July 6th, 2025 Daily:

A Synopsis of The Hungry Games:

Pita Malarky can’t remember a time when he wasn’t helping out at his parents’ bakery. From when he was just five years old, he’s been helping to put bread in the oven (and occasionally burning it). Then one day, he creates a new recipe that becomes an instant hit across all of Panem and his whole world changes. Pita is forced to compete in the obligatory yearly bread-baking competition, one with high stakes but equally high reward. Should Pita lose, he’ll be exiled from his family, who hold their children to high standards for their bread-baking abilities. Even more than that, he’ll be nationally regarded as a failure for his inability to survive out there in the ruthless world of bakers.

But if he wins? Pita will be brought to an exclusive bread-baking school on the other side of Panem, his whole childhood uprooted for a greater purpose. He would have the chance to make his parents proud. He would have the chance to be everything he’s ever dreamed of.
~
Word count: 176 words

July 7th, 2025 Daily:

Time stopped for no one. Not the dead. Not the living. Not the ones who were just barely holding on for dear life — no, not even them.

For this reason, Sam had despised it for so long. How could something as intangible and elusive as Time itself be such a taker?

Time. Disease. Death.

There was a reason that all three of those were at the top of their hit list. Time will cease, disease will fester, and death will die. In the very beginning, that’s what Sam and the rest of them had agreed upon: They would put an end to time if it was the very last thing they would do.

Once upon a time, so many stories began. Sam’s friends promised a story, and they knew their lives would be one, until the rain came and washed away all the stories that used to be, and now, of the five of them in the beginning, Sam and Hikari were the only ones left.

Sam blamed Time. Disease. Death. But no matter how much you blame the three of them, they’re inescapable, and so Sam and Hikari were forced to live on.

Now, Time unspools far too — what? Too slowly? Too quickly? It was hard to tell — for Sam’s liking, but that was yet another inescapable fact.

When Hikari leaves for her own life, Sam reads back the old journal entries, reminiscing fondly on their memories and, like always, grieving for their pasts. And Time confronts them, like a shadow you’ve met a thousand times before or an old friend you haven’t spoken to in ages.

An awkward greeting sits on Time’s lips, for neither Time nor Sam is real in the way that humans are. “Sam.”

It’s only one word, but Sam turns sharply at the sound of their name, eyes narrowing at their age-old enemy. Recognition flashes across their face, then something sharper. Anger, Time realizes.

“You hate me,” Time says, nodding. It’s not a question in the slightest; it’s a statement of a fact. An acceptance of the truth.

Sam scoffs. “Of course I do. You took everything from me. You cursed me.” I will remember people longer than I had the chance to love them. But even as the words leave their mouth, Sam isn’t sure that they’re true, and Time senses the doubts of the one opposite it.

Time breaks the eye contact between them, and its voice falls with the cadences of its next question: “Do you mean that?”

Something about Time’s voice reminds Sam of Hikari — the hope in it, the fear, the emotion. Time, it seems, lives by its emotions as well.

Sam owes the truth. To Time. To their friends. To life itself. But even though they know better, they’re still ashamed to say it, especially after so long of grieving, so it comes out as a whisper, or a breath. “No.”

A moment of silence, as if they’re both sitting vigil as they mourn the loss of an enemy. An irony.

Time moves slowly, giving Sam another chance. Or perhaps the other way around.

“I wanted so badly to hate you,” Sam confesses, and their gaze grows distant as memories flood them all over again. “I wanted to hate you from the very beginning, and I think…for a while, I really did. I meant what I said; you cursed me.”

“I’m sorry.” Those two little words are not enough and have come too late, but Time pours every second left in it into this apology.

“I can’t hate you anymore, though. Did you see what she wrote?” Sam refers to the journal kept by their friends and their lover.

Time nods. “I saw all of it.”

“You should know, then, that she made me realize something. I’m lucky to have known them — all of them. Even if it was only for a short while, because short eternities are better than never.” Sam inhales deeply, as if these next words are hard for them. “It was worth it, I think, to have everything we did, even though it didn’t last. I wish it did, but I’m thankful that we had the time we did.”

“I tried, you know. To grant you that much,” Time tells them.

“I know.”

Time does not stop, that much is true. Time is inevitable. But Time is willing enough to grant second chances.
~
Word count: 729 words

July 8th, 2025 Daily:

The train’s whistle blows as it emerges into the light of the station. “All aboard!”

The girl sitting on a bench nearby rises, with her small handbag held tightly between her fingers. She checks her ticket in case there’s any discrepancies: Name, distance, boarding and exit stations — all of them are right. She takes a deep breath before lifting her head and taking a step onto the nearest train car. From there, she decides, she’ll look for her seat. Now, she has more important things to do.

She stands between the bit connecting the two cars, watching the world go by as the vehicle speeds along the tracks. This is, she realizes, goodbye. Goodbye to a place she once knew, goodbye to a place she once loved.

Part of that makes her sad, she thinks. Still, she promises herself that she will not give in to that kind of thinking. This is a time to look forward, not to look backward. She repeats that to herself to keep it at the forefront of her mind, even when it’s hard to remember. To her, reminiscing is a danger.

Shortly after her boarding, the train screeches to a stop at its next station. Hers is still a fair distance away, so she spends the time lost in daydreams, like always.

Boston isn’t necessarily far from her hometown — except it’s not close, either. It’s strange, isn’t it? How she had spent all this time wondering what was there for her in another place. In the big cities she’d rarely made the effort to go to. And then finally, when she had the chance after everything, part of her still longed to go back.

When she first drove her and her parents to the station in the next state over, she wasn’t expecting the farewells to make her wonder what it might have been like if only she had chosen to stay. Only, those decisions had been made already, and there was no going back to change them.

Now, all there was for her to do was to look forward. To keep dreaming.
~
Word count: 349 words
No letter U

July 9th, 2025 Daily:

I’ve been losing you in stages. I’ve been losing you for months.

It’s like the walls are caving in: Damage lined up, wreckage left behind us, ruined all the good things. The future we dreamed of is fading to black. How can the end feel like this?

Now that you’re gone, it’s my fault. It’s always almost — always getting so close.

For a minute, the world seemed so simple. In my darkest hour, you’ll be there. Now London is lonely, so lonely without you, and I’m just mad as hell ‘cause I loved this place.

Now we’re alone with the quiet. I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I am selfish. I know you said that we aren’t talking, but I feel like if we gave it one night, you’d hate me less.

If I could just undo the night…I’ve calmed down, I’m not manic like before. I would stay forever. But you won’t.

In my head, I’m yours; I forget you aren’t mine. I’ll spend my whole life missing a part of me. You’re the loss of my life.
~
Songs (in order):
Stages • Cole Alan
In My Blood • Shawn Mendes
Will you cry? • Gracie Abrams
Not Ok • Clara Mae
It’ll Be Okay • Shawn Mendes
how can the end feel like this • Chelsea Cutler
Coping • Rosie Darling
Always Almost • Rosie Darling
The View Between Villages • Noah Kahan
darkest hour • BLÜ EYES
London Is Lonely • Holly Humberstone
break my bones • Matt Hansen
Crazier Things • Chelsea Cutler
I miss you, I’m sorry • Gracie Abrams
Rockland • Gracie Abrams
Not Ok • Clara Mae
lovebomb • Nessa Barrett
Say Don’t Go • Taylor Swift
In My Head • Maisie Peters
Cedar • Gracie Abrams
Crazier Things • Chelsea Cutler
loml • Taylor Swift
~
Word count: 183 words

July 11th, 2025 Daily:

Marie and William Miller were saving up every penny they possibly could to buy the farm they’d dreamed of having together for years. The two of them had just gotten engaged, and with the excitement of their upcoming marriage, they realized only how much more important the issue of where they would live was becoming.

Marie, a teacher, was making maybe seventy five hundred dollars a year. William, an engineer, would get closer to eight thousand a year. Neither one of them had high hopes for their future farm, but since the beginning, they had known that that was what they wanted. Both of them had grown up on farms and couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. To them, that was the American dream, what it meant to live up in the Northeast — rolling green hills and land for farming and animals.

Twenty thousand dollars. That’s what they had set aside for their new home, but even in the rural Northeast, you were hard pressed to find a farm like they wanted for that price, so they looked for more and more dilapidated places. Barns with the roofs caving in. Ceilings you could — quite literally — see the sky through.

26 Oak Street was everything they had ever dreamed of, but it was twice the price either of them had thought they could afford. At forty thousand, it held an old house and 65 acres of land for them to build up their farm on.

As soon as they saw it, the both of them knew that it was the one they wanted. 26 Oak Street was the place they had been hoping for without fully knowing it.

“We could make it work,” Marie told William, taking a look around at the main house on the property and the other smaller ones scattered about. None of them were particularly pretty yet.

William nodded, deep in thought, imagining how the place could look if they both put in the effort to fix up the other residences on the property. They could rent out the others, maybe, make a little bit more money. But it would take time. “It could work,” he echoed.

Now, for 55 years, 26 Oak Street has been their home and their childrens’. They vow never to give it up.
~
Word count: 380 words

July 13th, 2025 Daily:

Someone has stolen your mangoes? Oh, dear. I’m so sorry to hear that — dearest ibex, I promise you don’t deserve it. Is there anything that I can do to help?

…

Well…an interview. I guess I could do that. But I hope you don’t think I’ve taken your mangoes.

…

Oh, yes, that makes sense! After all, interviews are a routine process, you’re right. (laughs) I’ve read enough mystery novels to understand that part. And courtroom dramas. But I’m rambling now, sorry.

…

Where was I, you ask? I mean, I was busy participating in cabin wars, you know? Well, for starters…me as well as the entirety of Gothic are actually trapped in the manor we attended a party in.

…

Yeah, I know, it’s truly awful, right? Way to put a damper on the session. Like, there we were just minding our own business and all of that, but suddenly the lights went out and the doors locked, and now we have to interview a bunch of people to figure out who’s the one that did it, you know. Probably the same as you, right?

…

Right, yes, back to the point. Sorry, I get distracted quite easily, and I tend to go off at a tangent. (pause) I’m doing it again, aren’t I…?

…

Okay, thanks so much for being patient with me. Getting back to the point now. So I was participating in cabin wars from the ballroom of the manor we were trapped in, and I was trying to write as much as I possibly could. Oh, and also, I had to spend time with my dad before he left to go back to Singapore, so there’s that, too. You can ask him! He’ll vouch for me, anyway.

…

Um, wait, why might I want to steal mangoes? You do know me, right?

…

What do I mean? Well, it’s not something that I say really often, you know, because I’m a part of Scratch Writing Camp, and the mangoes are a big thing…but I actually really don’t like mangoes. Or any fruit, for that matter. Yeah. So even if I could have stolen your mangoes, I wouldn’t have because there’s no real point to it anyway.

…

Yes, of course I’m sure! Why wouldn’t I be?

…

That’s all? I can go? Okay, great. Thank you so much! I hope you find who did it.
~
Word count: 400 words

July 14th, 2025 Daily:

The birds carry the dead home long after they are gone.

Such a lonely job it was, to associate with death more than with the living, to be constantly surrounded by breathless bodies filled with nothingness. Aquila was one of these birds.

Birds, one would say, were far too mighty and beautiful to be among the carriers of the dead, but nonetheless, Aquila found herself lifting the weight of a mourned figure between her sharp talons, leading them to their final resting place.

She was among the few who cared for the dead and grieved for them like they were her own. Her family, her friends, her lost. Something in her broke every time she had to fly down close to the ground to retrieve one of the gone, watching their loved ones mourn the one who had left them.

For this reason, she treated the dead with the utmost care. She did not sink her claws into their flesh like the others did, but rather, she held them gently, as if in death, they were children once more.

Aquila took today’s lost in between her talons once again, and this time, it really was a child. She took the small boy who had succumbed to illness as far as she could and laid him down in the most beautiful of meadows she knew. She swept her wings across his face and left him with a bouquet of flowers and a feather — almost as if it was a message to tell his soul that she was the one who had brought him there.

I hope you find heaven, wherever you are, Aquila thought.

And indeed, he did. In the afterlife, the little boy found himself in a meadow not unlike the one in which Aquila had left him. He found a feather in his hand and realized that the legends were true. The birds who brought them to their final resting places and, therefore, their heaven were real.

Little did Aquila know, the boy was a painter, and in thanks for her care, he painted the night sky with an array of stars in the shape of an eagle and named it after her.

Somehow, it seemed, their souls knew each other.
~
Word count: 372 words

Part One: Comparing Fairy Tales From Different Cultures

In 1844, Hans Christian Andersen’s, a Danish writer, published “The Snow Queen”, which was later adapted into a movie and inspired similar tales. The story is divided into seven substories, each of which are interconnected. Andersen’s original work begins initially with a wicked sprite who creates a mirror to reflect and magnify the ugliest parts of every person. When the other sprites found out about this, they realized a trick to the mirror: that the higher you took the mirror, the more horrifying the appearance of the person reflected in the mirror, and the more people reflected. However, as they take it higher and higher, the mirror could not contain the magnitude of all of these terrible grins, and the mirror shattered into hundreds of millions of pieces, which found their way into people’s eyes, hearts, glasses, windowpanes — everything.

The second story follows two children who were neighbors yet acted as siblings: a boy, Kay, and a girl, Gerda. They did everything together and were inseparable. However, when a piece of the glass of the trick mirror finds its way into Kay’s eyes and heart, he begins to only see the ugly side of the world and creates a barrier between them as Kay is no longer able to see Gerda in a good light. On a freezing cold day later in the second story, the Snow Queen shows up and takes Kay under her wing, and he leaves his home and Gerda behind.

In the third story, Gerda grieves the loss of her friend, who she presumes dead in his absence. Finally, the nature around her tells her that they don’t think he is dead after all, and she searches for Kay, sailing across a river. An old woman sees her and asks her why she’s there. Eventually, the old woman takes Gerda in, saying she’s longed to have a little girl of her own, and over time, Gerda forgets her childhood friend. Unbeknownst to Gerda, the old woman practices witchcraft on Gerda in hopes to keep her, for she fears that Gerda will remember Kay and run away to find him once again. When she is finally reminded of Kay, her devotion to finding him rekindles, and she remembers her home and her grandmother who must be waiting for her there. She decides to continue her search for Kay and to return home afterward.

By the fourth story, “The Prince and Princess,” Gerda meets a raven on her journey, and the raven tells her of the princess with which he believes Kay now lives. Immediately, she asks the raven to take her to the palace to find Kay. However, upon her arrival, Gerda finds that the prince was not, in fact, Kay, and Gerda continues on her journey and bids farewell to the raven.

The fifth story continues the arc of Gerda’s search for Kay. As she moves onward, robbers find her and pull Gerda from her carriage. A robber child takes Gerda as her playmate, promising that as long as she is pleasing to the robber child, the rest of the robbers will not kill her. Later, the wood-pigeons tell Gerda that they have seen Kay with the Snow Queen, who must have taken him to Lapland. They refer her to the reindeer, who tell Gerda where the Snow Queen’s home is, and a robber maiden gives Gerda some gifts for her journey so she will not be cold, and Gerda is once again off.

By the sixth story, Gerda has traveled far but is still far from her destination, from Kay. On the way, a woman from Finland tells the reindeer that Kay is in fact happy with the Snow Queen because of the speck of glass in his eye and heart. They tell the reindeer that until both have been removed, the Snow Queen will keep power over Kay.

Meanwhile, in the seventh story, Kay finds himself quite pleased with his new life with the Snow Queen, though all the while, his heart is turning to ice without his knowledge. When Gerda arrives at the Snow Queen’s palace, she calls his name but he does not answer. Gerda weeps for him, and her tears find their way to his heart, thawing it and consuming the splinter of glass that began it all. Gerda sings to him, and Kay, too, bursts into tears, which removes the glass from his eye. At last, he recognizes her, and in excitement, he hugs Gerda, and the both of them are no longer crying tears of sadness but rather tears of joy. The two of them leave and say goodbye to the friends they’ve met along the way.

For this activity, I decided to look at the cultures aspect a bit more loosely. As you may or may not know, one famous adaptation of “The Snow Queen” is Disney’s movie Frozen. While these stories initially seem quite different in a number of ways, there are a number of underlying similarities between them.

For starters, while the two main characters in Frozen are not sibling-like neighbors the way that Kay and Gerda are, the makers of the movie instead made Anna and Elsa sisters, adding some more backstory to them. Elsa has ice powers, making her, in many ways, similar to the Snow Queen, and after an accident between Anna and Elsa resulting from Elsa’s ice powers when they were kids, Elsa wears gloves and refuses to interact with anyone — that is, until their parents die and Elsa is to be named queen. Like Kay and Gerda, the two sisters were initially inseparable, but for a large majority of both stories, they find themselves at two different sides, both of them apart as powers neither Kay nor Elsa can control tear apart their relationship with the ones they loved most.

In the movie, Elsa is largely a combination of two characters: Kay and the Snow Queen herself, while Anna is more like Gerda. Elsa isolates herself, believing that’s she’s a danger to her home after she freezes the land upon learning of her sister’s engagement to a man she just met, dooming their country to eternal winter. Meanwhile, Anna, like Gerda, searches for Elsa and makes friends along the way who help her with her journey — notably, Kristoff and his reindeer, Sven, as well as Olaf the snowman. Again, this is a similarity between the story of Frozen and “The Snow Queen.” When they find Elsa’s ice palace, Anna is thrilled, only to find that her sister doesn’t want to see her. Elsa sends ice straight into Anna’s heart by accident. At the same time, Elsa’s pursuers have also found her and attempt to hunt her down.

Another key difference between the two stories is the way in which the Snow Queen and Elsa are hunted. The Snow Queen is treated as the villain, unlike Elsa, but Gerda’s primary goal, as well as the others she meets, is simply to find Kay and go back home. This is one way in which Elsa is more similar to Kay than the Snow Queen in Andersen’s story, as this is Anna’s goal. However, the others from their village see Elsa as a threat, more like the Snow Queen — they think she’s a villain, not someone needing to be rescued.

Ultimately, the ending is one that’s most similar between the two. Anna freezes in the same way that Kay nearly did as she attempts to protect her sister, and when Elsa sees, like Gerda, she weeps for her lost sister, and her tears thaw Anna’s frozen body and heart, saving her. Anna thaws, and she and Elsa are reunited again as summer returns to their country, just like in “The Snow Queen.” Both of these stories have crucial themes of friendship and love — whether that be in the form of blood or found family.
~
1,310 words

Part Two: Writing About an Object From a Fairy Tale

The wicked sprite had cursed the mirror, thinking it was good fun and nothing more than that, to distort anything beautiful to look ugly and to amplify everyone’s flaws. In his quest for entertainment, however, he unknowingly creates a deadly weapon.

This cursed mirror looks, at a glance, like an ordinary one. In spite of its initially ordinary appearance, you’ll notice if you begin to look at it for longer that it’s not a true mirror in the slightest. Mirrors, as you all know, are meant to reflect what’s there, but this one did not.

Additionally, this mirror has some ornate decorations on the outside of it, tiny little swirls painted golden and intricate flower designs on the rim. It’s an oval shape and a large mirror.

This mirror, of course, is incredibly delicate, but this one is delicate in a slightly different way: When it holds the ugly reflections of too many people, it shatters, as it did in “The Snow Queen”. These particles carry the same quality as the glass did when whole — they amplify the ugliness of the world and distort beauty to the point where even the things one might have loved originally are unrecognizable and disgust the viewer. Pieces in the eyes affect how they see the world; pieces in their hearts affect the emotional view of the world.
~
224 words

Part Three: Putting a Spin on a Fairy Tale

Gerda shivered as she entered the Snow Queen’s palace, filled with frost and layers of ice covering the ground. In this quiet, almost eerily ethereal place, she was afraid to so much as breathe.

The young girl had come here for one reason: her best friend. Kay. Had she lost him already?

When she had first left home to find him, she didn’t think she would be away for long. She didn’t think it would be this much of a journey, but no matter how long it was, she was determined to ensure that he would come home with her, safe and sound. Mostly, though, she wanted the Kay she knew back. The one who was caring and kind and who was always up for an adventure. Not the one that he’d become in the days before he had disappeared.

Gerda knew she had to face her fears if she was to bring him back; she did. So she let out a shaky exhale before calling out into the open coldness of the castle, “Kay? Kay, where are you?”

Silence. And then Gerda’s voice once again. “Kay? Please. It’s Gerda.”

As she called his name out, over and over, she walked through more and more of the narrow paths of the Snow Queen’s home. Home wasn’t really the word to describe it. More of a dwelling place, nothing with a feel of home to it.

“Kay?” she said again, fear creeping into the edges of her voice. Was he truly gone, the way she had thought she was? For so long, she had been convinced he was dead, only she had talked herself out of it. And yet…and yet, he must truly be gone. Gone or as close to it as one could get.

She turned another corner, her shoes squeaking against the slippery ice as she took a step forward. In her peripheral vision, she saw a figure, dressed in all white. Kay?

No. It dawned on her, perhaps too late, that it was the Snow Queen and not Kay at all. What have I walked into?

She was about to turn back when the Snow Queen whispered her name. A kind of hoarse sound that permeated everything and chilled her to the bones. And suddenly, Gerda was all but frozen to the spot. She knows my name. She has Kay. She must.

“Looking for someone?” the Snow Queen crooned. Yes, she was, but Gerda wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that.

Still, Gerda couldn’t help herself, not entirely. She might have been able to avoid voicing the thought, but the both of them knew full well that she was, and Gerda’s quick glance at the floor was enough to confirm the Snow Queen’s suspicions.

A shorter silhouette trailed the Snow Queen, and in the low light, Gerda struggled to make out his face. Even more so, she struggled to give herself the hope she had been so desperately trying to keep herself from feeling.

A small, choked sound burst from Gerda’s throat, and she was instantly horrified with herself for making her emotions show. For, if she hadn’t already, making it so obvious that the Snow Queen had something she wanted, someone she loved.

The silvery fog that had clouded Kay’s eyes just earlier faded as he stepped closer, still staying by the Snow Queen’s side. “Gerda? Is it really you?”

Gerda broke into a smile, giddy. Her friend. Her best friend — he was back. “Yes, Kay. Yes, it’s—”

“No.” The word was simple, but it rippled throughout the entire building. The Snow Queen’s lips had barely moved to form the word, but there was a kind of fire in her eyes that seemed out of place in the face of a Snow Queen.

Instantly, Kay was snapped back to his reality — or the reality he had lived for the past few months. His body was drawn back to its rigid form, his eyes clouded once more.

“Kay, no,” Gerda murmured. But he was already gone, only in a different way. Here he was, standing right in front of her, only, he was completely different from anyone she had ever seen before. He was not the Kay she knew.

“Let me go,” she begged the Snow Queen, but even as she did, Gerda had steel in her voice. A terrible, selfish thought came to her, and before she could think twice, they escaped her mouth: “Take him. But let me go.”

“Oh?” the Snow Queen said, eagerness at this deal palpable in that one word. She glanced back at Kay and hesitated for a moment before speaking once more. “Alright, then. It’s a deal. Leave, girl, and never come back.”

Gerda, with tears in her eyes, turned and ran as fast as she could. “Goodbye, Kay,” she whispered. “Goodbye.”

She was not one mile from the palace before the anger caught up with her: at the Snow Queen, at Kay, and, mostly, at herself. What have I done? she thought.

It was only when she saw smoke rising from the chimney of a nearby house that she truly made up her mind. The Snow Queen — she needed to be punished. It was her fault. It must have been.

Gerda ran as fast as she could to gather the materials she would need. Matches, gasoline, everything she could. She refused to let the Snow Queen have the last word, and she would destroy her.

Kay will not be hurt, she reminded herself. Only the Snow Queen. But even so, she could not stop the doubts from rising in her.

She spread the gasoline all over the sides of the castle and the ground surrounding it. Winter would be no barrier to her, nor would ice. Magic would carry her if she needed it.

Finally, she struck the match and tossed it into the gasoline, watching as the flames licked the edges of the castle and turned the once-beautiful ice to simple water. Screams echoed through the palace. What scared her most was that she couldn’t tell whose they were.

She stepped back, the ends of her hair charred, her heart heavy. And then—

“KAY!” she cried as he emerged, and her tears began to flow freely as he ran toward her — was that right? Yes, it was. Toward her and away from the Snow Queen.

Quickly, she embraced him, ignoring all the damage she had caused behind him. “Is she gone?” Gerda asked.

Kay simply stared at her, unblinking, for another moment. His eyes were clear as a running stream now, but even so, he did not seem like the Kay that Gerda knew so well. Finally, he nodded.

“Thank goodness,” Gerda said, laughing and crying and hugging him tighter. But Kay pulled away, much to Gerda’s surprise. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Gerda,” Kay whispered, looking at the damage, watching the steam rise into the air. “Gerda,” he said again, only more urgent. “What have you done?”

Gerda looked at him with intensity he had never seen before. “Kay. I did what I had to do.”
~
1,181 words

Part Four: Creating Your Own Fairy Tale

“Take a seat beside the fire, dear child, and listen closely. I’m going to tell you a story,” the old woman says.

Her granddaughter perks up quickly, clambering over to a beanbag next to the fire. “A story? I love stories!”

The old woman laughs. “I know you do, darling. But you’ll have to be quiet to hear this one. Now, this is a story that’s been in the family for generations. I expect you to keep it close, okay? Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course, Grandma. I’ll be quiet now.” She motions zipping her lips shut, and again, her grandmother chuckles.

“Many stories start with ‘once upon a time,’ so I, too, will tell you one beginning the same way.”

***

Once upon a time, there was a man who stole the stars.

He kept a sack full of promises with him, which he slung over his shoulder as he walked for miles. You see, he was a traveler, weary yet persistent. He was skilled in the art of wandering where no one else had and where no one else would.

Some he met along the journey would judge him. That man? they would say, pointing him out discreetly behind his back. He’s an odd one. Don’t go too near him — you don’t know what might be wrong with him.

The voices said, Look at him, carrying around that bag of who-knows-what like he thinks he’s Santa Claus! He’s not quite right in the head, is he?

The voices said, What’s wrong with him? And let me tell you, child, that was not even the worst, the bluntest of the things they said to him. But I’m sure you get the picture by now.

The people, on the other hand, gave him a large berth, part…afraid?… to interact with him. Everywhere he walked, he and his sack full of promises parted the streets, the crowds, everything.

As you can imagine, being the traveler would get tiring. Imagine being so hated that people would not even say it to your face. Imagine being so hated that after everything, no one even remembers why they hate you in the first place. Imagine that, dearest.

After a while, he realized: People — they weren’t for him at all. So instead, he turned to the promises he carried in his bag. He opened the mouth of the sackcloth to let go of all the promises he had been carrying for so long.

Little did the villagers all know, but before he had been an outcast, he was one of them. Perhaps he did not belong to their homes, but that’s not to say that he never belonged to a home in the first place — not in the slightest.

Once upon a time, my darling, the traveler had a home, but fear and sorrow drove him from the place he called his own, and eventually, he became the wanderer that he is today.

Farewell, place I used to know, he said as he left every town, even if they hadn’t been his home. Because, in a way, he knew the towns and the people in them — he knew them intimately. In his clasped hand, he held remainders of all the promises they had made each other and forgotten about.

Dear child, he did not just carry a sack full of promises. He carried a sack full of all of the broken ones, even the ones as small as a single grain of sand. He thought, maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to fulfill those promises. Yes, perhaps in a way, quite like Santa Claus — those villagers weren’t entirely wrong, after all. But they didn’t know the full story, and they judged him without it.

He passed through every town determined to fulfill the promises he carried, but he would only grant the ones to the people who most deserved it. The ones who made an effort to keep their promises. The kindest, most beautiful souls.

Only, every time he thought he could have hope for this world, all it would take was another journey through a town to realize that none of their promises were worth fighting for. None of them deserved it.

Once upon a time, there was a wanderer — a man — who loved the world and everything about it. And once upon a time, my child, he grew bitter when he saw that the world did not love him nor the rest in return.

He went in search of one person. Just one person who deserved to have their promises fulfilled, and then he would be happy. This was the thought that pushed him forward, even when he thought it was no longer worth it.

And every time, he was disappointed.

People were not to be trusted. Not their promises. Not on their first chances, their second, their third, and any number after that. They were unreliable, and the wanderer, after some time, learned that.

After he had traveled for days and months and years, he gave up on humanity. They were not worth their promises, their hopes and dreams. Humanity was, he decided, not to be trusted.

He set the sack of broken promises on the ground and held a lighter to it, determined to set it on fire and send up the broken promises in smoke. It was selfish, perhaps, but he didn’t care. He was, after all, human, and like all humans, he, too, was selfish.

Ah, but how did a weary traveler and a carrier or broken promises become a star-stealer, you might ask? Dear child, be patient. I’m getting there.

He watched all the promises he had collected go up in smoke, right along with the bag he had carried for so long. One would think it felt like a release — the weight of broken promises is a heavy one, it’s true. But instead, it was more like a burden on his heart, though he did not understand it yet.

He thought that this burden could be solved by punishment even greater than his earlier act. For millennia, the world had relied on the stars, but no longer. He fashioned a ladder from a tree that had fallen during a storm, and he leaned it up against the tallest dwelling place he could find, long after midnight.

He would, the traveler decided, reach the stars and take them. What he was to do with them, he did not yet know, but it was the act in the moment that was important. Humanity would wake up to a world completely dark, and then, perhaps, they would reconsider their promises.

One by one, he knocked them out of the sky, and they shattered as they hit the ground. And one by one, the light in the indigo sky was gone.

The last light he kept as a keepsake: This would be a reminder to him of their faults. He tucked it into his pocket, where he vowed it would stay forever.

Never again would they treat him as an outside, as a monster. Never again would humanity forget its promises.

In his quest, he had forgotten perhaps the most important thing: He, too, had forgotten to fulfill his promises.

***

After a few years, the man and the rest of the world had gotten used to darkened skies. He had long since left behind those broken, forgotten promises, just like everyone else did.

Almost everyone.

As it turned out, he was not the only traveler, not at all. Another wanderer with another bag of broken promises traveled, searching for a soul beautiful enough to give another chance. Promises were like wishes, only stronger. They could be granted, but instead of magic, they took emotion.

The woman had been solitary, like the man, for ages, and she had the same mission he did once upon a time. She decided that she would be the one to restore the promises. She had heard about the man — or rather, she had read about him. The strange traveler with the sackcloth bag. She was curious, ever so curious to meet him. What was he like? Who was he, even?

There was one question she had that was more important than the rest: Why? Why did he give up the second chances? Was he truly so selfish?

It’s hard to compare souls, isn’t it? But when the woman was met with hostility and unkindness, she did not stop, nor did she set the entirety of humanity’s second chances alight and watch them burn. What does that say about her soul?

***

She met him in the winter, when it was cold and bleak and dark as ever. He had kept the lone star left in the world in his pocket all the while, but she didn’t know that.

She was the first one to speak: “You missed one.”

He turned sharply. “What? What do you mean?”

What does she know? he wondered.

“Your promises. You forgot about one, like everyone else. I wondered if you would.” She held out a speck of light, and his eyes widened as he saw it. Promises were barely recognizable, but he was trained in the art of it.

His promise. The one he made so very long ago, at the very start of his journey.

Once upon a time, he promised himself that he would return the beauty to the world in every way he could. And instead, he took it.

Subconsciously, he reached for the star in his pocket, and the woman’s eyes followed his motion, where the star was now impossible to ignore.

“It’s time to put them back now. One last promise. You don’t have to break it this time.”

***

It took much longer than he had ever expected to nurse the fallen stars to health, to patch them up. They weren’t quite the same as they used to be — they were more messy, but messy things can be beautiful as well, could they not?

He and the woman built a ladder, and he climbed up as far as he could go. She handed him stars, and he hung them back in place. Finally, he placed the star in his pocket in the sky, and the canvas was complete.

“Look at how beautiful it is,” he breathed as he jumped down from the lower rungs of the ladder.

“This place can still be beautiful,” she responded. “I’ve always known that. We just have to work a little harder for it sometimes.”

***

“Is that meant to be a happy story? Or a sad story? I can’t tell.”

The little girl’s grandmother picked her up and put her on her lap. “It’s meant to be both. It’s called bittersweet, lovely.”

“Bittersweet,” the child repeated, rolling the syllables over her tongue. “I like that.”

A small smile gave new life to the old woman’s face as she whispered. “So do I, darling. So do I.”
~
1,816 words

July 15th, 2025 Daily:

Dearest members of Scratch Writing Camp and others,

Today, I am here to talk to you about why Gurtle is hands-down the best mascot of Scratch Writing Camp.

Well, for starters, who is Gurtle? Gurtle was the mascot for the March ‘24 session of SWC (if I remember correctly), and he is a turtle, as you might guess from his name. Initially, Gurtle was known for eating links in the main cabin.

I know what you’re probably thinking: Eating links? Why would Gurtle ever be a good mascot? We need the links for our weeklies and critiqureiwufwl and writing competition, don’t we?

And it’s true, you are right about that. However, there’s another part about Gurtle that we have a tendency to forget about. In the second cabin wars of the session, Gurtle turned on us, in a way, to give us one writing assignment: twenty thousand words in a story we all wrote together, in different amounts — but no one person could contribute more than a certain amount in each addition!

Turning on us, you might think, would make him an even WORSE mascot, but in fact, just the opposite is actually true. Gurtle was the mascot that single-handedly overcame cabin competitiveness to achieve a kind of unity in SWC that we haven’t seen before (and haven’t seen since). He’s the kind of mascot that could inspire us to all work together and allow us to transcend the way that all our own cabins would spend time trying to outdo each other.

In many ways, Gurtle is a symbol of collaboration — the collaboration that makes SWC such a marvelous, memorable place. You might think writing is a solitary pursuit, but things like Gurtle prove otherwise. After all, could we ever have managed to pull off such a feat if we hadn’t worked together? Would any of us have had the kind of motivation that we had that day? And what is Scratch Writing Camp without writing and inspiring each other?

Ultimately, Gurtle serves as an eternal reminder that we are all a team, despite our differences, whether that be in writing style, cabin, or anything else. Gurtle truly gave us a way to bond, making the March ‘24 session of SWC so much more unforgettable.

We have Gurtle to thank for many of the successes of our beloved camp (and obviously the hosts, which we eternally thank for making Gurtle our mascot that time). Without Gurtle, we would never have known our true capabilities when we choose to work together.

Sincerely,
Snowy
~
Word count: 423

July 16th, 2025 Daily:

Annalise tapped her fingers nervously against the side of the bench as she waited for Esther to arrive. Come on, come on.

When Esther finally showed up, Annalise stood up immediately. How should she greet her? How do you say hello to a person that you no longer could fully say you loved in the same way?

Instead, Annalise settled for a simple, “Hey.” Anything more felt like it was too much of a commitment, and anything less would feel too distant, too formal. She hesitated for a second before embracing Esther. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Esther — she did — but it was just not exactly in the way they’d been acting in the past few months.

Esther, like always, hugged Annalise back, and in the instant before they closed the gap between them, Esther smiled slightly. “Hey, Anna. What’s up?”

Almost instantaneously, Annalise pulled back, unsure of how to put what she wanted to say into words. Everything she had planned out would surely sound better in her head than from her lips, so instead, she just looked at the floor.

“Esther,” she began, “so you remember when a while ago, I was wondering if it would be okay with you that I’m ace?”

Esther nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

Annalise clicked her heels together, wishing she was Dorothy and could just go home. “I think I might be aro as well. I’m sorry. It’s really not anything to do with you, but it’s just how I am, I guess. It’s not that I don’t love you, obviously. At the start of all of this, we agreed that we’d always be best friends, yeah? And I still want it to stay that way. I still want you around, you know?” She took a deep breath, for the words were running out almost faster than she could think them through. “Sorry, I don’t know if I’m making any sense right now.”

To Annalise’s surprise, Esther only hugged her again. “No, you definitely are,” Esther said. “And for the record? I kind of figured. But that’s okay. We’re still friends, yeah? I don’t want to lose you as a friend. You’re, like, one of my favorite people in this world.”

“Really?” Annalise’s eyes were shining as she spoke. “Well, you’re one of mine, too. You’re sure you’re okay?”

Esther didn’t need to take any time before she responded: “Definitely.”
~
Word count: 398 words

July 17th, 2025 Daily:

Dr. John H. Watson, M.D., former captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, had walked with a limp ever since being carted back to London from his military service as a surgeon in Afghanistan. Watson, though, was far too proud to admit to any kind of weakness, and he refused to walk with a cane, preferring to grit his teeth through the pain and do his best to make it look as if every step was not completely awkward.

Dr. John H. Watson had only just arrived back from his time away (read: sewing up bullet wounds until he was the one who needed sewing up) via an exceptionally long plane ride in Afghanistan. He remembered little of it, except that the sitting for so many hours was particularly harsh on his still-healing leg. Finally, he was back home, though he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in Afghanistan on nearly an hourly basis. Part of him wished he had been able to stay. A silly thought indeed. War was on the side of no man, and yet, John could not seem to shake the feeling that he was made for something greater than living out the rest of his days alone.

And there’s one other thing that Dr. John H. Watson was too proud to say: He was, in short, broke.

For the last week or so, he had been sleeping on the floor of his friend Mike’s house, but he didn’t want to intrude on Mike’s hospitality any longer than he already had. It was, he decided, time to find himself a flatmate, for even with someone else to help him out, he would not be able to afford anything more than a small apartment.

John sighed as he pulled out his laptop. Idly, he checked his email, his texts. Nothing. He had all but been forgotten, it seemed.

Eventually, he gathered the strength to pull up that one site he was ashamed to say he had bookmarked.

So many posts — people searching for roommates in Essex and Manchester, asking whether they might be okay with a cat, three dogs. Watson scrolled past them all, for he couldn’t bear to be anywhere but London, and he would prefer not to share a home with animals. Another person would be enough, thank you very much.

At last, one of them caught his eye:

Looking for a temporary flatmate in London. Have a place picked out already, the landlady owes me. It won’t be much.
—> reply

Huh. He hated to admit it, but that seemed…perfect. Before he could think too much about it, he hovered his cursor over the “reply” button. Slowly, he typed out a response.

Hey. I’m John. This sounds like it could work for me, but I’d like to meet you in person so we can get to know each other first, don’t you think?
—> post

He waited, holding his breath, for a response, but luckily, he did not have to wait long. The three dots appeared, indicating that the person on the other end was typing.

Sherlock Holmes. And I don’t believe that’s necessary — I find it’s easy enough to get to know a person here, yes? Anyone could tell you’re just back from military service — I’d guess in Afghanistan.
—> reply

Dr. John Watson’s jaw dropped, quite literally. How? He took great care not to put out anything personal on the internet, save for his name and picture. There wouldn’t be anything to indicate what this man — Sherlock Holmes — had just put together about him.

The three dots appeared again.

Since I know you’re going to ask: Your photographs tell me everything I need to know. Tanned hands, so you’ve been abroad but wearing long sleeves. But no one from London would wear such warm clothing in equally warm places unless they had to. From there, it was quite simple. Your haircut and posture? Military, so fighting in Afghanistan. Or rather, as your title indicates, healing. Just back? You can’t have been back for long, or else you wouldn’t be here. My guess is that you’ve just exhausted all your other options and need to get on your feet now — unless that’s not possible for you. Even doctors get shot at, do they not?
—> reply

With every word further that John read, he grew increasingly more stunned. Of course, now that Sherlock had mentioned it, all of these facts seemed obvious, but John would never be able to put it together quite so quickly, if he could even pick out such small details in the first place.

He typed out another message.

That was…incredible. And completely right.
—> post

There. That was enough; as impressed as he was, John didn’t want to give too much credit to a man he’d just met. There was just one small detail he needed.

How about the address, then?
—> post

The response was practically instantaneous.

Tomorrow morning, 9 o’clock sharp. 221B Baker Street. You can’t miss it.
~
Word count: 828 words

July 19th, 2025 Daily:

Title: “An Oath Sworn to the Night”
—> thanks to Jiyeon for the title!

When we were young, we believed that if only we tried hard enough, we could become the stars. We believed in the legends and myths we used to read, that a deed heroic enough could commit you to the sky to live on forever.

It was so easy to believe in the night, and it was even easier to believe in the day.

I think my eyes opened as I grew older. Being taller meant we could see beyond the picture-perfect view we got from the window of our bedroom. Yes, we still did see the night sky, but as children, we had missed out on so much. As we grew, we saw the long way down from the tenth floor. We saw the grass turning brown and the trees become barren. We saw the junkyard below and the passersby walking with their eyes on the floor and not on the sky.

Then you left, dearest; I ask you to recall this because I know you will have forced yourself to forget it. When you were gone, it was just me, staring out the window every night, watching as tomorrow turned to today. An awfully lonely experience, but I got used to it, just as I’m sure you did yourself.

Without you to keep me company at three in the morning, I befriended the night. We confessed our deepest secrets to each other, and when it split open to shed its light, I called it a blood oath and did the same. We would never be separated. That was our vow.

As it turns out, beloved, you don’t have to be a hero to be cast away among the stars. I would know.

I found other ways to become surrounded by stars.
~
Word count: 292 words

Part One: Finding a Topic

The weekly idea I had for this weekly (wow, that’s awfully confusing) is on being concise in your writing! Being concise is something that I’ve always struggled with, personally, but over the last two years, I’ve definitely had to get better at it. We all see a lot of word limits in things like school writing projects, writing competitions, and more! But being concise isn’t just for that, so it’s important to learn how to be concise so you can keep your audience engaged and always on the edge of their seat.

In the weekly I’m creating, I want to look at things like strategies for just straight-up cutting words out when you can, as well as other related things that can help you to say the same thing (or the essence of it, anyway) in less time. This could include things like rewording sentences that may be a bit too clunky or long and then also just figuring out what’s important to your writing and what you can cut altogether! All of these help you to say things that you want to say in a shorter amount of time or words, keeping the importance of what you said and only making it more action-packed.

I can’t say that I’ve ever been great with killing my darlings or being concise, but I’m hoping that through creating this weekly, I can actually help myself to get better at it.
~
238 words

Part Two: Splitting the Topic Into Parts

For this weekly, I think I’m going to start with the easiest, simplest methods of being concise to the harder ones that sometimes we avoid because we feel like we’ll lose some element of our writing.

Because this weekly is about being concise, which is generally more of a part of editing, it’s really hard to do this in adding words, if that makes sense. Here, I want to start with an initial piece of writing and try to show how you can use these strategies to make it stronger and also shorter. This could include using different words that better reveal character personality and using more emotionally-charged language.

Part One: Creating the Initial Writing Piece
—> Writing naturally, without really thinking about being concise, just as you normally would write
—> 500 words?

Part Two: Cutting Out Words and Sentences
—> Take a single part of your initial piece of writing (at least 200 words) and cut out pieces of it until it’s 150 words
—> Consider: What’s most important to your story or piece? Are there words you can combine? Are there words that are altogether unnecessary? (Good examples include “I am” to “I’m” and cutting “that” in certain situations)

Part Three: Rephrasing to Make It Shorter and Stronger
—> Consider: Some of your sentences might be good on their own, but you can make them better by keeping in mind the point you want to make with your writing. Think about what your point is with the writing, and take that into consideration as you rephrase and rewrite sentences to make them more impactful — short and sweet!
—> Rewrite the same 200 words you chose for part two, except this time, rephrasing and, if necessary, even adding to make it more interesting and engaging to read. Think about the specific language you’re using. Again, get this initial excerpt of 200 words down to 150 words.

Part Four: Rewriting with Concision
—> In essence, a rewrite of the initial part, keeping the same intention you had earlier, except this time taking care to use precise language and to not use any words more than necessary!
—> Rewrite your earlier 500 words from part one to get it down to 300 words. Think about what’s important to the story or what you’re trying to say, and don’t be afraid to kill your darlings!
~
386 words

Part Three: Writing a Workshop

—> intro
Hello, hello, writers! For this workshop, we’ll be working on how to write with concision! To keep it brief (as one would hope for a workshop on this topic), let’s jump right in.

—> outlining.
Being concise isn’t just about, well, being concise. While having a shorter piece might help you to get under word guidelines, it’s important to make sure your writing is impactful as well. One way to do this is to rephrase and rewrite, making your writing more impactful in fewer words!

Firstly, you’ll want to look at your piece on a whole. What’s the main idea of it? What’s the most important thing for you to convey with it?

For starters, look purely at the plot points (or main arguments, if you’re writing nonfiction) that you’re adding in. Jot the most important ones of them down, which will help you to get a bare bones idea for your story/piece of writing.

Once you’ve got your plan done, then you’ll know what’s most important for you to include in your piece. Doing this helps you to evaluate what’s really the priority for you to say, and by using bullet points, you can eliminate flowery language as a starting point. Killing your darlings can be tough, but by prioritizing what’s most important to your main point, you can build your writing around what you need to say rather than just what you want to.

Remember, even if you’ve cut something from your piece in your bare bones outline, you can always add it back in! But hopefully in doing this, you’ll be better able to understand whether it’s actually adding to the story — whether that be in terms of plot, revealing character motivations or personality, or anything else.

—> cutting from individual sentences
Next, read back over your piece. Pick out the sentences that overall serve to get across the points you highlighted in your outline. They might not flow together well at the moment, but that’s another thing you can work on later.

Now, you’re going to look at the sentences more individually. Some strategies to eliminate words and make your sentences stronger (and shorter) are:

• Eliminating passive voice/using active voice (“The ball was kicked straight into the path of the goalie, and she was waiting to see if her strike would be a goal.” —> “She kicked the ball straight into the path of the goalie, waiting to see if her strike would score.”)
• Looking for places with unnecessary repetition and either cutting or combining it
• Read it out loud, and see which parts you stumble over. These might be overly wordy, so you can revise them — this could be through cutting out parts, like in part two of this weekly or through changing how you say it. For example,

—> piecing it together
Then, look back at your initial piece. Were there any transitions you used that were really helpful? Can you apply these to your current piece without detracting from the main point? Piece these individual sentences back together and take inspiration from your initial piece to make it only more seamless yet more focused!

—> conclusion
Congratulations, you’ve finished this workshop! Hopefully through this, you’ve learned how better to rewrite for clarity and concision. I wish you all the best of luck on the rest of this weekly!
~
553 words

Part Four: Swapping Weeklies With Someone
—> swapping with Sandy!

—> Part One: Researching an Era

For this part, I’m going to be looking at the nuclear tests the United States conducted on the Marshall Islands.

The Marshall Islands is a remote country (and former territory of the U.S.) in Micronesia — about 6,000 miles away from continental U.S. Following the end of World War II, a victory against Japan due to the launch of the atomic bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August 1945, the United States realized how critical it was for them to continue to test and develop this new technology. Thus, they turned to the Marshall Islands as a place to test their new weapons. Following President Harry S. Truman’s approval of Operation Crossroads, the first series of nuclear tests the United States conducted on the Marshall Islands, in March 1946, the U.S. got to work with prepping for the tests.

Meanwhile, in the Marshall Islands, something had to be done about the people who lived there. The Marshallese and their land had just been tossed around like property by the Germans, then the Japanese, and finally the Americans. Their way of life was based on the availability of fish and coconuts. However, their lives were quickly uprooted when Navy Commodore Ben Wyatt traveled to the Marshall Islands and assembled the people, surrounding them with cameras. He then asked the leader of the Marshallese people, King Juda, if they would be willing to leave their island for these tests, claiming that they would be “for the good of mankind.” Commodore Ben Wyatt’s part was conducted in English, with a Marshallese translator present to translate what he said to King Juda. King Juda finally said that they would go, believing it to be in God’s hands, to which Commodore Wyatt responded that, “If it’s in God’s hands, then it must be good.” Asking, however, was just a formality intended to make the American people feel better about themselves. They repeated this scene over and over again to get usable footage for the news, and finally, when they got the film they wanted, they broadcasted it globally. Unlike the Manhattan Project, which was top secret, Operation Crossroads was, in many ways, for the U.S.’s bragging rights, and they took great care to ensure the whole world knew about what they were doing, manipulating the truth to make it more palatable. They claimed the Marshallese had willingly given up their homes for these tests, when they truly weren’t told the details. At times, they claimed these islands were uninhabited.

They made the information regarding Operation Crossroads public to everyone. Except, that is, for the Marshallese.

Commodore Ben Wyatt — and the rest of the Americans — never truly explained to the Marshallese what these tests would mean for them. While the long-term effects of the nuclear bomb was not yet well understood, they failed to tell the Marshallese what their beautiful island paradise would look like after the fact and the health dangers that would result.

The Marshallese were moved off their atoll of Bikini to another island: Rongerik. However, Rongerik was much smaller than their home, and they soon found out that the trees bore few coconuts and lacked a lagoon to support the fish they needed. The Bikinians began to starve.

Operation Crossroads commenced in July 1946, with two tests, Crossroads Able and Baker, the toils of the Marshallese people were far from over. For the next twelve years, from 1946 to 1958, the United States expanded their range of nuclear testing to include Enewetak Atoll in addition to Bikini. Between the two of them, they conducted operations Sandstone, Greenhouse, Ivy, Redwing, Hardtack I, and Castle — 67 tests in total. These 67 tests yielded the equivalent of launching 1.6 Hiroshima bombs every day for twelve years.

One of these, the hydrogen bomb Castle Bravo, had a yield of 15 megatons. For comparison, the yield of the Hiroshima bomb was just 15 kilotons — one thousand times smaller than Castle Bravo.

Castle Bravo remains the largest nuclear detonation in U.S. history.

Castle Bravo was, despite suggestions otherwise, detonated in bad weather, leading to immense ecological and human damage. Marshallese children played in what they thought was snow. In reality, this was radioactive fallout. They rubbed it on their skin, in their eyes, and ate it. Later, many of them contracted thyroid cancers and other illnesses, and many died resulting from this. Fishermen on a Japanese boat fishing nearby also were hit with this nuclear fallout, and contaminated tuna that was on the boat made its way into the fish market. The Japanese, having experience with the consequences of radioactive fallout, covered this in the press, making a wake-up call for the rest of the world.

Back in America in the 1950s, the idea of the nuclear testing and nuclear bombs were all the rage. Today, we know the word “bikini” as a swimsuit. However, as this swimsuit was actually named after the island on which 23 of these nuclear tests were conducted. The atomic bomb had also been celebrated in other ways — nuclear tourism in Nevada, when the United States began tests there, was a way to earn money, and the Miss Atomic Bomb beauty pageant became a popular affair.

As the knowledge of the results of the tests grew more and more well known across the world, people in the U.S. began to wonder about what this would mean for them. In the 1960s, some organizations began striking — one of which, notably, was the Women Strike for Peace organization, who wanted to ban nuclear testing on the grounds that their milk would be poisoned. “Think of our children,” was one of their main arguments. But what of the Marshallese children?

The United States put off cleanup of the Marshall Islands for nearly two decades, but in the 1960s, the United States claimed that Bikini Atoll was safe and brought the Marshallese people back. These claims, however, were completely false. The islands were still extremely radioactive, and, unsurprisingly, the Marshallese people quickly experienced the effects of this.

One of the most important parts to note about this is Project 4.1, the program the United States later launched. They sent Marshallese people home to their islands — the same ones that were still radioactive — at times knowing the dangers of radiation exposure with the purpose of observing the effects of radiation on humans. They gave the Marshallese people pills and more to take without any explanation as to why. They admitted the Marshallese to hospitals, telling them that they would be treated for their illnesses — an outright lie, as they were only there to be observed. Merril Eisenbud, the first head of health and safety at the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission likened the Marshallese people to lab specimens: “While it is true that these people…do not live the way Westerners do — civilized people — it is nonetheless also true that they are more like us than the mice.”

In 1977, the United States finally began cleanup after complaints from the Marshallese people, but this was neither helpful for the people involved in this process nor the Bikinians themselves. The main aim of the cleanup seemed to be to store the radioactive materials, not to remove the radiation, and the U.S. tried to save money on the process in any way they could. Cleanup crew were only given protective materials to wear on camera; otherwise, many can be seen wearing normal clothing and sunglasses. The U.S. created a dome and put the radioactive materials underneath it. The Marshallese people call this “the tomb.”

Today, this event — the nuclear testing on the Marshall Islands — remains largely unknown, particularly because it has been written out of U.S. history due to the country’s shame. Even in the Marshall Islands, children do not fully understand the impact of the nuclear testing on their home, for they have also not been taught this. To this day, Bikini Atoll remains uninhabited, too radioactive to live upon.

The United States’ nuclear tests on the Marshall Islands remain a crucial turning point and a dark spot in history, but an important one to learn.
~
1,358 words

—> Part Two: Historical Figure

Specific people in the Marshall Islands are not very well documented, largely because of the United States’ control of the narrative. Although still not very well known, one of the more commonly mentioned Marshallese people at the time was King Juda.

King Juda was the leader of the people on Bikini Atoll. While he was called a “king,” this was a title given by the American people when they came. To the Marshallese, King Juda was their chief — not a figure of royalty, but simply a leader of the people. As expected, King Juda was native to Bikini Atoll, and photographs depicting him with his family show a woman and four children, presumably his wife and sons and daughter. As I’ve said in the previous part of this weekly, he was also the one with the authority to speak to Commodore Ben Wyatt on behalf of the people of Bikini.

While Commodore Wyatt took the response of “We will go…believing everything good…and everything in God’s hands,” to be a positive one indicating the Marshallese people (and in particular, King Juda) were willing to relocate for these tests, other Marshallese people have indicated that this was actually a nonanswer. King Juda, like the rest of the Marshallese people, understood the power imbalance, where the U.S. sailors and soldiers were in power and he was not. His answer indicated only that he was hoping for the best.
~
236 words

—> Part Three: Historical Characters

Charity Jacob is a Marshallese native to Bikini Atoll, and at the time of the beginning of the story (March 1946), she is fourteen years old, so her birthday is July 25th, 1931 — incidentally making her fifteenth birthday the day of the Crossroads Baker nuclear test. Before the war caused them (the Marshall Islands) to be tossed around like property — a fact that she disdains — she enjoyed going on walks to the beach with her best friend, Ruth. These served as a source of escapism to her, until she began seeing soldiers everywhere and navy ships out in the sea and feared straying too far away from home, wondering if she would make it back. After the end of World War II and now that the Marshall Islands have fallen under the United States’ control, she is tentatively reclaiming her bond with the ocean and nature. She’s quiet but strong-willed, and she cares deeply about her home, so when Commodore Wyatt comes to tell her family that they must leave their home, she’s horrified at leaving the only place she’s ever known.

For years, she did not know what she wanted to be when she was older, but she realizes later that it’s important to her to make her island home mean something to the people who think they’re only an asset.
~
222 words

—> Part Four: Tying It All Together

They call these heavy, bug-eyed metal things cameras. I roll the word over my tongue when no one is listening. Cameras. These Americans have such strange things, and yet…I can’t help but be at least a little curious as to what’s going on as they arrange logs in the clearing.

From afar, I watch as they speak to our chief, Juda, through his translator, though I can only see their lips moving — not make out the words they’re saying. Then he turns away and begins walking toward town.

Mama says that I should be home early for lunch, because she wants the three of us to eat together today.

“But, Mama,” I had said, “Can’t I just eat lunch with Ruth instead?”

“Don’t be silly,” she had responded. “You’ve only done that every day of this week.”

So, mostly for Mama but a bit for Baba, I will be home early for lunch. I’m walking home, counting my steps along the way because I know this place so well I can pretty much go anywhere with my eyes closed. I’m just about home when Juda calls out for us to meet in the clearing. Since town isn’t very big, I’m not surprised that we can hear him. I run the rest of the way home, though it’s only fifty paces or so, and poke my head inside our little home to relay the message to Mama and Baba, but apparently, they’ve already heard. Together, the three of us walk to the clearing where we are instructed to have a seat.

There are many instructions they give us: Sit down. Be quiet. Let Juda and our translator speak — the rest of us may not. We are to listen to what the soldier says without outwardly responding. I think my stomach cramps a little more with every rule they list, because if there are this many of them, then whatever’s coming can’t possibly be good.

This soldier tells us that they want us to leave. “For the good of mankind,” he says. Juda responds that we will go, because God is with us, and surely, if it is in God’s will, He will protect us.

We do this over and over and over again, for the cameras. So they look good, I think. I’d thought that, maybe, with the end of the war, we could return to normal again, but it’s only a different kind of war they’re fighting right now.

Every time, the soldier says that we must leave home “for the good of mankind.”

How about, just for once, they remember that this is our home and not theirs?
~
439 words

How to Leave the Stage (and Everything After)

3. Ecore - 355 words

She said it was just a long walk.
A really long walk…
The ones we dragged ourselves on
through the rain,
coming home drenched
but smiling anyway.

Or the ones we felt like gods,
when I danced on the top of the world,
looking down on everything:
carefree, proud
and a little bit windswept,
just a little sunburnt,
feet throbbing, hearts pounding
but living.

It sounded good:
we knew how to deal with sticks
and stones, and mud.

Brambles may wrap around our ankles
like pointe shoe ribbons, but crueler,
yet their wounds fade
like our boots wearing away.

And she would be happy,
her well-worn legs -
tree-trunk solid, her husband said.
She wasn't pleased about that,
but it gave us lots of laughs -
scampering
up so many peaks
in her beloved mountains.

She said stars are holes in heaven,
that when our loved ones shine through,
we know they are happy.

Now, I look up at them:
the twinkling -
as bright as the glint in her eye
when we laughed about
cake in the freezer

She didn’t need stage lights
to love me.

I don’t remember learning
to breathe through dance.
Only that I did.

I keep wondering…
When will my last pilé be?
Will I know?
Or will it just fade away
like the audience filing out.

and one day,
I’ll read the word jeté
and not feel the coils tightening
in my calves, burning
(even though it’s a good burn)
and aching to be released.

Forced to watch, applaud
my
language…
That I no longer speak,
Wishing I could.

I step onto the stage for my final bow -
stripped of heavy foundation,
and red lipstick:
just… me,
and a theatre full
of ghosts.

The echo of my last notes
hangs in the air.
I hope they’re good ones.
The lights dim slowly…
I hope they were warm even when
they burned my eyes.

If my life was a script…
Did I write enough of it myself?
I hope I spent more time
on stage
than in the wings,
my audience waiting in interval.
Did I spend too much time rehearsing
and forget to perform?
I hope I performed for myself -
not for the empty seats.

But some nights, I wonder
if I stood in the wings so long
I forgot my choreography.
I would’ve -
should’ve -
danced wilder if
I’d known they were the last times
before I took my bows to the ghosts.

My last bow should've been deeper than the rest.
At least I get a chance now,
even if

I should’ve let myself
cry on my last dance,
and smile - really smile -
on all the others.
And sing - not just mouth - as we took
our bows…
And walk on stage
face bare,
legs unshaven,
hair curly.

The curtain falls softer
when it is the last time.
But it falls around me like a hug.

And it's so dark, but it’s okay:
I think the curtain might be
all my laughs and loves
and every time I lived,
all weaved into a curtain of stars.
I hope it will light up the stage
beneath,
and I will shine through,
like she shone for me.

I really hope I was a show
worth watching.

July 20th, 2025 Daily:

grieving faces line the halls, as if they really
knew the one who lies before them, as if they really
understood that kind of loss like it was really theirs.
are they celebrating the sacrifice of the one that lies before them or
just pretending, because their dresses of black and crisp suits are more
attractive
than the reality of death?
are they celebrating the life, remembering it, or are they just
using it,
an excuse to pretend like it ever really mattered?
it’s so easy to fake it when it’s not really yours to
love, you see?

thank goodness, they will say, a hundred years in the future,
for their goodness,
and all the ones who really knew the one who is now white as a sheet
and still as snow
will not say, thank goodness, because for goodness sake, they know
that the only words that anyone who truly cared would say are
i am so sorry that i
did not do all that i meant to do for you. i am so sorry
that i did not say all that i wanted to, that i so easily let the time
slip through our fingertips until there was none left. i am so sorry that
you had to die to make it worth the sun’s effort to keep rising
for this broken world.
i am so sorry you had to die to make it beautiful.

truth is, the history books will not remember the best parts,
only the most memorable.
best beloveds, those are not the same, i tell you—
just because they are easy to tell does not mean that they are
the most important parts, because
i have loved so many times, but i have never found anything
as worth loving
as the little moments, the everything moments.

we all made sacrifices, only some are more forgettable than the others.
i have traced my apologies in the mirrors in the days i had left
before we committed ourselves, wholly and fully, to
our cause, but i can only hope
that my mourners are the ones to whom
i truly mattered.
~
Word count: 354 words

July 21st, 2025 Daily:

I think you knew it was coming, from the way you
embraced me that last time like you knew it was the last time, and
I hate to say that you were right about that.
I think you knew it was coming, for we
shared one last smile like all the ones we shared when we were kids, and
I think you knew it was coming, because right before you left, you
placed a folded-up note in my pocket, and I almost put it through the wash
until I got the news and just couldn’t wash away that last memory
between the two of us, so I held that pair of jeans close, like,
isn’t that just the silliest thing you’ve ever heard?
And it was your handwriting and your watercolor and
I mean it, it really did still have pieces of you all over it, at least
that’s how it felt to me.

So you never wrote me notes like a normal kid, but you drew me flowers,
because you were obsessed with the Victorian era, and you thought it was
more meaningful,
so, of course, I did too.
And tell me this now, if you’re still out there somewhere:
Did you really think I would forget you?
You drew me clovers and dahlias, and I know you well enough to
understand the meanings of both of those, but, really,
did you truly believe that I would not be thinking of you?
You signed your last note with a flower, but when you wrote that
you were mine till the end,
what made you think the end would be coming
so soon?

I know you knew it was coming, but
when I had the chance, I did not say anything, and although
maybe I could have done something to change the ending, I just
let the movie run in full until I remembered it was real life, and I am
forever sorry
about that.
You may have been the one to send me
clovers and dahlias, and I may have been the one not to get the message
until it was too late,
but I will be the one to leave asphodel on your deathbed,
because it’s true,
my regrets will follow you to the grave.
~
Word count: 377 words

A note on how to read this collection: While these are part of a poetry collection, they’re intended to be read together in the order as written. While they can work as standalone poems, some of the overarching themes are better communicated by keeping in mind that they’re to be read together! Asterisks (*) are used to separate the poems!

Author’s note here

Huge thanks to…
• Toko, May, and Squidy for critiquing this, encouraging me, and helping me make this piece better — whether you knew it or not <3
• That one Greek mythology book I read when I still lived in the U.S. and my dad for buying it
• Ocean Vuong for his incredible poetry and inspiring me and (hopefully?) making me a better poet