window. I wished I could wander the streets and do what I wanted. But that would never be true. Unless I escaped.
The threads of a plan started forming in my mind. I had never thought about escaping. It just seemed so… distant. Like something that was so far away that my mind could barely grapple with the thought. But the moment it entered my mind, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. How it would feel to have that terrible weight lifted off my shoulders. It was like I was in a coma, where no one knew how I was feeling inside, or if there was even anyone inside, and just ignored me.

I looked up and heard muffled voices outside the door.
“It’s still in there.”
“Maybe its cogs are out of place.”
“We need to get it out. So we can repair it.”
I jutted out my bottom lip defiantly.
“I can hear you!” I sang, smirking triumphantly.
Someone fought with the handle viciously, trying to get it to open.
“It’s not going to work!”
My voice was satisfyingly infuriating and annoying.

And then it came over me.
The dizziness,
Enveloping me in its warm grip,
The cold tingle in my head,
The brittle pain in behind my eyes,
Like hammers hacking at my skull,
The pain blinding me.

The far away yells,
The relentless muttering in my head.
Heart of gold.
Heart of an idiot.
Don’t escape.
Or you’ll,
Face the consequences.
The ticking in my head.
The drumming.
Shrill.
Piercing.
Angry.
Boom.

Tick.

Boom.

Tick.
Waves of fatigue washed over me, my eyelids drooping and heavy. Spots clouded my vision. Then everything went black.

“This is Miss Pentigil. I want everything to be perfect when you serve her. OK?”
Master’s breath was warm in my ear as he whispered to me. I blinked my eyes open groggily.
“We’ve just removed a few cogs. Should help your behaviour.” He breathed.
I sighed inwardly. I tried to speak, but immediately a lump started clogging my throat.
“Of course, sir.”
I hated how easily the words slipped out of my mouth without any control from me. Inside, I could think how I wanted, but I couldn't speak for myself. Maybe this was how the other mechanicals were.
“Miss Pentigil.” Master gushed. “How simply wonderful to meet you! I understand that you’re interested in buying this robot?”
She put on a disgusted mask, but behind it I could see the mocking laughter in her eyes as she looked me up and down.

“I cannot talk business until I have had tea!”She exclaimed, putting a hand to her heart.
Wow. Really convincing.
“I’ll get some tea, Miss Pentigil.”
I felt my legs carrying me to the kitchen, my hands carefully picking up the kettle, placing miniature cakes on a winding gold-plated tea stand. I desperately wanted to run. To climb through the window frames. To leave this living nightmare behind. It was that thought that kept my going. The one that made me defy my master.
Just as I was about to bring the tea to Miss Pentigil and Master, I stopped. Of my own will. A smile curved on my metal lips. I flung the tray to the floor with a crash. There was a throbbing ache in my head, a screeching of cogs, but I endured the searing pain. This was my chance to escape.
I clambered onto the window frame and glanced over my shoulder once. I swung my fist at the panes, and shards of glass shattered onto the floor. I pulled myself through the hole.
A feeling tingled through me, which I had never felt before. Freedom.
I slithered down the few metres of brick. Finally.

And then I realised it.

I was surrounded by electrical fences.

How was I ever going to escape?

Last edited by silverlynx- (Nov. 29, 2024 17:36:04)

Zyzeryko

The Bigger Man

You are a monster unburdened by your curse, and now you are a monster alone.

I don’t want the peace of forgiveness. I want the peace of revenge. You may curse me with your death, but I will sleep soundly knowing you will never harm another. There is no high road I wish to take, no violence I do not wish returned, and no man big enough to pay the price of your actions.

You steal my vision and have the audacity to preach at me your own morality. “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind,” laughs the instigator with both eyes intact.

You say that if you fight fire with fire the whole world goes up in smoke, yet only one of us wields a match; and if you are so willing to light that match as you blame me for the ashes, there is nothing that would please me more than to watch the world burn if it means you go up in flames. We will build our castles on your ashes, and the only thing left from your forgotten era will be the smoke.

You claim violence for violence is the rule of the beasts, after terrorizing the people whose mercy you are now at. You have no right to sit alone on your throne of blood, pretending to care about retribution, when you fear only merciless justice, cold with a one-eyed stare. The only beast in this room is you.

Revenge seems only a two headed snake after you have bitten us and fear our teeth. Karma’s bite is worse than poison, her wrath more deadly, and I intend to prove it to you. You had your chance, and now I am the snake.

You scream at me to take the high road from the pits of hell.

The bigger man. The better person. If allowing your filth presented as morality to thrive is bigger, better, higher, and somehow right, evil can overcome me. You will know the price of your actions when they are reflected back upon you. You cannot escape from your fate—take it from me.

You are the worst kind of monster; the kind who pretends to give whilst you shove your knives deeper into our backs—the only thing you have given us is pain. You are a monster who pretends to care while encouraging the suffering of innocent people. Your facade is glass, shattered and next to your bloody crown. When you are dead and gone, all that is left of you is a violent memory. That is your legacy. That is all you will have ever amounted to when history forgets your name.

You are the instigator of our suffering. You killed us to blame us for our own demise—so if your demise means mine, I will relish in your suffering. Stop telling me to be better than you when, solely for your display of such horrid evil, I already am.
I hope you feel my anger as the steel blade of a knife to your throat. I hope you think of me in agony when you return to the stars. What kind of god must you think yourself to take the lives and innocence of others, only to feel rage when it is done in return? I may have as equal wrath as you, but I did not start this fire. I only fuel the flames of the war with my hope—promise—of justice. The day you stop telling the people whom you forced to adapt to your evil to become the bigger man and the better person is the day that you may find your peace with the sky. Don’t you dare preach at me morality that you don’t even follow.

Call it revenge. Call it justice. Call it retribution. Hell, call it karma. Payment, atonement. A score now settled. Give it any name you like—-fate chooses its victors, and when I win, the word they call your death will have no effect on a world without your presence.

“How quickly the hawk becomes a dove when faced with the barrel of a gun,” they say. And for once, I agree.

I will not be the bigger man for someone else's crimes. We will not walk away in silence. You will feel our suffering in full, and maybe then you will realize that for the suffering you alone have brought us, the pain you inflicted upon the innocent, the rage that now fills the stomachs you starved, no man is big enough.

………

Now the cards are in your hands, faded in red and black ink. Your path is not engraved, yet you blindly follow it. You know that monster and savior are two sides of the same coin. One and the same. The sisters of life and death, in another world.
You have made the same mistake over and over again. Time after time, you continue your embrace of true evil.
There are no more second chances.
You are no savior.
And I fear, for your sake as well as mine, I get smaller with every chance I give you. The bigger man is myth, and you are all alone.
I am the monster now.

………

869 words

Last edited by Zyzeryko (Nov. 29, 2024 18:27:33)

Duckily_the_Great

-All in a Day’s Adventures-
(I wrote this for school! Writing competition entry)
It was early morning in Sherwood Forest. The Bunny family was slowly but surely waking up in the hollow tree they called home. The tree the family lived in was quite tall, allowing the rabbits to construct multiple stories inside of it. Many rooms were on each story, for the Bunny family was quite large. After all, Mrs. Bunny had not one, not two, but 46 children.
This sleepy morning, Benjamin Bunny, the eldest (although he was only five), was rubbing his eyes, adjusting them to the dull morning sunlight. Looking out the window, Benjamin eyed the entire forest, which was covered in a thick blanket of mist. The mist was almost solid, and the young rabbit began imagining he was walking in the clouds. Benjamin was well-known for his daydreaming. He was constantly off in his own world, which was filled with giant carrots, fluffy puffs of cotton candy, and only three siblings.
He was snapped out of his reverie by his mother calling him and his 45 siblings downstairs. Hurriedly dressing in his favorite green corduroy overalls, Benjamin slid down the banister, all the way to the bottom of the stairs, where his mother was standing, a plate of sauteed carrots in hand.
“Good morning, Benjamin!” Mrs. Bunny exclaimed.
“Morning, mother!” Benjamin replied in his (still) slightly squeaky voice. Although he tried quite hard to sound grown up, he often failed.
While Benjamin gobbled down his breakfast (which was delicious, as always), Mrs. Bunny explained that she needed him to run an errand for her. His grandmother was feeling down and Mrs. Bunny had baked some muffins for her.
“I know Grandma loves having you!” Mrs. Bunny stated, “I think that if you visit with a batch of muffins, she’ll feel much better.”
“Okay!” Benjamin replied through a mouthful of carrots. He enjoyed walking through the woods. It provided an excellent opportunity to daydream.
Mrs. Bunny glanced out the window. “You’d best get going, Benjamin! Kiss your father goodbye,” (for Mr. Bunny had just walked in from his bedroom) “I’ll pack you a snack for the road. Don’t forget: stay on the path and NEVER talk to strangers.”
Benjamin quickly finished his breakfast. He took the basket of muffins (packed, of course, with a pot of tea and a treat for him) and his dark blue cloak and set off through the doorway- but not before giving both his father, mother, Bailey, Brody, Bennet, Biana, Bella, Blake, Beau, Brayden, Bakely, Brielle, Beatrix, Brooklyn, Bobathan, Bobatha, Bob, and his 30 other siblings a kiss goodbye and promising once again not to talk to strangers.
Benjamin was off! Down the road he walked, humming a song about dancing carrots and daydreaming about dancing with a dancing carrot. How, he wondered, would a carrot dance? Gradually coming out of his daydream, Benjamin realized he didn’t recognize the part of the woods he was in. It was a large clearing filled with flowers and bordered with many sweet-smelling pine trees. Where was he? What was he doing there? And how could he find his grandmother’s house?
At first, Benjamin wasn’t scared, only curious. He looked around the clearing, trying to figure out where he was. Alas, it was to no avail. Benjamin was completely and utterly lost.
Once the little bunny realized this, he started to cry. He was only five, of course, and obviously he would be scared. Imagine being stuck in the middle of the woods with no idea how to navigate to your destination.
Suddenly, Benjamin heard a noise. His long, fuzzy ears perked up. Was it? Yes, it was! A branch cracking! Filled with hope, Benjamin stood up and looked around. Maybe it would be one of his friends, and they could guide Benjamin back to his house!
Benjamin located the source of the sound. A red furry face and glowing eyes were visible through the trees. When the figure emerged completely from the forest, Benjamin realized that it was a fox. Benjamin was uneasy. His mother had always told him to stay away from foxes. “They’re dangerous, sweetheart,” she had warned him . Well, as much as he hated it, this fox could be the only way Benjamin could find his way out of the forest. Wearing a monocle, top hat and a green tailcoat, the fox looked quite dapper.
“Hello, little bunny!” the fox exclaimed amiably when he saw Benjamin. Benjamin relaxed a little when the fox turned out not to have a raspy, deep voice as he had been imagining but a rather pleasant medium-pitched voice with a hint of an English accent.
“Hi!” Benjamin shyly murmured.
“Where are you off to, little rabbit?” the fox asked, “Isn’t this quite far off the trail for a young rabbit like you?”
“Yes, it’s a little far off the trail. I think I’m lost. I was going to my granny’s house but I started daydreaming and wandered off the path and then I was here and I don’t know the way back home!” Although he had been trying to keep it together, Benjamin burst into tears.
“There, there, little one.” the fox consoled Benjamin, “Don’t worry, I know how to walk back to the trail! And while I walk you there, why don’t you tell me about your granny and where she lives?”
“Okay!” Benjamin replied, “That sounds good!”
The pair set off through the trees. Along the way, Benjamin explained about his family and the journey he was on. Soon, Benjamin could see the path through the forest.
“And, Benjamin, you never told me where your grandmother lived!” the fox exclaimed suddenly, as if he had just remembered.
“Oh, Grandma? She lives a little ways down the path, in a fallen tree with a red painted door.” Benjamin replied, “You can’t miss it.”
The two bid each other farewell.
“May we meet again!” the fox exclaimed before turning around and walking back into the trees.
Benjamin skipped down the path, daydreaming but still trying to be aware of his surroundings. As he turned the bend, a rough voice with a hint of an English accent rasped, “Oh Benjamin, Benjamin, Benjamin. How silly you are.”
Benjamin hopped down the path, keeping an eye out for the turn he needed to make. There it was! He turned and continued walking. In the wink of an eye, he spotted the house with the red-painted door. He excitedly ran to the door, looking forward to seeing his grandmother once more!
Rap! Rap! Rap! Benjamin knocked on the door with vigor. The door slowly squeaked open. Odd, Benjamin thought, Grandma always keeps her door shut. Benjamin tentatively stepped inside his grandmother’s house. Something felt wrong here, but he didn’t know what it was. He opened the door to his grandmother’s bedroom. There, sitting in the bed, was none other than… HIS GRANDMOTHER!
“Grandma!” Benjamin exclaimed, “Hi! I brought muffins!”
“Hello, dearie!” his grandmother returned, “Muffins? You know that those are my favorite! Come and give me a hug, you little munchkin!”
Benjamin ran across the room and gave his grandmother a huge hug.
“I missed you!” he exclaimed.
“I missed you too!” his grandmother responded, “Now, let’s have a pot of tea and some muffins, shall we?”
“Yes!” Benjamin shouted.
The two quickly found a tablecloth, spread it on the thick oak table in the kitchen, and unpacked Benjamin’s basket. The two were just about to sit down for a lovely snack when a knock sounded at the door.
“Who is it?” Grandma called out in her wavering voice.
“Benjamin, Grandma!” announced a voice from the other side of the door that sounded remarkably like Benjamin’s.
Grandma shot a confused look at Benjamin. She made a motion for Benjamin to be quiet. “Grandma? Are you home?” the voice asked.
“Yes, dearie!” Grandma called out, panicked. The door slowly opened, and there stood a fox in a green tailcoat with a tall velvet top hat. Benjamin backed away. His instinct told him that the fox had not been trustworthy at all.
The fox scowled, looking around the room.
“Oh, hello, Grandma.” he snarled.

He lunged.

“Help! Help!” Benjamin’s screams echoed through the forest. A nearby duck, swimming in a pond with her eight ducklings, heard his cry. She waddled over to the sound of the voice, where she saw an indescribable scene. A towering fox, frightening two innocent bunnies? She wouldn’t stand for it.
“ATTACK!” she cried.
Suddenly, the nine ducks attacked the fox with vengeance, poking his eyes, ears, mouth and teeth. An owl, who happened to be flying overhead, noticed this, found the local woodcutter, and told him the problem. The woodcutter hurried over to Grandma’s house. The fox had been immobilized by the swarm of ducklings now attacking him. After cautioning everyone to stand back, the woodcutter sliced his sharp ax through the air, hitting the fox square in the head. The fox fell over, undeniably dead.
The woodcutter used his shiny ax to chop off the fox’s head, then dragged it home, leaving a bloody trail behind him. He affixed the fox’s head to his door, warning other predators of the fate they would have if they bothered any innocent forest creatures.
Benjamin and his grandmother prepared a delicious meal, consisting of bread, carrots, lettuce, and, of course, the muffins. She asked the duck to fly to Mrs. Rabbit’s and invite her and the rest of Benjamin’s family over for dinner. As everyone sat down to a delicious meal, Benjamin, sitting next to his mother, told everyone about the day’s events. Mrs. Rabbit, who had no idea what had happened before this, kept stopping him to scold him about the dangers of talking to strangers and to hug him repeatedly, murmuring about how glad she was that he was safe.
Everyone sat back, stuffed after the amazing meal. As the animals bade Grandma goodbye, they all realized the importance of teamwork. While the sun set in front of them, Benjamin’s family walked home, keeping an eye out for foxes, and wondering what the next day’s adventures would bring.

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