Tart stumbled sleepily into the royal kitchen, which was, as always, bustling before the crack of dawn. Stoves were already set on full heat and breakfast was being cooked for over a hundred servants in the palace of the rulers of the pond sprites.

Tart yawned. Though many of the cooks were up and ready, most of their children—who lived, learned, and played in the servants’ quarters with their parents—were still sleeping.

Stretching and yawning again, Tart routinely took a basket from one of the counters and started chopping up the fruit in it.

By 8AM, the smell of steaming porridge and fresh smoothies filled the air. Breakfast was ready.

“Tart!” a warm voice called. His mom gestured to one of the four white carts. On it stood a silver tray with a bowl of porridge adorned with mint and blueberries, hot coffee, and a plate with raspberry tarts… the infamous treat his mother had named him after. The recipe had been passed down from his great-grandpa to his grandma to his mom and, soon, to him. He breathed in the scent wafting from them. This is what love smelled like.
“Take this up to the queen, will you?” his mom said. “Grand hall. Be quiet, she’s in a meeting.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he answered. His mom smiled briskly, then turned to instruct a new, young cook how to use the bread oven.

Tart took the cart and left for the grand hall.

After a few minutes of traversing the long, twisting hallways, he quietly walked into the room the queen resided in. There was no meeting, but she was angrily conversing with her advisor. Tart slowly rolled the cart towards her.

“They are terrible, brutal savages that deserve to be punished for such disrespect!” The queen was saying. “We have done nothing to them, have been peaceful this whole time, and they think they can steal from us? They are practically asking to be attacked!”

“Don’t you think it to be… a bit unwise, perhaps, to attack them? They have a much larger army and better resources,” the advisor pleaded. “Our army will be done for!”

Tart pretended to look busy, shifting the plates on the tray, while listening in. The pond sprites would attack the river ones? He was no army general, but there was no way that would end well. Besides, his friends Eemph and Thorf were in the army…. Tart thought back to the time he’d shown up to watch them train. Yeah, they were cooked.

Meanwhile, the queen continued: “Tomorrow at dawn we shall march for the river sprites’ crownlands!”

Tart left the room feeling an incredible sense of dread coming over him. The queen was often silly, but she was very stubborn. If she said she’d do something—you could count on it to be done.

Tart sighed. He knew there couldn’t be a war. He knew he needed to stop it. After all, he was the hero in a story, so if he didn’t act accordingly and stop the big impending conflict in one day and rescue everybody from certain doom, what kind of story would that be? Ugh, I don’t even exist in the real world, and here I am, saving my home for some big tan-skinned giants sitting around in their beds all day, switching from phone to computer (whatever those things are) and back again, he thought. Whatever.

He went back to the kitchen to ask his parents if he could go (because yeah, he was just a good kid like that).

* * *

By noon, Tart was ready to go. His parents had said their goodbyes and kissed their kisses and had already managed to reprimand him about being reckless on the journey before he had even stepped foot outside the palace. He had a map that would guide him to the river and his backpack was stuffed with leftover tarts from the kitchen. So, at last, Tart left to begin his journey.

* * *

Walking through the city hadn’t been hard—it was a downhill walk all the way to the other side of the pond, but his feet were already tired and his back ached from the weight of his backpack. Surely the treats in it couldn’t be that heavy, right? Perhaps he just needed to work out more. Eemph had always pointed out his flimsy arms…. Ugh, he missed his friends already. The thought of them encouraged him to keep going. He was doing this for them.

By the time he reached the marsh just across the pond, however, he was panting like a dog on hot days (he had had the terror of seeing the horrendous creature a few years back when it had run out of nowhere and sieged the city until its much-bigger-yet-much-less-terrifying companion had taken it away. It took months to finish repairs!). Finally, he sat down to rest. At this rate, I’ll never get to the river in time, he thought in despair. He opened his backpack to take out a tart… only to find there weren’t any left!

In their place lay a little curled up sprite, sleeping.

“Niel!” Tart cried. “What are you doing here?”

Niel opened her eyes and stretched, getting out of the backpack.

Tart stared in horror as his eight-year-old cousin jumped and clapped her hands in delight. Auntie’s going to kill me, he thought.

“I heard you were going on an adventure so I thought I’d provide you some company,” Niel explained innocently. “You wouldn’t find your way out of a paper bag by yourself, but you’d never let anyone come with you! What else was I supposed to do but look out for my dearest family?”

Niel batted her eyes and hugged him to really sell her act.

Tart wasn’t falling for it.

“Niel, your family’s at home. You need to go back to them,” Tart said, but he knew she’d never do that, and his precious time was ticking. Niel knew this too.

“Fine, stay here. I guess I have to take you with me now,” Tart rolled his eyes, then changed his tone to a sassy one to joke with Niel. “But you’re wrong about me never getting a companion. I’d take the first one I’d see.”

“Then take that forg!” Niel pointed to a big, green, slimy frog a few feet away from them.

“It’s pronounced ‘frog’,” Tart corrected, then did a double-take. “You want to take it with us?”

“Yes, I want to take that forg with us,” Niel insisted, running up to the frog and hugging it. It seemed too flabbergasted to move.

“You never know what might happen when you underestimate others,” Niel pouted. “Maybe the forg could be the one to stop the war. Have you ever thought of that?”

At this point, Tart had had a long day, so he just went along with it.

“Fine, let’s take Forg with us cuz why not?”

* * *

The sun was already setting when Tart, Niel, and Forg finally heard the sound of the river churning. They were tired from walking all day, but their pace quickened nevertheless. Excited at reaching their destination and very ready for a good night’s sleep, they practically crashed into a figure standing just around the corner of the big tree root behind which the river and the village near it were visible.

“Whoa there!” The sprite they had bumped into jumped back, sending them a dirty look. “Who do you think you are and why are you here?”

“Uh…” Tart began. He hadn’t expected to run into anyone so fast and had had no time to construct a proper response. “We’re here on special business from the neighboring crownlands. We need to talk to the royal family. Do you know how to get to the palace?”

The sprite cringed.

“You’re from the pond? Ugh. That’s disgusting. And why do you need to go to the palace anyway?”

Tart tried to step around the rude river sprite, but they blocked his way, chuckling at his feeble attempt to get out of answering.

“We’re here because something was stolen from our crownlands and we’re here to ask for it to be returned.”

“What was stolen?” the sprite pressed on.

“We don’t know,” Tart said through clenched teeth. “May we please pass through?”

“Why do you want it back if you don’t know what it is?” the sprite asked.

“Because there’s going to be a war if we don’t get it back,” Tart said, seething.

For the first time, the sprite was quiet. The four stared at each other. Niel hugged Forg, looking nervously between her cousin and the stranger. After a minute, the sprite broke the silence.

“So… you want to barge into your enemies’ castle, blame them for trespassing and stealing you don’t even know what from you, and then have them apologize and stop the war that your crownlands are starting?” the sprite stared at them.

Tart gulped, feeling guilty for having been so annoyed by the questions a minute ago. Now that it was put into words, it actually sounded pretty bad.

“Cool, I’m in,” they said to everyone’s surprise. “I’ve got nothing better to do. All the little fishies have grown up and left, and it’s superrrrr boring. I’ll show y’all my home. We’ve got an extra bedroom for any spontaneous guests like you guys. My name’s Ick, by the way. Ixaldir the sixth, to be exact. Tomorrow I’ll take you to the castle. Come on, don’t be shy, follow me. I only bite occasionally.”

Tart wasn’t sure if they were joking, but he followed anyway.

That was close, he thought. Phew.

* * *

Tart awoke to Niel jumping on his bed, Forg sitting next to him and staring at him with its big eyes, and to Ick yelling “rise and shine, everybody, we’re infiltrating the castle today!”

He glanced outside, then groaned. There wasn’t a glimmer of light out.

He got dressed and went to the kitchen. It was small, and the dim light of the lantern only made the place feel more depressing. Tart felt a gaping hole in his chest. For the first time in his life, the kitchen he was in was empty.

So he found the pots, pans, and ingredients he needed and started to cook.

* * *

“Are we actually breaking into the palace?” Tart asked Ick, horrified.

“Well, duh,” Ick huffed. “That’s what I said this morning, didn’t I?”

“I thought you were kidding,” Tart grumbled. He didn’t like the idea, but he doubted that the guards would just open the palace doors and let them happily skip in, so he didn’t object.

Tart, Ick, Niel, and Forg were perched behind a rock near the river that overlooked the palace, which was apparently built in a beaver dam. From their vantage point, the group could see… maybe twenty guards. Their wooden armor looked stronger than the pond sprites’—which was made out of pieces of glass and metal found in the pond—and their silhouettes looked more buff than those of the pond sprites’. All the more reason to stop the war, Tart thought with a shudder.

The plan was, as Tart had explained a moment ago, to cover themselves with a leaf they had found on the way, jump in the river, swim towards the dam, and climb up into the bounds of the palace. While the side of the dam was heavily guarded, objects like sticks and flowers floating down the river were common and would likely go unnoticed.

Technically, it was doable.

With the disguise, the party stepped into the water, Niel sitting on Forg’s back and each of the older sprites holding onto its sides.

“I’m cold,” Niel complained.

After a tiresome ten minutes of swimming, they finally reached the wooden wall. It seemed they had gone unnoticed… for now. Life isn’t all cupcakes and rainbows, however. It’s kind of suspicious that it was so easy, isn’t it?

Ick and Tart gave Niel one final push as she climbed over the wall. Then they hoisted themselves up. Forg sat a little ways below, eating a fly as if it knew not a worry in the world—which it probably didn’t.

Suddenly, Niel spoke to someone on her side of the border: “Oh, hello.”

Her voice sounded small and dull. Tart felt his insides clenching as he looked down. Seven guards stood, looking at them. They had been caught, and judging from the guards’ expressions, they were in big trouble.

“Lovely day for a swim, isn’t it?” Niel continued, her voice full of life again; but it was too late for tricks.

“You’re coming with me,” one of the guards said.

Tart looked back. Climbing into the river was not an option. Now that they had been seen, they were cornered.

Ick mumbled something under their breath, jumping down reluctantly. Tart followed.

“Let us explain…” Tart offered.

But no matter how hard they tried, the guards wouldn’t listen to their explanations. They pleaded for a chance to see the royals, but nothing worked. All was lost. They would be thrown down into a dungeon in a beaver dam, rotting doing nothing while his friends fought the well-dressed, buff river sprite army.

Come on, what kind of story is this, Tart thought. Where’s the magical solution to the problem? Where’s the savior? When are the guards going to say, ‘oops, sorry, we were mistaken, you can absolutely pass through!’ Hello? Narrator, I know you can hear me… make things work out, please!

Oh, well, what do you know? Just then, Forg, having finished eating its fly, jumped out from behind the wall like a glorious knight in shining armor. It let out a great big belch. The roar of a tiger. The fire of a dragon. The poise of a beast that knew that it was, in itself, a majesty. All eyes bulged. All mouths gaped. Everyone stood there, stunned.

“We’re so sorry for this inconvenience. We were mistaken. You may absolutely pass through,” the guard that had spoken the first time said. “Let us lead you to the guest chamber, and we will see when the royals are available. We will tell them it is urgent.”

Niel smiled and curtsied. She walked over to Forg, who had been surrounded as if by its own set of bodyguards.

“Thank you,” she said, and skipped along with the little crowd. Ick and Tart followed.

* * *

Tart walked around the room, pretending to look at the paintings on the walls so as not to show Niel that he was worried, but his eyes glanced over the elaborate canvases. Ick, on the other hand, sat in a chair in the corner of the room, eating grapes from a bowl. They were worried too. Niel could feel the tension, and glanced back nervously at the two every few minutes. They had been waiting for hours. It was nearly noon. The army would be arriving soon. They had an hour, two at most, and they were wasting time.

Only Forg seemed to be relaxed. It had been pampered by the servants and was now sitting atop a pile of cushions with its usual confident air, several different moisturizers freshening its skin. It glowed now even more than it had down at the dam wall.

“That’s a nice shade of brown,” Ick commented.

Tart looked up.

“What?”

“The painting. It’s… very beautiful,” Ick elaborated half-heartedly. They reached for another grape, only to find that they had eaten all of them.

“More?” a servant offered.

Ick shook their head.

“No thanks, it’s ok,” they managed.

After several more minutes of madness, a knock sounded on the door. Finally.

The four were led to the throne room.

* * *

Two thrones rested against the back wall of the big room. The walls, painted a baby blue with patterns of swirls, contrasted against the red carpet leading up to the royals. Tart, Niel, and evidently Forg were used to this entourage, but Ick couldn’t help but let out an “oh, wow” at the sight of the grandeur.

The three sprites walked forward. Forg hopped gracefully in front.

“Welcome,” the king said as they approached. “You say you have… urgent matters?”

“Permission to speak, Your Majesty?” Tart said as he bowed. The king gave a nod, so he continued. “I am Tart, the son of servants in the palace of the pond sprites. This is my cousin, Niel”—he pointed to his right—”and this is my friend Ick”—he pointed to his left. “Ick is from your crownlands, and, upon seeing the importance of our visit, agreed to journey with us to speak with you.”

After a brief pause, Tart continued: “And this Forg. It comes from its own crownlands the name of which we do not know and is its own ruler. It has graciously gifted us with its time, for it too knows of our troubles.”

The queen leaned forward, studying her guests.

“And what are these troubles that you speak of?” she asked.

Tart steadied himself. Pick your words carefully, he reminded himself.

“You see, Your Majesty,” Tart began. “Something was stolen from our crownlands by one of your subjects not too long ago. Our queen has not taken kindly to the theft. She is angered by the disrespect. She demands an apology, and wishes for the stolen item to be returned.”

“And what is that thing that was stolen?” the queen again inquired.

“Unfortunately, we know not, Your Majesty,” Tart said. “We were hoping you had more information on it. If not, then a mere apology would be appreciated all the same.”

Tart hoped his pretty words would overshadow the fact that his words were only half-truths. He did not know whether the queen would accept an apology and he did not know the value of what was stolen.

“We have been rivals with your crownlands for some time now, and have had the… pleasure of meeting your queen several times,” the king said, drawing out his words. “So my question to you is, does your queen know what was stolen?”

This had not occurred to Tart. Surprise mixed with confusion showed on his face for half a second, but that was all it took for the facade to disintegrate.

“We are sure she does, Your Majesties,” Niel chimed in. “But she has not shared this information with us.”

“It seems she did not send you at all,” the queen said. She had landed right on point.

“Look, there’s going to be a war if you don’t do something about it,” Ick pleaded. “An apology is all that’s needed. Is that so hard?”

“A war?”

The royals exchanged glances.

“A war?” they pressed.

The four stayed silent. They had messed up big-time. And no fabulous frog could save them now.

* * *

In the rush to get ready for battle, Tart, Niel, and Ick had been forgotten. Even Forg was no longer noticed by the servants dashing around.

“What do we do now?” Niel asked. Young as she was, she understood that this would have consequences larger than “a week with no candy.”

“We need to get out of here while they don’t see us,” Ick answered.

So the disheartened team left the river sprites’ castle. Already, thousands of tiny footsteps could be heard from the direction of the pond. With no better options, the team hurried towards the sound, hoping—or whatever you call that feeling when you no longer have hope but continue trying just to pretend you do—that they could still do something.

* * *

The armies stood facing each other.

From his place at that very tree root where he had met Ick less than a day ago, he could see Eemph and Thorf. They stood tall and strong, but he knew that in reality, they were not made for fighting.

They were not ready for the war that was ready for them.

“So what do you have to say for yourselves, little pickpockets?” the pond queen yelled from her side.

“Pickpockets?” the river king intercepted. “How dare you insult our honorable crownlands? It is you who is the scoundrel. Always trying to take more and more for yourself. Don’t be greedy!”

The jeers continued. Voices rose, and with them, the tension. Niel plugged her ears. Even Forg seemed to be feeling down. And Ick…

Tart’s eyes darted around, trying to find them.

“They’re there,” Niel said, reading Tart’s expression. She pointed to the river sprites’ army.

Tart’s stomach fell, and his heart skipped a beat. Yep. Sure enough, that was Ick. Dressed in river armor and carrying the river flag.

He felt the blood drain from his face as his friend’s betrayal sunk in. Tart stumbled, light-headed. It’s ok, he calmed himself. You met them a few hours ago, what were you expecting? Tart took a deep breath, forcing down the anger and the hurt. It’s their decision, and this is their home. Of course they would choose their home, with their small but familiar kitchen and their beloved tadpoles.

Wouldn’t you do the same?

But as Tart studied the two armies, separated by nothing but a few feet of grass and a whole abyss of hate, he realized that he wouldn’t. There were no sides to be chosen. The sprites on both sides looked identical—perhaps not in clothing or weaponry or even build, but their faces both showed determination masking doubt.

He didn’t even know who was right and who was wrong anymore. He didn’t really care.

A hand on his shoulder jolted him out of his thoughts. It was Ick, talking excitedly. Tart stepped back, his face expressionless. Or perhaps it simply could not show so many expressions at once.

“What?” he mustered.

“The thing that was stolen, I found it!” Ick said in a hushed tone. “Tart, it was a tart!”

Tart stared at them dumbfoundedly.

Ick gave a frustrated sigh at their companion’s unresponsiveness.

“I went to go talk to some of the river sprites, and one of them confessed to having stolen something,” they said. “It was a tart. They stole a tart!

Tart grinned. So Ick had not betrayed him at all. They were trying to fix this.

“That’s it, can you believe it?” Tart was saying. “All of this over nothing!”

Tart tackled Ick in a bear hug.

“Come on!” he told the group. “We can stop this.”

They ran into the middle of the battlefield. The jeering stopped, but the weapons did not lower. The sides turned their hateful gazes towards the four in-between them.

“You are all petty, greedy, scornful, ignorant fools!” Tart screamed. “You are fighting over a pastry!”

Whispers passed around the crowd, but nobody backed down yet.

“It’s my family’s recipe. We’re cooks, bakers, chefs,” Tart explained. “I- There’s nothing to fight over! It’s nothing! It- I can share the recipe with all of you. Then everyone can have as much as they want. No theft needed. No apologies. And most importantly, no wars. Not over this, not over anything.”

* * *

“Hey, we make a solid team,” Ick said, sitting on the tree root.

A week had passed since The Tart War.

“Yeah! Partners for life!” Tart whooped, which earned him a weird look from Ick. Realizing his mistake, he quickly added: “I mean ‘for life’ but not necessarily ‘in life’- I mean not ‘in life’ at all… it doesn’t even have to be ‘for life’… I meant in this moment, right now… yeah, you know what I mean….”

Smirking, Ick punched him in the arm and turned away. They seemed to be blushing.

The two sat in silence for a bit—well, as close to silence as it can get with sprite children (including Niel) running around chasing a big, green, slimy frog around.

“Hey, if you ever want to visit, or keep in touch or anything…” Ick trailed off.

They looked at Tart, then pulled out a piece of paper and a pen.

“Here, lemme write it down.”

They wrote something. Then they scribbled it out. Then they wrote something else and scribbled that out too. Laughing, Tart tried to snatch it from Ick.

“No, I’ll just give you another piece of paper, I have more at home-” Ick protested, but Tart had already snagged it from them.

Ick rolled their eyes as Tart read the little paper:

House 562, Village By The River, River Crownlands.
Thank you for being the grain of sugar in a sea of salt.
Your friend, Love, Your partner,
Ick ———————–>

“I think this one’s fine,” is all Tart said as his eyes coursed from the paper to the united crownlands of the pond and the river sprites.

And they lived happily ever after. The end.

Critique for @Decora_Lizeus (do I post it here???): Double Trouble

(840 words)( I know it's a lot, I'm sorry!!)

Notes: I have not read The Ranger's Apprentice, so I will be critiquing the general story flow. Also, please take it with a grain of salt

This was a really interesting story. I loved the mystery throughout it and the clues that were sprinkled here and there. They keep the reader interested. I loved the way you showed the connections between the neighbors and Sol and his family. In that small paragraph/paragraphs, you were able to hint at a significant part of his life. Overall really fun to read. I love the style

The dialogue in the part where Sol wakes up from his nightmare is great (I whisper to myself too sometimes heheh), but it seems kind of abrupt. He wakes up from a nightmare and immediately goes outside to check out the movement. What you can do here (easy fix) is show that some time had passed by saying something like, “Sol lay in bed, trying to forget the nightmare. When his breathing slowed back to normal, he stood up.”

Here - “… and some saw they were able to vanish and appear as they wished and had uncanny weapon skills.” - try deleting the “some saw/say” (might've been a typo there, but nevertheless). It was a it confusing to read at first glance lol.

The part where the ranger in the garden speaks to Sol also feels a bit rushed. Try adding some actions that Sol and/or the ranger do between the description and the dialogue.

I love the dialogue between the parents and the ranger, it was very well written

Here - “Everyone moved to clear a path. Nobody moved or said anything for several minutes.” - it sounds a bit repetitive. Instead of writing “Nobody moved or said anything for several minutes,” maybe try saying “Even after she left, everyone remained silent.” That would just make it sound a little neater.

Here - “You can’t go!” Yelled the mother, “don’t worry now, I shall protect you! we won’t let her take you!” - it isn't quite clear to whom the mother is talking. Adding “the mother said to the son” (and also replacing “yelled” with a less aggressive talking verb) would make a huge difference in clearing up the confusion.

Sol's attitude at getting claimed by the ranger is so silly XD love it.

This part - “… some on the other hand, said that the boy was always odd since childhood, so it’s not surprising a ranger laid eyes on him and he is destined to live that shadowy life.” - should be its own sentence. Just as a small cleanup, you could say “Some, on the other hand, said that the boy had been odd since childhood, so it wasn't surprising a ranger laid eyes on him; he is destined to live that shadowy life.” Just some small tweak here and there

Some general comments about Arol's thoughts of the oak tree circle: you do an awesome job at conveying his superstition and overall suspicion of the place, rangers, and Keilo. One thing you can do is separate Keilo's thoughts and the description of her body language from Arol. Simply put, just make it two paragraphs, putting everything about Keilo in one paragraph, and everything about Arol in the other.

Some general comments about Keilo's thoughts and dialogue when they reach her house: you should always try to separate dialogue from text that is not dialogue or changes in dialogue into different paragraphs (example: Keilo says something to Sol, put it in one paragraph; Keilo stops talking to Sol and turns to talk to Arol, put that in another paragraph; then Keilo starts thinking to herself, put that in a third paragraph). It sounds confusing, but when you start doing it, it actually enhances the story a lot. I'd actually recommend going through your piece and doing that for all the other parts of the story, at least just to practice. Putting it here specifically though because this is where it got a little bit messy.

About the ending: I loved how Keilo's thoughts at the end reveal so much about her and her intentions. It was pretty creepy, actually (in a good way). One small thing you could do here is, in the last sentence (“This was going to be an interesting few days, or perhaps even months.”), delete “days, or perhaps even,” so that it just says “This was going to be an interesting few months.” It just makes it sound a little more ominous.

Again, like I said in the beginning: amazing story, you did a great job! I know I wrote a lot (sorry!) but it's really just a few small fixes where the grammar's a bit off or the story sounds like it's progressing too quickly (it can be really hard to pace it correctly, but like I said, adding little actions usually balances it out!). Great job and good luck editing (remember: you're the author, so if you think my edits aren't what you want, you are completely free to disregard them!)!!!

I dream of Sundays (141 words): looking for critique


The Earth spins.
The sun screams.
I dream
Of strawberry-peach ice cream.

Sundaes
On Sundays
Driving to a new town
Taking a walk on the beach

The sand in your toes
And the wind in your hair
The smell of the salt
And the taste of the air

Climbing the tree trunks
Each one in the park
Though far too old
You still like the playground

Later, perhaps, you’ll walk through the shops
Souvenirs and memories
Are sold at barely more
Than ten bucks

Tomorrow is monday but today
Is today
There’s no threat and no rush
You can come back anyday

Time doesn;t fly
And you don’t have to grow up
This isn’t Neverland
It’s just your happy life

I dream
Of strawberry-peach ice cream
And of sundaes on Sundays
And to finally feel fulfilled.

I dream of Sundays (second draft) (251 words): critique is welcome

I dream of Sundays

The Earth spins.
The sun screams.
I dream
Of strawberry-peach ice cream.

Sundaes
On Sundays
Driving to a new town
Taking a walk on the beach

The sand in your toes
And the wind in your hair
The smell of the salt
And the taste of the air

Climbing the tree trunks
Each one in the park
Though far too old
You still like the playground

Later, perhaps, you’ll walk through the shops
Souvenirs and memories
Are sold at barely more
Than ten bucks

Tomorrow is monday but today
Is today
There’s no threat and no rush
You can come back anyday

Time doesn’t fly
And you don’t have to grow up
This isn’t Neverland
It’s just your happy life

I look back, eyes damp
And throat sore
The tears start to fall
When I blink, everything’s gone

Present-time, in reality, I walk through the streets
And watch the golden sun set
The clouds are orange-pink
Like strawberry-peach

I live in a paradise
I wish I could go back
To when I didn’t know
What true beauty was

It feels like it’s slipping
I hate it
I’d rather be breathing
Than yearning for what I can’t have

Now I lay in my bed
In my hot stuffy room
My mind isn’t free
There’s too many thoughts

Confined and enslaved
My home made a coffin
The brilliant young kid
Shines as dimly as a lonely moon

I dream
Of strawberry-peach ice cream
And of sundaes on Sundays
And to finally feel fulfilled.

The Night the Pumpkins Disappeared


The night the pumpkins disappeared, I’d lain awake in bed.
Not tired was I enough to sleep
And senseless thoughts filled my head.

I was about to snooze on off, but there was a curious beep.
Though I had fear t’was some mad con,
Towards the window I did creep.

The huge full moon shone on the field and made night look like dawn.
The hay and fence and scarecrow were fine, but something wasn’t right;
My pumpkins were no longer there–a full field simply gone!

I gathered all my toughest clothes and dressed up like a knight.
I took a lamp and baseball bat and then I left my house. .
A closer look revealed to me a trail under the light.

I followed the path all the way to town, jumping at the noise of every mouse.
At last, I came upon a sight so seemingly unreal.
The pumpkins from my pumpkin patch had rolled and now were dancing crouse.

One shook its body, one twirled around, one swayed as if it was an eel.
What else to do but join their fun and lively celebration?


Throughout the night the echoes rang as we laughed in elation.
Near morning when we’d planned return, a question was still unanswered.
I pulled aside a close companion for further clarification.

“Dear fellow,” inquired I, “Let me be crude,”
“I had been quite surprised at your departure. Why so sudden did you leave the patch?”
A small smile played upon his lips as above us flew the shadow-feathered.

“Seen you my face?” Answered the pumpkin. “And my eyepatch?”
I nodded, puzzled. ‘Course I had. I saw it every harvest season!
“To celebrate. We come out once a year; one day on which the world our moodiness match.”

I thought of this, still misconstruing. I asked of him to explain the reason.
“Well, you don’t see us walking much throughout the year, do you? Tis only Halloween
Whose magic draws us here. For us to come alive some other night is geason.”

The morning crept so gently onto us, and our worlds widened by the rift between.
“I’ll miss you, pumpkin friend,” said I and held him as he whispered: “We’ll meet again..”
I shall wait eagerly for next year, when by my eyes again he could be seen.
This is the story of the disappearing pumpkins. I cherish each as though my dearest friend.

The water vapor is moulded like a marble statue. The pearly white practically glistens in the sun, blinding one like snow or pure white sand. It pecks at one’s eyes like a bird, and soars the sky no less similar to one. Its wings span the horizon, making the blue look even darker and richer in comparison to its plumage.

The clouds are not fluffy. There is no cotton candy.
They are made of stone.

It is a castle on top of a hill–except there is no hill, just the castle. It stands, majestic and proud, on nothing but air; the palace floats as if it weighs less than a feather.

One draws nearer as the clouds continue their stoic drift. Pillars stand on either side of the entrance concealed to those below. One enters.

Inside, the castle is bigger than it looks on the outside–and outside it fills the entirety of the sky, so one knows it is the largest thing there is in sight other than the very Earth beneath them or the sun that illuminates this sight.
Columns line this great hall. They can barely be seen from the ground of the palace, much less the ground of the world underneath that, and not at all by that beneath the latter.

But back to that in the air.

The floor echoes with one’s footsteps. The winddrifts sing their melody through the pipes in the castle walls and grand chandeliers of sun rays twinkle with unspoken magic. Despite these booming sounds, the atmosphere feels silent. There are none but the one inside the palace. No royalty nor people reside here in this place.

It is free from those that speak, and free from words. Only pictures may be drawn up of the clouds’ highness by yearning folk too far to reach the flying water vapor.

The palace stands, floating, on a tall hill of air. Its enormous pillars invite one in, but no one is there to greet any.

The hard white marble glitters in the sun, a melody unheard whistling to the pure bird that is called a cloud.

March 2026 SWC Daily 1: 506 words



I don’t know you.

This thought circulates my brain as I sit on the floor of the teen area of the local library, just a few feet from a group of friends I do not know. I live relatively far from my school; there’s another one closer, so most of the people here are from there.

There, the place I find to be as close to my world as Neptune is to Earth (approximately 4.3 billion kilometers); in other words, pretty far.

For some context: I go to a school where students are picked out. Practically every other person is neurodivergent, and the campus itself seems to reside on Mt. Everest. I’ve heard from the popular media that people like me would be labeled “dorks,” and perhaps that is a fair label, but for me, it’s pretty much the only thing I know. I went to a “normal” school for a year, where I definitely did not fit in, and the two years before that I was at home for Covid or adjusting to the effects of it. And before that, the meteorite had just struck the land of the dinosaurs.

Thus, you can see why I feel a bit apprehensive about such interaction.

To tell you the truth, I find these people to be relatively weird. I am more accustomed to the outfits of furries than the stereotyped “popular girls,” and the conversations I hear sound like they are in a foreign tongue. I am unsure of how to feel about this exotic culture.

I am unsure because I know that, in truth, it is I who is the exotic creature.

I don’t know how to talk to people. Each conversation that is not with my closest friends feels excruciatingly long, and any attempt to cover up my awkwardness is tiring and scary. I read this is a trend… More and more people get diagnosed with social anxiety or ASD, and small talk, or any type of interaction with strangers, activates the fight or flight reflex. I, too, am a part of this social trend, facilitated by my environment and circumstances. I can’t even understand sarcasm, how pathetic is that?

Perhaps instead of “touching grass” more – going outside on bike rides or whimsical nature walks – I should talk to people more. If I talked to people more, I would…

I would know them, understand.

But the art of people speak evades me, and I sit on the floor quietly, wondering who the individuals in the room are and pondering how similar to me they are yet how drastically unfamiliar they seem.

I wonder if talking to people will ever not feel weird. If I will ever not avert my eyes as I walk by someone on the sidewalk. If I will ever make friends fast. If I will ever understand them, if I will ever truly know them.

Well, for now, I guess I will remain the alien from a far-away planet. I look at them and think, once more,

I don’t know you.

The Hummingbird. March 2026 SWC Daily 2: Wild / animals: 367 words


Up, down, left, straight, sharp right, down, up, forward.
The winds blow harder, nearly knocking the little creature out of its flight, but it continues on its quest for its life source.
Left, right, down, up, straight, straight, right, down, up, forward.
Tree branch. Tree branch dodged.
Its heart beats at around 1200 beats per minute in its race. After all, to support such cardiovascular activity requires lots of ATP to be made by its mitochondria. If the bird does not eat within three to five hours today, its five-year life span will be cut short.
Forward, hard right, down, forward, up, left, right, forward, left, forward, left, up, right, down. .
Stop and hover.
With wings that can flap 70-80 times per second, the bird stays suspended in mid-air, scouting. Hummingbirds have tetrachromatic vision; they can see ultraviolet light, which allows their world to be filled with colors far beyond the human spectrum. They can detect red, orange, and yellow light best, however, since they have evolved to look for red food sources – flowers.
It sees something. A beautiful cornucopia of nectar, a bouquet of plenty, a feast.
Sharp down, right, left, dodging a tree branch, and another one, down, forward, up, right, stop and hover.
There it is.
Several bright red flowers sprout from a bush.
The hummingbird has spotted its food source.
It floats up to one flower, then the next, extending its long, forked tongue with lamellae fibers and lapping – yes, lapping, around 18 times per second – the sweet drink inside.
The hummingbird visits as many flowers as it can. It needs to drink from 1000 to 2000 a day.
Up and away. Left, right, down, up, up, up.
The golden sun sets upon the horizon, drawing its blanket of night over its head.
It is time for the hummingbird to sleep, too. It is not sleeping in a nest tonight, but rather chooses a nice branch away from the wind and other disturbances, and hangs from it upside down. It enters torpor, dramatically slowing its heart rate and metabolism and lowering its temperature. It has about ten hours of survival without food. Tomorrow, there will be a new hunt for the sacred treasure.

Hi, this is so incredibly beautiful and insane and like omgs i have no words. Literally the only things I found to critique were some mild grammar mistakes (I wrote them down below), but it is otherwise absolutely perfect like ASDFLUVNCGNC. It's just. Wow. I loved how you made each interaction so real yet so magical. The repeating elements that you used to describe each person – like saying that Aaron looked like Harry Potter or that Lily had dark hair and caramel skin – really showed the characters' deja vu. However, it was very plausible that they would not have remembered each other because of the briefness of each of their interactions and the time between each one. I also loved how you showed their growth through the story. Like, Aaron went into physics, Lily studied psychology. Another thing you did well (I know, the list is very long) was not making the story tragic. Like, that indeed would have been heart-wrenching because it would be like, “but you were so close,” yet it likely would have detracted from the story's message. Instead, each person got their own individual life, both of which were happy. That kind of amplified the strangeness of the entire situation and really makes you think, what if I've passed someone whom I have briefly known several times without actually knowing that I've met them? It's just a really unique thought, and your writing is really gorgeous. I was going to submit something for the writing comp but I think I might need to up my game now XD /silly

Anyway, here are some of the technical things I noticed in your writing that would make it a bit smoother:

Skatergirl1357 wrote:

The hotel lobby smelled of stale sea salt and lavender air freshener. Chairs arranged in a perfect semicircle against a pillar, carpet blanketing the floor, and two children sitting cross legged on the floor on the carpet, hands skimming the sticky floor with a kind of nervous impatience

Skatergirl1357 wrote:

The autumn evening was humid. Joggers running down the college grounds passed her, other students walking past in tightly knit groups, or alone.
She looked normal, on the surface, but if you zoomed in on the details, she had dark purple half-moons framing her just-stopped-crying pink eyes, pink from crying. Hands tight around the coffee cup she had clutched to her chest like it was a life line.
Her anchor in the water as she sank like a stone.

The last sentence sounds a little weird, so maybe reword it. Also, anchor sounds like something safe and grounding, so maybe use a slightly different metaphor, like a rock in her paper boat or a gaping hole in her ship, if you want to stick to the ship / water theme.

Skatergirl1357 wrote:

As if the day couldn’t get any worse, she crashed into a wall of human – a boy who was a few inches taller than her, books clutched against his chest – and both of them rocketing back as a double espresso splashed over her chest and his books.

This sentence was just phrased a little weirdly so it was hard to read, I think with the dashes and the “and” it is more easily separated.

Skatergirl1357 wrote:

“Oh– I am so sorry,” he said, because it was rather evident that the coffee had fallen all over her chest, and some dripped off his rather expensive textbooks.

You had already mentioned that in the previous sentence.

Skatergirl1357 wrote:

“Well, I failed my finals.” He smiled, though it was the kind of smile that you put on your face when you didn’t want to cry. “All – Well. Nearly all of them. I got freaking lucky, you know, because the college dean decided to give me another chance. Honestly –” He raked his hands through his dark hair (why was that so familiar of a gesture?) – “I don’t know where I want to go in life. And, well, that’s kind of messed me up these past few days, yeah.”
“Well, my dad died.” She said it so matter-of-factly, he nearly missed it.

You might want to add something between the two quotes, like maybe an acknowledgement from Lily or a question from Aaron, like “What about you?” to kind of transition between them / make the interaction feel a little bit smoother in that place.

Skatergirl1357 wrote:

For Paris, this was pretty dull. Winter was setting in, andas passerby walked past the windows, and she really didn’t have anything to do but watch the sun rise and set again and try to judge where the people outside were going based on their clothes.
She knew it was a tourist destination, really, but honestly it didn’t seem so bad, not at first. Now, she’d been there for about two days and it was already dulling at the edges. Eventually, after she had gone to all of the tourist locations in a 24 hour challenge her friends set her, there really wasn’t much to do.

Two days seems like not a lot of time, a week seems more plausible.

Skatergirl1357 wrote:

What the chances were that two people would collide so precisely that both of the grocery bags would spill food and other things all over the parking lot, resulting in the expulsion of half a litre of milk into the tar.

This sentence sounds a little funny so maybe either put dot dot dot at the end of the sentence or change the beginning to "What were the chances…" and add a question mark at the end of the sentence. Speaking of question marks, there's a few places where you might consider adding one, like in

Skatergirl1357 wrote:

“What happened to you,” she asked.

and

Skatergirl1357 wrote:

You do any modeling.”

Skatergirl1357 wrote:

The woman standing in front of him slapped a hand on her forehead, dropping it in annoyance for a second before reaching over and picking up a mildy bruised broccoli. “We can just wash this, right?”

You accidentally mistyped a word

Skatergirl1357 wrote:

There’s a soft thunk on the ground, and he spots her necklace – a locket – and picks it up, the door swinging open. Inside it is a picture of a laughing man, who’s incredibly American caucasian male looking, with blonde hair and dark eyes.

That's worded a bit weirdly, I'd recommend saying something like “Inside it is a picture of a man with blonde hair and dark eyes, who's likely American.”

March 2026 SWC: DRAFT of some fun writing: 223 words


My heart breaks as my body lights on fire; the opposite of steel, it does not melt in flames. If furious heat cannot forge it, however, then I shall mold it with the scathing blade of ice.

My anger makes me bitter as the biting winds of the North, but my blood boils, rising to my head like the magma of an active volcano. To contain it is to press my hand to a scathing stovetop and hold it there; although, perhaps a more accurate notion is that my ire itself is the shackle, not an own wish of burning, for when mad, I am as stuck as a tongue pressed to icy metal, as trapped as memories in a burning house. I overthink, as an engine overheats when kept on for too long… It takes a lot to get me this way, for I do, generally, consider myself a composed person. Too many fireballs must have been launched over the moat, and the walls finally caved. Now there is crossfire. In the town itself, life has changed, at least for this segment of its history. I, too, freeze in emotional stupor like water does when temperatures drop below zero. I hate the feeling of anger… In my rage, I am furious as a wildfire, cold as a storm on a mountaintop.

Hiii! I really like your story, it has a really good plot and I like the way you included two perspectives, both so focused on the flares, because you can see how they're both feeling so desperate and alone. I also love some of your imagery, like when you said she pressed a hand to her heart to push it back in her chest. The plot is really interesting though and it keeps you wondering how the events are going to play out! I also like your ending where you say “Day 1 of a new beginning. / We are not alone anymore.” It's really good and impactful. Btw, your story really reminds me of the book “Alone” by Megan E. Freeman (it's really good and you should read it!).

As I do before every critique, I'd like to warn you that 1) this is my personal opinion and you should only take into consideration what resonates with you and 2) I am trying to point out as many things as I can that you could potentially improve on or do differently so that you're able to choose the ideas that you like

Onto the critique:

The first thing I have to mention is that there should probably be more distinction between the two narrators because it's not immediately obvious, so I'd recommend separating and labelling the two parts more.

I feel like your story sometimes feels like it has too much repetition at times. While repetition does generally show characters' despair, I feel like because your story has so much of it, it's not as impactful. It would be best to cut the number of times you use it just a tad so that the parts that are left with repetition feel more meaningful. One of the techniques I like to use is picking a specific number of places or sentences that I should find. For yours, I'd recommend finding 3-5 places where you can cut down your repetition.
I'd also recommend cutting a few of the parts where the main narrator says “I guess” just to make those words specifically less repetitive in general, but that's kind of an afterthought. For example, the paragraph where she says that the city looks like a disaster zone.

I think it would be good to vary your sentence lengths a bit more by cutting some of your sentences in half because you have a lot of either short, 2-word sentences or reallyyyyy long sentences, and so that variety would just be more structurally appealing I think. This is a super easy fix, I'd recommend just going through your writing and cutting, say, 5-10 sentences in half.

I think these little technical things are kinda the only things that at times could be fixed, but overall your story is really good!! Good luck in the writing comp! (Also like I said, you should totally read “Alone.”)

Hi! I really like this piece, it embodies dysphoria really well. Honestly, I'll probably take inspiration from this and write something too (but dw I won't steal your ideas or try to mimic your writing!) (but like I said, ur writing's really good). As a general disclaimer that I put every time I do a critique: this is my personal opinion and these are all merely suggestions and blah blah blah. Each thing i found to critique was just something I hoped would help you decide how you wanted to improve your writing (if you wanted to change any of it at all).

First off, I thought your imagery was great. Describing your body - especially the flesh itself, which encases the outside of it like a sort of membrane - as a prison was a really cool idea, and I liked how you showed that you felt trapped and bitter. I really like the two lines at the end of your second stanza, they're just beautiful. “A stranger's veins” is haunting. I also love the last two lines of the poem, they're really good.

What I think you could change or expand upon:
The main thing is that I felt that it generally went a little fast. Perhaps that is just me being used to slightly longer writings, but I think that you should either lengthen your poem or cut down on parts of the description that could feel a little extra and instead focus on going even deeper to describe specific sensations; like what do you feel when you scratch at your skin (hopefully entirely metaphorically, right????) do the blood and it still doesn't come off? Does it hurt, or are you numb? Are you angry? Are you sad? What I'm trying to say is not that it needs to be a certain length but that it doesn't have /quite/ enough depth, so adding an extra stanza or two conveying not only symbolic or emotional distress but also physical discomfort, because you focus on that so much yet you don't have anything that actually states that your body hurts you. Dykwim?
I think you also could omit the “like” in the second line of the first stanza, as well as change some of the places where you say “I,” “mine,” or “my” to more generalized terms to really make the reader feel like they are experiencing the poem and not reading about your experiences. Tbh this is completely my opinion and if you want to keep it this way (it is a personal topic and reflects ur own experiences, and the current usage of first person pronouns does not actually detract from your poem), do that. This is merely a suggestion that might make your poem feel more intimate for the audience.
Another thing I think could be cool is to describe your “chains” in the last paragraph as a part of your body. For example, that your intestines wrap around you like chains.

Hope this helps you gain new insight on your poem!