Daily 7

To complete today’s daily, post 10 words. (…) Next, find someone else’s 10-word comment and make a story out of it with at least 250 words.

Words: grass is blue, yellow sky, purple sun, clouds eat brains
(helpfully supplied by @TheArtistApollo, taken from this comment)

Word count: 352 words

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─



Given my years of extensive research on planet Earth (as well as my obvious heritage from it), I am considered what you may call an expert in its general existence and functions. In this essay, I hope to outline a few failings of our planet, which, through proper scientific means, may be rectified for the betterment of our people.

First: the bluish coloring of our grass. Earth’s grass is a very particular shade of green, though it often shifts to a yellowish coloring in the final shift of the planet’s seasonal cycle. This is due to the presence of chlorophyll, highly lacking in our grass and overwhelmed by the presence of far too much blue food dye (…)

Second: the sky turned yellow. Light, it seems, enters our atmosphere at a highly concerning angle. Frankly, it seems to vaporize half our population on a good day and three quarters of it on a bad one. Clearly, this is a direct side effect of stuffing too much leftover confetti in there (…)

Third: the purple sun. Honestly, it’s like the constructors of our planet completely misunderstand the purpose of the sun. Giant flaming balls of gas are very obviously not meant to be purple. A mild blue, perhaps. Not. Purple. In this section of the essay I will (…)

Last. The BRAIN-EATING CLOUDS. To whichever of the project managers looked at that proposal and thought, “Oh, lovely! What a perfect idea that won’t backfire on us!”, I would like to arrange a meeting at a secluded cliffside somewhere back on Earth. While there will be no guarantee for your safety, I can assure you that there will be no guarantee of mine either. Save for the fact that I will be heavily armed with my RAGE AT YOUR COMPLETE AND UTTER (…)

(…) and though it will undoubtedly be a long, hard journey with noticeably fewer team members, I truly believe we can make our planet just as inhabitable as Earth!

Weekly #1

Word count: 1082 (incl. Part 2)

• Part 1: 465 words
  
• Part 2: 100 words
  
• Part 3: 309 words
  
• Part 4: 208 words
  

Notes: You are not allowed to judge because this is all a product of late-night speed writing. One of the characters sounds Fake Texan because I thought it'd be funny when I started with part 2. By the time I was finishing the weekly, I regretted all my decisions immensely. These characters are annoying and whiny and have horrible names and spend the whole piece arguing about something so dumb even I'm sick of it. And I was the one who wrote them.

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 1

Write a piece involving consistency in character voice

— ⋅ ⋆ ⋅ —

“Whaddya mean ya won’t come an’ get us?” he says in his I’m-Super-Angry voice. I grin. I’ll consider it a miracle if we’re still not out within the next half hour or so, judging by the babbling on the other end of the line. An angry Keth is something no one wants to deal with.

Unfortunately, this means thirty minutes of lingering around in the cell doing nothing.

I sigh. Guess we’re stuck being awkward.

“Ya know,” he says, “you really oughtta look around corners when you’re makin’ dramatic exits more.”

“Well I’m sorry my dramatic exit wasn’t to your satisfaction, O Wise One,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll make sure to cater to your expectations next time.”

“Really, Rox?” he sighs. “Do we have to keep doin’ this?”

I deflate, but only slightly. “You started it,” I point out.

“I s’pose I did,” he nods. “I’m sorry,” he says, and there’s a weight behind his words, like he’s not just apologizing for making us bicker again.

“Yeah,” I reply softly. “I am, too. We wasted a lot of time, didn’t we?”

“Well, better late than never,” he shrugs. “While we’re at it, I’m sorry for expectin’ you to fix all my problems. I didn’t realize I was doin’ it so much, really.”

I laugh uncomfortably. This is far too many feelings in one day. Thankfully, he seems to catch onto that.

“Now when’s that idiot gonna get here?” he mutters, and I feel a sudden rush of gratitude. It feels…nice. To be able to understand each other so perfectly and use it for something other than making life miserable for each other.

“Thanks,” I blurt out, like an idiot.

“What for?” he asks.

“Just. Getting us out, I suppose.”

“We ain’t clear yet, Rox,” he says lightly. “But we’ll figure out somethin’ to get you free. I reckon we’ve got ‘bout fifteen more minutes or so ‘til first alarm. Still a whole lotta waitin’ to do, time always passes by slower than ol’ Meemaw Jen when you’ve got important stuff ta do.”

“Cool,” I say. “Wanna play cards?”

“Three peaks. An’ I get to deal,” he says.

“Nope. You always say that because it’s the only game you’re good at cheating at.”

“Rox, it’s the only game I know. An’ you’ve gotta be an idiot to not cheat at cards.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Fine. But I deal.”

He shrugs. “Sounds alright to me,” he says. But there’s a faint smile playing on his lips, which means he’s definitely going to cheat somehow anyway.

Which is why by the time Keth’s men finally arrive to bust us out, they find us with him in a headlock and me yelling at him to surrender.

It’s nice to be back to normal.

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 2

Write a piece using dialogue effectively

— ⋅ ⋆ ⋅ —

“Where were you? We were supposed to be back hours ago!”

“I know, it’s just—it’s been a rough day.”

“Well pull yourself together, you know what you signed up for. Now let’s go.”

“Just gimme a minute to catch my breath, ‘s all I’m askin’—”

“Are you even listening? There’s no time. Get moving.”

“An’ if I don’t?”

“Then you can rot, for all I care.”

“Well ain’t that somethin’ new. Always one to run away when it gets hard, aren’t ya?”

“I can’t keep covering for you, Keth. I’m tired of it. Get moving or get lost.”

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 3

Write a piece foreshadowing with dialogue

— ⋅ ⋆ ⋅ —

“Still gracin’ us with your presence, I see,” notes Keth dryly.

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises.” I focus on organizing my pack so that I don’t have to bother looking at his holier-than-thou face.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” he says. “Betcha three fivers you’ll be gone ‘fore dinner.”

I snap the pack closed shut. It barely makes a noise, which makes me even madder. Everything’s so quiet it feels like the universe is mocking my anger.

“That was one time, Keth,” I snap, whirling around to face him. “How much longer are you going to keep needling me about it?”

He snorts. “Well lookie here, someone’s angry.”

“I made a mistake. Big deal! So does everyone else. Grow. Up.”

“This ain’t us back on the playground anymore, Rox. Your actions have consequences. Problem is, you left me to pay for ‘em.”

“Oh, is that what this is about?” I laugh disbelievingly. “Payment? What, feel like you didn’t deserve what happened to you, is that it?”

His jaw ticks. I’ve struck a nerve. Good.

“Look. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: I’m sorry I messed up, and I’m sorry you got hurt because of it. But I’ve been paying for it every day since. I’ll be paying for it for the rest of our lives. You’ll get to move on, but the rest of my life will be stuck with that same stupid decision I made a year ago. You want to talk about consequences? I’m going to be the one dealing with them long after you’re dead.”

The room is filled with a ringing silence. I close my eyes, swallowing.

This was a mistake.

Keth starts to say something, but I don’t stick around to find out what. I turn tail and whirl out of the room as fast as I can.

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 4

Write a script using the skills you’ve learned previously

— ⋅ ⋆ ⋅ —

SCENE: Some random room that looks very sci-fi. Both characters are visibly distressed.

ROX: (pacing) This was a bad idea.

KETH: Ya think?

ROX: Alright then, this was a horrible idea. A terrible, no-good, very bad idea.

KETH: State the obvious a li’l more, why dontchya. I’m sure it’ll get us outta here.

ROX: (hysterically) Oh, and I’m supposing you have far more brilliant ideas up your sleeve, don’t you? Go ahead then, tell us your grand plans! It’s not like they always land us in gravy.

KETH: (angrily) That was one time—

ROX: Oh that’s rich, coming from Mr. I’m-Going-To-Taunt-My-Teammate-For-One-Catastrophically-Stupid-Mistake-She-Made-For-The-Rest-Of-The-Forseeable-Future!

KETH opens his mouth, then closes it. He clears his throat.

KETH: I uh. That wasn’t my finest moment.

ROX glares at him expectantly.

KETH: An’ I was an idiot.

ROX continues glaring at him.

KETH: (through gritted teeth) I am…sorry. An’ you were right.

ROX: (sarcastically) I am SO glad we’ve finally managed to clear that up. Only took us a year and a half!

KETH: Can we please go back to gettin’ us outta here?

ROX: No. Because I have no ideas. Because surprise, surprise: sometimes I actually DON’T know how to cover up the messes you make!

KETH: (sighing) I’m gonna go call someone.

Daily 8

Today, you'll write about a truly fantastic scientific theory — one that went terribly, horribly wrong when put into practice.

Notes: I mean, it's technically not a theory but I thought why make something new when it works well enough with my last daily? So here we are. Potassium salts allegedly burn with purple flames.

Word count: 434 words

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

It is a very busy, highly unproductive day at the labs. Months of brainstorming with nothing to show for it, save for the heavy eyebags and the concerningly large cups of coffee that everyone seems to have these days.

(There’s also the collaborative planning board that looks increasingly like a murderboard, but the number of failed ideas logged on it shows that it’s a topic best avoided).

There’s a sudden burst of motion at one end of a table. “I can’t do it!” wails a scientist, scattering multiple sheets of paper in his agitation. “I just can’t anymore!”

“Tell me about it,” says another, burying their face in their hands. “How else are we meant to solve overpopulation? Boss didn’t even like our arson idea! HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY GO WRONG WITH ARSON?”

“They want something impossible,” rants the first. “There’s simply nothing left. We either need a really genius idea, or a really stupid idea that masquerades as a genius idea.”

“But we’ve tried!” interjects a third. “We even worked out a prototype for the bananas! And they still got rejected!”

“This is hopeless,” mutters a fourth, rocking back and forth in a corner and looking everywhere wildly. “Absolutely hopeless. They’ll come for us. They’ll crawl out of the walls to get us. Hide. We must hide. And survive on flesh.”

“At this point, we should just build ourselves a new planet,” says a fifth scientist wryly, somehow so stressed that they loop back to complete calm.

There’s a screech as everyone immediately stops doing what they’re doing. Even the fourth scientist seems to crawl out of their madness. The fifth scientist’s eyes widen as they realize what they’ve said.

And then: chaos.

“We’ll just have to replicate what we already know, how hard can it be?”

“But a few extra touches—”

“—make it cooler!”

“With BLUE GRASS!”

“Oh, and confetti! We can have—”

“A GINORMOUS FLAMING BALL OF POTASSIUM SALTS—”

“Arson after all! And bananas that—”

“—chemically possible to create cotton candy clouds?”

“—they’ll be sentient!”

“It’s statistically improbable but honestly who cares—"



One feverish year of work later, all the scientists are stranded on a beach in the middle of nowhere, having just been recently fired.

“Clearly a new planet was not the solution,” mutters one of them bitterly.

“Well,” says another. “I think the important thing is the friends we made—”

They’re drowned out in a sudden burst of protests.

“Besides, the best part was clearly the arson,” one scoffs, to which they all agree.

And they lived unemployed ever after.

Daily 12

For this daily, the tyrants have generously lent us classified access to all the mascots from past sessions. The only catch is that these mascots are very busy people, and if you'd like to ask them some questions… well, they'd like to see a podcast script for an interview with them of least 350 words beforehand

Notes: Oh, I caused chaos alright. I think my nameless editor is now my favorite OC. Except for the part where they reject the My Little Pony reference.

Word count: 372 words

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

PODCAST JINGLE PLAYS. IT SOUNDS SUSPICIOUSLY LIKE TOM LEHRER’S POISONING PIGEONS IN THE PARK.

RECCA: Hello and welcome, to a brand-new episode of Please Shut Up, We Get It Already! I’m Recca, your lovely, charming, ever-beauteous, so much better than you (Editor’s Note: If she says this anyway, splice it out of the audio) host for today! If our new intro music sounds familiar to you, then wow you’re old. (Editor’s Note: Why do we even let her write these?) But enough yapping already, let’s meet our guest for today! Everypony (Editor’s Note: We are not in Equestria), I’d like to introduce to you: Peeles!

EPIC GAME SHOW CHARACTER INTRO MUSIC PLAYS.

PEELES: (silence) (Editor’s Note: Replace this with actual dialogue)

CRICKETS CHIRPING AUDIO

RECCA: Wow Peeles, it sure is nice to meet you too!

PEELES: (more silence because funneh) (Editor’s Note: It most certainly isn’t funny. Please revise)

RECCA: Anyway, I’d ask you how you’re doing, but since you can’t talk, that just seems rude. (EN: I can’t keep typing that out. Peeles is more than capable of verbal speech, even if Recca insists otherwise. Reframe as a question)

PEELES: (Snootily, with a touch of anger because Recca just has that effect on people) I’m doing well, thank you very much. (EN: I’d suggest a friendlier tone, but Peeles deserves to be annoyed)

RECCA: OH MY GOSH YOU CAN TALK! But that’s lovely to hear. How have you been doing, floating in space? Is it very…breathtaking?

BA DUM TSS AUDIO PLAYS

(EN: Please see end notes, I can’t go over this line by line anymore)

PEELES: (flatly) Yes, very amusing. (with a valiant effort to sound civil) Floating in space is really quite wonderful! The beauty of the galxswc is unbelievable—really, it’s quite impossible to capture it all in words!

RECCA: (with audible smugness befitting her iconic-ness) So you’re saying it’s basically me?

(EN: I know I said see end notes, but this isn’t even funny anymore.)

(…)

Editor’s End Notes: We’re never letting Recca write the scripts again. Please scrap the entire thing and come up with something else. Go ask your good buddy ChatGPT to write something if there’s no time. Just keep her AWAY FROM THE SCRIPTS.

Daily 13

Pick any song - the jury's out, but the choice is yours - and write a story about it!

Song picked: Me, You and Steve by Garfunkel and Oates because Skylar made an offhand comment that I took too seriously and decided to just run with that

Notes: Yes they're Adam and Eve and yes they're Adam and Steve but most importantly they're Adam and Eve and Steve because I stole the idea from a comment under the youtube video for the song since I found it hilarious.
Please don't try writing dailies when you're half an hour away from falling asleep, 1.4/10 experience would not recommend.

Word count: 330 words

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

“Hey Adam! This place is lovely,” Eve says brightly.

“I’m glad you like it! Steve and I spent hours trying to pick out the perfect date spot. He kept on suggesting the taco stand, but I thought you’d appreciate this more,” he replies, smiling shyly.

He also seems to be completely and utterly oblivious to the way Eve’s grip has tightened around the fork she’s been playing with.

First off: seriously? Does he have to bring up his bromantic bestie 4 life in every conversation?

Secondly: said bromantic bestie 4 life was, tragically, right. She would’ve loved the taco stand. Not that she doesn’t appreciate the effort Adam’s putting in! But sometimes you just want tacos, y’know?

Someone walks up to their table and Eve feels her heart
 d
  r
   o
    p.

‘There is NO way,’ she thinks. But she knows better by now.

“Well gee golly,” says Steve. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves an Adam and an Eve here!”

“Steve!” says Adam gleefully. And then he’s pulling out a chair right there at her table in the middle of her fancy restaurant date.

Steve is crashing another one of Eve’s dates.

Again.

Adam proceeds to ignore Eve to talk to Steve about football or some other manly bromantic thing.

Again.

“You know what?” says Eve, cutting their chatter short. “I’m done. I am DONE with you two. Seriously, Adam, I really like you! And I like Steve too! But you’re making me the third wheel on my own date. Honestly, what’s the point of asking me out when you’re so besotted with each other? Just go live out your homo-romo dreams and stop stringing me along!”

Steve slaps Adam upside the head. “You didn’t tell her we were dating?”

“Ow, Steve! It’s not my fault! I thought she was perfectly fine with the three of us being an item.”

“What,” says Eve.

“Wow,” says the waiter. “You guys are horrible at communication.”

They end up ditching the restaurant for the taco stand.

Daily 15

You can also recycle in writing, by finding an abandoned idea of yours – whether it's a story, world, character, plot twist, or something else – and turn it into a brand new story! Reduce, reuse, and recycle this idea into a 300 word piece…

Notes: This was a drabble sitting in my drafts for months—I liked the overwhelming fondness pouring out of the piece. Plus, the not a romance not a friendship but secret third option of it all is something that I'm always a sucker for. Don't think I quite did it justice, so I suppose I'll end up taking another shot at it sometime.

Word count: 312 words

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Dearest.

I’m writing to you because I doubt we’ll ever talk again. Bear with me a minute longer.

Do you remember the party at the end of tenth? Everyone was dancing in the foyer, but you and I were outside on the swings. There was dirt on the hems of our sarees, but you still looked regal. There was always this something about you.

If I leaned far back enough with each swing, I could almost believe the sky was at our feet, that we were soaring. I think I made you laugh. I hope I did. I must have, because it was the kind of day where there was so much joy in the air you could taste it, and we were happy, and you always smiled like it was a secret and laughed like it was a confession and it was always something, to be the one to make you laugh.

I don’t think I’ll ever be in love. Romance isn’t for me—sometimes it felt like it wasn’t for you either, but I think you could fall in love. You’d be very sensible about it, because you’re very sensible about everything, even though you were the kind of person who deserved to be swept off their feet.

But that’s not my point here. What I’m trying to say is: I think I’ll never fall in love, but if someone asked me, knife-to-throat with my life on the line, to pick anyone to give my heart to—well. What I’m trying to say is: in that moment, on that day on the swings laughing with you while Bollywood hits played in the background—in that moment, I would’ve chosen you.

You left a few months later, and I haven’t seen you since. We never talked much anyway. But I still think of that day sometimes.

I hope you do too.

Weekly 2

Total word count: 985 words

• Part 1: 292 words
  
• Part 2: 212 words
  
• Part 4: 477 words
  

Notes: Things I have learned from this weekly are a) I hate songwriting and b) never speedrun a weekly. Do not question me about the logic. I threw it out the window and fed it to the vegetarian dragons.

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 1

You walk out onto the balcony, only to be dragged sharply down to hide in a row of conveniently arranged bushes.

Someone clamps a hand over your mouth before you can say anything. “Shh!” a voice hisses. You crane your neck to see a rather unhinged-looking person holding you captive.

“Watch,” they say, so you do.

There’s a beautiful woman standing with a knight in shining armour near the railing. A table with tea and cupcakes next to them is all but forgotten.

“Please, don’t go,” says the woman.

“That’s her,” whispers someone next to you, looking slightly less unhinged than the person holding you captive. “Queen Este Dubyouu Cee!”

“I must,” the knight says. “For the good of the kingdom.”

“That’s them!” squeals a third someone. “Sir Sleep Celot! The most valiant knight in all the land!”

“I’ll miss you,” says the queen, looking regally tragic.

“You walk a dangerous line, my queen,” warns Sir Sleep, even as they reach out to touch her cheek. “I wish—”

The queen puts a finger to their lips before they can say anything. “Wishes carry power,” she says sadly.

Back behind the bushes, there’s so much furious whispering it’s a miracle the two lovebirds don’t notice.

“Oh, isn’t it romantic?” sighs the second, slightly-less-manic person next to you.

“They’re so in love!” sobs the third. “But their duty won’t allow it!”

“Listen,” says the first person, turning you around to grip you by the shoulders so they can look at you in the eye. “We’re going to help them get together. We’re going to give them the fairytale romance of their DREAMS. And we want you to help. Are you in?”

Looking at their wildly optimistic faces, you find it impossible to refuse.

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 2

Designed this one specifically to be an eyesore, I'm so proud of it. Dumping it here instead of a project, though, hope that's alright.



─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 3

We know you adore them, and that they adore you
And you’re all besotted, it’s honestly sickening
Waving at babies, fighting off enemies
Bound to your land

Dreams of a romance, fading before you
Now you’re feeling hopeless, this whole thing’s a huge mess
Staring at night skies, you see the starlight
And think of their eyes

When we start to catch your straining smiles
And see how they’ve been away a while
Depression vibes, this can’t be right
It's been a long time coming, but

We’ll make it real! Get you two together!
Our plans are foolproof, there’s no way that we’ll fail! (DOUBTFUL)
The kingdom can rot for all that we care,
We’ll play the long game, your love will be our prizes!

We’ll make it real! Get you two together!
Queen of the kingdom and her sidekick knight! (OOH YAY)
You’re so sad you make us feel blue
Elaborate plans so they can run away with you

We might just be winning, it’s wildly surprising
Love notes with forged signs, causing mild tax crimes
Rewriting marriage laws, morally dubious
THIS IS ALL FINE!!!

Clandestine meetings under the staircase
Soft, quiet picnics, arranged by your shippers
Dinner for two, where’s the rest of the cabinet?
WE GOT RID OF THEM!!

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 4

You stare at the increasingly manic-looking caricature of a person in front of you, baffled. “There is no way this is going to work.”

“Please,” snorts Recca. “Clearly you haven’t studied rom-coms like I have—I did my PhD on them. Stuffing two people into a closet has an 89% success rate.”

You politely refrain from enquiring about the remaining 11%.

Someone comes rushing down the corridor in a frenzy. “I’VE DONE IT. THEY’RE ON THEIR WAY!”

“You beautiful creature,” says Recca. “ALRIGHT, PLACES EVERYONE! And LOOK NATURAL or I will find a way to feed you to the dragons, even though they’re vegetarian.”

On that cheerful note, you blend into the shadows like palace servants always do.

Punctual as ever, Sir Sleep Celot makes their appearance within the next five minutes. No less than three of your fellow matchmakers swoon. Five more minutes later, Queen Este Dubyou Cee glides down the hallway, no doubt delayed by another meeting about the Fate of The Kingdom.

For the next twenty minutes, you’re stuck mulling about. For the next twenty minutes, you’re stuck mulling about. It’s a great load of boredom with an extra side dish of dwindling hope.

“Maybe this was pointless,” sighs Recca.

“Or maybe they climbed out of the window and ran off with each other!” says someone from your merry band of matchmakers.

Another snorts. “Please, have you seen how devoted they are to the kingdom? They wouldn’t even pull an R&J because it’d ruin the chain of command.”

“I’ve been overly optimistic,” says Recca glumly. “Sorry for wasting your time, guys. They probably went out the back door,” and she looks so sad about it that you can’t find the heart to point out that only an idiot would lock two people in a closet with a back door out.

Suddenly, the doors slam open, leaving you all to scramble to melt back into the background where you won’t be noticed.

“I’d never ask you to leave it all for me,” says the queen, whirling around to glare at Sir Sleep. “Don’t ever suggest that again.” She sounds so teary about it that it gives you pause. She seems so unshakeable all the time; this is a stark reminder that she isn’t.

Sir Sleep takes her hand in theirs. They don’t say anything while the queen composes herself.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she sighs eventually. “I have an entire country of people to think of. You have an entire country of people to protect.”

They look at each other and do that weird telepathy thing that only people who are disgustingly in love can pull off. They must reach an agreement, because Sir Sleep only smiles sadly before they walk off in different directions.

Recca is practically vibrating with excitement. “I THINK WE DID IT!” she squeals.

You kindly refrain from pointing out that they technically broke up rather than suffer long-distance.

Daily 17

Yesterday you made a mystery with a couple red herrings and clues. Today you will take those clues and red herrings and turn them into a short story

Clues: Rache, specific bell sound, zookeeper’s keys
Red Herrings: Fog, blue coat button, misleading fingerprint analysis

Notes: I have no clue what I've written. How embarrassing.

Word count: 326 words

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

“When observed individually, each element of the case leads to nowhere but bafflement. Put them together, however, and they paint a clear yet sinister picture.

“You will remember my preoccupation with the fog in the painting—this was a folly on my part. The frame would have been far more useful. The signature, of course, was essential—as you no doubt noticed, it was the final link in the chain that helped me catch Sheffield in the end. Rache was ultimately neither a German word nor the name of a woman cut short, but the clear mark of someone who had been far too infatuated with detective stories.

“The events unfolded as such: the zookeeper entered the house and hung and his coat on the hook near the door, leaving the keys in his coat pocket. He soon retired to bed. Here, my dear fellow, is where our criminal made his entry. Picking the lock with a hairpin, he sneaks into the house and rummages in our zookeeper’s pocket for his keys. He steals upstairs, locates the painting he wants stolen and scratches the word rache over the artist’s signature with the hairpin, which he drops in his haste to leave.

“His escape was the most poorly planned. He had an accomplice, who noticed the servant’s return from his walk in the park. The accomplice rings his bell, which is the horrible cacophony that reportedly woke the zookeeper up. The criminal runs down, drops the keys on the table near the door and accidentally tears off the blue button off the zookeeper’s coat in his haste.

“The fingerprints, of course, were the most dangerous part—the ones I found on the button were the zookeeper’s, and I assumed that he had been the one to mastermind this ridiculous escapade. But of course, such things are rarely done for one’s amusement and having caught a notorious art thief is, I daresay we’ve done a rather good job.”

Daily 18

Today, write 400 words turning a habitual activity into a completely and utterly bizarre occurrence

Notes: This feels kinda odd to write, considering how there are actually people who can't talk out there. It was interesting, though; it's so very difficult to write sound.

Word count: 417 words

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Stop that! I think, clamping my hands over my ears.

“Stop what? Talking?”

It takes me a moment to realize that what he says sounds eerily like mindspeak.

How does that work?

“How does it—I don’t know? You just. Open your mouth, I guess?”

Furrowing my eyebrows, I open my mouth wide, like I’m about to take a huge bite of food.

He makes a huffy noise that sounds like laughter. “No, like—you’ve got to sort of use your throat? Gosh, I don’t know how to describe it. So it’s true, then? You guys never talk out loud?”

Not much point to it when you can transmit what you want to say directly into someone else’s head.

“But you seem to understand me just fine…”

It’s difficult. It takes much longer to understand each word. It’s like mindspeak, only…wrong.

“That’s because it is! Maybe it’s only because you’re not used to having conversations out loud?”

That still doesn’t explain why you can hear me just fine.

“Yeah, well—that meteor nearly wiped out neuralinks. I can barely separate your words; it’s more like vague impressions. I doubt I’d be able to transmit anything into your head.”

Teach me how to do it.

“To talk?”

Yes.

“I—I really don’t know how it works. Can you make any sounds at all?”

Our babies yell a lot?

“Okay, maybe try to replicate that? Take a breath and then sort of…use your throat?”

This makes no sense.

“NO ONE GAVE ME A HOW-TO-EXPLAIN-TALKING-TO-DUMMIES GUIDE, GERALD.”

That’s not my name.

“It’s a figure of speech. Just. Give it a shot.”

Okay.

I inhale. I try using my throat, like he said. There’s a mild pressure, like I’m pushing on it from the inside. It takes a lot of trial and error, but I manage to make a sound.

“Yes! That’s it!”

That was…different.

“It gets easier as you go. Come on, try saying ‘talk’. Then you can teach me how to transmit to you.”

It takes a while, but eventually I manage the soft hiss of the ‘t’. It’s light and airy and slips through with almost no effort at all. The long, drawn-out ‘awh’ follows. The last ‘k’ is sharp and smooth, a soft click of the tongue.

In the end, the first word I ever say out loud: “Talk.”

“YOU DID IT!”

I DID!

“Now we can move on to teaching you how to say s—”

MAYBE I SHOULD JUST TEACH YOU HOW TO TRANSMIT FIRST.

Daily 19

For this daily, create an SWC acronym of your choice (…) then search through the comments and find an acronym written by someone else to use as a story prompt

Acronym used: shall we convene? as proposed by the lovely Lio

Word count: 284 words

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

“—and we shall convene on the nineteenth day of this glorious month!”

“We most certainly shan’t.”

“We most definitely shall!”

“Says who?”

“Fifty dead white men and a bloated walrus, sir.”

“A bloated walrus?”

“A bloated walrus. Came out of the sea like a kraken come to deliver judgement.”

“Well, I certainly cannot accept the authority of a bloated walrus. We shan’t convene.”

“But the fifty dead white men, sir! We shall convene.”

“Clearly you’ve never heard that dead men tell no tales. You are forbidden from calling this convention.”

“Clearly you have never heard to respect the dying’s wishes. I shall bring another to call this convention.”

“My good fellow, be reasonable! The nineteenth of the month is not three days from now, no one will come to convene.”

“On the contrary, at least thirty salted watermelons have already agreed, sir.”

“Thirty salted watermelons?”

“Thirty salted watermelons. They approach me and ask shall we convene? And I am left with no choice but to say alas, it has been forbidden!”

“Exaggeration and slander, my good fellow. I have only forbidden it from happening on the nineteenth and before.”

“The nineteenth and before?”

“The nineteenth and before.”

“Which is to say—shall we convene the second after the clock strikes midnight?”

“You most definitely shall not, you utter buffoon.”

“Did you just call me a buffoon, sir?”

“Another word out of you and I may upgrade it to a buffalo. You may not convene on the nineteenth and before, you may convene at any reasonable hour on the twentieth and beyond. Anything else?”

“I have no desire of being called a buffalo, sir.”

“And yet here you are. Out of my sight, buffalo.”

Weekly 3

Total word count: 1889 words

• Part 1: 526 words
  
• Part 2: 262 + 291 = 553 words
  
• Part 3: 462 words
  
• Part 4: 348 words
  

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 1

Notes: This is roughly based off of characters from an old daily, it's fairly well-summarized in this thread! It is very important to me that they're both Very Old Ladies doing Very Crazy Things.

⋅ ⋆ ⋅

“Marjorie dearie, I’m feeling dreadfully bored,” says Vera, lounging across the sofa as artistically as she can at sixty-going-on-sixteen. Which is to say: it’s only artistic if you can consider an eye-searingly neon green bundle of Vera Yale artistic. “We should really do something to liven up the place.”

“It’s already plenty livened up with your reanimated corpse hogging the space,” mutters Margie dryly into her cup of tea.

Vera scoffs. “Margieeeee,” she says, dragging out the sound. “I’m so bored. Can’t we leak your location to the press again? I can—” she makes a slashing gesture at her throat, “—the next overeager idiot who thinks they’ve finally gotten their hands on a big scoop! It’ll be fun!”

“Oh, don’t you dare!” snaps Margie. “That’s what you said the last time too, and how did it end? It was all ‘just one sip, Marjorie dearie!’ and ‘there’ll be nothing to worry about at all, Marjorie dearie!’ and the next thing I know, I’m stuck burying yet another exsanguinated corpse in the yard with you. Honestly, Vera, my bones can’t take it anymore! It took me nearly three days until I was able to walk again!”

“But it was fun!” protests Vera.

“You spent all three of those days complaining about how your back hurt and it was my fault! Mine!”

Vera sniffs. “You’re such a bore,” she grumbles, draping herself over the sofa again. “If only Hollywood could see their greatest ex-starlet now.”

Margie snorts. “If you leave any of them alive, we’ll have one of those old Hollywood ragers for the occasion. Maybe I’ll even bring out the old disco balls and gramophones.”

Vera gasps. She sits bolt upright. She falls off the sofa.

Margie is by her side and fussing over her in an instant. “Vera! Oh, are you alright? You really should take better care of yourself, you’re not as young as you used to be!”

“MARGIE!” shrieks Vera in her face. “DISCO BALLS!”

“Vera no—” is all Margie manages to get out before Vera’s rushing to the laptop.

“VERA YES!” she screeches, already paying the bill.

Which is why, ten days later, Margie is stuck staring at the ceiling in her unnecessarily large second-floor dining room.

“Why do I have sixty-two disco balls on my ceiling?” asks Margie weakly.

Vera, who has shifted into a bat to effectively hang the final disco ball, has no response. Because bats do not speak. Obviously.

At the far end of the room, Margie counts nine power strips, all of which are plugged into three power strips, which are plugged into one power strip, which is finally plugged into the wall socket.

“You know,” says Margie. “Maybe you should reconsider this—”

“GET READY TO PARTY!” yells Vera, flipping the switch.

Roughly thirty minutes later, Vera and Margie are staring at the flaming wreckage that used to be their house. At least, Vera’s staring at it. Margie’s too busy cackling: “ARSON!! YOU WERE RIGHT VERA, WE SHOULD’VE DONE THIS AGES AGO!”

Vera silently reevaluates her life choices and resolves to listen to Margie before she accidentally sends her off the deep end again.

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 2

⋅ ⋆ ⋅

UNBIASED VERSION

On the 15th of November, sometime around 7 P.M. in the evening, there was an enormous commotion at the local Target store downtown at Priory Lane. Eyewitnesses say that a large, flying creature had crash-landed through the ceiling. Police were contacted almost immediately, and reports confirm that the creature was, in fact, a dragon. It was described to be roughly thirteen feet tall, with scales of a greenish hue.

The dragon caused quite a panic, accidentally dragging merchandise off the shelves as it made its way through the aisles. Amidst the chaos and pandemonium, however, a woman took matters into her own hands. Grabbing a wreath with a bell off of a shelf, she ran up to the dragon. Then, by some stroke of luck, she managed to hook it around the dragon’s horn. When the dragon moved, the bell rang with it. The dragon proceeded to bob its head around, seemingly amused by the sound, in a move that has now gone viral on the internet. Following this, it soon stalked out of the store, bell ringing away cheerfully all the while.

When questioned about her feelings on the incident, Georgia Harlow (the woman who hung the wreath on the dragon’s head) said that it was “very unexpected, but there was something heartwarming about seeing this big, terrifying creature deciding to take part in the holiday cheer. I could almost swear it smiled at me before it left the store!”

The video has spread over the internet like wildfire, being quickly converted into a meme popularly referred to as “Flamin’ Bells”.

⋅ ⋆ ⋅

BIASED VERSION (wherein the reporter is overly attached to dragons. A valid sentiment.)

On the 15th of November, sometime around 7 P.M. in the evening, there was an enormous commotion at the local Target store downtown at Priory Lane. Eyewitnesses claim that a “large, flying creature crash-landed through the ceiling of the store.” Police reports prove that the creature was a dragon and given its description and footage from the now-viral video of it, we can say that it was roughly thirteen feet tall, and nearly twice as long, with scales of a greenish hue—thus proving that it was likely a common Gardenacious Green of the Barklast variety, most often found near ponds and lakes and, in this instant, Target stores.

While Gardenacious Greens are relatively non-confrontational (a fact that most of the great, oblivious public seem to have completely missed, judging by the amount of screaming in the footage of the event), they do tend to be grumpy. This one, however, seemed downright cheerful. Perhaps the holiday spirit had gotten to it after all. Mimicking human emotions is not an uncommon phenomenon with Gardenacious Greens—especially when it comes to crowds. I suspect it picked up on the holiday happiness and decided it wanted to take part in it as well.

The internet seems to agree with this take. The video of the dragon, with one of its horns ringed by a wreath, bobbing its head up and down as if to make its own music with the bells on the wreath, has gone viral. Internet users have taken to calling it “Flamin’ Bells” and seem to take it as a sign of the dragon embracing the spirit of Christmas. Utter nonsense, of course, because while Gardenacious Greens like to mimic human emotions, it does not have a concept of human festivals.

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 3

Chaos and commotion erupted in the Main Cabin as soon as the description updated at the stroke of the UTC’s midnight hour on the 22nd of November. The description now reflected the new daily, which bore astonishing news: the POLAR BEARS activity team had gone on strike! The team is renowned for its painstaking compilation of dailies, weeklies and other such activities created for the benefit of the SWC community. The terms they set out for their return and continuation of services were as follows: a letter of at least three hundred words outlining the reasons they should come back to work, and a lasagna donation. This was followed by a lightly implied threat: should the campers fail to deliver, there would be no more dailies, and even if they did, there was a chance that the POLAR BEARS may choose not to return.

Amidst the cries of “I QUIT!” resounding around the main cabin, there was one group whose voices seemed to resonate louder than them all. The leaders of the SWC cabins started raising their own concerns on the matter. The POLAR BEARS quitting certainly caused such a stir, but what about the leaders? Where was their pay? They quickly retaliated by threatening their own strike, stating that if the hosts didn’t meet the leaders’ demands, they would be walking off the job.

Within minutes, there was a brand new Leadercabin. Their conditions? One million points, to be granted by the hosts, with additional offerings in the form of food pertaining to each member’s taste. If not delivered, the leaders would go on strike. “The POLAR BEARS aren’t the only ones needing breaks,” remarked a leader. Participating leaders started switching their profile pictures to display a large, red, general prohibition sign with the words “ON STRIKE” printed across them, in order to embrace the spirit of their movement.

Soon enough, there were also talks of the campers and the MBC going on strike—if the leaders were doing it because the POLAR BEARS were doing it, why not them too? One onlooker remarked that they wondered what would happen to SWC, now that everyone was going on strike.

What indeed will happen to SWC? Will any of the factions concede, accept defeat, or agree to comply to another’s terms? Or will they continue to wage war against each other, an endless argument with no end? The SWCommunity was once a place of unity and togetherness, but now, in the wake of all the unions and the anti-capitalist behavior, we find ourselves facing an uncertain future, nearly torn apart with needless quarrels (cough CSLE workers cough).

It seems that only time will tell what will become of us. That, and the promise of enough points to dominate everyone on the leaderboard.

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

Part 4

Critiquing Em's piece, which you can find here

⋅ ⋆ ⋅

Alrighty, Em! So sorry I took so long to get around to doing what I promised I’d do ages ago XD

“I, for one, tried to (…) chose to write about.”

Your second sentence here is pretty long! I’d recommend breaking it down into multiple smaller sentences, because the flow is easier to follow that way. For example, you could rephrase the first bit as:

I, for one tried to go in a more abstract direction. My acronym was ‘Somehow We Came’.

Other places I’d recommend sentence breaks are immediately after “..writer to decide what it means…” and “…like the acronym I chose to write about.” Here, you can drop the connective words and commas and switch them out for periods instead.

“…and I can only use the very best eloquent words to describe…”

Phrasing feels a little clunky here! I’d suggest rewriting it as “the very best, most eloquent” so that there’s a little bit of buffer between the two adjectives.

“…argue with this opinion as yes that is what I…”

Add a comma after the word ‘yes’ here! Same goes for the second yes in the sentence.

“This is interesting how deep SWC dailies can do…”

I feel like you probably just rephrased this sentence and forgot to get rid of the old parts (I mean, I do it loads of times too!), which is why it feels like two different thoughts squashed together. You should probably fix that line up XD

Final thoughts! I absolutely adore how you take us through everything on a ground level, providing examples of what people have said and giving us your own commentary on them. The last bit, I think, is one of my favorites—where you discuss all the future articles you’re going to write and what we can expect to see next. There’s something I find ridiculously endearing about it. You have a lot of run-on sentences, and that mostly seems to stem from the age-old Writer Problem of Using Too Many Commas Instead of Just Ending Sentences, but other than that I think it’s perfect ^^

Weekly 4

Total word count: 2697 words

Prompts used, in order of appearance: Inuit (empathy to animals), Aztec (symbolic memory unearthing), Maryan (origin story), Ancient China (morally grey moment), Navajo (decision they didn't want), Ancient Rome (character to hero), Aksum (barter), Swahili (play script format), Minoan (indecipherable writing), Mesopotamia (poetry), Ancient Greece (supernatural/spiritual), Aboriginal Peoples (Dreamtime character), Ancient Egypt (dark day).

Notes: Writing real-fi is horrific when you're writing for this weekly. What's morally grey about threatening to kick your cat out for being mean? Okay, on second thought, that's downright evil. #ITried with this one

Certificate can be found here. Alana is a shortie :)

─ ⋆ ෴ ⋆ ─

There’s a cat outside. It’s the middle of winter, and there’s so much snow.

I refuse to think about how familiar it is.

I look at the cat. It’s not a kitten anymore, but it’s hardly full-grown. Its fur is ginger, but it’s so damp with snow that it hardly even looks that color anymore. It’s shivering, obviously soaked to the bone.

I don’t know how to take care of cats. The first time around, she handled everything. I could probably ask her, but now there’s Bob to think of too. What if he’s deathly allergic? What if they break up because I popped up with a cat and he had a reaction and accused her of trying to kill him? Then she’d be heartbroken forever and it’d be all my fault.

I could just leave the cat where it is. I could take it to an animal shelter…?

Then the darned thing looks up at me. Its eyes are the warmest shade of brown.

Nope. No way. I am NOT equipped to take care of a cat.

But I could proooobably wing it based on what we did last time.

Sighing, I pick up the cat and trudge home.

—

Going shopping for myself is one thing. Going shopping for a cat is a whole new can of worms I’m not sure I should’ve opened at all. There’s also the fact that I’m broke and have no money and haven’t eaten proper vegetables in days. I have no idea how I’m going to sustain a cat without accidentally starving myself.

Okay, what do cats need? Food? Water? A litter box, probably. Oh gosh, I’m going to have to litter train a cat. I don’t know how to litter train a cat. Are there tutorials on it? There are probably tutorials on it. Thank goodness for the internet.

I walk nervously through the aisles until I screech to a stop in front of a shelf with some very familiar-looking packaging. It’s nice to see the garish color scheme hasn’t changed. I relax slightly. What worked for one cat could work for another, right? If nothing else, it’s a start. I smile as I remember the first few weeks, when she seemed to come home with a new brand of cat food almost every day until we found one that finally stuck.

I dump a packet into my basket and head to checkout.

—

We were much younger back then. It was winter, and we were stumbling home through the snow when she saw it. It was only a few weeks old, dark, black fur and such round eyes. One look at it and she was a goner. I remember trying to convince her to call someone else for help, but she insisted, and I was never very good at making solid arguments.

She named it Nyx because she was a nerd. She took care of it, and it knocked all our things off of tables and perched on whatever slightly elevated surface it could find. She bought its food and somehow managed to scrounge together enough to get it cute little outfits every now and then. She absolutely adored the creature.

Nyx grew on me like the helpful kind of mold—you’re not sure what it is at first, but you can learn to appreciate it. We had a light-hearted sort of rivalry of sorts. I called it names and it hissed at me and when I went to bed crying it would jump up next to me and purr until I went to sleep.

Losing it was devastating for both of us.

—

“Look, just calm down! I’m not going to hurt you, so sit still, darn it—”

The dratted beast yowls and swipes a me viciously. Its claws land true, and I start bleeding from the gash they make. I yelp, cradling my hand close to me, tears pricking at my eyes. Swearing, I stalk off to the bathroom to clean the wound and see what I can do to fix the damage.

When I walk out, the terrible creature hisses at me. For the wildest moment, I feel like snarling right back at it. And since there’s no one else around to judge, that’s exactly what I do. It glares at me balefully, and I snap.

“Just STOP IT. Stop being so mean to me! I could’ve left you on the streets, you ungrateful wretch. I’m sick of this. You know what? Just go back to whatever miserable life you were leading. Go on! Get out!”

I immediately feel terrible. I don’t really mean it. I’m just tired. I’m so tired of everything.

The creature seems to recognize that, because it stops hissing at me every three seconds. Grateful for it, I sneak extra food into its bowl.

We reach a tentative peace after that.

—

The dratted creature is finally starting to break out of his shell, which is a relief. He’s even taken to swiping things off of tables, which isn’t really the best outcome, but it’s better than having him trying to claw my face off every five seconds.

And then she decides to pop by for a surprise visit. Of course.

So now, I’m three seconds away from kicking down my neighbour’s door.

I’ve smuggled the cat out in a trash bag. When Harry finally opens his door, I heave a sigh of relief so profound the potted plant outside his door flutters.

“Hi Harry, so sorry to dump this on you. Yes, the bag of trash is wiggling, yes, there’s a cat inside, no, I cannot show it to my friend, so pretty please will you watch this stupid creature until I kick her out?”

He winces apologetically. He signs slowly to accommodate for my limited vocabulary. Going out. Date!

I groan.

Just tell her, he signs.

“I don’t really have another choice, do I?” I say, smiling weakly. “Have fun on your date! Let me know EVERYTHING once you’re back.”

He nods cheerfully as I trudge back to my apartment in defeat. I ring the doorbell.

“You’re going to have to be cool about a lot of things real quick,” I say the second she opens the door.

—

“You know,” says Bob as the dratted creature clambers all over him, “you’ve actually done pretty good at taking care of him.”

“Please,” I snort. “He should be worshipping the ground I walk on. Instead, he knocks my TV remote off the sofa and treats my guests like a jungle gym.”

I’m only partially joking, and Bob lets out the sensible sort of chuckle the situation deserves. I find it mildly infatuating.

“We actually had a cat a few years ago,” I remark. “Wanna know what your girlfriend named it?”

He groans lightheartedly. “Let me guess: something incredibly niche and related to Greek mythology.”

“Bingo! Nyx, after—”

“—the primordial being of the night,” he finishes, clearly having heard this dozens of times before. “Honestly, I’d just call it Blacky and be done with it.”

“Right!? This fella here,” I say, gesturing to the dratted creature, “is Orange on a good day and Dunderhead on a bad one.”

“Honestly, he seems more like a Ginger to me.”

“He’s Ginger on the average days!”

For some reason, we find this hilarious. We break into giggles, but I sober up quickly.

“I’ll have to find someone to look after him on Monday. It’s not that I don’t trust him to fend for himself; I just want him to have company.”

Bob hesitates, like he’s internally debating something. “I could look after him for you?”

It’s official. This man is my hero.

—

“Okay,” I say. “You went on this date ages ago. You HAVE to tell me what happened!”

Harry looks at me skeptically. You said something similar about learning sign language, and yet here we are, he scribbles onto the whiteboard he keeps for us poor, illiterate folks.

“I was busy!” I protest.

With your cat?

“The one and only.”

He sits back contemplatively. The expression on his face mildly unnerves me—he looks like he’s plotting to rob a bank. I squirm where I’m sitting cross-legged on his living room floor.

I have a deal, he writes at last.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

I will give you the details of my date, he writes out, flipping the whiteboard to show me. I squeal while he immediately flips the whiteboard around to scribble on it again. When he shows it to me, it reads: I will give you the details of my date BUT in return, you must allow Ginger to visit me whensoever he likes.

“Done! I’ll even leave my door open so he can sneak out.”

And I want cat photos.

“I have like, three. I’ll send them to you.”

Very well! So, we met up near the park…

—

A BRIEF INTERMISSION

INT. THE LIVING ROOM OF A TINY APARTMENT

GINGER (who may also be referred to as DUNDERHEAD, THE TERRIBLE BEAST and other such related names) the ginger cat walks to CENTER STAGE, where there is a sofa.

GINGER: Meow.

On the sofa, we see a TV REMOTE placed precariously on the armrest. GINGER appears to be very fixated on it.

GINGER: Meow?

GINGER swipes at the TV REMOTE, but misses, because the sofa is too high and GINGER, despite being a Terrible Beast, is very short.

GINGER: Meow.

GINGER swipes at the TV REMOTE again, and misses. GINGER then proceeds to walk around to the front of the sofa and tries to jump onto the seat. Success!

GINGER: (happily, and clearly very pleased with himself) Meow!

GINGER walks to the armrest of the sofa. He takes a moment to savor his victory. Despite his human’s best attempts, his efforts have not been thwarted! He is once again master of the world, as he is now within perfect range of knocking the TV REMOTE off the sofa again! He takes a magnificent swipe at the TV REMOTE again and it topples to the ground, defeated.

GINGER: Meeeeeeow!

END.

—

I groan, faceplanting onto my table. Dunderhead bumps his against my shin affectionately. I give him a scratch on the head.

“Bad handwriting?” she chuckles, walking over with dinner.

“Disgusting,” I mumble. “Horrible, even. Demonic. I think you could use these to summon something.”

“Here, let me try,” she says, reaching out for the paper. I hand it over. Then I prop my chin in my hands to watch her reaction. Sure enough, she cycles through fifty different emotions ranging from confusion, disgust, horror, and the five stages of grief before eventually landing on an impressively neutral face.

“I can’t read this.”

“And I still have to grade it,” I say.

“No, seriously. We could totally summon demons with this. Are we looking at it the right way?” she asks, tilting the sheet of paper around.

“I’m doomed,” I say, voice muffled by the table again.

“Hey guys!” says Bob, scooping up Dunderhead from the ground to give him cuddles. The beast doesn’t even attempt to claw his face off. Traitor.

“Is that an analysis on how everyone in Twelfth Night is gay?” he says, peering over her shoulder.

We freeze. “You can read that?”

He shrugs. “Sure. It’s easy.”

“I am irrevocably in love with your boyfriend and I may very well steal him,” I deadpan.

“Honestly?” she says. “I’d let you.”

—

“Knucklehead. What do you have there?”

The Terrible Beast drops the paper it held in its mouth, looking entirely too pleased with himself. I raise an eyebrow as I read the lines scribbled in pencil. And then I feel my cheeks heat up.

I have a cat. Most adorable
creature I have ever had the
fortune to meet. He is the
color of oranges, but I
named him Ginger and he
knows when I’m happy
and when I’m sad he
cares for me as best
as he can and for that,
I love him, I love him,
I love him, I love him.

I have sudden vivid memories of stumbling back home after dinner at her and Bob’s place, feeling overwhelmingly, inexplicably, incurably sad. And then the Horrible Creature had walked over and pawed at me until I cracked a smile. And I felt so incredibly grateful for him that I grabbed a sheet of paper and scribbled down what felt like the epitome of poetry, before burying it away where I’d never be embarrassed by it again and promptly falling asleep.

Wait. I narrow my eyes at Ginger. “How did you get this from a box above my closet?”

—

Bob is just a normal guy with a normal life. There is nothing remotely interesting about him, and he’s quite content with it.

Then he meets his now-girlfriend, and while life is no fantasy adventure, it’s certainly a tad more exciting.

And then he meets his girlfriend’s best friend, who seems to lowkey detest him for dating his girlfriend, which is bemusing to say the least.
In a final twist to his series of new encounters, he meets his girlfriend’s best friend’s new cat. The one said best friend apparently stole off the streets and managed to hide from his girlfriend for weeks, even though the two are practically joined at the hip. It’s impressive, really.

It’s Monday now, and he’s watching the cat they’ve decided to dub Ginger. He’s a charming fellow, with adorable brown eyes and the snooty sort of behavior you would expect from a cat.

He sprawls across the sofa and laughs as Ginger tries to knock the remote off the table that’s too high for him. And then, somehow, the remote clatters to the ground without Ginger even touching it.

Bob stares. The cat looks way too smug to be legal.

Telekinesis it is, then.

—

An explanation. Ginger was born under the arch of a rainbow, large and brilliant and everyhued. It was the most glorious thing in the sky. His mother left him when he was young, he was never quite attached to his siblings, and as a result, he had no regard for family.

In the very moment of Ginger’s birth, which was both now and never and past and present and quite likely the future too. The great serpent across the sky (a being of here and there and everywhere) saw him in that instant. And Ginger the Dunderhead, the Terrible, Horrible Creature-Beast tried to claw at it.

The serpent must have been very jovial indeed, for it only laughed and went so far as to bless the creature with the promise of a home, with a family that would care for him.

Yes, that was all the blessing entailed. All this to say: I do not know how the cat has telekinesis. The rainbow serpent, if asked, would probably be equally clueless. The Dratted Creature itself would not be able to explain how it has telekinesis.

In conclusion, all stories have plot holes. I, therefore, graciously beseech you to overlook mine.

—

I flop onto my sofa the instant I get home. Seems like I’ve been having a lot of those days lately. I sigh and roll over to face the ceiling.

Sometimes, I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d done things differently. Maybe I wouldn’t be living paycheck-to-paycheck in this tiny apartment. Maybe I could feed my stupid cat without wondering if I’d be able to feed myself. Maybe I’d actually eat more vegetables. If I’d been smarter, maybe I wouldn’t be like this.

Ginger nudges the hand I’ve left flopping down towards the floor. He meows, then jumps up to knead over my stomach, eventually settling down to curl into a ball. He purrs contentedly. I lazily run my hand over his fur, sighing again. Sometimes, I wonder if he was a mistake too. If he’d be happier with someone else.

As if he senses my train of thoughts, he uncurls himself and gently bats me on the head with his paws. It’s so unexpected that I let out a huff of laughter.

“Okay, okay, I get it! No more wallowing in self-pity,” I say, raising my hands in surrender. “Maybe life isn’t so bad after all, with you around.”

Pinkie Pie is the kind of filly who needs no introduction. However, for the sake of our poor, unsuspecting readers, we’ll do our best to condense her entire character into a few short paragraphs.

A typical day at the Pie family household starts with Ma Pie in the kitchen making breakfast and Pa Pie reading The Right Wing at the table. However, it really starts when Pinkie Pie comes cartwheeling down the stairs.

“PINKAMENA DIANE PIE, WHAT HAVE WE SAID ABOUT CARTWHEELING DOWN THE STAIRS?”

“To not to,” says Pinkie. She looks so miserable about it that Ma Pie sighs and decides to change the subject.

“Pa, what’s the news say?”

“THE GAYS ARE HORRIBLE! CONSERVATISM FOREVER! EMBRACE THE RIGHT WING!! AMERICA RAHHH! GOATYE 4 LIFE!”

If Pinkie were the type to pay attention, she would’ve been very bewildered indeed. Fortunately, she was distracted by the pony she was trying to sculpt out of a balloon.


Flash forward to a dozen years or so later, and Pinkie Pie is thriving. She lives in Ponyville with her five amazing (girl)friends she wouldn’t trade for the world. She even has her own Pink Pony Club! Nevermind the fact that her parents have no clue what her life is like now. Nevermind the fact that they’d probably scream, “our sweet baby girl, what have you done!?”

Ah but wait! In just a few words from now, they find out about it…

“PINKAMENA DIANE PIE,” yells her father. “WHAT IS THIS MONSTROSITY?”

“It’s not a monstrosity, dad,” says Pinkie. “It’s my club!”

“A CLUB? A CLUB? MY BABY GIRL RUNS THE PINK PONY CLUB?”

“Hey, back off mister!” says Rainbow Dash, shoving him away.

“No, it’s all fine!” says Pinkie. “I promise,” she insists, pushing down the baseball bat Applejack’s already raised to swing at him.

“I can’t in good conscience allow you to continue with this,” says Pinkie’s father, dropping the all-caps in a rare moment of sincerity.

“I know, Pa—I know this isn’t the respectable life you wanted for me. But it makes me so happy. Can’t you see that?”

There's a long pause. And then… and then…

“ALRIGHT!” says Pa Pie. “YOU CAN KEEP THE CLUB—BUT ONLY IF YOU CAN PROVE THAT RESPECTABLE ARTISTS WOULD DARE TO PERFORM THERE. LIKE GOATYE.”


After that, well, difficult conversation with her father, Pinkie Pie picked up her phone and scrolled down her contact list. She scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled. They should call her Popular Pie for how many contacts she has! And no wonder her finger is so calloused- it’s all from the scrolling!

AHA! There he is- the pony of the hour. Tapping the contact, she put her phone to her ear and waited. Somewhere in the universe, the person whose phone she was calling rang. And that person… was Goatye.

“Hey Pinkie Pie! What’s up?” Goatye said. Pinkie Pie liked to imagine that he always stroked his goatee whenever he was on the phone.

“Hi Goatye! So the thing is! You know my club, the Pink Pony Club?”

“Yeah, of course I do! It’s my favorite place to go and get a Bloody Rarity,” he said, but took a pause. “For those of you reading this, it’s the My Little Pony Equestria Girls version of your Bloody Mary drink.” Woah. He just broke the fourth wall—I didn’t think that could happen. Um, well, hi Goatye, could you please go back into the story? Thanks bud.

Anywho!

“Well, the thing is, my father says it can only keep running if I have a respectable artist playing at it. And I thought why not you!” Pinkie Pie said. “So what'd ya say!”

“Hm, here’s the thing, Miss Pie. I’ll do i—-”

“EEEEEEEEEE!!!”

“BUT! I have just one condition- I want to meet this Ponyville Polycule I’ve heard so much about.”

“Oh.”

“I would be so honored to meet y’all. So what do you say?”

“Um, um, um! Sure!”

“Great! I’m so glad you aren’t somepony that I used to know.”

For those of you wondering, the Ponyville Polycule is the infamous love hexagon in Equestria. It’s composed of Twilight Sparkle, Rainbow Dash, Fluttershy, Rarity, Applejack, and Pinkie Pie. At their high school (Canterlot High), they began this love extravaganza that quickly became the spotlight of all things love-related. No one knew exactly who was dating who and when they were dating, but they changed partners faster than Fili-Second. So you see, Rarity was dating Applejack but Applejack was dating Rainbow Dash who was dating both Twilight and Pinkie Pie, plus them each dating at least one other (if not two!) in their complex love hexagon. And somehow they’re still friends! What can I say? Friendship is magic, after all.

After that phone call with Goatye, Pinkie Pie was regretting agreeing to his terms and conditions. Why couldn’t this be like the check box you check on websites to confirm you read the terms and conditions but really you didn’t and then nothing would come from it? She really didn’t want to face her current and ex-lovers. Yet, the Pink Pony Club must live on so boys and girls can all be queens every single day!

So there she was! The pink girl found herself in front of Rarity’s house, figuring she’d be the easiest to convince to meet Goatye. She knocked and heard footsteps running towards the door and when it creaked open, she was startled to see not Rarity, but Applejack! Pinkie Pie clasped a hoof—sorry, hand—over her mouth to muffle the shrieking gasp that erupted from her lungs, her eyes nearly popping out from her head.

“APPLEJACK?” she screeched at the peach colored girl who stood in front of her in…were those Rarity’s pajamas? She would know. After all, she and Rarity were a thing just mere weeks ago.

“Oh, uh- hi Pinkie Pie!” she stuttered in her thick Texan accent. How Alia core of her. “R-Rarity, I didn’t know Pinkie and you were still…” she trailed off, eyeing Pinkie Pie. Rarity rushed to the door, shaking her head, before Pinkie Pie could respond.

“No, no! Nothing to worry about, darling,” Rarity said, waving her hands frantically. A bit TOO frantically. “Hello Pinkie… Applejack just stayed over last night for a, uh, sleepover.”

It was at that moment that a certain someone revved up the driveway in her brand new motorcycle. Shaking her rainbow mane out of her helmet, Rainbow Dash dismounted and strutted angrily towards the group gathered at the door. “RARITY!” she screeched. “Why do you have two of our friends over? I thought today was for me! And our date!”

Rarity’s eyes darted to and from Rainbow Dash and Applejack. “Ha… so you see… I… have been… dating… you… both?” she admitted.

“I have something to say as well! I… Rarity, love, my dear. I’m sorry. But I’ve been dating Flutter Shy… whoops. I’m sorry, you just seemed so… nice,” Applejack stuttered, blushing profusely. Rarity and Rainbow Dash stopped fighting, their jaws dropped.

“You don’t have to drop your jaws at me, y’all,” Applejack said.

“Look behind you!” Pinkie Pie exclaimed.

Up the driveway came Fluttershy, frozen in a mid-trot. “Woah woah woah! Ladies, what is going on here?” she said in her barely audible voice. “I just came to drop something off from my sweetheart for Rarity.”

“And your sweetheart is who?” says Rarity, squinting at her.

“Twilight.”

Rarity’s eyes widened. “B-but I’m dating Twilight!”

“No I am!”

“Well, I am too!” Pinkie Pie rolled her eyes. Everypony shook their manes aggressively saying no. “Aw, come on! I’m dating all of you!”

“…no? I’ve never dated you, Pinkie,” said Rarity. A chorus of “neither have I”s echoed from the rest of the girls.

Just when they thought the day couldn’t get any worse, guess who trotted up the driveway?

“What in the name of Celestia’s celestial mane is even going on here?” laughs Twilight hysterically.

“Man, I am so glad that I’m the only one of my kind in the entire series and therefore largely unshippable,” deadpans Spike, becoming surprisingly genre-aware for a pre-teen dragon.

“Fluttershy,” says Rainbow Dash, “I think now would be a good time to mention the thing—”

“Oh!” laughs Fluttershy nervously. “Yes. The thing!”

Applejack fires up at that. “Y’all, I swear on Granny Smith’s best apple pie, if you two say that—”

“Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeechnically by the conventional definition of the term, Fluttershy and I are dating. So uh. Surprise!” says Rainbow Dash ft. jazz hands.

Everyone gasps.

“Wait, why are you gasping?” says Pinkie, pointing at Fluttershy accusingly. “You already knew that.”

“Well—” stutters Fluttershy. “It’s just—I mean—”

She retreats further and further into her wild mane of hair with each word, and the whole crowd breaks into squabbling again, trying to defend her honor and doing a terrible job of it.

Suddenly, there’s a poof of magic and the Ponyville Polycule find themselves with a dragonequus sprawled gracefully across the grass on Rarity’s front yard.

Everyone stares at D!scord.

D!scord stares back at everyone, smiling smugly. “I heard my dearest friend Fluttershy’s good name being spoiled and slandered and arrived to find you squabbling like a herd of uncivilized farm-bred horses."

“HEY!” yells Applejack. She makes a flying leap at D!scord, and it takes all five of her friends to restrain her.

“Now,” says D!scord, completely unperturbed and studying his claws, “what seems to be the problem?”

“As if we’d ever tell you,” snarls Twilight.

“You’ve betrayed us far too many times by now,” sneers Rarity.

“WE ALL THOUGHT WE WERE DATING EACH OTHER BUT APPARENTLY WE’RE NOT,” sobs Pinkie Pie.

“Welp, there goes all the information we were trying not to reveal,” mutters Rainbow Dash.

“Ladies, ladies,” chides D!scord. “Why bother hiding your true feelings from each other? Leave behind all this frivolity, toss aside the labels if they serve you so poorly! Simply admit you all are either disgustingly in love with each other or that your affection transcends mere dating—following which you will achieve true Nirvana!”

“Ain’t that a band?” says Applejack, to which Rainbow Dash says: “Yeah, one of my favorites!” to which Twilight says: “he’s referring to the philosophy, loves.”

“Following your new enlightenment,” says D!scord, nodding at Twilight, “you can then follow me and help unleash chaos and destruc—ahem. Release chaotically wonderful gifts amongst the ponies of Equestria!”

“And of course since I have the power of magic and anime on my side, I’ll simply hypnotize you into doing my bidding!” says D!scord, hypnotizing them into doing his bidding.

Suddenly, there’s a powerful wave of light bursting from the horizon. Discord’s hypnotizing spell is broken in an instant, helpless against the strength of the steadily-growing source of brightness.

Everyone squints, blinking wildly against the light. When their eyes finally adjust to it, they see a glorious figure, posing heroically. It’s none other than Goatye himself!

“But you didn’t have to style my mane!” he sings.

“Make friends like we never even happened and that we were nothing!
I guess your cutie mark says so,
But now you’re just somepony that I used to know!”

The power of the song is too much—the heart-aching story of a broken friendship wreaks devastation like no other. D!scord is whisked away like his evil schemes never existed. All that is left is silence, and Goatye.

“OH MY GOSH IT’S GOATYE,” says Pa Pie. “I’M YOUR BIGGEST FAN!”

“Um, Pa? Can I keep the Pink Pony Club now?” asks Pinkie tentatively.

“YOU CAN KEEP DANCING ON THAT STAGE IN YOUR HORSESHOES FOR ALL OF ETERNITY! GOATYE HIMSELF! MY DAUGHTER KNOWS THE MOST RESPECTABLE ARTIST ALIVE!”

Two days later…

Wedding bells could be heard all throughout Equestria as the wedding between Goatye and Pa Pie was about to begin! It was a stunning ceremony full of love and, of course, laughter.

Pa Pie had divorced Ma Pie when he discovered that all this time he had been in love with Goatye. Ma Pie was now just somepony that he used to know.

SWC March 2025

Thriller cabin hat trick, huh.

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Dailies:

• 01.03.2025 (My first and hopefully last 1k intro)
  
• 02.03.2025 (5 words exchange)
  
• 03.03.2025 (Portmanteaus)
  
• 08.03.2025 (Women's day)
  
• 11.03.2025 (Fairy tale with a twist)
  
• 12.03.2025 (Title swap)
  
• 13.03.2025 (Flower daily)
  

Weeklies:

• Weekly 1 (Worldbuilding)
  
• Weekly 3 (Tropes)
  

Other:

• Good Ol' Media Circus (Writing Comp Entry)
  
• Author's Note (for Good Ol' Media Circus)
  

Daily 1

Notes: This is the first and last time I'm trying a 1k intro. Don't expect it again.

Word Count: 1013 words

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Hi. My name is technically not Recca. Then again, a rose by any other name is just as sweet, and though I find the idea of comparing myself to a rose rather crass, a Recca by any other name is, at the end of the day, just a Recca.

Human beings are a funny thing. We’re nothing but walking, talking ideas. In fact, all of reality is just that—nothing but an idea! We’re made of stardust, but we’re also made of stories, and I think my reasoning on the nature of existence is both getting out of hand but somehow still going nowhere. Ha, that’s a charming turn of phrase. I’ve got to save that for later.

For some thrice-accursed reason, I’ve decided to take a crack at the 1k-word intro challenge. Why I’ve decided to do it now when I’ve never once in my seven (I think it’s actually closer to ten now, but I lose track of time a lot) sessions of SWC even attempted to do so, I’ve yet to determine. I think it’s got something to do with the fact that I’ve neither written anything for fun, nor have I talked about myself in quite a while.

So! Here we are. Recca, she/her. Overly fond of “Hi x, I’m Recca” jokes. I decided to make it a thing, and no one has known a moment of peace ever since—myself included. These days I’m mostly torn between cutting down on them and doubling the number of times I make the joke. In case this hasn’t tipped you off by now: I love reusing jokes. I’ll recycle that joke so many times you won’t even know what it was in the first place.

I enjoy playing the recorder. I wish I did that more, but I’ve found myself so swamped by everything I haven’t been able to play it nearly as often as I like. I’m happy to say that I can at the very least manage to not sound like a dying hyena, no matter how long it’s been since I last practiced. I also have a rudimentary knowledge of playing the piano—but then again, who doesn’t? Anyone can manage a Hot Cross Buns on the piano.

I read a lot. Or rather—I like reading a lot. These days its mostly fanfiction, which isn’t really disappointing per se—there are so many lovely fanfics out there. No, I just wish I’d read a little more original work too. My favorite genres are…well. I suppose I’ll read just about anything if it’s fictional and I find it compelling enough. Very rarely, it doesn’t even need to be fictional. So I suppose the question oughtn’t to be what are my favorite genres, but rather: what interests me? Phrasing it like that makes it sound dreadfully boring, though, so I’ll not grace that with an answer.

When people ask me what my favorite book is, I usually say Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones. I’m not quite sure why. Not that it’s a bad book! I adore it very much; I can roughly quote the first few paragraphs entirely from memory. I suppose I just thought it’d be easier to have a predetermined answer that isn’t as vague as: “I love so many books for so many reasons that I can hardly choose a favorite.”

If I were to find myself magically transported into a fantasy world, I most likely wouldn’t survive the shock. If I did manage to somehow survive the shock, I’d be brought to a near-fatal condition all over again because most fantasy likes to take place in a medieval sort of setting, which rather notably does not have any internet. It’s depressing to think I’ve become such a stereotype, but I guess I’ll have to be one of the Other Girls so that everyone else can be Not Like Them.

If pressed, I would be a willow tree. This is because I think willow trees look pretty. This is also because I once read a romcom where the main character had to take a personality quiz and realized that if he was confronted with a multiple-choice question on what kind of tree he’d be, he’d pick an oak tree. Ever since I read that, I’ve decided that maybe I should have an answer ready if I ever had to answer a question like that too.

I don’t have a favorite dinosaur. This is because I was a Greek mythology kid, and then a Sherlock Holmes kid. This, of course, implies that I have a favorite Greek myth, or perhaps a favorite Sherlock Holmes story. Thankfully, this paragraph is about neither of those. I suppose triceratops are nice…? And I think ankylosaurs are charming—I mean, a built-in wrecking ball? Neat. But I think I’ve already wounded every dinosaur kid with my painfully obvious cluelessness about dinosaurs enough. I’d rather not say anything else on the subject.

I have a love-hate relationship with Annie Jump Cannon. I can admire her work, and I can admire the legacy she left behind, but I absolutely detest her handwriting. Sometimes it gets downright indecipherable. I’ve never been able to differentiate between the way she writes bright and the way she writes light. It’s concerning.

I have slightly less more than a hundred words left to yap about myself.

I absolutely adore Brandon Sanderson’s work. I think I’ve read almost all of his works—I only skipped a few of his minor series, but hopefully I’ll have caught up to all those too someday. I love his literary sense of humor. I think I try to emulate that in my writing sometimes, which probably shouldn’t surprise me even though it does. A little.

I like writing serious stuff. But I LOVE writing ridiculous stuff. The sillier the better. I love a good laugh (no that wasn’t a Elizabeth Bennet reference I would never besmirch her honor by implying I’m anything like her) and more often than not it’s my ultimate writing goal—to give everyone a good laugh

Daily 2

Go to the comments of the main cabin and post five words of your choice for someone to use in a story. Then, pick someone else’s five words to use in a story of your own!

Words chosen: fox, whimsy, river, rock, door (helpfully supplied by @KitCatYey)

Notes: This feels like such a ripoff of this thing I read the other day and it's driving me CRAZY because I'm so fond of the style but it doesn't feel authentic or like it's mine which makes no sense but like GRRRRRRR

Word Count: 343 words

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To be fair, it’s not like anyone was around to warn him about befriending foxes.

He lived at the very edge of the woods, where the river gave way to rock. Quite a lot of rock, actually. You’d think all the water would’ve worn it down to sand, but it was some really steadfast rock. The kind they build mountains out of. Where was he going with this, again? Whatever.

Anyway his house was made of—you guessed it, rock. It was hard to call it a house because it was more like a cave but calling it a cave gave the impression that he was an uncivilized feral rat child, and he preferred to think of himself as a little more dignified than that.

Besides, there was a bit of lichen sticking to one of the stones near the entrances! Or maybe it was moss. Point is, it wasn’t all made of rock. Take that, suckers.

Where were we? Oh right. The fox.

Well living near the woods is guaranteed to evoke a sense of whimsy in characters. A peaceful cottagecore vibe, if you will. So when a fox came up to his door (and for the sake of preserving his dignity, we’ll pretend it was a door and not an opening) and offered to be his friend, he agreed instantly.

Hey, he had no parental supervision, okay? Who was going to tell him that all foxes are a bunch of dirty, cheating liars who backstab you at every given opportunity? The library books? Please. Those are all propaganda anyway. So like, sue him.

Which is how he found himself in his current predicament. Trapped in his own cave house. By a fox. Who promised to be his friend. As an orphan, he probably should’ve been smarter. In his defense, his trust issues only extended towards humans. How was he supposed to know that all sentient beings were like that? As soon as he finds whoever’s responsible for the universe, he’s going to give them a piece of his mind for this.

Daily 3

Comment three words and then claim two words someone else has commented. Combine those two words and write an advertisement for your new creation

Words: Water, fire and earth, out of which I've chosen to stick with water and fire. Helpfully supplied by @KitCatYey!

Notes: Yes, the first line is a reference to Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. No, I've never actually read it. Also, this nameless editor is going to become one of my favorite recurring characters in the Recca Literary Universe at this rate.

Word count: 361 words

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Have you ever wanted to feel the pleasure of burning while still somehow feeling completely soaked? Or perhaps you’ve wondered about the opposite—taking a shower while somehow feeling like you’re scalding! (Editor’s note: please reconsider this line—it already exists. It’s called having a water heater. Also, remind me to take up a complaint with Upper Management about providing employees with more benefits, will you?)

WELL WONDER NO MORE! For at last, the all new WATIRE has arrived! (Editor’s note: maybe we should consider a pronunciation guide. Or perhaps a rebranding).

Brought to you by your favorite company, creators of the critically acclaimed EATER (Editor’s note: substitute with a mention of one of our better products—earth water was an absolute flop. The only critically acclaimed thing about it was the fact that we discontinued the product two years ago.), PORTMANTEUR now offers you the sheer unparalleled brilliance of WATIRE (Editor’s note: waterire? Firater? Fireter? There’s gotta be a better option, come on you guys)—water fire!

Sometimes things are too hot or too cold. It’s so hard to find a just right! But never fear, Goldilocks! Because our new product can fix that immediately! With WATIRE (Editor’s note: Firwater? Firer? Ware?), experience the too hot and the too cold, both at the same time! Why settle for just right when you can find yourself constantly torn between two extremes simultaneously, after all? (Editor’s note: who thought this was a good idea? I just wanna talk. Promise).

But that’s not where the fun ends, oh no! WATIRE (Fiter? Watfi? Firewa?) comes in multiple different flavors! We offer a wide array, ranging from trusty ol’ strawberry and chocolate to more exotic varieties, like triple banana sundae split and the lemonade you had one summer from oh-so-long ago back when you were a wee child immune to the effects of late-stage capitalism!

Editor’s note: I’m quitting my job. I refuse to be associated with this in ANY way whatsoever. Please print out the resignation form for me, I’ll fill it out during break. Thanks for being such a lovely assistant. I’m sorry to leave you to suffer with these goons alone :(

Daily 8

Whether it be a family relative or somebody you look up to, today, you're going to be writing them a 300 word letter, thanking them for all their resilience.

Notes: And so continues Recca's speedrunning plague…may it aid her well tomorrow during Cabin Wars as she completes her thoroughly-neglected weekly…
Written to a dear friend of mine

Word count: 326 words

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I didn’t expect to be writing one of these again, but I suppose I am.

I’m told I ought to write you a letter thanking you for your resilience. Very well, then. I truly admire your resilience, though calling it that is a bit of a stretch (don’t fight me on this—you’ll lose). You do tend to bounce back from anything life throws at you, though. Relatively okay at that too! And though that seems to be more of a general human characteristic rather than a you-specific thing, it’s admirable nonetheless!

Oh, very well—I’ll try to keep off lowkey insulting you here on out.

I wasn’t lying, by the way. It’s sad that you think of a lot of things in terms of ‘let’s just get through this’. I do wish you’d try to enjoy life more. But I admire how you keep going, despite it all. It inspires me to do the same.

Now! Your resilience, I have given it its due acknowledgement. Now we must move on to finer qualities. It’s hard to pick one, because I’m still not sure if I’ll be showing you this. And should I end up showing you this, I’d rather you be appropriately flattered instead of left unsatisfactorily hanging.

Am I talking weird? I hope I’m not. Though I suppose that hardly matters, because you’ve never really minded all my quirks and idiosyncrasies. You encouraged them. Even played along. I’m not sure if it was out of pity or anything, but I’m glad you do it nonetheless. There you have it! The elusive other quality. I’m really thankful that you put up with me.

Oh, I know, it sounds awfully self-pitying and stuff. Overly dramatic, even. Then again, as you’re so very fond of saying: what’s life without a little dr
(I still maintain that you stole the sentiment from me.)

Happy International Women’s day, you wonderful woman. You’re going to take the world by storm.

Weekly 1

Total word count: 1739 words

• Part 1: 389 words
  
• Part 2: 3 aesthetic boards
  
• Part 3: 527 words
  
• Part 4: 823 words
  

Notes: Look. It's past midnight. I hate making aesthetic sets. Ignore their deteriorating quality. Yes, I named a place Kingdomlandia. The LIES chips have a full form I'm too exhausted to come up with a properly clever acronym for. Yes, it's supposed to be sci-fi. If there's anything inexplicable, assume it's magic. I invoke Clarke's laws. No, you are not allowed to judge. Good night.

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Part 1

—

The people of this yet-to-be-named society are excellent at spotting lies. I was thinking some sort of magic, like the kind you see with fae (many versions have them incapable of lying), but I’m starting to think some sort of implant instead because sci-fi is cool, this whole idea is based on a sci-fi short story I read, and Clarke’s three laws state that sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Win-win!

(Also I need material for part 3)

For funsies, I’m setting this in medieval times. Yes, medieval times with technology. Take that, future Recca. Enjoy suffering.

As lying for these people is essentially useless, it turns into a cultural sort of game to come up with a really good lie—the kind that has just enough truth and relies heavily on technicalities and omission.

It’s important to note that they’re not immoral just because they enjoy lying. Expect most things our society generally frowns upon to be frowned upon by these people too. Lying is a sport, because to them, it’s just a way of testing limits. How far can you stretch the truth before it registers as a blatant lie?

These people are contained in one geopolitical area. The whole world speaks in some sort of common tongue, but these guys have their own separate dialect. The dialect’s official name is just the name of the geopolitical area with a suffix, but I like to think the locals refer to their own dialect as Truth while they call the common tongue Lies. Why? Funneh.

I suspect politics is a lot more transparent, because, again, it’s literally impossible to lie. These people are essentially living, breathing lie detectors. They get hired as detectives a lot.

Also I’m making these people extraordinarily open-minded. A suspicious, near-inhuman lack of xenophobia. Maybe they’re not even fully human. Why not?

Oh, they totally have lying competitions, by the way. One of their biggest festivals.

I’m not quite sure on how religion factors into their world. I guess I’ll have to avoid referring to it over the course of the story, which is a shame, because religion can always be so fun. And speaking of faith, we might as well clarify that if you believe what you’re saying is true, that registers as truth—even if what you’re saying is actually false.

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Part 2

—



⇾ ▫ ♜ ▫ ⇽

Part 3

—

TO THE ESTEEMED COLLECTIVE OF NATIONS,

Did you know that having a literal chip in your brain can cause severe damage to the people of your community? That the said chips can malfunction if not cared for properly? Who knew? Certainly not the us, the people of Kingdomlandia. Honestly, it’s hard enough to rebuild an entire society from scratch without any of our magic in a wasteland backwater of a planet no one’s even heard of. Like, come on. Give a war-ravaged society a break!

Perhaps I’m being overly crass and flippant in my official request for aid. You’ll have to excuse me. All my scribes have been ravaged by the brain sickness. That is, by the way, what we’ve elected to call the disease—for lack of a more creative term. As you might have no doubt noticed from your espionage reports, most of our people are in no state to create a more creative moniker. It’s a shame, really. If the sick were still lucid enough, I assure you that they would be outraged at such a generic name.

I’m afraid I’m veering off the point. Before I return to the obviously more pressing matter at hand, I’d like to say one final thing on the subject: do send your spies here for better training. They’re incredibly obvious to us, and their very presence is like sending a flare that says: ‘I’m not from your country! I’m here to spy on you!’ We’ve played along with it this long, but now that we’re in such a dire situation it seems silly to let it continue.

The facts of the matter are as such: we arrived on your planet approximately fifteen months ago. We asked for refuge, and we are tremendously grateful that you elected to do offer it. And it is with a very heavy heart indeed that I am forced to ask the nations of this world, once again, for aid.

Reports are scattered and infrequent with more people succumbing to this illness so quickly, but they all indicate that a majority of our population is currently afflicted. The symptoms include severe headaches, bouts of nausea, and a total inability to detect falsehoods. We have reason to believe that this brain sickness is caused due to a malfunctioning of the LIES chip.

Nearly all, if not our entire population, is currently equipped with these chips (the youngest children have avoided this as we have been unable to reproduce said chips). This leaves a truly concerning percentage of our people vulnerable to this sickness. Our resources have been low, and they sink lower still. We cannot sustain the sick while working to heal them at the same time. Research takes time and people that we do not have.

Personally, I confess that I am at a loss. I do not know yet how we will be able to repay any aid you may choose to provide us with. I cannot in good conscience gamble away any future assets—I will not have my people suffering for generations after we resolve brain sickness.

I can only hope that we will be able to negotiate a compromise.

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Part 4

—

All of Kingdomlandia is squeezed into one rather small town. Sure, calling it a village is a bit of a stretch at this point—it’s a decent sized town and within a few years, it’s almost guaranteed to become a city. But it hasn’t been a few years yet, so a village Kingdomlandia remains.

Milla trudges through the streets to the main square, where the well is located. There are exactly six others, evenly spaced around Kingdomlandia. Along the way, she’s waved at everyone who’s awake at this dreadfully early hour and nodded at the ones who are still half-asleep. Everyone knows everyone in Kingdomlandia, after all, because the entire population is basically five big, very extended families plus a few dozen smaller ones.

At the well, someone calls out: “Ho, Camilla!”

“My name is Camilla,” she deadpans very loudly. Everyone chuckles at how blatant a lie it registers as.

“That’s Milla to you, boyo,” laughs Reginald-the-farmer, shoving the kid good-naturedly. “Better catch on, or you’ll be seeing lies so bright they’ll look like flares.”

Ben-the-aforementioned-kid coughs. “Sorry. My sister’s asking if you’ll be around for the book club meeting later.”

“Depends,” says Milla, grinning slyly. “Is Stafen going to be there?”

There’s another chorus of chuckles at that. “He is very interested in everyone’s business, so I doubt he’ll be able to stay away,” says Ben demurely. There’s the slightest flicker at his tone that gives away his amusement, so minute it barely registers at all. Someone claps him on the back, whistling in admiration.

“Honestly, Milla,” laughs Ben. “The man glows so brightly you’ll be able to see him coming from a mile away.” And Milla finds herself laughing too, because it’s the truth. Stafen might be one of the best spies his country has to offer, but in a community full of lie detectors, he sticks out like a sore thumb. One that’s painted in fluorescent colors.

“Do you think he’s ever going to catch on that we’ve caught on?” muses Milla, as she fills up her basket from the well.

“Well, we’re certainly not telling him, that’s for sure!” retorts Georgia-from-the-bakery. “I’ve currently got him at five months, but Dana says it’ll take him ten and Jude says he won’t catch on at all until we’ve told him to his face.”

“What about the others?” calls someone as they hang up their laundry. Why anyone would choose to do their laundry so early remains a mystery, but Kingdomlandia has always been accustomed to being a country full of people with their own quirks. In Ben’s family, there’s an hour of non-stop whistling every evening, and no one in Georgia’s family learns how to so much as use a measuring spoon until their twenty-third birthday, when they somehow become accomplished enough to open their own bakery despite no training. And in Milla’s family, of course, no one goes by their birth name. “I heard there was another one from Glubble—Rita, was it?”

“Rati,” corrects Milla. “She’s probably the closest to figuring it out, but I’d still give her a few weeks before she realizes her tricks are as obvious as yesterday’s rotten fish.”

“I miss fish,” pipes up Hettie, and that sends everyone into a momentary lapse of silence. Kingdomlandia lost a great deal, running from the invasion. Virtually all their technology, their resources, and three-quarters of the population too. The land that the Collective of Nations on this insignificant backwater of a planet agreed to let Kingdomlandia inhabit seemed miniscule while the memories of their former grandeur were still fresh in their minds.
Yes, Kingdomlandia had lost much in the escape to the planet of Slopfuddle. Fish was probably the highest on the list.

“There’s not even a decent ocean here,” grumbles Ness-from-the-forge. There’s a hint of untruth to it—just the slightest flicker at her tone. Someone gives her a quick one-armed hug. It’s easy to sympathise. Ness is just as grateful as the rest of them to be alive. It would just be nicer if it weren’t so hard.

“Well,” sighs Milla. “I should be getting home now.”

She leaves to a chorus of farewells, weighed down significantly by her bucket of water. She’ll have to stop by Gep’s shop someday, if only to see if he’d managed to recreate automobile buckets again. She wouldn’t keep her hopes up. He’d promised her a box of screws next month, but they’d both known that his uncertainty made it as good hopeless.

Trade was at an all-time low. The countries of Slopfuddle were highly suspicious of their refugees. They’d come to expect it from an entire society unequipped with LIES chips. Hence the numerous spies sent to “infiltrate” their little village country. Perhaps they should’ve been more offended at the implication that the Collective of Nations of Slopfuddle doubted their intentions, but that wasn’t the Kingdomlandian way, so they simply played along as if it were a game

Daily 11

Today, we'll be taking these magical tales and turned a revitalized twist on it! Write (…) a retelling of a fairy tale.

Notes: Well! This certainly surprised me. This story is probably the least me-like story I've written because I went and wrote in all the things I normally would never have chosen to write. I think the idea was that I'd try to keep it as fairy tale as possible, hence the stuff like the bit where somehow the mermaid and the princess fall in love even though they literally never talk!!!! Except I think I lost track somewhere along the way.

Anyway I left out a lot of things (wanted to go into a bit about how the sea-folk here are apparently all like faeries, maybe an ending where the princess goes out to meet the mermaid every now and then because I'm a sap, perhaps more expansion on the witch and the conditions of the potion because I slapped those together very half-heartedly) but it is LATE and I wish to SLEEP and anyway fairy tales are meant to be SHORT. Good night.

Word count: 627 words

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Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a princess. She was a creature of the earth and soil and everything that blooms from it. She lived with the seasons—she was bright and childish in the springs, and solemn and steadfast in the winters. There were always grass stains on the hem of her skirts and there was some or the other flower in her hair and all her elders had long since given up on trying to keep her clean.

She seemed far healthier for all the dirt anyway. Seeing her without a touch of the nature’s embrace was wrong, unnatural, inconceivable. She was of the earth, through and through.

One day, her father, the king, took her on a long voyage by sea. It was exciting for her at first, as all new things are, but she tired quickly as the days passed and she longed to return to her gardens again. She spent weeks gazing out at the ocean, hoping to catch a glimpse of land again until one fateful day, when the endless blue was broken by a figure in the distance.

The princess could have raised an outcry, but something compelled her not to. When the figure drew close enough to distinguish, she was glad that she hadn’t. It was a woman, with wild long hair and a body that ended in a tail of iridescent scales.

They never said anything to each other. But every day, the mermaid would swim by the princess’ ship—and so continued the little routine until the voyage ended and had finally brought the princess back to her homeland.

Upon her return, the people noticed a change in the princess. She was no longer rushing to be outside and had become solemn and withdrawn. She was lost in daydreaming and grew restless. Nothing brought her solace. Desperate, she snuck out to a witch’s cabin in the woods. The witch peered into her soul and recognized the cause of her distress—the girl had fallen in love with the mermaid.

The witch offered a potion that would give her the chance to see the mermaid again, so long as three conditions were met. First: the princess would allow the witch to take her place as heir to the throne. Second: should the princess fail to make the mermaid fall in love with her, she would have to return to land and take the witch’s place. Last: she must never speak of the incident to anyone and would give up her voice forever.

So desperate was the princess, she instantly agreed. She drank the potion and stumbled out to sea, sinking below the waves in a faint. When she came to, she was reunited with the mermaid and had her own beautiful tail. They spent many a wonderful time together. No words were required, for the sea-folk needed none.

But homesickness followed the princess like a curse. Again, she longed for the earth and the soil—just like she had on that fateful voyage when she first met the mermaid. She became bitter and resentful, and she could never bear to join in when the mermaid was making merry with the other sea-folk. The happiness they found with each other became tainted with the weight of the princess’ longing for the earth.

Until at last the mermaid could bear it no longer. She beseeched the princess to return home, where she could be truly happy. The princess needed no further encouragement. She crawled up on the beach the very next day, the potion wearing off as the conditions were fulfilled. She retreated to the cabin in the woods and took the witch’s place with no further complaint.

They say she’s still there today.