♖ 24th of July - Main Cabin Daily
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@27coding_crazy - Slightly Wobbly Chairs

“Welcome to your test room.”
A tall man with a tweed jacket and an argyle bowtie waved the test takers into the room. “The test will go on for twelve hours, with a sixty minute interval every three hours. There are to be no conversations-”
-A girl in skating gear groaned.
“No snack breaks,”
“No…” muttered a large boy in a basketball jersey.
“No toilet breaks,”
A test taker with a perpetual look of constipation gulped.
“No sleeping,”
The kid in a hoodie in the corner continued to doze.
“And finally… no leaving until the twelve hours are up. Now… have a good evening.”

The door slammed shut to the screeching of the people inside. Cursing under her breath, the girl in the skating gear stomped her way over to the desks and dropped into a chair near the door. It wobbled slightly.
“Seriously?” she said, kicking her feet up on the desk. “Good evening? We're stuck in a test room for half a day and we don't even know what the test is!”
“These chairs are kinda shaky,” said constipation kid. They prodded their chair’s legs with all the curiosity of a cat with a new toy.

Skater girl rolled her eyes. “Leave it up to them to skimp out on our budget.”
The large boy in the basketball jersey and shorts mumbled something under his breath.
“What was that?” asked Skater.
“…The man said no talking,” said Basketball. He placed himself gingerly on his chair. It shook dangerously.
Skater girl opened her mouth to reply, but not before a loud snore cut her off. All eyes turned towards the back of the room.

Before their very gaze. the kid in the blue hoodie let out the loudest snore any of them had ever heard. Then with a crash, the slightly wobbly turned extremely shaky chair collapsed under their weight.
The kid continued to sleep.

♖ 25th of July - Main Cabin Daily
559 words

The universe ends with a shatter that levels entire worlds.

“Miss Might. Miss Might, can you hear me? Bria-” a frantic sidekick babbles into their earpiece. Esther shoots out the window with her hoverpack in hand just as the building begins to crumble. Outside, thousands of heroes and villains do the same. They rise into the air as one, above the planet that seems to be collapsing in on itself with every passing second. Their costumes are askew, their faces bare. To think something as trivial as an identity could matter at the end of the world… Esther drops all pretenses and hurtles at her hero, her friend.

“Bria!” they sob, latching onto her cape. A skyscraper crashes to the ground behind her.
“Mal- Esther?” murmurs Bria. “I thought… I mean, all of our comms went down, so…”
Esther looks up at her with shining eyes. “It's me, it's really me. I'm here,” she promises. Bria nods, then holds out a hand. Esther grasps it tightly. Together, they face the sinking ground below.

.

This is it. Erik feels it in his soul, in his undead bones. Aisling and Brona may be a fae and a banshee, but he has danced with Lady Death closer than any of them. She will bless you, allow you to walk amongst the living, and give you a thousand years more to live. Because everything returns to her in the end. Looking around, he finally begins to understand why she gave him a second chance.
He floats above the hill where everyone met. And for the first time since he entered ghosthood, Erik lowers his feet to the ground.

“I'm scared,” says Ryan, gazing up at the darkening sky. At that moment, Erik is reminded of how human, how mortal he is.
“We're going to be okay,” Erik says, even though he can feel the strings binding him to life snapping.
“We will,” Aisling nods - the first lie she's ever told. Eon bids her a silent congratulations, and can't find it in him to say it aloud.

Brona starts wailing. Soon the entire world will be pitch black.

.

“Work, come on, why aren't you working?” Lumen jabs his spaceship's communications buttons. No crackle bursts out of the speakers, no buzz or static makes itself known. Even the engines are virtually silent. He is completely, utterly, suffocatingly alone.

Light bursts through the room and for a second he thinks he's done it. Fixed the spaceship broadcast somehow, despite the fact that the place is even more quiet than before, like the vacuum of space has crept in through the cracks. The air is still and dead.
The light doesn't fade. Lumen rubs his eyes.
“Go away!” he shouts at no one, stamping his feet and doing anything to quell the sense of dread and helplessness snaking up his back. Tears begin to streak down his cheeks.

Eventually, Lumen quiets. The last of the oxygen in the ship dissipates. The light of a million dying stars exploding into supernovas fills every inch of the last view he'll ever see.

.

The universe shatters in a thousand different ways across a thousand different dimensions. One is swept away by a great flood. Another is wrapped up so tight in the fabric of time and space that it disappears entirely. In the end, they all meet the same fate.

♖ 4th Weekly
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Save Coda: 5/5/8/1/1/4/4/8/0/10;6;2;4;12;8;/1;2;1;2;1;/0;1;0;1;0;1;0;0;0;1;0;1;0;/

Begin your story by writing 100 words of whatever you like.
138 words

The scientist bolted down the road as fast as he could. His heart pounded, his legs ached, and his muscles shook with strain, but he couldn't stop yet. Not while the flaming facility was still in sight. If not for himself, then for the child in his arms and the kids clinging to his hand.
“Are- we- there- yet?” one of them asked now, panting.
The scientist looked ahead to the distant lights just over the horizon. Empty fields stretched out before them.
“Not yet, kiddo,” he said. “But I'll make sure we get there.”

“Do you promise?” asked the other. He gazed up at the scientist with eyes that seemed to know of something he did not. The scientist squeezed the thirteen year old's hand.
“I promise,” he swore, as much to the kids as to himself.

1. Write a flashforward into your story! Does your character predict the future? Do they get a glimpse into the future somehow?
289 words

Two days of walking later, they happened upon a town nestled between rolling green hills. They walked through, a strange little party of four. A man in a scorched lab coat, the sleeping child in his arms, and the boy and girl at his sides. For once the man was glad for these shady towns in the middle of nowhere. They found room at a dingy motel with no trouble. Only once the door closed between them and the outside world did the man dare to set the sleeping child down.

“Are we safe now?” the girl asked, sitting down on the cold tiles. He breathed in deep and mustered a smile.
“I think so.”
“Promise?” the other one asked again, glowering at his lap as he shivered. Thin hospital gowns were no match for the night chill.
“I promise, buddy.” the man wrapped the motel blankets around the boy's shoulders. “Tell you what. Now that we're safe, why don't you two pick names for yourselves? Something that's yours only. I think I have a book around somewhere that might help…”

Digging around in his bag, he shoved aside all manner of things to search for it. He'd bought it a month ago at the facility, back when the plans first started taking urgency. To bring the kids a spot of hope he knew they'd need.
“Let me see, I wanna see!” the girl snatched the book out of his hands. Her expression brightened the moment she laid eyes on the words trailing across the page. She flicked through the pages eagerly. “Ooh, this one's cool: Esila!”

Beside her, the boy ignored Esila's not so subtle elbow.
“I already know what name I want,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Niccolo.”

2. Play any kind of board or video game.

Played Cookie Clicker for a bit!

3. Your narrator suddenly realises their motives aren't as pure as they thought! How do they react? What do they do?
434 words

“In three… two… one.”
The man opened the door with his free hand and steps out into the hall with his kids behind him. The sleeping child was strapped to his chest with whatever spare fabric they'd managed to scrounge up. Niccolo's steps were noticeable quieter and slower than they had been during the midnight supply run to the motel's receptionist last night. Esila's face was twisted in fear and anger. None of them said a single word as they traipsed down the stairs.

“Room 306. We're checking out.” the man said, placing the room key down on the receptionist's desk. He kept his head down. The receptionist smiled a nervous sort of smile that raised goosebumps on his skin. Esila's grip on his hand tightened. Niccolo shifted ever so slightly closer.
“Have a great day,” the receptionist said.
The man nodded and stepped out the front doors.

A dart shot towards. He grabbed Esila's hand, pulled her out of its way, and ran. Faintly, he heard the sound of orders being yelled and guns reloading, but all he could focus on were his pounding head, the thump-thump-thump of of his feet, the cries of his kids. The world rushed by, a blur of yellows and reds and greens.
Until Niccolo screamed and yanked on his hand.

“Kid!” he whipped around. A metal ring had clamped around his oldest's leg, tight enough that the skin under seemed red, raw, and bloody. Niccolo grasped his hand as tightly as he could, but the metal anklet continued to drag him backwards. Behind him, the man could see someone raising a launcher to aim again.
Time seemed to stop. He felt Esila tugging on his other arm. He heard the sleeping child begin to wake. Yet all he could think of was how close he'd been to escaping, to leaving his past behind and starting a new life where he could just be.
The man looked at Niccolo's hand in his. He was so close. It was already slipping. All he had to do was-

“Wait-” Niccolo seemed to realise this a moment too late. “-NO!”
He flew backwards, crashing into the hands of the facility's security.
The man turned tail, Esila in tow, and starting running. He didn't see where he was going, just that it was out, out of the town and back into the countryside. The distraction had won them time, but it had lost them… he didn't know what it had lost them.
Niccolo's terrified, betrayed face as he was pulled away would forever be burned into his memory.
What had he done?

4. Play the Google Dinosaur game/

Score of 58 on my first go *sigh*

5. Incorporate the environment into your story in some way - do your characters reach a natural obstacle? Does nature help them somehow?
201 words

A few months later, Esila, the little one, and the nice scientist found themselves on the front steps of a creaky old house facing a creaky(-looking) old lady.

“So you are my new buyers?” she wheezed. “What a quaint little family. What are your names, dearies?”
Esila opened her mouth, but with a squeeze of her shoulder from the scientist she swallowed her words. They'd been having to do that a lot, lately. She looked up to see him glancing at her. His hand felt sweaty.

He needed a name, she realised.
She remembered skimming through the books he'd given her, flipping through the pages and watching the words go by one by one, but right now the answers seemed just out of reach. Until her gaze landed on the flowers littering the yard. Dozens of them, all wilting and shrivelled but a coloured a strange hue that made her think they might have been the colour of embers, once. Just like the little one's hair, and not too dissimilar form her own.

Suddenly, she knew.
She looked up and mouthed the name at her scientist-father-creator.
“Bayard,” he said, bestowing her a grateful smile. Esila grinned back at him. “Bayard Sperke.”

6.

Freshly 13 year old Hazel Wells sat under the covers in her room beside her friend Dev Dimmadome. She looked down at the thing in her hand guiltily, partially tuning out Dev's ramblings. Said thing was a cane, black with a see-through ball at the top, inside of which was some kind of shimmery purple thing and a glowy star.

“-And then we can do whatever with it until the day is over,” said Dev, smirking. “Come on Hazel, have some fun! We're teenagers now!”
“Okay, okay, fine,” said Hazel. “Why's it gotta be your fairy's wand, though? Won't you get in trouble?”
“'Cause his is easier to get to. And we won't if we don't get caught. Now make a wish already!”
“I don't know what to wish for!”
“Just do it!”
“Okay, okay! I wish to meet Cosmo and Wanda's last godkid!”

.

“That's so…” Dev coughed, fanning the purple wish smoke away. Hazel gave a shocked little gasp. “…lame.”
Instead of an office, or a park, or a living room somewhere with an adult standing in front of them, the two had reappeared in what was clearly a kid's bedroom. Blue sheets draped over a blue bed with a blue headboard against blue walls. Photos and posters of comic characters adorned the walls. On the wall hung a calendar. On the bed sat a very bewildered teen in a pink beanie and pink jacket.

“Who are you?” he stood up, narrowing his eyes. Despite the fact that he seemed to be a year or two older, he was also a good few inches shorter than Dev and Hazel.
“Uh,” Dev floundered, blinking owlishly behind his sunglasses. “We're-”
“-Lost!” said Hazel, laughing cheerily. She jammed the magic wand-cane into her friend's bag. “Yep, just lost. Sorry, we thought this was our house,”
The boy squinted harshly and looked them up and down. “…Cosmo, Wanda? There's weird people in my room!”

.

Hazel stilled, gaping as twin blurs of pink and green zoomed out of the older boy's fish tank. Dev pulled on her sleeve to whisper in her ear.
“We're in the past, aren't we?”
“Yep.”
They watched as Hazel's fairy godparents materialised next to the teen, whispering amongst themselves. Cosmo looked the same as ever, though Wanda only sported a simple yellow shirt and black pants. Dev pushed Hazel's slowly dropping jaw up. He shoved his hands back into his pockets, trying not to feel weirded out by the conspicuous lack of purple in the room.
It took several minutes before either party spoke up - several minutes in which the air shifted from tense to awkward. The teen (who Dev mentally dubbed Pink Cap and Hazel dubbed Past Godkid) coughed.

“I feel fairy magic on you!” Cosmo said at last, absolutely shattering the silence. Hazel's eyes widened even further.
“Our magic…” Wanda continued, rubbing her chin in thought as “You're one of our future godkids!”

Jolting back down to Earth, Hazel made several semi-apologetic, semi-nervous giggles.

“You caught us.” she sighed. “I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have-”
“Wait, wait, wait, hold up-” Past Godkid butted in, gaze darting between the two time-travellers and his fairy godparents. At last, he seemed to settle on facing Cosmo and Wanda. Wanda raised her eyebrow, waiting for him to say something. "She's your what?"

The night before she's due to leave Oz, Dorothy enters the room of Glinda the Good. She'd spent a while waiting at the door, knocking every few minutes until eventually she decided to come in herself. It was fine, she told herself. Kansas etiquette rules didn't work here and for all she knew Glinda would have wanted her to come inside anyway. Silver heeled slippers made no noise on the soft, pink carpeted floor as she tread across the room.

The entire room was varying shades of pink. Across from the doors was a massive walk-in closet full of the Good Witch's signature gowns. To Dorothy, it seemed to be worth more than even her entire little Kansas town. A few spare tiaras twinkled on high shelves near the rose gold chandelier, though the woman's tall crown and wand were nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps Glinda was out tonight, Dorothy thought. After all, being ruler of Oz must make one terribly busy.
Yet despite the flashiness and pinkness and generally Glinda-ness of it all, there was one area that stood out like a sore thumb and really caught her eye - it was the study.
She had always been a curious girl.

“Perhaps too curious for my own good,” Dorothy murmured as she made her way over. For upon that very desk lay a picture of the Wicked Witch of the West.
Or at least Dorothy thought it was, though it didn't look terribly like the hysterical, mad sorceress she and her friends had melted. Surely there were no other green-skinned women in Oz, she thought as she gazed at the photo. Unlike the ones she'd seen at home and around Oz, this was in colour. No doubt magicked upon by Glinda herself.

Creases lined the paper of the photo, and there were stains where tears might once have touched it. They were a stark contrast to the giddy faces of the two young women posed on in the picture. A blonde in a yellow evening dress that Dorothy thought must have been a younger Glinda and a woman wearing a pointy black hat and dark dress. Her skin was green. She laughed joyfully as the younger Glinda wrapped her up in a side hug. Behind them was a view of the Emerald City.

What was the Wicked Witch of the West doing in photos of young Glinda? Dorothy wondered. And why did they look so happy together?
Pushing those doubts to the back of her mind, she turned her gaze on the other things littering the wooden table. Bookshelves lined with dark, leather bound books towered to the ceiling, and an ornate wooden lamp sat on Glinda's desk. It was so frighteningly unlike the bright pink hues of everything else that Dorothy was almost worried she'd entered someone else's room by accident.

Not too far from the photo of Glinda and the Wicked Witch at the Emerald City was another picture. This time, it was framed. Unlike the other one, this picture was full of unfamiliar faces. In it, a young Glinda and the Wicked Witch sat on the front steps of a building, chatting amiably with three other people. A tall Winkie man with blue diamonds either painted or tattooed on his skin, a Munchkin with a red hat and a pile of books, and the younger girl in a wheelchair that was in front of him. A closer look at her striped stockings and suspiciously sparkly shoes revealed who she was: the Wicked Witch of the East.

More digging through Glinda's thing (Dorothy ignored the spike of guilt she felt at this) only revealed more and more strange objects. A dried poppy, an old flyer inviting people to someplace called the Ozdust Ballroom, train tickets to the Emerald City, and an abundance of photos centred around the same few people, including but not limited to Glinda and the Witch.
When it felt like a while had passed, Dorothy eyed the spiralling staircase in the centre of Glinda's bedroom. She heard the breeze float down from the open trapdoor.
With a sinking feeling in her heart, Dorothy headed up the staircase.

.

“Hello, Dorothy,” said Glinda the Good herself. She stood at the edge of the tower, leaning against the parapets. With her golden hair was tousled by the wind and her bright dress darkened in the dark of night, she no longer felt like the wise and powerful fairy godmother Dorothy had thought her when they first met. She felt like a woman whose shoulders had born too much weight in the last few years.

Dorothy said nothing as she walked towards her. It was only when she'd joined her at the parapets did she dare to open her mouth and speak.
“You were friends, weren't you.”
It wasn't a question. Despite the soft, disbelieving tone, Glinda knew the Gale girl was too clever not to put things together. At that very moment, she held the framed picture of the Charmed Circle in her hands.
“We were,” Glinda said simply. “All of us.”
Dorothy sighed, a sound so lost and confused that she was remindified of what had happened after the twister arrived. When she'd lost three of her only true friends in one fell swoop of her own making.

“I'm truly sorry for lying to you,” she said, holding up a hand before Dorothy even finished opening her mouth. “And I know what you're going to ask. No, she wasn't Wicked, but she wasn't all good either. None of us are, not even me. It was- is much, much more complicated than that,”
Strangely enough, Dorothy Gale shook her head. “That wasn't what I was going to ask, Lady Glinda. Just, uhm… what were they like?”
Glinda hummed a jaunty little tune from her Shiz days. Maybe she'd misjudged the Kansas girl. Finally, she pointed at one of the people in the photo with fingers that she had to fight to keep from tremblificating.

“His name was Fiyero Tigelaar. He was the Crown Prince of the Vinkus and my fiancé. Scandalicious, we called him. He was always a lot less brainless than he liked to seem.” she giggled. “Boq was the only one aside from El- Elphaba who really cared about school. Maybe because he was there on a scholarship. The last I saw he was with Nessarose. With how things ended with with her… I just hope he's doing alright now.” she sighed. “Nessarose… she was a sweet girl, really. Elphaba practically raised her, but after she left, things got the better of poor Nessa. Those shoes you're wearing right now? Her father gifted them to her on our first day at university.”

“Elphaba,” said Dorothy, feeling it roll off her tongue. “Was- was that her name?”
Glinda nodded. “She was brilliant. The very best friend I ever had,”
“Th-then I messed up, didn't I? I killed your best friend…” the girl from Kansas cried suddenly. Alarmed, Glinda pushed away from the parapets to kneel down in front of Dorothy, looking at her eye to eye.
“It wasn't your fault, Dorothy,” she said, more earnest and genuine than she anything she'd said since her very last conversation with Elphaba. “Do you understand that? You were just trying to get home,”
“O-okay,”

Glinda took a deep breath and smiled shakily. Gently, she pressed the framed picture of the Charmed Circle into Dorothy's hands. “Now, you can keep the picture, alrighty? Think of it as a souvenir to celebratify going home to Kansas,”
“Thank you,” said Dorothy, laughing wetly. She wiped her tears on the sleeve of her borrowed night gown (which the Ozian elected to ignore). Clutching the picture to her chest, she turned back to the open trapdoor and the staircase leading back down. “I think it's time I go to bed. Good night, Lady Glinda,”

“Good night, Dorothy,” she waved. “I'm sure your friends would be half dead with worry if you came to them tomorrow with no sleep!”

.

Speaking of her friends, Dorothy opened the door to find them gathered in her room.
“Dorothy!” they cried, rushing forwards to greet her in unison. Suddenly, she found herself enveloped in a hug that was simultaneously fur, metal, and coarse fabric.
“Where were you?” asked the Lion, the first to let go. He rubbed his paws together anxiously. “We wanted to say good night, but you weren't in your room and…”
“Visiting Lady Glinda.” she squeezed out of the remaining two's grip and sat down on her bed. She held the framed photo out in her lap, examining it. Abruptly, her friends drew back.

“Dot, where did you get that?”
“Did she give that to you?”
-asked the Tin Man and the Scarecrow at the exact same time, wearing twin expressions of shock and something else she couldn't quite discern. Then, they glanced at each other with even more panic. They seemed to have an entire conversation purely through eye contact and the withdrawing of it. Confused, Dorothy and the Lion met each other's eyes.
“Okay, can someone actually tell us what's going on?”

“I should have known,” muttered the man, darting around the motel room. The youngest child still lay asleep on the bedsheets, wrapped up in his lab coat. “Esila, kiddo, I need you to step away from the window now,”

Reluctantly, the girl stepped back and closed the curtains. Anxiously, she watched as the man and Nicolo worked together to stuff their items in the few bags they’d managed to bring from the facility.
“It’d be great if you helped,” said Nicolo, placing a towel inside a duffel bag. Esila ignored him.

“What’s going on?” She asked, picking the swaddled child up from the bed. She carried him with firm but shaky arms, as if nervous that any wrong move could cause him harm. The man’s tired heart warmed at the sight.
“We’ve been found,” he admitted, zipping up the last bag. “They’re in town looking for us right now.”

He pulled it over his shoulders and held his arms out for the child. Reluctantly, she relinquished him and came to stand with them behind the door. She pulled her hood up to cover her bright red hair. It was an awfully distinctive shade somewhere between blood red and a shining ruby that she felt only served to make their little group more conspicuous. Perhaps she’d dye it when she got older.

“On three, I want you kids to walk out of here normally. Keep your heads down and don’t make eye contact but don’t run unless they catch on to us,” said the man, bracing his free hand against the door knob. “Ready?”
Nicolo and Esila nodded.
“On three… two… one.”

“It feels so real,” said Dorothy, looking around. She stood in the middle of a courtyard, surrounded by ivy covered walls and flags bearing an emblem that read: Shiz University. To her right were the Scarecrow and the Lion, the former’s hands now still after combing through the latter’s mane just a few seconds before. The burlap around his eyes were scrunched up and his arms were drawn closer to himself. Dorothy grasped a mitteny hand in hers, squeezing it. The poor brainless straw man was probably confused.

To her left stood the Tin Man and Glinda the Good. The Tin Man held his axe warily, a expression something like caution colouring his metal features. Glinda the Good had drifted away, uncharacteristically quiet and… sorrowful? Dorothy wondered if she was okay.
“Lady Glinda?” She called, pulling her friends closer to the Good Witch. Glinda whipped around with a startle.
“Oh, hello dear,” she said, hastily plastering a smile on her face. Dorothy pretended not to notice - her Auntie Em had taught her manners and just because she was in another world, that didn’t mean she would forget about them.
“Did the spell work?” She asked instead.
“It was supposed to show us the truth, and since we’re in the past, I suppose it worked,”

“Look!” the Lion said suddenly, pointing towards a carriage that was fast-approaching the courtyard. Three people descended from it - a man in robes, a girl in a wheelchair, and a woman with green skin. “Is that…?” A growl laced his words.

Instead of panic like Dorothy would have thought, Glinda seemed to brighten considerably at the sight of what could only be a younger Wicked Witch of the West. She was also willing to bet the other girl was the Wicked Witch of the East, whose shoes she wore at that very moment.

Before the Good Witch could stride over, a metal hand clamped around her wrist.
“Lady Glinda, be careful,” the Tin Woodsman warned pleadingly. He resolutely looked at anything besides the two Wicked Witches. “This may just be a memory, but who knows what could happen with a Wicked Witch like her.”
The Lion made an approving sound, though he did not move to stop her in any way. Dorothy couldn’t shake the raw emotion from the Tin Man’s voice as he asked Glinda to take them back from her head. She’d seen her Tin friend furious, heartbroken, sorrowful, and joyful. But she’d never seen him so desperate.

At rough burlap squeezing her hand, she found the Scarecrow watching the unfolding scene with a frown.
“Are you alright, Dot?” He glanced down at her.
Dorothy shrugged, feeling terribly small. Everything in Oz was so great and fantastical that she couldn’t help but feel like a fish out of water despite everyone who’d helped her. It was all so confusing. Kansas was so much simpler.
“We can always ask Glinda to stop the spell,” he said, crouching down to her height. “I’m sure she’d do it for you,”
She shook her head. “I want to see what happens.”

Poof Fairywinkle-Cosma is born to two parents and an older brother. Cosmo and Wanda Fairywinkle-Cosma do their best to take care of the first fairy born in decades. The little fairy baby's power is unstable, threatening a repeat of the dinosaur extinction that they try their best to prevent from happening.

Timmy Turner is his big brother, and that is a fact. He was there to witness his birth, was there to name him and hear his first words and see his first magic. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Poof, Timmy decides the moment he lays eyes on his little brother. Nothing he wouldn’t do for his family.

Poof Fairywinkle-Cosma turns two years old with much, much fanfare. He has his own anti-fairy - the first baby anti-fairy in decades. Two years old and he’s surrounded by loving parents, a kind yet mischievous older brother, a frenemy of an anti-fairy, and the rest of the doting fairy world.

Before he knows it, Timmy turns twelve and it’s been two years since he first met his fairy family. Growing up is scary, but with Cosmo and Wanda by his side he thinks maybe teenagerhood won’t be so bad. If anything, at least he had Poof.

Poof turns four and is already full of words. There is not a day that goes by in the Fairywinkle-Cosma household that the small purple fairy doesn’t fill with endless chattering. Anything from what happened at Fairy School to interesting objects he saw in the human realm.

Timmy is fourteen and beginning to realise just how messed up his biological family is. How messed up most Dimmsdale childhoods are, honestly. So he gets into trouble at school, withdraws from other humans, all in all tries to ignore his situation by any fairy-related means possible. He takes his four year old brother to the skatepark and smuggles him into school and other shenanigans that Cosmo and Wanda seem to have given up on preventing.

At six years old, Poof has fully inherited Timmy’s naughty streak. With immense power that has not lessened but only stabilised, he pulls pranks that only Timmy would find impressive. The Fairy World fears its only progeny, raised by two of the most chaotic fairies in existence and their equally unpredictable godchild. Wanda is just glad he knows how to not get caught.

Timmy is sixteen and only has two friends. He’s long outgrown the need for a babysitter, but that while the lack of Vicky has prevented things from getting worse he also knows they’re not getting any better. He hates this miserable human life. But at least he has Poof and his Fairy Godparents, he reminds himself again. He’ll get through it for them.

Eight year old Poof is more silver tongued than any of them could ever be, a fact that Cosmo attributes to his ‘Cosma charm’, Wanda attributes to her brains, and Timmy attributes to his ‘Timmy Factor’. In reality, it’s a mix of being the only child in Fairy World and all the shenanigans their family gets into. He has talked him and his brother out of more trouble than they can count. It gets them back into trouble just as often.

Eighteen year old Timmy has somehow made it through high school intact, but he knows he can’t celebrate just yet. Any day now, his parents will kick him out and be done with it. Any day now, his time with Cosmo and Wanda will run out. Any day now, he’ll lose the only family he ever had.
‘Poof can’t know,’ thinks Timmy the night before his eighteenth birthday. ‘He can’t know.’

Poof turns ten when he finds himself in a new house, with new surroundings and a new everything. He gets his very own room for the first time ever and decorates it entirely in purple. Once he’s done, he feels less like a fish out of water and more at home than ever. There are no mean human parents here. Only his own parents, and even though they’re out a lot more now at least he has his big brother. With Timmy here, everything would be alright.

Timmy’s twentieth birthday is approaching. His apartment is small and dingy, he’s barely scraping by, and he has no idea how Cosmo and Wanda are still with him. The final hearing at Fairy Court regarding the ‘Turner Case’ is coming up. Seeing how frazzled Wanda is, Timmy comes to terms with his fate. Soon, he’ll be just another godchild in their list. Poof is also beginning to catch on. He resolved to spend as much time as he can with his brother before it’s over.

Poof is twelve when he gets taken away from his older brother. Kicking, screaming, he protests, creating the largest burst of magical fairy rage the world has seen in ages. It takes dozens of fairies to calm him down. Timmy hugs him and bids Poof goodbye (he’s getting really sick of being called that).

Twenty-two years old and under threat of his memories being wiped, Timmy Turner is forced to face adulthood and leave behind the only family that ever loved him. The night after that fateful day, he spends hours crying into his ratty sheets. The next morning he wakes with puffy cheeks and a purple rattle lying on his pillow. Gripping it with trembling fingers, he swears to always keep it with him.

Peri changes his name at fourteen years old, just after his parents leave on their vacation. He remembers the look in their eyes as they promised it would only be for a while. He wants to believe they told the truth. Finally fed up with everything, he changes his name - only Timmy gets to call him Poof, he decides.

Two years after everything, twenty-four year old Timmy opens his eyes to find Poof sitting in the chair across from him at a café. He likes to think he’s done well coping with the Fairywinkle-Cosmas leaving, but seeing his brother in front of him brings every feeling he’s tried to get past come rushing back in an instant. Their reunion ends in a familiar playful ribbing. It also ends in the Fairy Police catching them.

Sixteen year old Peri is more alone than ever. Neither Cosmo nor Wanda are back from their vacation. Fairy High School is difficult when you’re the only student. He wishes he’d never gone to visit Timmy that day. Maybe then his brother would still have his memories. If only fairies could grant their own wishes, he thinks in his bed at night.

Timmy is twenty-six when he runs into a peculiar, purple haired teenager at the park. He seems familiar, somehow. At first he thinks he might have been someone he knew when he was younger, but that thought is dismissed fairly quickly. His childhood is a barely remembered blur, and this kid is at least ten years too young.
Still, when the teen greets him he can’t help but reply.
“I think you have the wrong person,” he says. The teen’s face falls in resignation.
“Yeah, maybe,” says the kid, fiddling with his suspenders. Timmy elects to ignore the fashion choice. “I’m Pe- Poof. My name’s Poof,”
Weird name, but who is he to judge? He knows people with far stranger names. “Kinda weird, kid. Did your parents name you that?”
The teen mutters something under his breath, and takes a few tries to clear his throat.
“My brother named me that,” Poof blurts out at last. Timmy chuckles.
“He sounds like a funny guy,”
“He was the funniest,”

♖ 1st of November - Main Cabin Daily
254 words

Hey there, future Lax,
First off, how's it going? I know there's been lots of stuff going on right now, and school has been especially busy, but I hope you've had the chance to sleep a full eight hours on a weekday at least once this month. If you haven't go take a nap right now. No excuses, just do it. Time travel instructions are always to be obeyed. God knows I could use a nap right about now.

Have you climbed this week? Again, if not, you better be making plans to climb soon. Don't worry about missing anything - it'll be worth it, I promise.

Now for the actual SWC stuff. This is your 12th session so far, and also the first time you've put a number below seven on your activity rating on your sign up. Even so, I hope you managed to pull your weight and at least write a little bit, for your cabin if not for yourself. I also hope you've written some original pieces not for SWC, because I have so many ideas that I can't imagine what you've done with them if you haven't.
Congratulations on reaching your word goal, by the way! I knew you could do it.

Aside from writing, I hope you've taken the time to get to know your cabinmates and really get into the Arcane (Lanes) mood with them. There's always more things to learn about other people, and trust me. It'll be fun.

I hope cabinwars was merciful,
Sincerely,
Past Lax.

♖ 6th of November - Main Cabin Daily
423 words

Sir Galahad walks into the castle of Camelot with his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. Greasy hair the colour of straw curtains his face, shielding him from the whispers of the knights and nobles milling around the entrance hall. White-knuckled hands grip a bloodstained, red-hilted sword.

Ahead of him walks Sir Lancelot, resolutely looking anywhere but at his own child. The older man's steps are brisk and business-like, too slow to be anything but a swift walk but too fast for Galahad to catch up without running.
Eyes follow the two as they make their way up the stone steps. The tension between them is palpable, a live bolt of thunder waiting to be released.

Somehow, they make it to the round table.
“Sir Lancelot!” booms King Arthur, rising to his feet. A wide grin graces his face and he strides over with open arms. “It's good to see you back, my friend!”
“Likewise, Your Majesty,” Lancelot bows.
“How was your quest? Successful, I presume?”
“I suppose you could say that. There's something that happened I'd like to speak to you about, actually.”
Galahad feels his father's narrowed eyes on him and takes that as a cue to leave. He shuffles over to the only other person in the room - Mordred, treasured youngest son of Orkney.

“Galahad?” says Mordred, looking up from the book laid out in front of him. His hair is tied up today, dark silk falling out of a short ponytail at the base of his neck. His tabard is neat and freshly pressed, his sword unblemished. The Siege Perilous seems to glow as he talks. It and the prince are both sacred - they are two of a kind. They are kin.

“Hello, Mordred,” Galahad smiles softly. “How is knighthood treating you?”
“What brings you here?” He says in lieu of an answer. Mordred's gaze falls on his sword and a look of calculation passes over his face. “Did something happen?”
“I made a mistake,” Galahad admits. He could never lie to the Grail's chosen. “A horrible one. I expect Father will un-knight me any moment now. Your Majesty might as well b-”

“GALAHAD!” the King shouts suddenly. No Sir, just Galahad. What follows in an order. “Come.”
Mordred's brows furrow and he looks up at Galahad questioningly. Galahad does not meet his only friend's eyes.
He has always felt dirty beside the other's light. Tainted. He will not corrupt him any further.

“Worry not,” Galahad murmurs. “I'll be fine.”
What's one lie in a life destined for darkness?

♖ 7th of November - Main Cabin Daily
347words

@-WildClan- A year ago, it would have made sense to you.

You stand in the middle of a white panelled room. You are surrounded by armed personnel on all sides. You are being watched by a camera with a blinking red light. There is a woman in a lab coat watching from behind a glass window. The room is sound proof, padded, and reinforced with the strongest alloys known to man. In five seconds the countdown will begin and the personnel will fire.

A year ago, it would have made sense to you.
Now, you wonder what the point of it all is. Every day you train, fight, practice, stretch yourself so thin you might as well be a snapped rubber band. Every day you can hear the scientists think about how her. How you'll never measure up to her no matter you do. You wonder what she's doing now, out in the wild world that was so much wider than you ever thought it could be.
The timer beeps.

“Positions,” a robotic voice drones from… somewhere. “Beginning in three… two… one.”
A gunshot rings, and you spring into action.

Fighting is systematic, you've found.
First comes a punch. You block it. Then an infinitesimally small pause, as they decide their next move. Still, the nanosecond is enough time for you to twist your wrist, grab theirs, and fling them into the wall just as their mouth opens for a scream.
Block, twist, attack, dodge.
You'll never be like her-
Run, slide, punch, block, repeat.
-But with this you might just be close.
Before you know it, the training session is over; or at least, this one is.

“Stop.” says the voice. You think it might be coming from the walls - there must be speakers, hidden somewhere under the panelling. You know now that you'll never get to see them. This is going to be your life forever after, whether you like it or not. Hope and freedom is a silly thing to bother with.
“Experiment J-306.” snaps the woman behind the glass. “Focus.”
"My name is Niccolo."
Then again, perhaps some hope is worth holding on to.

Dark skidded on the pavement in a movement that would have been crippling for any other stick. His hair fanned, untamed behind him like a vibrant cape. Sparks flew from where his wristbands had struck a lamppost. He hadn't felt this energised in ages.
“Hey, idiots!” Dark yelled. “You think you can catch me? Come and try!”
With a wide, shark-toothed grin plastered across his face, he took off across the city.

“Is he serious?” he heard one of the bounty hunters mutter. Turning around as he flew, he spotted the blue one raising a bow to aim at him.

Dark winced and remembered the first time those arrows had pierced him.

-

It had been a few months ago, almost a week after the anniversary of the day he met Victim. Dark had been perched on the railing of the balcony, admiring the IP studded sky above. Then a whistle of wind, and- his instincts were a millisecond too late.

“Ow!” Dark cursed, clamping a hand on the sudden pinch in his shoulder. Imagine his surprise when - instead of an insect - he felt the steel shaft of an arrow and his own cold, staticky code.

Before he could even think about pulling it out, the air began to shake with the whirring of motorblades.
“Stop right there, The Dark Lord!” a voice crackled musically through a megaphone. He hadn’t even known voices could do that. “You’re under arrest on behalf of Sketch Corp.”

“Who do you think you are? Avast? The cops?” Dark retorted.
As if on cue, a group of identical hover bikes sped to a stop in the air in front of him. Sketch Corp logos shone on their seats. Bounty hunters.
“Pretty much,” grinned the stick on the foremost bike.

Dark narrowed his eyes. There were four sticks in total, each on their own bike. The stick with the megaphone was an obnoxious green that reminded him of toxic waste.
The green stick wore a pair of sharp, triangular shades that jutted out of his curl framed face. Neon green streaks lit up his dark faux-leather jacket, and strange devices were strapped to his arms. Dark would have thought it cool if he weren’t more annoyed.

“You really think you can catch me?” Dark asked, rising into the air. His Virabands were inside, but he knew not even their sharpest arrows could hurt him. Flames began to spark in his hands.

Green watched. A grin grew on his face. Dark’s eyes followed his line of sight, and-
“Sure,” said Green. “Red?”
“On it!” chirped his companion, and suddenly Dark was being tackled through the air.

The next moment, they were twin red blurs whirling through the air, tossing punches and kicks and clawing at anything that they found purchase on.
As they fought, Dark caught glimpses of the stick that had attacked them.
An elbow to his side. Red arms wrapped in bandages. Claws raking down his arms. Crimson on scarlet. A kick at the base of his neck. Loose braids, tangled up at the top.

They were a flurry of movement, though it seemed to be less trading blows and more of an outright brawl. It was far from a pretty fight, but compared to Chosen he’d always been more inclined to play dirty.

Wrenching himself back to the present, Dark felt the ends of a headband enter his grip. He yanked.
“Ow!” Red screeched. Something cracked and snapped. Dark winced. He backed away. A little too far there, maybe.

Immediately, the other three bounty hunters swarmed their friend. One of them - blue, with a wide-brimmed hat and bow and arrow strapped to their back. A sleek black quiver was slung at their hip. The one who’d shot him, then.

The last remaining bounty hunter lifted hum up with a… was that a selection box? And set him down on his hover bike like a makeshift stretcher. Dark frowned.
“Get him out of here,” Green ordered, and turned to face Dark, who resisted rolling his eyes at the bounty hunter’s dramatics. “I’ll take care of The Dark Lord.”

“Oh yeah? What are you going to do, grasshopper- sing at me?” Dark grinned, and with a flick of his index finger, flames ran up and down his arms. A ball of heat began to form. “Let’s make this quick.”

-

And it had been like that ever since. Wait as they entered the scene, exchange some banter, fight until someone gave out or Dark got bored, and leave. Rinse and repeat.

Until yesterday, when the amount of wanted posters around Stick City had doubled, almost tripled overnight. Everywhere Dark went he saw his face, above bold letters stamping out his bounty. And today, when the quartet of mercenaries had actually chased him into the city, which was something they’d never done before.

Dark wondered what Chosen would have thought of this.
Probably would have rolled his eyes and called him foolish for not keeping his head down and-

“-Hey!” The Dark Lord gasped as he felt something strike his back. Immediately, his body felt like in was on the verge of deletion, glitches sweeping over him in waves. His code burned beneath his skin. That old command began to wake. This was utterly foreign, and for a moment he thought this must have been how Chosen had felt when tamed.
“What did you do?” He gasped. His vision flashed. His legs shook as he held himself in the air like a puppet with cut strings.

For once, no smug grin came over the bounty hunter’s face. He gazed at Dark impassively from behind his glasses.

Dark’s eyes fell on the sky above. He narrowed his eyes; counted to ten. Every thought took years to form in his fried, frazzled brain.
One, two three.
Four, five, six.
Seven, eight, nine.
Ten.
Then, he mustered up his last ounce of bodily control and stutteringly made his up towards ALANSPC.
Animator have mercy, please help.

-

“Victim-! Y-you-“
“Dark Lord? Dark? DARK!”

♖ 8th of November - Main Cabin Daily
538 words

THE EFFECT OF A DAILY MANGO SUPPLY ON SWC SLEEP SCHEDULES

Abstract
Over the duration of this experiment, we hope to identify the exact effect of the local mango supply on the sleep schedules of SWC campers and leaders. We believe that mangoes may have a negative cause and effect relationship with the sleeping patterns of these writing enthusiasts. As such, we have conducted an experiment using a sample size of Gurtle campers and Smarlls leaders (meaning two dozen and a handful respectively). The participants have been divided into two groups of fifteen, with mango supply and availability differing between groups. We then monitored their behavior and found that the group (Group S) with near to no mango supply was more prone to sleep deprivation, irritability, procrastination, and arson. On the other hand, Group W, who were given a healthy dose of mangoes each day, showed better sleep schedules, increased motivation and higher Trackbear statistics. Considering the results of this experiment, it can be concluded that a lack of mango supply has negative effects on the SWC psyche.

Introduction
Mangoes have been a staple part of SWC culture for years, dating back to the prehistoric ages before the Great Update. Participants of SWC - both campers and leaders alike - have often been seen with large collections of mangoes displayed in their home cabins, bags of mangoes in their pockets, and even mango slices hidden among their word count. With this experiment, we will finally be able to understand the exact correlation between mangoes and the sleeping patterns of SWCers.

Hypothesis
Having a daily mango supply will have negative effects on an SWC participant’s sleep schedule.

Methods and Materials
- Gather 30 local SWC campers and leaders, including 24 campers and 6 leaders.
- Divide 30 SWCers into two groups consisting of 15 people each.
- Provide Group S with one bag of mangoes every second week for three months.
- Provide Group W with five bags of mangoes every week for three months.
- Analyse productivity, Trackbear statistics, word count, and activity in the Main Cabin.
- Compare data gathered from the analysis.
- Materials needed include a supply of 22 bags of mangoes each month.

Data and Observations
Group S has set fire to the Data and Observations due to a desire for arson.

Analysis of Data
Group S has shown a 30% decrease in sleep, a 25% decrease in words written per day, and a 75% increase in arson related urges.
Further analysis has been unable to be conducted due to the protests done by Group S. The halls are full of Gurtles and we fear there may be no escape.

Conclusion and Discussion
A daily dose of mangoes in fact positively affects an SWC camper or leader’s sleep schedule and psyche. This is primarily evidenced by the fact that due to the Group S protests and their summoned Gurtle army, I am now typing this up in the smoking remnants of my office, surrounded by Gurtles and taped tightly to a chair. An additional conclusion is that when sufficiently mango starved, SWCers may spontaneously develop the ability to summon angry Gurtles.

Notes
Authors above have mercy, I hope I make it out of this alive.

Dorothy squeezes her eyes shut and clicks her heels together, just as Lady Glinda says. This will take her home, she knows, though a small part of her wishes she didn't have to go back to being alone in the house all day while her aunt and uncle worked. She loved them, but things had been terribly lonely for her even before they took her in. Still, Kansas is where her home is, so she sets her sights on her old farm and does as instructed.

The trip home seems to last quite a bit shorter than the tornado that brought her here in the first place. Perhaps because there is no tornado this time around, she thinks. Soon enough, the shimmery, glittery feeling in her vanishes, and Dorothy opens her eyes.
This isn't Kansas.
In fact, this is-
“Winkie Country?” Dorothy wonders aloud. She looks around, and her gaze falls on a dark, looming structure just beyond the hill she stands on. She freezes. “The Witch's Castle! …What have I done to get here?”

Wringing her hands on her already grass stained gingham dress, Dorothy searches frantically for some kind of way to get back to the Emerald City, if not home. She turns over stones, asks the questions to nobody in case something happened to answer, jumped and poked around in case there were any hidden signs that could point her in the right direction.
Nothing. Dorothy sighed. Would she have to find and walk her way back on her own? Unlike her friends, the last time she was here she had been brought here by the Witch's flying monkeys. What would happen if she got lost?

“Maybe the flying monkeys will come back,” she mused as she sat down, staring off into the distance. “And one of them will be kind enough to take me back,”
And then what would she do? Over the hours she had been here, Dorothy had realised that she didn't want to back to Kansas, not really. She'd rather stay here, in Oz with all of her friends. But there was no way she could do any of that if she was stuck in front of the Wicked Witch of the West's castle. She sighed. Whatever would she do?
Behind her, the sun began to set over the hill. Then, just as the last rays of light began to disappear along with her hope, Dorothy spotted a familiar, wibbly-wobbly figure striding towards her.
“Scarecrow!” she shouted, jumping to her feet. She dashed towards him, wrapping him up in a tight hug. “I thought I might never be found!”

The straw man jolted, then patted her awkwardly on her head. “Uh… hello, Dorothy. What are you doing here?”
Dorothy drew away, sniffing. “W-well, first I was trying to get home to Kansas, but then Lady Glinda's spell didn't work right and I ended up here instead. There- there was no one around and I don't know the way to the Emerald City, so I just stayed… wait, why are you here?”
At this, the Scarecrow seemed to brighten from underneath the brim of his large hat. He shifted the knapsack that hung at his shoulder.
“I'm leaving Oz, you see.” he smiled gently. “Going on to better things with this new brain you've got me.”
This was her chance. “Take me with you!” she gasped.
“Wouldn't your Aunt Em and Uncle Henry worry?”
“They won't, I promise! They'll miss me, but I know they won't for long! Please, I don't want to go back to Kansas.”

The Scarecrow paused, realisation flashing over his shadowed burlap face. He took Dorothy's hand in his and gave it a squeeze.
“Well I suppose it's alright, if you're sure.” he grinned. “First off, we're making a stop at Kiamo Ko.”
“Yes!”

♖ 12th of March - Main Cabin Daily
357 words

A Guide To Failing Third-Grade Mathematics - @silver-the-oneiric

“I don't get it. How am I failing third grade maths?” Grace paced restlessly around the kitchen table, eyes trained on a battered textbook in centre of it. Jani rather thought she looked like a hawk circling its prey - if the hawk had two inch thick eye bags and hair like a bird's nest. Jani poured herself a cup of tea, tilting the kettle at an angle. The tea flowed out in a slow, steady arch, filling her cup. She held it between her palms and took a sip, letting the warmth spread through her body.
“Maybe if you didn't spend so much time traipsing around following red string-” Jani said, placing the cup back down.

“No.” Grace slammed her hands down on the table. Her eyebrows furrowed and she stared intently at the contents of the textbook. Jani hoped it wouldn't catch fire from the intensity of her glare. “My brother's homework is at stake here. I promised I'd help!”
“You also promised me you'd chloroform me if I didn't start sleeping instead of studying. And at the moment you're practically a walking guide on failing primary school maths. Who's talking now, Grace?”
“I am,” Grace mumbled, though she seemed to be swaying ever so slightly. “And I say we keep at it.”

Jani sipped her tea and raised her eyebrows over the rim of her cup. She glanced pointedly at the snoring third grader sprawled over their couch.
Grace made a face. “I'm an adult, you can't tell me what to do.”
A second passed, then two. Jani remained impassive, though she wondered amusedly if any adult could look more childishly petulant than her roommate was becoming at the moment. Said roommate sighed.

“Fine! But only if you take over tomorrow, genius.”
“Gosh, if only my roommate hadn't taught me more on how to fail it than how to do it,” Jani deadpanned. a slow smirk growing on her face. She left her empty cup of tea in the sink and breezed over to her bedrooom door. Grace rolled her eyes. Jani blew her a kiss. “See you in two days when you wake up,”

♖ 14th of March - Main Cabin Daily
614 words

When they set out to find the other knights, Gareth wears a purple jacket, wraps a purple cloth around his scabbard, and dons purple pants.
“It reminds me of violets in spring,” he answers when asked. Lynette knows better, knows he's always been a sentimental man. She says nothing. But her gaze says everything, and so Gareth doesn't meet it.

.

it's dedication bordering on obsession, and obsession bordering on blindness. The Orkney flag is purple and gold and drenched in crimson blood, yet Gareth views the world with protanopic eyes. Lynette murmurs memories of Dinadan's life force drifting in the river, Lamorak's on the grass, his mother's staining white linen bedsheets.
She sees red blood - he only sees water.

.

“I can't believe it!” Gareth looks elated. “I've missed him so much.”

Standing on the front steps of his brother's home, there is not a speck of colour on him aside from purple. He takes a breath, raises his hand, and knocks thrice with a one-two-three.
Gawain opens the door.
He is wearing green.

.

Lynette finds it glaringly obvious. Not even Arthur has adorned himself in the blue-gold of Camelot's banner. Gawain is in green, Gaheris grey, Agravain and Mordred in black. Of all the Orkneys, it's Gareth who is unchanged, seemingly unweathered by time and trauma. Only a jacket in place of a tabard, dyed the last colour Dinadan and Lamorak and countless others saw before their deaths.

Not that the man seems to mind. He is chipper as ever, filled with a simple, joyful delight at having the court back together.

At this point, Lynette doesn't know what's worse - a world completely lacking in red, or filled with Gareth's rosy, soft pink version of it.

.

“You're lying to yourself it you think we'll all just sit down and pretend nothing ever happened.”

Dinadan corners him one afternoon. A reversal of roles, and a much more peaceful one at that. She doesn't doubt the Orkneys were merciful, even if Gareth himself was complacent.
Neither of them know that she is there, listening. If Gareth and her sister are golden stars wrapped in silver silks, Lynette is the black void of space around them. Always there. Enveloping, all-encompassing. Just barely noticeable in the shadow of their light.

“We're not pretending nothing happened,” Gareth replies. “We're here to reminisce, reunite, get the band back together- whatever you want to call it!”

All traces of civility vanish from Dinadan's laugh-lined face. “It's delusional, that's what it is.”

.

Lynette can picture it now: a body bathed in red. Red, streaming from their wounds and spilling out their mouth. Red, staining the hands that wrap the body in violet cloth, that wipe themselves on their aubergine surcoats.
But Gareth shows to Gaheris' house in clothes of lilac and blue, his fists clenched and eyes sullen.

She thinks he may be able to picture it too, now.

.

“There's- there's so much of it. So much blood,” Gareth mumbles, stumbling into her and Gaheris' room in nothing but his plain white shirt and shorts. Pure, unsullied by anything but tears. “I- I can't get it off.”
And in the dark Lynette feels Gaheris swoop to his side in an instant, sweeping him up in a tight embrace. Gareth sobs.

“You can and you will. All it needs is time and effort.” says Gaheris.
Lynette inches over, ghosts a hand over Gareth's shoulder.

“Thank you,” she whispers to him. He lets out a long, tired sigh like purple paint dripping off a canvas. “Thank you for seeing.”

Lynette imagines the violets are wilting. She wonders what they'll give way to, when summer comes. Whatever it is, she looks forward to seeing it.

♖ 19th of March - Main Cabin Daily
466 words

The new house was as big as your toe - @-Lyra-Camps-

You're standing on the steps of the staircase to your future, moving boxes scattered about like the leftovers of a party that no one was quite ready to leave yet.

The new house is as big as your toe - which is to say it's big enough to be integral to the larger neighbourhood, but is also big enough to get frequently stubbed and abused by clumsy owners. The walls are stained with sauce and… alcohol, maybe? Confetti floats around in the toilet bowl.
Now you're not entirely sure what this place was used for before you bought it, but you think you're starting to get an idea of what.

.

You're two months into repairing the building by hand when you realise just how leaky the ceiling is. The liquid dripping from it doesn't even seem to be water. It's some kind of icky, sticky greenish water that keeps ruining the carpet you worked so hard to replace, gosh darn it.

You stop your frantic scrubbing to drop your beaten-up cloth in the too-small bucket you've been using to clean the too-big bathroom. The confetti in the toilet is gone, but something needs to be done about the ceiling. Rinsing off your hands in the sink, you prepare to make a few calls.

.

You're wiping your tears in the middle of the house, utterly and despairingly alone. The floorboards in the bedrooms need replacing, the table in the main room needs new legs, and the wind blows across your desk every time you try to get some work done. There are no favours left to call in, no one to help move the couch off of the housecat's corpse, no one to help you at all.

You sigh and collapse into a tiny, stress-filled ball on the carpet. Delusionally, you wonder if perhaps the house would turn out to be magic, and clean itself up tonight while you stewed in bed. You wait a second, then two. As usual, the house is as responsive as the housecat you can see lying under the couch, unbreathing.

.

You're standing in a place that looks nothing like the house you bought just a year ago. This house is as big as a toe - which is to say, it's the biggest thing that keeps you from passing out when standing up straight for hours in the sun.

On second thought, you really should come up with better metaphors.

The ceiling is a sweet peachy colour you painted by hand, completely dry. The couch is recently restuffed, the table polished to a shine, the walls lined with shelves filled with your favourite books. Your little work nook is clean, your papers organised into neat stacks just the way you like it.

You smile. Maybe your future won't be so bad after all.