⋆ monday, july 21st: flower daily!!! - dandelions, dahlia, gillyflower this is so lousy :cough: idk how to continue it

marley had never paid much attention to flowers before, or plants of any kind for that matter. but that was before she had met skye, before she somehow found a dandelion at every date and tucked it tenderly into her hair. every time.
“yellow looks good on you,” she’d insist, knowing full well that marley only ever wore neutrals and avoided neons of any kind like the plague. but skye would smile so brightly and she loved to see her happy, so the dandelion would stay. it felt like carrying a piece of her girlfriend, and when she got home she’d stuff the little flower into her journal with the intent to keep it forever.
so, it was only natural that she began to notice every dandelion that lurked in the grass. they never failed to bring a smile to her face, reminding her of time spent with skye and sunny days.

with their anniversary coming up, marley wanted to find a bouquet that would be truly special. she goes to check out a book on floriography from the local library, reading it twice over and choosing the flowers with her favorite meanings. (she could have just asked skye, she was an expert on that sort of thing, but that kind of ruined the surprise.)
she draws each flower on her grocery list and goes to pick them out, wanting to make an effort to arrange the thing herself. soon, her kitchen is a mess of cut-off stems and floral scents that bled into the air. the finished bouquet is largely pink and purple, with carefully placed gillyflowers (for affection) and dahlias (a discreet promise to be hers forever). she frowns at it though, it’s got gaps in places and doesn’t feel like them.
marley cracks the flower language book open for the third time, this time flipping through it more rapidly. a page catches her eye: it’s the dandelion, “faithfulness”. she wonders how she could have skipped over them before - even to her, they symbolized the love and care of each flower skye tucked behind her ear.
doubtful she’d ever find dandelions sitting in a store, marley goes to pick them from her own yard, and tucks them in the gaps of the bouquet. she ties it off with a ribbon.

Daily done for Bi-fi!!!
The flowers will be waiting for me when I step out of the door. I know they will be. They have been, every day since it happened. But somehow, I still hope they won’t be there.
I glance out the window at the porch. Nothing. It’s always nothing, until I go outside. But I still hope that maybe today it’ll still be nothing, even when I’m no longer in the comfort of my home.
I push open the door. Without looking at the ground, I start to walk towards the road. But I know what I’ll hear even before my foot hits the pavement.
Crunch.
I sigh. ‘Nothing’ is no longer.
Zinnias this time. They used to be my favorite.
I pick them up, trying to recall what they mean. After one whiff of the disgusting sickly sweet smell, I remember.
Thoughts of absent friends. Ha! Absent indeed.
I shake my head bitterly and kick the flowers aside, frustrated when they appear right back where I found them, even though I knew they would.
I know if I kick them again, the same thing will happen. But I can’t resist. I thrust my foot forward.
This time, they appear in my hands. The bright orange petals seem to amplify the voices in my head, saying, “She’s not coming back. You’ll never see her again. It’s all your fault.”
“ARGH!” I shout, throwing them as far as I can away from me. Before they can come back, I start walking again.
I haven’t gotten far, just barely out of my yard, when I hear it beneath my foot.
Crunch.
I look down. Not only are the zinnias there, still taunting me, but now there are also amaranths.
Immortality. To some, this might be sweet, but I know what it really means.
This is forever.
You cannot escape.
Before I can stop them, my hands reach down and grasp their stems.
Once again my nose is plagued by their stench, but now it’s heightened, for there are more.
I throw them to the ground in disgust and keep walking.
“She’s not coming back.”
The voices again.
“You’ll never feel her embrace again.”
I shake my head and try to block out the thoughts. But the more I try, the louder they get.
“She never loved you anyways. She just pretended to.”
“She only went because you begged her to. And then you couldn’t save her.”
And then, as if to add insult to injury, suddenly I smell something sickly sweet, and when I look down, I am holding a bouquet of the flowers, with the new addition of periwinkle.
Memory. I know exactly what this means, too. And it’s not any better than the last two.
The memories will never fade.
You will always remember what you did to her.
And she’ll always remember too.
You know who’s fault it is that she’s gone.
You will always know.
No matter what you do.

454 words.

Daily 7-21

Tis the time for another SWClassic - the flower daily! Flowers are beautiful, but hiding beneath their petals is an underlying message. Today, write 300 words incorporating at least three different flowers and their hidden meanings into your writing! Doing so will earn you 250 points, plus an extra 50 if you share it with us! Check out Alba's wonderful project for a collection of flowers and their significance: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/741579314/

Rose(love), carnation(fascination), periwinkle(friendship)


Of Flowers and Follies by Hydro_TV

Ted Timmel’s golden hair shone brightly in the rays of the sun as he traversed the valley for flowers. It was a warm summer day, but not warm enough to discourage his expedition outwards, for his friends were waiting eagerly for him back at home, and he’d be pleased by the surprise. He dabbled in the droves of flowers, and as he settled on a group of roses, felt a general love of everything–of humanity, of life, of all of it. He selected a handful before running to the home whence he came.

Ted Timmel arrived in Hollowmure with a grin and a spring in his step. His first stop was the shop on the corner of the town’s square, where the kindly old shopkeeper resided in a halcyon loft behind the desk. He never seemed to cease in his warm demeanor, which rendered him a such of equal fascination and admiration to Ted, who held droves of respect for such men.

Ted Timmel entered the shop and smiled at the man, approaching his desk. “Can I help you today?” asked the man, with the kind of formality to be expected of repeating the phrase all day long. Ted shook his head: “I’m here to deliver a gift to you, actually,” he said. Withdrawing a batch of carnations, Ted looked to the kindly old shopkeeper, who beamed exuberant gratitude for such a kind gift. He thanked Ted, who set them on the counter and left, endlessly satisfied with himself. Five more to go.

Ted Timmel ran after Vel Keats, who was exiting Hollowmure’s local bookstore. As he caught up to him, he tapped on his shoulder and shook his hand. “I have a gift for you, Vel,” he said. “Periwinkles. They’re supposed to symbolize friendship.” Vel smiled. “Does that mean we’re friends, then?” he asked. Ted smiled back, nodding, and Vel walked away grinning, with a spring in his step.

Ted Timmel checked his watch. Four more to go. There were so many people to give flowers, so many whose days he needed to brighten, and he would have to work fast if he were to accomplish it all by nightfall.

361 words.

carnation - fascination, fox glove - treachery, fuschia - anxiety, marigold - grief


“… woah,” was the only word that Abigail could use to describe Dream's garden.

It was huge, sprawling across the clearing behind his cottage. Purples and pinks and yellows and blues dotted the field, mixing and intermingling with one another.

Even if she wasn't able to name a single flower or plant there, she still thought it was insanely beautiful.

Dream chuckled softly. “Woah?” he hummed. It wasn't mocking, simply curious.

“Yes, it…” she started, glancing back at him. “… it's…” beautiful, magnificent, amazing, she wanted to say. She just… didn't know how to say it. “… it's… woah,” she decided upon, no matter how silly it sounded. 

“I can't help but agree,” he hummed. “Would you like to take a closer look?”

She nodded, lighting up a little. Despite being a farmer, and then a ranger, she really didn't know all that much about flowers. Poisonous plants, the ones unsafe to eat, she was covered on that front.

But flowers? The normal ones that you used as a gift for someone? She wouldn't be able to tell you the difference between a tulip and a lotus.

Gently, Dream tugged on her hand, gloved fingers intertwining with hers, pulling her out of her thoughts. A soft, warm smile graced his features, and she couldn't help but reciprocate. Though, she was sure that hers was more of a grimace than anything else.

Regardless, he only brightened at the sight of it. Her soul warmed at that; making him smile. why did she feel that way?

Oblivious to her thoughts, Dream led her through his garden. The path was winding, messy. There wasn't a straightforward way to get anywhere. It matched the garden itself, a chaotic explosion of flowers. It seemed completely and totally unplanned.

Yet it was still beautiful, even if it was messy.

Like life, she could hear Lee say.

Her momentary joy at the sight of something so beautiful subsided at the thought of her mentor. The thought of him not being there anymore was still too fresh. Hurt and grief spiked up, rearing their heads. 

Fortunately, Dream stopped and turned to look at her. “Here,” he said, golden eyelights flicking down at some flowers right beside the path. He always seemed to know when she needed someone to talk, to have something distract her.

maybe if she wasn't so grief-ridden, she would've put more thought into it

She glanced down as well, curious. The flowers were a golden yellow, their petals fanning out in a circle. They felt familiar, and she knew she had seen them before.

He let go of her hand as he crouched down in front of them. She couldn't help but copy him. With a soft smile, he reached out and brushed his phalanges against the flower. “Marigolds,” he said. “They're rather beautiful, yes?”

She nodded, eyelights glued to the flowers. “They match you,” she commented, unsure of what else to say.

He paused before laughing loudly, and her soul stuttered for a second. She chalked it up to embarrassment, on her end. She flushed softly.

“What?” she asked, voice pitching a little.

He waved a hand in her direction as he tried to get his laughter under control. It didn't help her flustered state one bit. In fact, she only blushed more.

It took Dream nearly a minute to finally stop laughing, but even then, he was still giggling quietly, tears having formed in his sockets. “Nothing, nothing,” he said between giggles. “I was just… caught off guard is all.”

She turned her head away. Somehow, his laughter and comment only made her embarrassment worse. Stars, she had barely known him for a day and she was already making a fool of herself.

A hand on her arm. “A-ah,” he said, suddenly sounding sheepish. “I did not mean to hurt your feelings, truly. I just wasn't expecting your comment.”

“… I… I understand,” she said, glancing towards him. “I just… didn't mean to say that, out loud.”

Mirth filled his sockets. “It's quite alright,” he reassured. “Your comment was normal compared to some of the things Ink has said.”

That brought a slight smile to her face. But it faded after his words finally set in. “… Ink?” she asked, the word and name foreign on her tongue.

“Ah,” he blinked. “Ink is a friend of mine,” he explained. “I'll introduce you two, soon. Once you're settled, of course.”

She nodded, not quite sure of what else to say. That was nice, she thought. Waiting for her to get settled into a completely new and strange environment.

The two of them stayed silent for a minute; both watching the flowers as the gently waved back and forth in a breeze. It was almost like they were dancing, Abigail thought, the smallest smile touching her face.

“… would you like to see more of the garden?” Dream asked, his voice soft, barely more than a whisper. “Or are you content here?”

She glanced over to him. “I… I think I'd like to see more,” she said, finally. “If that's alright with you. I understand that you have other things to do than show me around a garden.”

He smiled, standing up and brushing himself off. “I am more than happy to show you around my garden,” he said as he offered her a hand. “Plus, it's an excuse to let me relax for a bit, today.”

Hesitantly, she took his hand and he pulled her up, effortlessly. “… if you say so,” she said. She couldn't help but notice that he hadn't let go of her hand, even though she was standing up. Quietly, she shuffled her feet. why was she so nervous?

“I do say so,” he reassured, tugging on her hand. She followed him, letting him continue to lead her through the maze of colorful flowers and plants.

As they walked, Abigail's gaze bounced from flower to flower. They were all vastly different, some bright and loud, practically begging for attention. But others were smaller, softer, quiet compared to them, easily brushed over for other flowers.

But all in all? Woah, as she had so eloquently put earlier.

She had been busy inspecting a particularly sad-looking flower when Dream stopped abruptly and she nearly collided with him. She shuffled back a few paces, confused.

“… where is…” he mumbled, glancing back and forth over the flowers. Eventually, golden eyelights rested on crimson petals, just off the path, but blocked by some other flowers. You couldn't easily reach it without trampling them.

Seeming to ignore that, he stepped over them lightly, somehow managing to not crush them under his boots. He paused when she didn't follow.

“… what if I ruin it?” Abigail mumbled, gaze fixed on the flowers before her. “I… it's your garden I don't…”

“It's quite alright,” he said. “Just follow where I stepped.”

… easier said than done.

But she managed barely.

Dream didn't seem to mind, though, which made her feel a touch better.

“These are carnations,” he said, gesturing to the red flowers.

“… carnations?” she echoed. Her accent made the word sound strange, even to her. She glanced over to him, curious. She thought she had seen these flowers earlier, just in a different color. Yellow, maybe?

He nodded, attention fixed on the flowers. If anything, he seemed oblivious to her staring. So, she watched him for a few long seconds. Freckles, she noted. He had freckles. They were barely visible, distant golden stars in a twilight sky.

She dragged her gaze away, embarrassed. Stars, she knew better than to stare! why was she acting like this?

Fortunately, he blinked and glanced over at her after she had stopped staring at him. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“What?” she asked in return, startled. “Oh, uh, I'm alright,” she fumbled. “We can, uh, keep going. I- if you have more to show me, that is.”

He chuckled, apparently amused. “Alright,” he hummed, guiding her towards the next plant he wanted to show her. “I think we have the time for a couple more before I should start making dinner.”

“… alright,” she said. “That sounds good to me.”

Neither said a word as they walked; the silence comfortable. Though, it wasn't truly silent. A breeze gently blew past the trees, singing and humming softly as it did. The occasional bird chirped from the trees, making its presence known.

It was familiar, in a way. Those soft, hushed sounds of forest and the life within it. They weren't the same exact sounds she was used to… but…

It was certainly close.

…

“… are you sure you're alright?” Dream asked in a soft voice, one filled with concern.

“I… yes,” she answered after a moment. “Just… lost in thought, is all.” She hesitated. “… why?”

“You looked… saddened,” he said, “and you didn't seem to hear what I said.”

“Ah. I didn't… I'm sorry,” she said, finally. “What were you saying?”

There was a long pause, and his eyelights flickered over her face. Whatever he was looking for, he found, seeing as he answered her. “This,” he pointed to some pink and purple flowers growing along the roof of Dream's cottage. They hung from it, dangling and swaying.

“… what about it?” she prompted, a tad guilty about accidentally tuning him out.

“They're called fuschias,” as he said that, he let go of her hand again, stepping closer to the wall. “They come in a lot more colors than fuschia, though,” he said as he cupped a bloom in his hand. A smile, the one of someone trying not to laugh, touched his face.

“Is fuschia a color?” she asked, curious. Fuschia, again, was a word she hadn't heard before. And, apparently, a color she had yet to see, as well. why didn't she know these things? why hadn't she seen these flowers before? why did they have names that were words she hadn't ever heard in her life?

“Yes,” he hummed and tapping the flower he was holding. “It's not… exactly this color,” he tapped the pink petals, “but it's rather close.” He paused, perhaps mentally comparing the colors in his head. “I think the color is brighter.”

She nodded a few times, reaching out to brush her own fingers along the flowers. With a soft frown of concentration, she realized that she had to stand on her tiptoes when Dream hadn't.

He was taller, she remembered belatedly.

She knew that, but still felt rather silly.

Regardless, she still cupped the flower and moved it closer to her face, allowing her to smell it. It didn't smell bad. But it certainly wasn't her favorite scent, either.

Gently, carefully she let the flower go, watching as it bounced up and down when she did. Quietly, she backed away until she was back on the path.

Dream just watched her without a word before glancing up to the sky. “I… hate to cut this short, but I think we should head inside. It's beginning to get dark.”

“… oh, uhm, alright,” she said, offering him a small but forced grin. “Then dinner, yes?”

“Mhm,” he nodded, offering her a hand. She took it. “Do you have anything in particular you'd like for dinner?” he asked, walking around the cottage. abigail wouldn't let herself call it a cabin. too fresh, too soon.

“No,” she said. “As long as it's food, I'll eat it.”

A chuckle. “Alright,” he said, walking up the steps of the cottage. “A simple request, I think I'll be able to do that.” It was teasing.

“I hope so,” she teased, following him, oblivious to the foxglove peeking out from beneath the stairs.

Years later, she wished she would've noticed it sooner.

Daily 21 - Flower Daily

Protea: Survival, strength, power through fire - Foxglove: Beauty with venom, calculated vengeance - Hellebore: Dark rebirth, emotional evolution - Black Dahlia: Unapologetic royalty, deadly elegance, silent dominance

Born a princess.
Sweet, bright eyed, running through fields of flowers 'cause they were all that was on my mind.
things were simpler back then.

Bloomling, Petalchild, Sunflame
all glorious names for what i was,
the girl who made the roses dance and the lavenders sing.
I was worshiped,

until it all came
c r a s h i n g
d o w n .


a kingdom shall come to ruin,
at the hands of a wilted flower,
the grass decays and shrivels up,
take this warning for future to come.

A prophecy, i deemed it.
A curse, they labelled it.

And so I was thrown far out into the icefields at the young age of nine.
Barefoot and begging, but they felt no shame.

On the first few days I cried.
I wept for the flowers first — their petals curling in on themselves, colour bleeding away until only brittle white remained. The lavender stalks bowed under frost’s cruel hand, as though kneeling in weakness as i do to. I touched them, and they shattered like glass, leaving splinters in my palms, cruel and unforgettable: the petals themselves accusing me of their pain.
My tears began to blind me, the ice sealing them shut.

Then I died.

snow
piles of snow
beneath piles of snow
Buried beneath piles of snow.

Whether it was the cold or the suffocation is unknown to me,
The numbness stilling my body, slow and final,
The snow clogging my every opening, sealing me in.

All I know is what I was rebirthed to be.

Foxgloves grew beneath my feet as i thawed through piles of ice; their petals clinging to my skin, purple growing like disease onto my pale complexion
I fed on the very thing that sough to kill me – gulping down the burning icy water, covering myself in the softness of the glacial snow.
I no longer hummed; I sang songs cold and evoking, of vengeance and strength only I can rip from the roots of the earth.
My lullabies became ice-blooms, frost-petaled thorns, ghost orchids.
I'd become a beast of the horror they forced on me.

Months later i was found by kingdom whose banners used to fly in pride now in tatters, starved as their people were.
I was seated on a small lump of hardened snow,

They called me Snowthorn, Frostpetal, Ashbloom.
They didn’t know what I was. Only that I could grow life where nothing grew.

Slowly, i rose. I didn't need an army, after all i was all and one myself, taming storms, planting beauty in ruin.
And when i finally claimed rule over this kingdom, whispers of me began to Echoe through regions.
The Snowthorn Princess The Blooming Ghost The Girl Crowned in Silence

It was time.
Time for one specific town to hear of me and let their hands tremble in
f e a r

I call back the flowers again. They are four.
Protea (coral-pink): I survived your fire.
Foxglove (purple): I come for revenge.
Hellebore (ashen black): Your curse gave me new life.
Black Dahlia (deep red): I wear the crown you feared I’d grow into.

Tie with the deepest, finest red-black satin the lands have to offer, into a majestic bouquet tipped with a few hints of frostbite; sent straight to their doorsteps.

~~~


*messengers come bursting through the grand hall doors*
What is so important you must make such a grand entrance?
Your majesty we've received a… gift?
It was found in the palace gardens at the time, and it seemed to be spreading some sort of disease. The pants around it began to wilt and shrivel.
Show me this ‘gift’ then.
And when placed in her hands she immediately dropped it like it was on fire.

I know who sent this.

And a petal gracefully fell, carrying one of the queens tears along with it



543 words

the art of dissonance. 1760 words

This is how it feels to be the music.
I stroke the keys, seductively smooth under my fingertips, arching my wrists before swinging into the piece.
When I play piano, the music is not just a sound for me. It is a feeling, an emotion that crashes over me like a tidal wave, carrying me on a current as I flow towards the end of the song. It is a beautiful kind of serenity, all the more lovely for its fragility.
I crescendo, feet working the gleaming pedals as I build up to the skin-tingling finale, hands flying up and down the keys.
My fingers slip in a jangle and crash. I’m forcibly yanked out of the tide of music into reality, staring blankly at my sheet music.
I’ve failed. Again.
A month until the recital, a month before I sit down at a grand piano and play this song for hundreds.
A month to make perfect something that, right now, is full of flaws.
I lift my chin, take a deep breath, flip to the first page. I start over.
I will get this right if it kills me.

This is how it feels to shine.
I have never failed at a recital before.
When I say fail, I don’t mean that I’ve never made a minor slip-up or two. Everyone does that; it’s inevitable. But I’ve never made a major mistake – cutting out a chunk of the piece, slamming the wrong chords, floundering and losing my place in the music. My piano teacher takes the time before each recital to walk us through overcoming mistakes during the performance. The important thing, she says, is just to keep going. Don’t go back unless you absolutely must, and never, never stop.
Every year, the pressure ticks up a little. Her favorite way to set up the program is to have the least advanced students perform first, and the most advanced perform last, but most of her students drop out after only a couple years, meaning that the handful of more impressive songs are her little finale to the recital – especially the last one. Every year, I’ve been bumped back closer and closer to the end, but it’s not until this recital that she announces that I am the last performer on the program this year. Not only will my performance wrap up the recital, it’ll reflect on her teaching, as well as my ability to play. If I don’t do well–
–but I don’t let myself think about that. Even though I worry on the outside, on the inside there is an inner core of calm and certainty. Of course I will do well. I always have, haven’t I?

This is how it feels to doubt.
I practice over and over as the days slip away. This is the time I hate the most: the week or two just before the recital, when the nerves are cranked up as high as they’ll go and my fingers flop and stumble over the song as though they’ve never played it before. I mess up, take a breath, and start over, losing myself in the music.
I’m so close to the end. Just a few more bars, and–
I hit the wrong chord, and this time I don’t bother to flip the pages to the start and try again. I crumple like a wilted flower, resting my head against the keys. The resulting clang reflects my mood.
I can’t play it perfectly, no matter how hard I try. In vain, I grasp at memories of previous recitals, remembering that this exact thing happened then, too. And look how those turned out. I made it through the real thing without breaking a sweat.
I’m at war with myself. I’m not playing for the crowds anymore. I’m not playing for my teacher. I’m not even playing for my family.
I’m playing for myself. I’m proving to myself that this is a challenge I can overcome. I’m proving to myself that I can do it, as I have time and time again. I’ve never yet met a song I couldn’t conquer.
And I’m determined to conquer this one. I straighten, adjust my position on the bench, and start again.

This is how it feels to freeze.
It’s the day of the recital. My teacher always runs us through a mock-rehearsal before it begins, letting us warm up on the piano we’ll be using, familiarize ourselves with how it feels and sounds.
I’ve practiced. I’m ready. It’s time.
The parents aren’t allowed to watch during the warm-up, but afterwards they start filtering in and finding places. This year, the recital is being held in a church, and evening light glimmers softly behind stained glass windows. The pews are hard, the backs uncushioned and rigid, but I’m not paying attention to the discomfort. My focus is on my hands, which feel like ice blocks. No matter what I do, I can’t warm them up.
I listen to song after song. There are some stumbles, but nothing too major. I clap after each one, and then, too soon and not soon enough, it’s my turn.

This is how it feels…
I walk to the piano, clutching my music binder. I arrange the position of myself, the music, and the bench. I lower my fingers to the keys.
It’s never sounded like this before, so beautiful and crisp on the perfectly tuned piano. My confidence grows in leaps and bounds as I play. I’ve mastered it. I’ve done it. I’ve proved to myself, once again, that I can–
–and I hit the wrong note–
–and I jerk out of the flow–
–and I lose my place–
–and I freeze.

…to fail.
I stop.
When I perform for others, a chilly peace descends on me. A soothing calm, unrippled, that carries me to the end of the performance. It’s an unreal feeling, like being cradled in a glass ball, shielded from worries and doubts, surrounded by nothing but music.
Now the glass shatters into a thousand pieces, and I’m nothing more than a shivering mess huddled over the piano, my heart fluttering up into my throat like a panicked songbird’s. I can’t have messed up. I can’t.
The silence stretches for an eternity. My piano teacher finally notices something is wrong after what feels like hours, although in reality it was more likely a few seconds. She leans over, whispers for me to keep going.
“I can’t,” I say. That’s all I can say. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”
I can’t go on. It’s too hard.
She continues prompting me, and after several more seconds of panic I shakily begin playing again, stumbling through the song as best I can. I mess up in places I haven’t messed up for weeks, and the icy serenity has melted into a flood of emotion that I dam up as best I can. I must get through this. I can’t ruin it further than I already have.
I finish the song and stand, curtsying to the crowd with the most ungenuine smile I’ve ever given scraped across my face. Then I scurry back to my seat. I wait until the wretched recital is finally over, the closing remarks are finally closed, and then I let it go.
My grandmother is the first to catch me in a hug, squeezing me tight. She plays piano too; she understands. I cry into her shoulder as more people surround me, friends and family closing in, a cocoon of safety shielding me.
Always, after a recital, there’s a warm glow that suffuses me, a spark of joy that comes from knowing I’ve succeeded. Tonight, there’s nothing but bitter ice and hollowness in my veins.
I failed.
I didn’t fail the crowds. I didn’t fail my teacher. I didn’t fail my family.
I failed myself.

This is how it feels to learn the art of dissonance.
Before that night, I believed that I could play anything. That when the moment came, the imperfect would crystallize into something perfect.
I knew failure existed, but I didn’t know it could be mine.
Many people came and told me that I did a great job that night. I didn’t believe them. I couldn’t. I mumbled thanks and changed the subject, unwilling to dwell on it. I thought they were just trying to make me feel better. Everyone had to have heard. Everyone had to have known. I imagined pity in every glance sent my way, apology in every tone of voice. You tried your best… but it wasn’t quite enough.
But since that night, I’ve realized that they really were sincere. They genuinely enjoyed my performance, mistakes and all. Their compliments weren’t just empty words.
I learned that the harshest critic in that crowd that night was the girl trembling on the piano bench, fingers slipping off the keys to land helplessly in her lap.
I realized, as I never had been able to comprehend before, the art of dissonance: flying, failing, falling – and letting that feeling coalesce into motivation. I let myself down, but I didn’t stay there. Bit by bit, I climbed back up…

This is how it feels to be the music.
I’m sitting at the piano bench a few weeks later, picking out a piece of music to learn over the summer. My piano teacher has already played a couple for me, but I’m pretty sure I know which one I want.
I hand the music to her, and an eyebrow lifts, but she plays it for me anyway.
And it’s beautiful. More than beautiful: stunning.
It’s also hard. Extremely hard. It’ll take me months to master, if I master it at all.
A smile stretches across my face, and unlike the one at the recital, this one is one hundred percent real.
“That’s the one,” I say. “I want that one.”
In the end, that’s what the recital left me with: a desire to push even harder, to overcome the obstacles in my way. I may mess up a dozen more recitals before I finally get this song right, but it doesn’t matter anymore.
Who are you? I ask myself.
I know what the answer to that question would have been after the recital. And I know what it is now.
I’m a mistake, I would have said.
I lay out the sheet music. I adjust the bench. I stroke the keys, still seductively smooth under my fingertips. Then I arch my wrists and begin to play.
No.
I’m not a mistake. I am the music.

flowers | july 21 daily

—

It was midnight
(well, actually,
12:03 am
precisely)
When you texted me
The picture

It was simple
A juniper
With a caption
Written by you
Saying
“I will always
Confide in you”

You weren’t known at school
For being loud
Or showy
This small action
Felt right
Coming from you

It wasn’t loud
Or showy
It was small,
Timid,
A kind gesture
Made of small words
That touched my heart

The next day
You sent me another photo
This time it was clearer
The picture was less fuzzy
Than the juniper
And yet it still made my heart
Leap
(do somersaults?)
(flap with the wings
Of butterflies?)
(get left behind on the top
Of the rollercoaster called life?)

A fern
With yet another caption
In tiny letters
(i recognized your handwriting
Because i’d know it anywhere)
“I’ll love you
Even if it means that i have
To hide it”

I laughed
And loved
And lived very
Very very very very
Loudly

Was it enough?
Was it enough for you
And your timidness
The quiet action
Of you pushing your glasses
Up
Up
Up
The bridge of your nose
The comforting motion
I’ve seen every day
For the past five years

I’d see it again
And again
And again
If it means being with you

That night
Tragedy struck
(i won’t say, because
It’s too hard to tell)

And somehow you knew
Maybe, in my sleepiness
I told you
Over the phone
Confided in you
Because you were my first resort
And my last

The following morning, you sent me a picture
A wallflower
And a simple caption, reading
“Loyalty in misfortune”
And then another text from you

“I will always be there
For you
In the darkest of nights.
You should remember that.”

I have always remembered
And always will

—
301 words
definition of speedrun right here, written in five minutes

critique for squidy!!! (@Squidy-IceCream )
hi squidy!! I think we've talked a couple times, I'm lune!
I'm going to start by saying that this was really, really good. In fact, I had been wandering through SWC main cabin comments when I saw this link, clicked on it, read it, and was like, ‘wow this is really good!’ And then I went to sign up for the critiquaire and replied to your sign-up-thingy without thinking about it, and then I realized what I would be critiquing and wondered how in the world I was supposed to critique this when it was already so good. But here I am.
squidy wrote:
i walk through the garden,
my fingers gently brushing the petals,
soft round bits of color.
the storm's just ended.
raindrops fall no more
but they leave behind a refreshing scent
that fills my nose. and i smile.
|| I love this so much!! It feels like a good place to start the poem. The only things I suggest are, a; adding something to ‘soft round bits of color,’ like ‘soft round bits of color/ between my calloused fingers’ or something, and b; maybe adding a transition between that and ‘the storm’s just ended' like, uh, I don't know, ‘since the storm’s just ended.' ||
squidy wrote:
the flowers, too, i can smell.
they are lovely.
as i walk past each plant,
i remember what they mean.
a clump of simple, pretty daisies
they stand for innocence.
|| uhh maybe say ‘their odor is lovely and sweet’ instead of ‘they are lovely’ (ick please don't use the word odor it's just there for lack of a better word). Also, maybe add a hint of the narrator's unhappiness in this part, because it feels like it doesn't fit with the mood of the rest of the poem. ||
squidy wrote:
i stare at the daisies
they smirk at me in their white and yellow clothes
without thinking, i rip the daisies out of the dirt
i tear every last part of them away
i yank the roots from their cozy underground homes
i pull the petals and leaves off of the green stem
then i snap that stem in half
and i throw everything on thr ground
and i stomp on it
|| if you want, instead of doing the last thing I suggested above, you could add somewhere in the beginning how they ‘shake the narrator out of their bliss’ or something like that. ||
squidy wrote:
then i sigh
i breathe
i close my eyes and count to ten
i open them
i walk forward
and i see my next victim.
a hyacinth. for rashness.
and a buttercup. childishness.
|| maybe add on to ‘then I sigh’ with something like ‘then I sigh’, realizing what I've done. / oops' and, since the narrator counted to ten but then still destroyed more flowers, add on to and I see my next victim' with ‘ and when I see my next victim’ I realize/ that it didn't work' maybe ||
squidy wrote:
i scowl and destory those too
then i leave the garden
and i sob.
then i look out the window
and, of all things
i see a xanthium
|| hmm maybe elaborate on the ‘and I sob’ part??? like, ‘and I sob / tears streaming down my face / in my sudden melancholy feeling’ (melancholy is also sort of for lack of a better word, but it does work if you can't find another)! also, you could add something to ‘then I leave the garden’ such as ‘then I leave the garden / stomp into my cottage / and I sob’ but it still sounds good without : D ||
squidy wrote:
i barely even have to think to know
that this flower means rudeness
i groan
and i wonder when the fairies will finally
let me go
i wish i could leave this cottage
|| uhh maybe add somewhere something about how it's the fairies making the flowers appear?? but it is implied pretty well so you don't really have to ||
squidy wrote:
it's beautiful, sure
a small white house with a chimney of stones
and a bright red tile roof
ivy creeps up the walls, but not too much
the garden is filled with flowers and fruit trees
it has carrots and potatoes in the ground
cucumbers and tomatoes above, and beans too
and it is so cozy and adorable inside the house
|| ooh I like this part so much description I can really imagine the house, but I feel like there isn't really a good balance between the description of the exterior and the interior of the house, also the word ‘and’ is used a lot which doesn't matter as much in poetry, but it might be a little less repetitive (luckily it isn't that repetitive at all) if you change up the phrasing a bit! ||
squidy wrote:
which, by the way, sits in a solitary meadow
on the edge of a forest
surrounded by mountains
on windy days i can hear the long grass dancing
|| okay this is really really nit-picky but maybe just slip an ‘and’ in front of ‘on windy days’ ? ||
squidy wrote:
the fairies took me.
they stole me away
when i was only a child
and they raised me and taught me their language.
the language of flowers.
|| oooo, backstory, my favorite!! I feel so bad for the narrator ToT ||
squidy wrote:
it was too late when i realized i'd never go home
i begged and pleaded
i tried to smash
and break
and shatter
this awful, perfect, dreamy house
|| perhaps add on to ‘it was too late when I realized i’d never go home' with ‘it was too late when I realized I’d never go home / they had already sealed the portal' and then add a little ‘but ’ or ‘but I still’ before the next part. also, in the last line, you don't really need the ‘dreamy.’ you could just say ‘this awful, perfect house.’ I feel like it sounds better, but that might be just me. ||
squidy wrote:
they fixed everything with a snap
and a handful of glitter as well, of course
i understood that i would never win
but i would also never give up
|| again, maybe add a little ‘but’ before ‘they fixed everything’ however, that might be too repetitive it's hard for me to tell when I can only see it in my mind ||
squidy wrote:
i look outside once more
i see that the xanthium has been replaced,
replaced by a pristine meadowsweet
i tilt my head back and laugh
uselessness. uselessness, of all things!
|| ooh I like this part! maybe put a ‘hysterically’ after ‘laugh,’ making it ‘I tilt my head back and laugh hysterically.’ also, you could make ‘uselessness, of all things’ a different line then ‘uselessness’ if you think that's a good idea ||
squidy wrote:
i shake my head, forcing my grin away
as i find a piece of paper and a pen
there i draw a tansy and, snickering,
fold it into a paper airplane which i throw outside
and i kick the wall for good measure
|| hmm why does the narrator force themself to stop grinning when they;re snickering anyway? Couldn't you put ‘still grinning’ instead of ‘and force away my grin’ ??? ||
squidy wrote:
i giggle madly and knock over all the furniture
a tansy is good and snarky and sarcastic
a tansy is almost as good as that meadowsweet.
a tansy says,
i declare against you.
|| yay we made it to the end!! All I have to say about this part is maybe add onto ‘and knock over all of the furniture’ with ‘and knock over all of the furniture / even though you’ll pick it right back up' or something? but otherwise, great ending to a great poem!!! ||
aaaahhh I loved this so much!!!! I don't know if you can tell how hard it was to come up with critiques…… anyways, uh…… happy writing?
also sorry I haven't figured out how to use the quote-thingy right yet so that's why this looks so un-formal (is there a word for that? informal? imformal?)
~ Lune

daily
Monday, July 21, 2025
690 words

Tis the time for another SWClassic - the flower daily! Flowers are beautiful, but hiding beneath their petals is an underlying message. Today, write 300 words incorporating at least three different flowers and their hidden meanings into your writing! Doing so will earn you 250 points, plus an extra 50 if you share it with us! Check out Alba's wonderful project for a collection of flowers and their significance: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/741579314/

I’m so sick of flowers.
They’re the parts of a plant used for reproduction. The sole purpose of all those colors and smells is to attract pollinators and thus make more plants. Which, you know, is fine. That’s nature.
But do WE really have to be the pollinators?
Humans like flowers for the same reasons that bees and hummingbirds do, but then we take it a step further by breeding these plants like crazy and spreading them everywhere. We’ve put them in places that they should never have existed, and we’ve created new varieties tailor-made to our concept of beauty. A guy can’t walk down the street without being bombarded by someone’s garden of petals.
And then the flowers have the audacity to give me allergies. How dare they.
Humanity has created whole systems of symbolism and spiritual meaning around these plant parts. They no longer only serve the purpose of allowing plants to make more plants. Now, they’ve been woven into the fabric of our social structures. This daily is simply one more example of how we’ve romanticized nature until it became artificial.
And yet. AND YET.
I seem to complain about the flower daily every time it comes around, but more often than not, it squeezes some good writing out of me, even when I think I’ve exhausted every possible thing I can do with flower symbolism. Maybe especially then.
The flower daily debuted in November ‘22, and it’s existed in every SWC session since (usually as a daily, one time as a weekly part). I’ve done every single one of them. That makes this the 9th flower symbolism prompt I’ve done—3 years of pollen and petals. I’ve always assigned flowers to my characters and written scenes in which they embodied the symbolism associated with their flower. These are the characters I’ve done so far:
November 2022. Sandstone = forget-me-not, Drizzle = chrysanthemum, Emerald = gorse, Brook = lily, Flood = oleander, Breeze = tansy, Chaos = rhododendron
March 2023. Pebble = daisy, Marigold = marigold
July 2023. Hurricane = zinnia, Blood = foxglove, Legend = bay, Chaos = rhododendron, Glory = laurel
November 2023. Sandstone = forget-me-not, Drizzle = chrysanthemum, Emerald = gorse, Brook = lily, Flood = oleander, Breeze = tansy, Chaos = rhododendron
March 2024. Clover = clover
July 2024. Chaos = rhododendron, Legend = bay, Maroon/Silhouette = ragged robin
November 2024. Ruby = hyacinth, Wander = lucerne, Moss = periwinkle
March 2025. Holly = honeysuckle, Moss = periwinkle, Shade = ice plant
YES, I MADE A LIST.
But anyone who knows even the slightest bit about me or my characters knows that this is only scratching the surface. I have many more characters, and the lore is far deeper than what a couple passages could describe.
And technically, I’m a character in my own universe. Why don’t I have a flower yet?
So here I am, after 3 years, looking through Alba’s project with new eyes. I’m not looking for a story this time. I’m just here for my own sake.
Maybe I could be ox-eye for “patience,” since I take my time with things. I think long term when it’s beneficial to. My identity shifts slowly, like a glacier.
Or amaranth for “immortality,” since ghosts and the permanence of ideas seem to be the cornerstones of my default philosophy. Sometimes I can talk of little else.
I hope I’m not mustard for “indifference.” I know I struggle with being too apathetic, but I prefer to think of it as simply experiencing my emotions more slowly and deeply. It takes a while to see the effects.
Maybe I’m wood sorrel. “Joy.” That’s simple enough, yet can contain a lot of complexities. And in general, I’m an upbeat person. Being vaguely happy, with spurts of greater excitement, is kind of my baseline deal, even when I’m logically pessimistic or fully aware of the meaninglessness of it all. What can I say, I contain multitudes.
Really, I don’t know. Like flowers in real life, flower symbolism is another method of trying to get nature to conform to human ideals. If you try hard enough, you either make it real or you become it yourself.
So maybe I’m too hard on flowers. They represent far more than the symbolism we’ve given to them.
I’m still allergic, though.


table of contents

daily - july 21
529 words … last updated 07.21.2025

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Today, write 300 words incorporating at least three different flowers and their hidden meanings into your writing!

dhalia - yours til the end. fern - concealed love. indian pink - i die if neglected. sweet pea - departure

The girl frowned as she coughed up flowers as blood stained her white cardigan. Flowers were started to spread around her, and she could do nothing about it. After all, it was happening. She knew that it would happen soon enough, and the day finally arrived. She couldn't help it, despite her efforts. She didn't ask for this, nor wanted it to ever happen.

Hanahaki was a fatal disease known for being caused by unrequited love. Some were lucky enough to be able to avoid it. Others, however, like Lyra, were not so lucky. Romantic, it sounds, but immensely painful to those who experience it. It's either you get the surgery, be loved back, or die. As much as she wanted to receive the surgery, a small part in her wanted to hold on those feelings for him.

Him. He was the cause of her problem, and yet she felt so much attachment towards him. Rowan. The way he would look into her eyes as they cheated off the test. The way his fingers would brush hers when both were grabbing a pencil. She couldn't help but feel this way towards him, but she wasn't sure if he felt the same.

Two weeks have flown by, and Lyra's condition only got worse. Bags filled to the brim as she sat in the middle of Indian Pinks. Those were his favorite flowers. Despite the name, they were actually a red color, which is why Rowan enjoyed them. It was not what you would assume. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she held a flower. Both out of pain and heartbreak.

Looking out the window, she decided it was time for a break. Putting on a mask, Lyra decided to head to her favorite spot in the village: the garden. It grew ferns and beautiful Dhalias, her favorites. She didn't know why, they just spoke to her as if they were something she had to hold dear. They reminded her of something that she couldn't place.

That's when she had the idea. She would confess. Who knows where the idea came from, it just popped into her head and the courage suddenly came. Going to the nearest grocery, she picked out a few Indian Pinks that came in a bouquet along with Sweet Peas. They were pretty, and figured that Rowan might like the assortment.

She headed to his apartment building, and noticed him about to leave. As she was about to call his name, she broke into a coughing fit. Blood trickled down her chin as flowers broke the mask. Panicking, she waved to get his attention. But before he could help her, she collapsed onto the floor, now unconscious.

Waking up, she noticed that she was in a white room. Realizing that she wasn't on her bed, she looked around to see Rowan sitting in a chair. “Lyra…” he said solemnly, “the doctors told me what was going on…” he continued, looking away nervously. “I'm sorry to cause you this amount of pain and misery these past weeks…”

“But I don't like you back.” Rowan confessed, and the heart monitor shifted to a straight line.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

529 words

•┈๑⋅⋯ ꒰ ꒱ ⋯⋅๑┈•

i. “i did not know when the garden became a grave.”

⋆˚✿ day 21
the garden you planted within me . sci-fi . 552

You never meant to love me, not really. You only meant to see what would bloom if you crushed a soul gently enough.
You buried me under the burden of your words, the scraps of empty promises, the ghost of what you swore you meant. You let me wither and rot but told me to be grateful while I basked in the garden of your soul. You gave me forget-me-nots and dandelions but chained them to my wrists, you shackled me in dahlias though you never accepted my gifts. You left me a bouquet of love, devotion, and grief, and told me to wear it like a crown. I watched as the flowers that I watered with my tears grew into the spirals of my stemmed cage.
The first to grow were the marigolds. The bloomed in the bruises you didn’t leave with fists- grief masquerading as gold. They smiled at me like meek stars drowning in the night. But no light stemmed from them as they wound around my wounds, binding me to the longing for the things I once had.
Then came the wildflowers, budding in my throat and curling around my tongue. Slow, suffocating, trapping the air within my lungs. They spilled from my throat until my voice wilted in their shadow. I became still. Small. Sounds dulled beneath the tremor of the flowers that silenced me. Hearing without response, knowing without understanding, freedom without being free.
And then came the roses. Crimson and dark, curling around my ribs and forming a cage of their own. Petals soft as promises you never kept, thorns sharper than your goodbye. They blotted my vision and collapsed my lungs until all I could do was breathe in the form of you I was never able to let go of. You molded me into the being of your choice and I willingly obliged, drowning in the prettiest of petals and thorns. They bled me dry in the shape of love.
I could blink for light but there was no more left to see, and I could gasp for air but there was no more left to breathe, and I let you bend me though there was no more left to break.
You called it beauty.
I called it pain.
You called it devotion.
I called it control.
You carved your roots into my bones and told me I should be proud to carry the remnants of your soul.
And I was.
For a while.
Because even the loveliest of gardens grow wild and reckless, even the prettiest of flowers rot, and even the sweetest of lies unravel beneath the steady stream of endless sunlight.
Even something so beautiful such as the garden you planted within me could host the remains of something so lethal. Loyal petals shielded your thorns from the sun, just as your words dug into my flesh and bit at my skin.
Marigolds the name of the sun wilting the beauty of the things I long to have, wallflowers the symbol of hiding behind nothingness, and roses the color of the blood that spills from my heart, staining the grass with a sickly sweet finality.
I did not know when the garden became a grave. But I could no longer tell where your roots ended and my bones began.

Daily 21 - 364 words

Chamomile - Energy
Marigold - Grief
Snowdrop - Hope

Bagliora panted, running through the forest, completely lost, only knowing that she had to get as far away from him as she could. With every step the energy left over from her outburst made chamomile burst out of the ground, the little flowers almost mocking her powers and her escape attempt. Bagliora wheezed softly, clambering into a tree best she could and hiding inside the branches. She started to cry into her paws, trembling as the leaves grew and multiplied around her. Forcing her powers to impact the ground instead of the tree, rings of marigolds spread from the base of the trunk as she cried, scared of him, scared of her powers, scared of the world.

When her tears had run dry, Bagliora peeked out of the tree, ears swiveling in fear. She noticed the field of marigolds created as a result of her sobs, relieved to see that they were no longer spreading now that she had fully let out her emotions. Her eyes drifted to the path of chamomile left behind by her uncontrollable energy, fear welling within her. She still wasn't safe, not until he couldn't follow her anymore. So she kept running, grateful that her extreme powers were no longer overflowing.

She ran and ran until she had exhausted herself again, beginning to hear distant noises. Using what was left of her energy to follow the noises, she found herself on the outskirts of a large city, bustling and filled with residents both larger and more…normal than her. She trembled softly. She didn't know this then, but the lack of plants compared to her ‘home’ made her feel a bit ill. But she couldn't turn back, not now. Looking down at the sidewalk, she saw little snowdrops peeking out from between the cracks, and smiled softly. This place couldn't be completely cold, could it? There had to be someone who'd care about her…right? A strange hybrid who was short and had too many tails… in such a big place, someone had to have some sort of heart. Feeling hope fill her up, Bagliora moved forward, careful to avoid hurting the snowdrops that were thriving in the city.

22.07.25 ⟢ 227/200 words - Mango Daily

It was the morning of the 275th Fruitlympic Games, and Team Mango were up early, stretching and prepping on the field (the garden). Missy Mango came running up to them, holding a clipboard. ‘Okay, so, this is how today is going to go.’ she started, running a hand down the page. ‘Athletic events will be in the morning, then track will be in the afternoon. Does everyone know what they’re doing?’ All the mangoes nodded, except for Mango Steve, who was looking a little dry. Missy gasped, a little panicked. ‘Mushy Mango, stay behind with Steve to make sure he doesn’t turn into dried mango. Steve, make sure Mushy Mango doesn’t turn into Milkshake Mango.’ They nodded and found shelter under a bush. Missy turned to Muscly Mango and narrowed her eyes. ‘I hope you’re ready to cover for them both.’ to which Muscly gulped and nodded.

It was a great day of events and finally, it was the relay race finals. Whoever won this would take the gold trophy home- or to their specified corner of the communal fruit basket or whatever. The Mangoes and Bananas stared each other down, huddling together to talk team tactics. ‘They’re leaner,’ explained Missy, ‘but we’re stronger, and better! A leaf could knock them down, and our team spirit is the best. We can do this!’ Motivational Mango started cheering.

“Here,” Lilac said as she placed some mangoes on the kitchen table. “A snack.”

“… ooh,” Mar said, soft brown eyes shifting into a bright orange. She lit up. Stars, that kid was always hungry.

“… what is that?” Beatrix asked, frowning as she grabbed one of the fruits.

“They're mangoes,” Val hummed, eyeing Mar as she grabbed one of the fruits. Mar went to bite the fruit as is and Lilac panicked, grabbing the girl's wrists.

“No, no, no,” she said as the girl stared up at her quizzically. “You don't eat the skin.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to change her train of thought. “Why?”

“Uh,” Lilac started. “Because it doesn't taste as good,” not… wrong, technically. She just couldn't remember if it was bad to eat.

Apparently, that didn't deter the girl, because she tried to take a bite out of it again. Fortunately for Lilac, Beatrix intervened using her… magical powers (what had she called it again?) to float the mango away from the girl.

“Mar,” she said slowly. “Behave, please.”

Mar just whined at her. “But ‘m hungryyy.”

“It won’t take more than a few minutes,” Lilac said as she hurried over to grab a knife. Carefully, she cut up a mango, dropping the meat of the fruit into a bowl. “There,” she said, gesturing to the bowl. “Make sure to share.”

Mar immediately grabbed a(n admittedly small) handful, stuffing it into her mouth. Lilac chuckled softly, shaking her head. Impatient, she thought.

Beatrix, again, used her magical telekinesis powers and floated a few mangoes bits into her hand before popping them into her mouth.

Val just took a couple pieces using her hands, nibbling on them slowly before popping them into her mouth.

“Good?” Lilac asked.

“Yes!!!” Mar said through a mouthful of mango.

“Mm, it's alright,” Beatrix said, but grabbed another handful of mango as she did.

“Mhm,” Val nodded, smiling.

“I'm glad,” Lilac said, smiling in return.

for critiquaire
Juliet sits in her bed, fiddling with her braided hair, eyes on the table in front of her. She took a deep breath and almost choked on it.
“Darn polluted air.” She muttered, coughing.
“You okay?” Pixel asks, walking in.
“Yeah.” Juliet replies, “Just trying to study for my exam.”
“Do you want anything to drink?” Inquired Pixel, helpful as ever.”
“Just some liquified oxygen.” Juliet says, turning back to her tablet.
Pixel nods and walks off, set to get Juliet’s drink. Pixel is Juliet’s android, and for the past eleven years of her life, her best friend.
A few minutes later, Pixel returned, liquified oxygen in hand, or whatever robots have for hands.
“Thanks!” Juliet says, taking the cup and drinking it. Ever since the water supplies started to run low, water became a luxury, like rare wine, and the now-cyborgs drank liquified oxygen.
“Jules?” Andrea calls, “Jules, are you up there? Time for dinner!”
Juliet shuts off her tablet, drains her glass and heads downstairs where her foster mother, Andrea Jones was setting the table.
One, two, three, four. Juliet counts four platters on the dining table.
“Who’s coming for dinner?” Juliet asks.
Andrea pulled out her listening device and pressed pause on her transmitter device.
“Your Aunt Astra and Aurora.” Andrea answers. “Try not to get on their nerves.”
Astra and Aurora were Andrea’s sisters. The three girls had never gotten along but every once in a while they would meet up for family dinner. Astra, the oldest, kept telling Juliet about how much better life was better when she was a child. Aurora, the youngest, treated life like a game, taking insane risks and not giving a care. Andrea, the middle child, was always quiet and studious when she was younger, getting amazing grades. She was even accepted into the most prestigious academy in New Earth. However, her parents couldn't afford it and Andrea couldn't attend. Due to the sister's such differences, they never really got along.
BZZT! Juliet hears the doorbell ring. “I’ll get it!” She exclaims. She tushes to the door and opens it. Two women stand on the doorway.
“Julesies!” Aurora exclaims, hugging her, “You've grown!”
“Thanks, Aunt Aurora.” Juliet replies, “It’s nice to see you too!”
“Juliet.” Astra says. “How are your studies going?”
“Good, Aunt Astra.”
Andrea, whom Juliet hadn't realized was there, suddenly adds, “Juliet’s professor thinks she's ready for the University.”
The Aunts gush.
“You should go to Zaley!” Aurora says, “It has the best curriculum!”
“No, no, no!” Astra interrupts, “Emdon is the best university!"
“Let’s go in for dinner!” Andrea says, leading the Aunts inside the house. The Aunts sit down and Juliet brings out the food. She serves it onto their plates and sits down.
Astra says Grace and they dig into their food. Astra and Aurora immediately kickstart their bickering.
“When we were little, Aurora destroyed my antique porcelain doll!” Astra tells me while Aurora protests, “No, I did not! Astra dropped it and blamed it on me. On the other hand, Astra was the one who burned my journals!”
Andrea sighs and looks the way she always does when the Aunts come to visit.

week three: creating a weekly | july 2025

part one: finding a topic | 201 words

Conveying emotions through writing is more essential than we think. Imagine trying to write a scene that’s meant to be really moving, or one with lots of suspense and mystery. It would probably be really hard to write, or for the reader to fully understand what’s going on in the situation. The reader might also lose interest in the book without emotion, because it just wouldn’t be as interesting.
We write emotions sometimes without realizing it. When you specify the way that a character says something, you’re putting a little bit of emotion into their voice, whether it be happy, sad, bittersweet, angry, furious, nostalgic, or so many other feelings that can be expressed in different ways.
Emotions also affect the way that we (and our characters) think, act, and respond to different things. It’s another key thing that we have to think about while writing. For example, if your character is sad, they’re most likely not going to go to an amusement park (this is a really bad example, but just bear with me please).
Overall, conveying emotions is an important part of writing. It lets us encapsulate moments and express characters. It can also be really fun to write.

part two: splitting the topic into parts | 361 words

Part one: Brainstorm
For the first part of this weekly, choose any emotion. It can be happiness, fear, sadness, anger, or anything else! It doesn’t have to be a complex emotion; in fact, this exercise might work better if you choose a simpler one. Then, think about this emotion. What are some key things that one could see in a character or person in real life that shows this emotion? How do you convey this emotion through writing? Set a timer for five or ten minutes and write down as many key things you can think of when thinking about the emotion you chose. Be sure to write 200 words before moving on.

Part two: Character
For this next part of your weekly, it’s time to write about a character! Create a character (or use an old one) and write 200 words about how strong emotions influence this character’s actions. For example, if this character is angered easily, describe how being angry affects their actions. Write about how you would convey this character’s emotions through your writing. Do this for at least one character, and you can optionally do it for two (in this case, use different emotions to challenge yourself)! Happy writing!

Part three: Twist
Now, have you ever been reading a book and wanted to change the way a character reacted to something? Well, now’s your chance! Pick a scene from a book-any book- and write 200 words of what would happen if they were feeling different emotions. Be sure to show emotions through your words (show, not tell!) and focus on expressing the character’s emotions.

Part four: Putting it all together
Now that you’ve finished the other parts of the weekly, it’s time to put everything you’ve learned together! For the fourth and final part, you’re going to write a short (key word: short) story that focuses on conveying a singular emotion, preferably the one you chose in the first part of the weekly. Be sure to show, not tell, the characters’ emotions, and make it obvious what the emotion is (make it too obvious for this exercise hehe). Write 200 words for this section of the weekly!

part three: writing a workshop | 836 words

Conveying Emotions in Writing

Introduction
Hiya there, fellow writer(s)!! Today, I’ll be explaining a greatly important piece of writing: conveying emotion! Where would stories be without emotion? Nowhere, of course, because emotion is what drives characters (along with motivation) and makes the story interesting. I’ll be going a bit more in-depth about this topic and ways to do it! Without further ado, let’s get started.

Showing, not telling
One of the more obvious ways to convey emotions, show, not tell, is a classic and well-known writing strategy used by many famous authors. But how does this help us convey emotion in our stories?
Well, to start, most writers don’t state the character’s emotions and feelings outright. No, instead, they drop hints of what the emotion is and leave it to the reader to figure it out! In this way, the reader is more interested and invested within the story. Plus, it’s also more fun for us writers!

Actions
One way to show, and not tell, is to elaborate on the character’s actions. Instead of saying, “she walked over to the door,” to convey that she is feeling joyful, I could write, “she skipped over to the door.” Changing the description of the way a character talks or acts is one way to show, not tell. This can be extremely helpful when conveying emotions. Just remember: descriptive verbs and adverbs are your friends!

Description
Another way to show, not tell, is to describe the character themself. There are many adjectives that could help describe the character’s position (sitting, standing, and more), their posture (slumping, stiff, or anything else), and much, much more! The possibilities are endless. It’s important to keep in mind that the way the reader visualizes the character contributes to their emotions and feelings at that certain point in time. For example, if you write and make the character sound sad, yet the reader imagines them as happy, because you described them that way, it could get confusing. Remember to illustrate the character and make them “look” like they are feeling that specific emotion!

Tone of voice/dialogue
Finally, the way that a character talks contributes to their overall expression of emotion. I’m talking about actual dialogue, not words like “said” and “asked.” At this point, I’m referring to the words inside of the quotation marks, the sentences that the characters actually say out loud. Depending on their mood, they will talk in different tones and in different ways. This is another important thing to keep in mind while writing. If they are happy, but sound sarcastic, that doesn’t match up and might make the reader confused, or it could come across as an emotion you weren’t trying to convey. To avoid this, be sure to understand the tone of voice you are putting in your individual character dialogue!

Descriptive language
While this basically encompasses all that I have already talked about, I thought it would just be a good idea to elaborate a little bit more on what I mean when I say “descriptive.” Let’s take this sentence as an example:
“John walked down to the beach in the very early morning.”
Obviously, there is little to no emotion in this sentence. Let’s pick an emotion, we’ll go with reluctance. John is reluctant to go to the beach in the early morning, because he could have been sleeping in instead. To be more specific on his actions, we could add:
“John trudged down to the beach, dragging his feet, in the very early morning.”
To add description, we could describe his posture in this situation.
“John trudged down to the beach, dragging his feet, in the very early morning. Back hunched, lips pulled into a frown, he reluctantly shuffled his feet in the sand.”
I’m not going to keep going, but this sentence- or sentences- is much more descriptive than our first sentence, and conveys the emotion that he is reluctant to go to the beach.
Being descriptive adds to showing the character’s emotions. The character won’t come outright and say the emotion that they are feeling. Instead, one has to look at them from the outside and infer, based on their actions, tone of voice, and overall appearance, what they are feeling. These methods often help the reader understand the character’s emotions, because you- the writer- are conveying the emotions to them.

Conclusion
That concludes my workshop on conveying emotions through writing! I hope that, in reading this, you have learned a little bit more on how to express emotions through writing by using show, not tell, and descriptive language (two very common, but effective, strategies). Remember to always keep in mind key things such as describing a character’s actions, overall appearance, and tone of voice, while writing about a character (or in any scenario with any characters)! And, with nothing else for me to say, this workshop is officially complete! I hope you found something helpful today, and I hope you had fun learning about how to convey emotions through writing!

part four: swapping weeklies with someone | 1081 words

Part one
The bell on the door tinkles its short melody when the person walks in, unaware of the quiet yet chaotic hubbub around them. Immediately they are greeted by various sounds. A coffee grinder, the faint piano music playing quietly over hidden speakers, the clicking and clacking of computers and keyboards. People with headphones on (probably blasting Taylor Swift because the manager refuses to) lean back in their chairs, some asleep with sweaters on, others alert and reading their favorite book. Scents of coffee beans and matcha surround them, quickly accompanied by a variety of more. The person looks around. All of the window nooks are taken- usually those are always full, because people prefer to use those seats to study for an upcoming exam, perhaps, or just reviewing notes from their latest lecture (it’s quieter there in the nooks).
Defeated (the person wanted to sit there), they make their way towards the line that curves around a corner. People, mostly college students in oversized sweatshirts and pajama pants that drag on the floor, scroll absently on their phones through Facebook and Instagram, looking for a distraction from the chaos of their life. The line moves slowly, like a snail, and the person peeks and sees that they are drastically understaffed today. Suppressing a sigh (the person understands the staff’s troubles), they pull out their phone, tuck their computer under their arm, and start doomscrolling, as they always do.
It takes forever, but eventually the person reaches the front of the line and orders their regular- same old, same old, every day. Then they plop into a booth, farthest away from the wide windows that let light in and open their computer.
The smooth, wooden table is now chipped in various places, carved with cheesy initials of hopeless romantics. The wallpaper is scratched and peeling off (they need remodeling), but still, it’s cozy and feels like home.
Morning sunlight shines through the windows and right into the person’s eyes, making them grumble in annoyance. They shift, but cannot escape the beam of light shining into their eyes. A tall plant is blocking them from moving into the shadow (they can’t tell if it’s real or not). Their name is called- finally- and they stand up to grab their drink. The person walks to the pick-up counter and takes the Styrofoam cup in the worker’s outstretched hand, the warmth of the coffee filling their body with comfort and happiness.

407 words

Part two
It is a sandwich
Cookie, of sorts.
Most commonly, and
Most well known,
It is two-
Not one, not three- two
Chocolate cookies
And in between
Like the forgotten middle child
(but quite the opposite)
Is the cream
People use the cream
And cooke
in science experiments
(or, at least, some people
do)
To model the phases of the moon
(all you have to do is get rid of some cream
And don’t get rid of some cream)
This cookie
Is very, very, very
Iconic
People everywhere know it!!
It’s great with milk (or so they say)
And it just LOOKS iconic
(it’s not hard to forget)
When you bite into it
It’s like an explosion of flavors in you mouth
That threaten to destroy all sense
Of reality
(or not! Just your taste buds)
These cookies are crunchy
Yet chewy at the same time
They taste like chocolate and vanilla
All at once
And they pop up
In almost every store you go to
Everyone knows its name
(because it’s iconic)
Everyone probably has seen it
At least once at Target
Or something
That lucious
Sandwich cookie
(that is sometimes used
To show all of the phases
Of the moon)

201 words

Part three
The room was a mess. Literally.
The girl walked in and stopped. There was a large, bounce house castle, brightly colored and at least two stories tall (she didn’t know how it even fit in the room; maybe the room was two stories tall). Shrill shrieks of laughing kids pierced her ears, and she had to cover them as she watched, in awe, five little boys and girls chased each other around the room playing tag, their footsteps slightly muffled by the lush, red, carpet that covered the floor. Indistinct chatter of parents filled the room, murmurs and mumbles mushing themselves all into one tangible mess. A punch bowl went flying; it splattered on the clean white wall, staining it pink and red. Not so clean anymore.
A buzzing sound slowly filled the girl’s ears, and she looked up to find a humongous beetle flying around like a maniac in front of her. She let out a shriek before clamping her hand over her mouth. The room was very echoey, so everyone heard her and turned to stare. It immediately became dead silent, except for the beetle. After two seconds exactly, everyone continued what they were doing, and chaos resumed.
A mango splattered the girl’s arm, and she looked up to see a food fight. Pizza, salad, and fries were being thrown around the room- and obviously, mangoes. So much chaos.

231 words

Part four
Zaya plopped onto the pristine white couch of her mom’s too large, too expensive, too extravagant house- more like a mansion, because it was three stories tall, complete with a pool and everything. Ivory and gold swirls decorated the walls of the sitting room- first of all, her mom had five of those, and second, who needed five sitting rooms? Soft, classical music played over the radio, which was more beat-up and dented than it had a right to be in her mom’s perfect and clean house.
Zaya didn’t usually like to visit, but her mom had insisted that she come over from the other side of the country during her break (college was tiring; she didn’t want to have to sit on a seven hour plane flight just to go visit her insufferable mom), and she decided it would be fine, because her mom had two pools and a hot tub…
Zaya sighed dreamily at the thought, absently fiddling with dry strands of her boring, black hair. She pushed her curtain bangs out of her face as her mom strode into the room.
Wait. Why was her mom wearing a full business suit, complete with six=inch heels that were jeweled?
Zaya’s mom’s red lips were pursed, her expression dissatisfied. Zaya sighed internally and prepared herself for a long, long, rant from her mom. Again.

226 words

—
2479 words total
hehe i speedran this :')

critique for aasha | 07.22.2025

—

Hi Aasha!! I'm Celeste, because you don't know me (just kidding!), and I'm from the wonderful Apocalyptic cabin (or Apocalypicnic. You choose). Today, I'm really excited to read and critique your poem!! (I've been doing a lot of poems lately haha) It is in my understanding that you are considering submitting this poem for the writing comp, as an entry (obviously), and so I'll do my best to give you feedback! I'm not too good with literary looks and symbolism stuff, but I'll try my best. Anyways, I should stop yapping, because it's time to start!!

—

Right away, in the first stanza, you introduce two out of three of your flowers right away, jumping into it without hesitating. I often like this kind of writing, where there isn't much hesitance! It does feel a little bit repetitive in some places though, because you say “passed” or “pass” twice in the stanza, which feels a little bit repetitive (look at me, I'm being the repetitive one). Maybe instead of “passed,” you could write “handed” or something similar. But at the same time, I like the repetition, because it emphasizes the word “passed/pass.” If that's what you are aiming for, then I would keep it the way it is, but if not, I'd recommend replacing one of the words with a different one. I also feel like you could also add a little more context. You could add another short stanza after this one, explaining earlier on to what or who the narrator has to pass the marigolds and trefoils on (did that wording make sense? I can't tell anymore). I know you explain it more later on in the piece, but maybe moving that stanza earlier and/or adding another stanza explaining this could help.

you passed me marigolds
and trefoils, said i had to
pass it on

—

Here, I can see the meanings of the flowers coming out more. Trefoils are described more, and it took me a bit to get the meaning of marigolds. Maybe elaborating a bit more on that, or giving the reader hint, could help. Otherwise, I love this stanza, it gives more backstory and the reader starts to get more of what the poem will be about!

marigolds we planted together
at my father's grave,
with the trefoils, because we vowed to
take revenge for his death

—

I feel like the word “acidic” is either too strong of a word, or not quite the right word to put here. I feel like it doesn't quite match the vibe and style of the rest of the piece, so I would suggest replacing it with another word such as “bright” (or not bright, because that was a bad example). I love how you put this stanza in parentheses, I love doing this too, so it just made my heart happy hehe.

(the marigold is an acidic orange
gracing funerals and the like,
painting the sordid scene in
angry colors)

—

Ooooh, I love this stanza!! There's so much imagery, and description, and more description, and oh my goodness if you're my competition then I'm cooked (there goes me being professional sounding). In any case, this stanza is beautiful.

and so the flowers
were passed,
from generation to generation,
till they became rotten, with lurid colours
mere husks of what they had been once

—

Again, I don't think “acidic” is the right word to use here. It doesn't quite fit with the rest of the poem. I like how you matched this stanza with the one about the marigold(s), it made my heart even happier to see that. I think, if you were to replace “acidic” with a different world, it would be cool if you replaced them with the same word, to keep that same emphasis that repeating “acidic” did. Great imagery in this stanza, too! I really liked that simile there as well (for some reason I struggle with figurative language).

(trefoils are an acidic yellow,
curled into buds
like tight fists,
screaming, “i will not let this go”)

—

Woahhhhh, new person alert?? Yay! Honestly, this felt a tad bit sudden. Like, before, you're talking about revenge and marigolds and trefoils, and suddenly it shifts to a feeling that is more happy and serene. Maybe you could add a stanza of transition? Maybe just one or two more lines would work. Otherwise, I think this part is one of my favorite bits in the poem so far hehe (I shall now proceed to shamelessly steal your talent- what? I didn't say anything).

the flowers pricked my fingers
with their thorns, made them bleed,
sapped all color from my life.
i took out my inherited pain
on a person from the opposing side,

a sunshine haired boy
weaving daisies into flower crowns

I'm assuming daisies are your third flower!! If so, I feel like it doesn't fit with marigolds and trefoils, but I'm going to just keep reading and see if I'm wrong (I probably am).

—

I think you could start a new line with the “I hurled,” since the part before that is the end of a sentence, marked by a period, so it might flow better if you start a new line there! And I feel like you change tenses in the middle of the stanza? Because at one point, you write “have sapped,” marking that it is in present tense, but everything else is in past tense. I'm just wondering if this was intentional or not.

you
and this
cursed anger, and pain
and vengefulness and this persisting
memory of being hurt have sapped
enough of my life, that i decided
to let them go. i hurled
the trefoils into the nearest stream,

—

I like the choice of separating each word here, because it emphasizes each one, and also I can imagine the trefoils sinking down and disappearing, which really adds to the poem!!

watched

it

disappear …

—

Oooh the ending!! (I shall now proceed to throw around confetti and bury the room in it). Honestly, this felt a little confusing to me in ways that I cannot explain, partially because I'm tired, but also because… well, I guess one of the things I don't understand is why the narrator held onto the boy, when it seemed like the narrator was mad at him? And another was the last line, how it ties back towards to the poem. Otherwise, I loved this ending, and I envy you because my endings are really bad like a lot of the time. So. Give me your talent!! Jk don't worry.

and hesitantly, with

strength i didn't know was there,

i wrapped my fingers around his,



in defiance.

—

Overall, I really loved this poem, and I think that its hidden meaning really resonates with me, if that makes sense. Like, I was vibing the whole time I was writing this critique (or maybe that's just me and my dark thoughts…). Anyways, I don't think the symbolism was too overt. It was good, it had the right balance for most of the poem, though maybe you could add a little more of that near the end? Personal preference alert, you don't have to listen to me. Anyways, for the poem as a whole, I'd say just word choice and elaborating a little bit more would make this already beautiful poem shine even more. Thank you for letting me critique this, Aasha, it was a pleasure! (And I'm sorry you had to listen to me yap so much.)

—

1058 words

Weekly 3

Part 1

Character development is an extremely important part of pretty much all fictional writing. It involves making your characters feel real, giving them backstory and personalities, overall making a much more interesting story. Character development is how you can make your characters have depth, make them feel relatable to the readers. It makes your readers get drawn into the story as it will make the writing even more believable, as well as informing them on the story more and can also help build the plot or theme.

So, what are some aspects of character development? A big part of character development is personality. Is your character joyful, bubbly and extroverted, shy and introverted, or are they a bit of both? Are they a Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or Slytherin? The reason that personality matters so much is because it can make the characters relatable to the readers, to keep them glued to your story. It can also contribute to the story’s narrative and make the story more believable.
Backstory is also another key aspect of character development, giving your character maybe a bit of mystery, maybe some hidden ambition, passion or trauma. It also helps your reader understand the character’s current decisions and choices, motivations and behaviour.

Like I just mentioned, motivations can also be useful for character development, showing what keeps them going. Character arcs can be an interesting addition to your story, watching this person change as they are influenced by events around them.

Part 2

1. For the first part of this weekly on character development, choose a few of your character’s main motivations, whether it be getting that nice hot cuppa at the end of the day or saving the Spiderverse, it’s up to you! Sum up these motivations in whatever format you want, whether it be a story or bullet points to complete this part of the weekly!

2. Now that you’ve gotten to know your character’s motivations, let’s get onto your character’s backstory. This can be important to giving context to your character’s decisions and behaviours within your story. In 200 words or more, write a short scene describing a big event in your character’s past. It could be as recent as the past year, or maybe it was decades ago for them. Good luck!

3. For this next part of the weekly, you’ll be focusing on your character’s personality. Although this may seem like a very vague topic, it is essential to character development. Write a small story/scene where your character meets someone else who is completely opposite to them, and see how they react. If your character is extroverted and excitable, make them meet someone who is quiet and calm. Maybe your character will discover something about themselves from meeting someone so different to them? Or maybe they’ll completely ignore this weird stranger. Enjoy <3

4. This weekly has focused on getting to know your character, finding out their motivations and backstory. Now it’s time to tie it all together in a short story or scene involving all of the aspects you’ve learnt about your character!

Part 3

(don’t judge my interesting attempt at a workshop lol)

A Short Guide to Character Development!

Hi! I’m Silvi and today I’ll be teaching all you need to know about character development and how to input these skills into your writing.

Why is character development so important?

To start off, character development is what gives your characters life. It creates an interesting person for your readers to interact with and can contribute to numerous aspects of your story, including the narrative and plot, relating to your readers and creating a more interesting story! Without this extremely important skill, all fictional stories would be the most boring books in the world!

What are some aspects of character development?

Personality is clearly one of the most important - or the most important - aspects of character development. Your character’s personality changes how they are viewed by the reader. If they are strong and brave, your reader will likely respect them, if they are malicious and vengeful, your reader might suspect them as a villain. Inputting personality is reasonably easy - you simply make the way they speak or think similar to how you would think a person of that personality would. If they were the villain, you might make them more aggressive or mysterious, if they were the protagonist, you might make them more heroic and kind.


Motivation can show slightly deeper parts of a character. Harry Potter was fuelled to protect Hogwarts and destroy Voldemort mainly by the death of his parents, so he could get his ultimate revenge. Katniss Everdeen was fuelled by her sister, Primrose, who she wanted desperately to keep safe

Similarly to motivation, fears/desires can show deeper parts to a character, like how Ron Weasley saw himself as Head Boy and Quidditch Captain meaning he felt overshadowed by his older siblings.

Character arcs are very common in lots of stories, showing how a character changes depending on different events. This can show how adaptable they can be and also how they develop through the story.

The way a character dresses can reveal a lot about them, like what sort of person they are and what status they have. If they are wearing fancy designer clothes they are likely very rich, if they are wearing torn clothing it might suggest they’ve been in a fight or live in poverty. You can also learn about their culture if they are wearing cultural clothing, and maybe about their religion depending on what religion it is.

How can you input this clearly and skillfully into your writing?

When inputting these into your writing, you need to make it as natural as possible. If you simply state ‘They felt stronger’ once in your writing, then it’s not going to be very clear or naturally inputted. Instead, you should show your character changing through actions, or describe their personality in gestures and the way they speak.

For example, instead of saying ‘Emily was a very shy person’ you could say ‘Emily hid underneath her hood and tried to avoid attracting attention’ to imply that she is shy instead of outright saying it.

And you have reached the end of this workshop! I hope you learnt about what character development is and how to use it, and find it useful for this weekly! Good luck <3

Daily 22
219 words

Ode To Mangoes

Mangoes fill our life with joy,
Amber or ruby,
We will always enjoy,
Our favourite fruit in the world.

Mangoes us SWCers adore,
They keep us going,
Through cabin wars,
Our favourite fruit in the world.

Even living in the British isles,
Mangoes still reach us,
Giving us smiles,
Our favourite fruit in the world.

Frozen or dried,
Blended to a smoothie,
Perhaps even fried!
Our favourite fruit in the world.

From winter to summer,
They always taste good,
If they went away that would truly be a bummer,
Our favourite fruit in the world.

How do I sum up this incredible fruit,
In merely 200 words?
The polar bears are clearly having a hoot,
Our favourite fruit in the world.

From the moment you bite into one,
It is succulent and sweet,
Who doesn’t like it - I know none,
Our favourite fruit in the world.

Without this fantastic food,
We would simply wither away,
Oh, how we would have booed,
Without our favourite fruit in the world.

I would travel for years,
To get another taste of this fruit,
SWCers fear,
Those who don’t like,
Our favourite fruit in the world.

Just 10 more words,
And I’m running out of rhymes,
I hope you’ve had a brilliant time,
Reading about,
Our favourite fruit in the world.

Weekly 03 - Create Your Own Weekly!

part one - 216 words
choosing a topic!

The topic for this weekly is writing in the genre of Dystopian. A genre that has captivated so many, Dystopian is way to convery so many messages. I want to have a workshop, explaining the genre - and what dystopian can be in writing. I want the story that is written in part 4 to also convey a hidden meaning, one more targetted at the negative of society - like hunger games and 1984 - both novels aimed at goverment control. Dystopian books are often controversial, leading to some getting banned. I believe it's because of the messages some contain, messages able to be passed in the genre. It can be done in any - but Dystopian allows it for one to show the impact it's made.

Dystopian also offers a chance for lots of worldbuilding! It's a genre where you can do so much, from viruses to deadly games to conveying the message of corruption - it would be such a cool weekly to base it on! Also it allows people to try out a new genre if they haven't already! Overall I think Dystopian would be so cool - and should totally be used as a weekly in the future. This is totally not me just rambling, but in short my idea is: Dystopian, worldbuilding, conveying a message, writing it.



Hey whoever is doing this weekly! In this weekly, you'll be diving into the genre of dystopian! So get everything ready, and be prepared for this totally exciting topic!

part one - worldbuilding
A dystopian story always establishes a great setting. From the 12 districts of Panem to the Maze in the Maze runner to the factions in Divergent - many great dystopian stories have a memorable setting and world. We also know a lot about how each works, like how the Capitol runs everything in the Hunger Games. For this part, you'll be describing your world/setting, how it works, any power structures and what type of dystopia it is.

part two - creating a character
Another memorable thing all great dystopian stories has is a main character, one that somehow changes so much. While creating your character consider these: their backstory, what has shaped their beliefs and values, what are they deepest fears? conflict and change, what do they struggle with internally, what threatens them? a flaw, make them human. symbolism, what do they symbolise? and finally a goal, give them a goal, what do they work towards? For this part, write and create your character!

part three - conveying a message
The Dystopian genre allows us to convey such important messages, like the Hunger Games conveys corrupt governments and wealth inequality, 1984 conveys totalitarianism and manipulation of truth, and Fahrenheit 451 conveys the importance of knowledge, censorhip and conformity. Find an issue that is important to you, and for this part write about how you'll convey this in your story and how you'll tie it in!

part four - writing your story
take what you've learnt and write a story now! use your world, and your character and start writing, remember to tie in your message!

Introduction
Hey everyone! Welcome to this workshop on the genre of Dystopian. In this workshop, you'll uncover all there is to know and how to ace writing a story in this genre!

What is dystopian?
Dystopian is a subgenre of speculative fiction (often overlapped with sci-fi or fantasy!) and it commonly explore flawed, oppresive, or broken societies, and can be done so to convey (i'm so in the dystopian mood I just said covey) a message or as a warning or relfection of re-world issues!
It is the COMPLETE oppositve of uptoia, and is not a perfect world. It's extremely flawed. Very flawed. Lots of these stories feature, authoritarian governments, environmental collaspe, extreme inequality, and loss of fredom. Common themes include, control, rebellion, survelliane, propaganda and truth manipulation and dehumanization. But you have to understand that whilst the genre is so good to read, it isn't just for entertaining. It convey such powerful messages and critiques reality. Have you ever read a dystopian book and thought, this sounds similar, similar to our world, what if we keep doing this?

memorable dystopian books
Some books of this genre you could read are: 1984 by George Orwell, Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, Divergent by Veronica Roth, The Maze Runner by James Dashner, Matched by Ally Condie, Red Rising by Pierce Brown, and so many more!

what are important aspects of a dystopian book?
In a dystopian book, you need a clear theme such as an oppressive society or government or loss of individual freedom. A flawed character who question this, the one who will become the symbol for change. You'll need to make readers reflect, by using your story to reflect on real-world issues like surveillance, climate change, war or more. You need a turning point, and high stakes - is the government actively trying to stop your protagonist? You'll need to ensure the setting shows CLEARLY how the world is out of balance, and use so much symbolism!

I hope this workshop helps in some way! Have fun writing your moving and captivating stories!

Part 1 - Creating my Character
Iilysh Graves is a 16 year old teenager. She's got dark hair, and dark brown eyes that look black but when the sun shines into them it's honestly so pretty. She wear clear framed glasses, and she's got quite tanned skin. She's of Asian and European heritage, but looks more Asian. She's average height, on the shorter side as she's 5''3. She's not skinny or slim, but bigger than most girls her age. She loves art, like not painting herself, but studying and viewing art - because it facinates her. She strongly believes in freedom, and of equality. She's very against those who do not believe in such, and if someone has values that clash with her own, she can't keep a close relationship with them as she is very true to them. She loves music, smaller artist instead of bigger ones and she loves to sing, but is afraid that her own voice sounds terrible to others. She enjoys public speaking, and she enjoys sharing what she believes. However, she does not have a good relationship with her father at all, on the other hand her mother is her pillar of support and she trusts her and is extremely close with her. (202 words)

Part 2 - Backstory
One of her most prominent memories is the time her mother and father fought. Even though it happened so much as a child, she remembers this one specific time. A time where she ran her crying sister into the bathroom and covered her ears. And when the yelling continued, and her sister still cried she went out and begged her father to stop. But he didn't. That's where it all started. And since then she believed in her mum, a strong female role model even when everything was so terrible. Her mother helped her growth in so many ways and helped her shape her values and what she believed in. Iilysh learned to read at the age of 5 years old, and she remembered when her mum read her a story about female role models. Ones that fought for freedom, ones that fought for women's rights. She values her current family, not her dad. Her mother however gave up so much for her, gave up so much. Skipped meals when money ran low, and Iilysh had no idea but soon she found out. Overall, her backstory is quite complicated, and made a very big impact on her, starting from when she was quite young. (204 words)

Part 3 - Influences
Like mentioned above, many, many, many times, she is very true to her values. And she is very against others who do not have the same values - especially if it is hateful to hers, like someone who believes in racism. She cannot stand for that. But why? Her father was for some of the hateful things, and she hated him so much. Therefore she hated him and everything he stood for. She hated him for the things he believed in and she made a promise to never be like that. So when she sees those same views in other people, it hits a nerve. It’s not just disagreement, it feels so unbelivably personal. She’s not quiet about it either. She can’t be. Staying quiet feels like letting him win. Even if it's not him. This might just foreshadow what will happen. She will also distance herself quite a lot, for some weird reason. She will also distance herself quite a lot, for some weird reason. Maybe it’s protection. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s just how she copes by pulling away before anyone can get too close, before they can disappoint her like he did. No one could hurt her, or her family like he did. (206 words)

Part 4 - Tying it Up
Once second she was going through family photos, the next she was shutting down. She didn't know why she was looking in the first place, maybe it was to find some type of answer about why her father turned out the way her did. And she didn't blame her mother, not at all. But she came across a picture - of him and her, happy before her eyes opened before everything happened.

But when she saw this. Saw how she was fine near him. Something in her snapped. Even though it was old, it felt like he was getting a win. And she couldn't breathe. She shakily inhaled, then exhaled the air narrowly escaping between her lips. She did it again, but this time the air got stuck as she exhaled - and she couldn't breathe again. She tried to breathe again but ended up gasping, struggling for air. Her eyes filled with tears, tears that tried pour down. What was happening to her? She tried again and again. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't. Inhale. Nope. Exhale. Nope.

She picked up the image and stared at it more. The air suddenly filled her lungs again. She was happy then, she didn't know. He wasn't going to win. (205 words)

i messed the last bit up sorry