Your train left in the middle of winter, with only the sound of its horns to give me a goodbye. We hadn’t been speaking for months by then, I know, but I couldn’t help it. Even if it would only have been the slightest chance of seeing you, I had to take it. We could have made amends, maybe. Could have patched things up.

So many things we could have done.

In the end, it didn’t matter; my hour-and-a-half drive from our tiny, rural town to the station in Massachusetts was for naught, because I never even saw you there. Still, I keep wondering what might have been, what could have happened…

Now, I’m on a bus ride to your new city, not to visit you. Just to visit. There’s a difference. That’s what I’ve been telling myself, anyway, but who knows how many people would believe me in the first place?

It’s been nearly a year since that day you left, but I can’t help it. I think I may never forget you. I think you may always plague my memories.

Snow drifts slowly in an almost serene way, frost covering the windows, but the whole time, all I can think about is maybe you might be on the other side of them.

Maybe one day, we’ll meet eyes again, and maybe then, it will be okay.
~
Word count: 228 words

Cobwebs live behind the tiny door under the steps, in the place where the scent is always musty, as if the place has been untouched for years. Behind the little door we’ve all romanticized and fantasized about—we’ve all read enough books about magic to know that there’s got to be at least a bit of it behind it, after all—there’s nothing much. Nothing too special. It’s a couple of suitcases no one ever uses, maybe, but not too much more than that. It’s too small for much of anything else.

Or so we think.

As it turns out, the tiny door is just the right size for something else. Or rather, it’s the perfect size for someone else.

A fluffy white cat pushes his way through the unsealed door to hide during the day when no one notices. To him, it’s the perfect place for a good game of hide and seek. No one wants to brave the unknown of it, and no one is willing to crawl low to the ground to find the best hiding spots. He thinks it’s perfect.

Of course, hide and seek is only ever fun when, obviously, you have someone to look for you in the first place. So never mind the times when he’s alone; hiding isn’t any fun then. No, it’s far better to use the spot when he’s hiding from another grooming, or when he’s lying in wait, ready to pounce.

The cupboard under the stairs is just the right size for the little cat who loves teeny tiny hiding spots, and better yet, he’s putting good use to it when no one else does. Maybe one day, he’ll force them to find him behind all the suitcases where his humans can’t fit…Maybe.

But until then, the place is his and his alone.
~
Word count: 302 words

Hello, hello, dearest WUCers! I come to you with a letter on why Snowy is the best mascot there is.

Firstly, I must address the thought in all of our minds: Isn’t this my first session of WUC?

Well, that’s true, but my inexperience with this specific writing camp doesn’t make my opinion on the mascots any less valuable. In fact, it perhaps even makes it more so, because I can easily see which mascots have truly made an impression on such a new WUCer.

This session, like me, Snowy is new in our midst, but once again, Snowy has made such an impression on me that it’s impossible to ignore their impact on the entirety of the camp in just these past few months since the initial release of the leader application project—or even in just the last week since camp has started!

What makes Snowy such a great mascot is that they embody the moral we try to keep in mind at WUC: sleep > WUC. As you may be able to tell from the portrait of Snowy in the leader application project, you’ll notice Snowy’s relaxed posture and half-closed, indicating that they have been taking care of themself by taking a nap—something all us avid writers and busy people could probably do with a little more reminding of.

Moreover, it’s critical that you note Snowy’s species: the arctic fox. While many of us may just dismiss the value of the facts about this species in favor of their cuteness, it’s crucial to acknowledge the deeper value of Snowy’s resourceful species.

Firstly, while it’s not commonly known, there are in fact eight different recognized species of arctic foxes, and Snowy is just one of these many varieties! In addition to this, arctic foxes, while typically portrayed with white fur that allows them to blend in during the wintertime, arctic foxes also have a summer coat that’s more of a grayish color. This ultimately signals and symbolizes adaptability—the arctic fox has truly learned how to survive in its environments and is flexible. This is something we at WUC also aspire to be.

Speaking of survival in its environment, the arctic fox also lives in some of the harshest places on Earth, living in icy-cold tundras in the North Pole region. For this reason, Snowy is also a symbol of getting through even the hardest time and making do in the worst.

Snowy serves as an important reminder to all of us of who we want to be and the values we all have, and it’s imperative that we give them proper attention for this.

And, obviously, there’s the real reason I picked Snowy. They’ve got the same name as me. It’s clearly the best name there is.
~
Word count: 457 words

Perhaps it’s slightly cheating to pick a song I already know, but either way, I wanted to talk about Ghost Town by Benson Boone all the same.

I’ve been a fan of his music for a little while now, ever since my sister recommended some of his music to me, but I didn’t really start getting into it until this summer, when I listened to American Heart on its release day and loved it.

Ghost Town, obviously, isn’t a part of American Heart, but nonetheless, I can say how much I love this song. It’s such a gorgeous work of art, if I may (haha). Anyway, the first thing I love about it are the lyrics.

Personally, I’m a huge fan of all of those songs and just things in general that make use of really interesting analogies, and this is definitely one of them for sure. I love the way in which Benson Boone compares a love to a ghost town—the metaphor is just so powerful.

What I find really interesting about this song lyrically is the way in which it focuses on the other person in some ways. Like, Benson Boone spends most of the song talking about how he thinks it’s hurting the other person (at least according to my own interpretation of the lyrics), which is something that just makes it all the more heartbreaking to me. It’s not just about how their love is a ghost town, but rather how the narrator has turned it into one, which is just so striking to me.

Of course, I could go on and on about the lyrics for this song, go into a rabbit hole as I search for a hundred different analyses, but I don’t really have time for that. Instead, I’ll talk now about the audio aspect, because that’s another thing that’s important to me with music.

As I’m sure you all know, I’m a pianist, and I absolutely love playing and listening to piano-based songs. In Ghost Town, it sounds a bit like a piano background (it may not be, but let me just have this, haha), and a bunch of super fast arpeggios. It sounds so beautiful and really compliments the lyrics, in my opinion. It’s the kind of song I would love to learn to play.
~
Word count: 384 words

Lumière looks different right before the Gommage, more lively somehow. Which is odd, given what it is.

Either way, despite the grimness of this supposed holiday, I can’t help but to admire the beauty of the petals drifting from the stalls lining the streets, the music that plays from dawn til sundown, the life in it. Even if it is only temporary. Even if it is only a contrast of what’s to come.

A couple times today, I’ve been caught off guard by my usual awe at my hometown’s beauty before I remember: it’s not the same this year. This year is not just any Gommage—it’s my own.

Part of me is keenly aware that this day, wandering around the cobblestone streets of Lumière, will all be gone by the time the sun kisses the horizon, but I’ve been doing my best to trick myself into thinking otherwise. Maybe if I just believe hard enough, it will not be true. Maybe I will not have to think about the fact that yet another year has gone by, and I have run out of time so quickly, and I have still so much left to do, and…

Never mind. I mustn’t think like that. I’ve had a full life, I think, and I’m grateful for that. So many haven’t had the chances I have, and so many will never get the chance to know three decades the way I do.

I’ve seen Gustave from time to time with the rest of the expeditioners, all of them promising to change the world in one way or another, just as every expedition has before them. This time will be different, they’ll promise. We all know how it is.

Still, perhaps he can change something. It’s a strange thing to think, because I no longer know him and he is not mine the way he was four years ago, but maybe. Maybe.

Snap out of it, Sophie. Don’t spend your last few hours reminiscing on the past.

There’s something wonderful about Lumière the day of the Gommage. It looks so full of life…
~
Word count: 349 words

Part One:

→ action

Ivy’s dress rustled as they yanked her up to the stage—all of this off camera, of course, because if there was anything worse than her own rebellion, it would be the destroyal of this image they had created. Oh, the irony of it. The whole time, they would tell the world how good they were being to her, and yet…they had seen none of what Ivy and Echo had. The outside world, anyway.

“And now, we’ll shift to our special segment, concerning the most recent…developments in the situation.”

Ivy hated more than anything the way they talked about the two of them as if they weren’t even people.

(109 words)

→ contradiction

They put her in chains the minute she stepped into the ballroom.

That wasn’t even the worst part to her, though. It was one thing to put them into the midst of a palace and call them servants. It was another entirely to dress them up as if they were anything but.

Ivy could hardly remember a day when she hadn’t been in chains; her memories of her childhood were long gone, all replaced with terrifying ones of waking up in a cell, cold and empty, and the ever-present sense of dread.

A pianist played a sonata as the guests chattered, his fingers dancing along the keyboard. How she wished she could be the one there instead of him. She knew it was selfish—she knew—and yet, it was impossible not to wonder what it could have been if it had not been her.

(143 words)

→ dialogue

“Ready?”

“Ready.” A nod, and turning the camera in the direction of me and Echo. Fix your face, I tell myself. Don’t look like a weakling.

“Alright, cameras rolling in three…two…one…”

It’s always been the two of us together, and I’m only more aware of it every time they put us on camera. We’re their scapegoats and their prizes, and Echo is the only one who really can understand all the things I cannot and do not say.

A tall man walks up, smiling. “Good evening, everyone!” He singsongs the words as if they aren’t announcements of our doomsdays. “We’re coming to the start of our broadcast, in which we’ll tell you all about the newest developments in our situation. Thank you all for donating and taking the time to be here with us tonight.”

Alexander Sinclair looks the impeccable introducer he was always meant to be, and for some reason, that’s the part that annoys me the most. The way his clothes are a statement while ours are a cage.

(171 words)

Part Two:

It begins the way it always does: I’m running, and my legs are about to give out underneath me. All the races with Deirdre never did a thing to help me here. Those were for fun. This is anything but.

My breath comes in heavy pants, and though I know I mustn’t, I take one moment to stop and catch my breath.

Don’t do it, I want to tell myself. You don’t have time for it. Any of this. Keep running.

I’m half aware I’m dreaming, and yet, there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from going through this again. And again. What could have been if only I had kept running?

Keep running, keep running, keep running.

This time, they find me in a forest that doesn’t exist. It’s the very one that Deirdre and I made up when we were five, the one we used to pretend we were princesses of.

The people who are soon to be my captors do not, this time, look like too-tall monsters in crisp suits the way they do today. They come as shadows, their spindly hands reaching out to grab me, and me, stumbling because I have never run this far before. Their whispers trail my spine, cold in the midst of summertime.

Ivy. Ivy.

That’s not my name. Not here. Not yet.

Ivy, wake up.

“NO!” I shout, and I try to keep running, but their claws have already ensnared me, and my nice shoes are all muddy and the hem of my new dress is torn. My shoes are muddy and my dress is torn…

Ivy, stop it. They’re going to hear you.

For the second between awakeness and sleep, I am convinced it is Deirdre talking to me, but I forget: Deirdre has never called me by this name that is not mine.

“Ivy,” Echo says. Echo. That’s who it is. It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real anymore.

The shadows only existed once. Not anymore.

(331 words)

Part Three:

In the past nine years since I last saw her, I have been putting together all the pieces of what must have happened.

She must have been alone at the time, when they first found her. Because how else would they have found a way to take her? She must have been alone and scared, and we were both still too young. Eight years old is too few years of freedom. It’s hardly enough time to even recognize that what you have is freedom at all.

Part of me has always wanted to go back to her home once more and talk to her father, just to see what he knows. But no. Better for everyone that I don’t. He has already had to grieve her so many times, because Clara is no longer the Clara I once knew. The Clara any of us knew. It’s far better for me to just leave him alone.

I turn off the TV every time they send out another broadcast, because I don’t want to know what she looks like now, having spent what is now the majority of her life in a cold cell. I do not want to see how they have forced her to become someone she is not.

I do not want to see her dressed up like some kind of toy, some kind of doll, and spend the entire broadcast wondering what has happened to the Clara I loved.

Clara. Not Ivy, but Clara. Do you still think of me sometimes? I hope you have not forgotten me, but perhaps you have. I would understand if you have.

Still. I am here, and I am thinking of you. Your dearest friend Deirdre still races with the ghost of your past across the beaches. I think I’m finally winning, and yet, I think it was far better to lose to you.

(312 words)

Part Four:

From time to time, something will bring me back to the days when I was younger, before I knew anything of my life today. When I was still so naïve and innocent and thought I had nothing to hide—thought I had nothing to hide? No, I didn’t have anything to hide then anyway. I didn’t know I had to hide.

It’s always simple things. The smell of the fresh baked bread they serve to the guests at all their special events in the ornate ballrooms. The fresh baked bread that Echo and I don’t get until it’s about three days stale. It’s in the glimpse I get from the windows as I pass through the halls once a week. It’s in the times I wake up and, for a minute, am convinced that it’s just Deirdre and me sleeping on the floor of my room after staying up too late for our seven-year-old bodies.

Now, they clasp the things they call bracelets around my wrists. Pretty gold things with intricate engravings and Latin words inscribed upon them, things that must have taken thousands of dollars to make. What a waste.

Echo and I, when no one is looking, we have a different name for these bracelets. We do not call them jewelry the way they do, because they are not dressing us up for ourselves, but instead for an audience. They are meant to bind us and remind us of who we are. Subordinates.

Yes, these are not bracelets. These are chains.

“C’mon, we’re live in ten minutes. Hurry it up.” The officer with the forever-stern face—I’ve never bothered to learn his name—delivers it the way he says everything: like it’s an order. He nods toward us and the attendants fastening the clasps.

“Yessir,” they respond, so perfectly timed and in unison that I almost wonder if they’ve practiced it. It’s funny, looking at them in their crisply ironed white shirts and polished boots. It’s funny, seeing the way they hold themselves, straight up and with their chins ever so slightly tilted upward. From the looks of them, honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re my age. Surely they can’t be more than that. Nineteen or twenty, maybe, but nothing more.

Oh, the irony of seeing the other side of this glass—and yet, so often, I forget that to them, it’s only a mirror. They only ever see themselves, not us.

The attendant’s hands shake as he fiddles with the clasp. For a second, it comes undone, and the chains nearly fall to the floor.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and at the same time it registers to me that he’s just given me an apology, an identical thought must occur to him as well, because his expression of embarrassment turns to stone.

My instinct is to tell him that, It’s fine, but how is it fine? It’s anything but. He is one of the same people trying to imprison me. He is an enemy.

It feels like too long—and must be, according to the impatience written all across the officer’s face—before he finally steps away. “Ready, sir.”

The stern-faced officer gives him a look before giving a quick, sharp dip of his head. “Let’s get going.” He checks his watch. “We haven’t got all the time in the world, you know.”

Sure, you do. I bite back the words.

Echo, my one solace in this gray place, gives me a half smile, which I catch out of my peripheral vision. I return the look, knowing full well that it’s more than just encouragement; it’s a reminder that she’s there. In the ten years we have been here, we’ve practically learned to read each other’s minds. What else have we to do when we’re stuck alone, just the two of us all day long?

They tie a blindfold around my eyes, and though I want to fight it, I push down the animalistic instinct. It’s better not to. My heels click on the tile as they lead me forward, one step at a time. I’m doing my best to memorize the steps, but I know that by morning, all these memories will be gone.

Shame. I could have used this. To escape, maybe. One day I will. One day I’ll find a way out of this prison.

(715 words)

I tie the dirty, no-longer-white shoelaces of my sneakers. This house is so empty. It’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about for days; this is not a home, only a shell, a dwelling.

It’s two in the morning, and I’m taking the bus. The cold outside is bitter, and the wind whips. Sometimes I think it’s taking parts of me with it. I’m only halfway to the stop when the gray skies begin to cry—little droplets fall onto my face, and I want to tell the weather that, I understand you. I don’t, though. Even speaking takes too much energy out of me, but the weather must understand that as well.

The 82 bus pulls up a minute early, and I realize that I haven’t pulled out my card for it yet. By the time I’ve climbed the three steps, I’m still fumbling around with the things in my bag. “Just give me a minute,” I mumble. The bus driver barely looks at me.

Once upon a time, I would have taken this bus with my mother, held her hand the whole way through. Once upon a time, my brother would have broken every silence. Does he hate me? Will he remember me?

It is so lonely here.
~
Word count: 211 words

The cockroach fell on her hair and crawled across her arm just as she was trying to go to sleep. A scream—who wouldn’t?

“WHAT WAS THAT?!” she exclaimed to her sister, whose room she shared, all while jumping out of the bed as fast as she possibly could. “IT BETTER NOT HAVE BEEN A COCKROACH.”

They turned on the lights together, just in case, just to check, and sure enough, a big, brown cockroach crawled across the mattress.

“Someone kill it,” her sister said, shaking her hands out.

She took a step back and responded, “I’m not killing it.”

“Well, I’m not either.”

So instead, they went to find their mom in the other room instead so that she could kill the cockroach, and, sleepily, she took a rolled up newspaper as a weapon and brandished her sword against it.

“Where is it?” her mom asked.

“It was on my mattress! It’s in my bed!” Her words came out jumbled and fast, as anyone’s would after such an experience.

“I don’t see it. It’s probably moved away.”

The girl squealed—and not in a good way. She was going to have to spend the night with a cockroach looming over her? Great. Just great.

***

It took a while, but she finally fell into a sleep filled with dreams of tulips and daisies and thankfully no cockroaches. For a time, anyway.

It was sometime around midnight when she woke up to her name being called in a hoarse whisper.

“What is it?” she asked blearily.

“I think I felt the cockroach.”

Immediately, they were both wide awake. “Oh, no,” the girl said.

“I think I’m just going to sleep in the other room,” her sister decided.

“Me, too. I’d rather sleep on the couch or something.”
~
Word count: 294 words

When it’s Christmastime, my mom, sister, and grandmother will all bake together. There will be days in the winter (this is, of course, when we’re not in Singapore and are spending the holidays in the U.S.—because it’s just too hot otherwise to bake all day here) where they’ll stay in the kitchen all day, creating an assortment of traditional Swiss/German cookies which we’ll all snack on throughout the season.

Honestly, I barely know the names of any of them, so I’ll admit, I had to look a good deal of them up just to write about them. But they’re still meaningful, even without a name.

We have the little powdered sugar-covered crescent cookies, Vanillekipferl, that we always have. It’s a staple of Christmas parties and the days we go over to friends’ houses to celebrate, and though I always forget the name—there are, like, five of them anyway—I always enjoy taking a bite of the crumbly cookies.

I’m personally not a fruit person, but it’s always so beautiful to see my sister take the time out of her day to make the special Spitzbuben cookies. They’re double-layered jam-filled sandwich cookies with a little hole in the top of one layer, typically in the shape of a heart. I think it’s accurate: the red heart is symbolic of the love that goes into them.

There are others, too, I’m sure, so many that we’re constantly deciding how we should narrow it down to our top five baked goods, because there’s only so much time in a day. Spiced chocolate cookies and more American cookies like peanut butter chocolate ones, which we always have to argue with our grandfather over, because he’s never liked peanut butter. Once again, I may not remember the names of most of the cookies, but even the nameless things have meaning. Some things transcend language.
~
Word count: 311 words

I look around the new world cautiously. This is the place that will be ours—all these sprawling lands of trees and tall grasses.

Of course, we aren’t the only ones who think ourselves conquerors. There are hundreds of others, all spread out throughout the island, as they’ve told us, and we’ll have to be careful because, like anyone, they’ll do everything in their power to control us.

We’ll just have to do it first.

“We’ll set up camp at the cove,” my captain tells us. “Then we’ll move on in the morning.”

We all nod in agreement, and I hoist my bag over my shoulders, sinking slightly under the weight. Our supplies aren’t particularly light, after all.

We walk from the docking place of our ship to a part of the cove farther out, closer to where the rocky shore meets the forest. We set up camp as night falls, and then we wait, hoping the next day will bring us good fortune in our adventures.
~
Word count: 166 words

You’ve heard of marine mammals. Yes, the very ordinary ones. Dolphins and whales and all those other supposedly fascinating creatures.

And you’ve heard of seals. Sea lions. Walruses.

BUT: Have you ever heard of walruses under cover?

You see, we are walruses under cover, and we are a group of very sneaky and totally unsuspicious marine mammals that like to live a life that’s a little more interesting than lounging on the ice or…whatever our boring cousins do. No, that’s not the life for us.

OUR life is so much better. Instead of waiting for our food to come to us, we steal it. We operate covertly to pull off heists. That bank robbery in the city two hours away from you? That was us.

Now, you may be wondering why I’m writing this to you. After all, it kind of, you know, defeats the purpose of being under cover if it’s not actually under cover. But that’s the thing: we want to enlist YOU, yes, you, to join in our amazing, spectacular, utterly walrus-y operation.

So what is it? I know that’s the question on the tip of your tongue, and allow me to answer it before you say it out loud.

As the walruses under cover, our task is to solve the problems of the world by using the eternally special walrus power. Of course, we will not just do it very overtly, which is where the “under cover” part of our name comes in. We will not do these things as walruses—no, we’ll take on a new persona for each operation.

Ah, yes, I’m aware: you AREN’T a walrus. But isn’t that just the best! That will be perfect for our next operation. The thing is, if you join us, but you aren’t a walrus, you’ll be the perfect scapegoat…I mean you’ll be perfect to throw them off our scent. They’ll have NO idea what hit them! Better than that, you’re not even a walrus in the first place, so you’ll be under cover for SURE. I mean, look at you! You’re perfect for the job!

So, how about it? Want to join the walruses under cover who help to make the world a better place? Want to be a part of something larger than yourself? Join us!

What was that?

…Well, bank heists can still be good! We did earn a lot of money from it! And it was for charity! We’ll DEFINITELY be donating everything we stole—I MEAN EARNED.

Anyway. Want to join the walruses under cover? All we’ll need is your signature.

Great. Nice to have you on the team.
~
Word count: 436 words

They chatter together for hours, and I’m forced to stand there and listen to the whole thing. It’s boring, and, quite frankly, I don’t care in the slightest about the things they talk about. But that’s not my decision to make, neither what they talk about nor the fact that I must stand here the entire time, waiting.

I hate book club nights. They never even talk about the book in the first place.

Finally, the laughter begins to become quieter and the pauses stretch out. Finally, this means that they will be leaving soon. Thank goodness. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out for, pretending like I have anything to do with this conversation.

They shake hands at the door and embrace each other, almost as if they’re never going to see each other again, though we all know that book club will meet again here next Wednesday night, and the Wednesday night after that, and every other Wednesday night. I can’t see all of this happen, of course, seeing as a good bit of my line of sight is blocked, but I see enough. This, I know, means that they are going to head home now, and then it will finally be peaceful and quiet.

When it’s just her that’s left, she flicks the switch connected to my wire, and the lights go out.

And now, for eight whole hours, it is just me.
~
Word count: 239 words

Enter Desdemona

Desdemona: “Peasants!” (Looking around) “Peasants, come.” (Snaps, looks from side to side to see if anyone comes. No one comes.) “Oh, fine, then. I’ll search for you myself. But you would think they’d have some respect for their queen. It’s utter nonsense. Utter, utter nonsense.”

Enter Peasant Number One

Desdemona (upon seeing Peasant Number One): “AH, PEASANT. Which one are you again? Peasant number…” (Her voice trails off)

Peasant Number One (nervously): “Peasant Number One, ma’am. I mean, your majesty. Your highness, your most high royalness, I mean…never mind.”

Desdemona (angrily): “And where were you when I called your name? I didn’t see anyone coming to attend to my needs.”

Peasant Number One: (Fidgets) “I’m so sorry, so sorry. It won’t happen again. What is it, my queen?”

Desdemona: “I expected better of you. You’re Peasant Number One, after all. Ugh. I should have you executed.”

(Peasant Number One’s face is wrought with fear momentarily, unsure if she’s joking or serious.)

Desdemona: “Anyway. I have more…pressing issues.” (She pauses for a moment to let her mercy register to Peasant Number One.) “I have a problem.”

Peasant Number One: “What is it?”

Desdemona: “Well, you see, this morning, I came downstairs and was hoping to come down to my Monday unicorn milkshake, the one with all the sprinkles.” (She pauses) “Do you see where I am going?”

Peasant Number One: (Eyes darting around) “No, your majesty.”

Desdemona: “My unicorn milkshake had NO SPRINKLES on it. Can you believe that? No sprinkles? And where, Peasant Number One, do you think those might have gone?”

Peasant Number One: (Glances at her feet) “I…uh…you might have…finished the sprinkles yesterday. There aren’t any more left.”

Desdemona (incredulously): “WHAT?! NO SPRINKLES?! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO HAVE A UNICORN MILKSHAKE IF THERE ARE NO SPRINKLES?”

Peasant Number One: “I’ll fix it, I promise. I’ll get you sprinkles as soon as I can. I’m so sorry, your majesty.”

Desdemona: (Scoffs) “You should be.”

Exit Peasant Number One
~
Word count: 332 words

Part One:

Soft guitar chords mix with the steady drum-like beats of the rain, playing a mournful tune, a song of loneliness. At it, a girl with dark hair sits, her fingers moving across the frets with ease. It appears she doesn’t even notice you as you enter her presence; she just keeps playing.

Petals line the cobblestone streets passing between the harbor and the town square. All around, white and red rose petals, discarded, yes, but as a manner of love, decorate the last standing place of so many. Paint streaks cover the places where petals do not, and the midnight blue sky is, tonight, nearly starless. The clouds cover the places where light should shine through, and instead, the only thing guiding your footsteps along the damp pathways are the oil lamps in the street. It is not the kind of empty it normally is at this time, two in the morning, where there are still a few carriages out in the roads, trying to make another coin or two off a third shift. It’s a peaceful kind of quiet, one you know won’t last but can’t help but enjoy anyway.

Petrichor smells lovely with the music of the grieving ones.

(201 words)

Part Two:

The metal strings are cool against my fingertips, and they dig into the calluses I’ve made over the years of playing. Before, this balcony had been my place to play on the best of days. Now, it is my getaway at past midnight.

The pressure of the strings create dips in the pads of my fingers, but I refuse to let this—playing all night—break me.

For a moment, I fumble, and the one misplaced chord shatters the illusion of a magical night. This is only the place I have known for years, looking just the same as it always does on this day.

The red and white petals perfectly match the blue, I think. Like our flag, they paint an image of liberty.

The stalls that were, just last afternoon, filled with people trying to make a bit of cash here and there now stand almost abandoned, whether for the night or forever. The banners they hung up just yesterday now droop, no longer quite as celebratory as they were meant to be, and the wind and rain takes the paper streamers and plays with them. I watch the colored shreds fall ever so slowly, wondering who will remember them in the morning if it is only a reminder of the worst days.

A cool, fat droplet lands in my hair, and instinctively, I reach up to find the place it’s touched. I have always found rain lovely, but it’s never as nice to play outside, presented to the sky, when it’s pouring. Rain isn’t good for my guitar, and this one was a gift.

I sigh, listening to the slow pattering of the raindrops for a moment longer before I leave, my black heels clicking on the cobblestone path home, my footsteps guided by the lanterns at the edge of the street.

It is so empty here. I am all too aware of that at night.

(317 words)

Part Three:

Everything about this morning has gone wrong. My alarm clock was set to the wrong sound, and I kid you not, this new one sounded a whole lot like what being poked felt like. That’s just the first thing on a long list of problems I have with my new alarm clock, which was SUPPOSED to be the same model as my old one but evidently is not. For starters, it’s too red, too big, and most importantly, it didn’t save my alarm time and woke me up an hour too late.

I loop my dirty white laces around each other and grab my bag, breathing hard and hoping I’ll get to work on time. But at this point, I doubt it. It’s currently 8:45. Work starts at 9:00, and it takes exactly fifteen minutes to get there. Maybe, though, if I really hurry…

When I get outside, the weather is less than pleasant, if you get what I mean. The wind’s blowing too hard, and it must have snowed an entire foot last night, because my boots are sinking in, so it’s more like trudging and less like walking.

I should clarify: It hasn’t stopped snowing. It’s still blowing extra hard, and I’m already two minutes away from home by the time I remember that I’ve forgotten my hat.

I guess I’m not going to be going back for that today.

Come on, it hasn’t snowed in weeks! WHY, of all days, did it have to snow today?

I approach the hill slowly, thinking that if nothing else, the snow shouldn’t stay on here as easily. Finally, one good thing this morning.

Except. Except.

What I don’t see is that under the thin coat of snow (two inches deep still, but better than a foot), there’s a layer of hard, slippery ice.

Oh, no.

My boots are not made for this weather. A little snow, sure, but not ice, and the wind is so strong, I already feel like I’m going to topple over.

Scratch what I said about making it to work on time. Let’s just hope I make it there alive.

(356 words)

Part Four:


Lumière is eerily silent today.

I do not hear the bustle of yesterday, where people chatted with their old friends because they all knew it was the last time. I do not hear the guffaws of Expeditioners because we can no longer pretend that it’s not real, that it’s just tomorrow.

Instead, I hear only the quiet of my own breath and my heartbeat, always too loud. Slowly, I reach a hand to my chest and place my palm flat against it as if to steady it, as if it will help at all. The logical side of me (and the voices of my parents in my head) tell me that of course it won’t, stop worrying and just get your act together.

Focus, Lune. That’s what I tell myself.

We’re to meet at sunrise at the harbor, and, as always, I am early. The sky is still dark, and the stars are still out. In the distance, I can still see the Paintress, and the newly-placed 33 glows brightly on her cracked gray monolith.

In the distance. One day, one day soon, I will see her up close. More than that, I will take her down. It’s my mission; it’s the very thing I was made to do.

I smooth the coat of my uniform almost unconsciously; appearances, after all, matter, and while I’m not trying to make an impression on people I already know, the little creases that were in it made it seem like I’m not prepared for this. And I am. I have been for years.

I have always been prepared for this.

The waves crash against the rocks next to the dock, and I look up at the intricately carved statues. I’ve never known who they’re statues of. Perhaps I’ll never know, those two men made of stone. I might not ever make it back here, so for all I know, it could be goodbye, Lumière…

Ugh. I sound so sentimental, even if it is logical. Realistically, it’s not something that matters, but mysteries have always intrigued me.

Never mind that, I have better things to do. I’ve been carrying my guitar strapped over my back, and when I come to the edge of our little city, I sit down at the edge and place it carefully in my lap. My legs dangle close to the water, and I feel the mist as it sprays my bare feet; I should have worn my boots for this, but at the same time, I can’t help but think that this is the only time I will ever feel the water from Lumière’s harbor ever again. Look at the amount of people who have died already. We may have an edge, yes, but the odds are, we won’t make it either.

I strum a few chords lazily at first, but the music feels hollow. Like a ghost of who I’m meant to be.

My eyes flick to the monolith once more. We don’t have a north star here to guide us, but everything comes back to the Paintress in one way or another. She will kill us all, I know it.

I pluck the strings of my instrument rapidly, the tempo more and more agitated. This one’s for you, I want to tell the figure in the distance.

At dawn, we will leave for the main continent. We will see the Paintress up close. And we will do everything in our power to kill her before she does us.

(581 words)

Little Red Riding Hood was on the way to her grandmother’s house with an equally little, equally red (but unfortunately not hooded) basket full of freshly baked corn muffins. Red loved baking, even though she wasn’t so good at it; this time, she asked her mom to help her out with the baking, and the two of them together spent the morning trying out the new recipe.

“You should bring some to Grandma!” Red’s mother had told her.

Red, who was always happy to be complimented on her baking and knew that her grandmother always would be happy to oblige, had nodded eagerly. “Okay! I’ll walk over this afternoon or something.”

So, that afternoon, Red skipped off through the forest with the little map her mom had given her to her grandmother’s place (Red had been there before, of course, but she was rather forgetful, which was part of the reason she wasn’t so great at baking—she commonly forgot whether she should be adding a teaspoon or a tablespoon of salt), excited to give her grandmother the muffins.

On the way, she saw a wolf, but luckily, as forgetful as Red was, she remembered her mother’s rules for what to do when she saw a wolf: remain calm, make yourself look big, and back away slowly. She did that, and she momentarily felt bad for the wolf for not giving it a corn muffin before she remembered that wolves were carnivores anyway and this one probably wouldn’t have liked it in the first place anyway.

And she kept skipping, going off on her merry way once again, making sure to get back on track at the next place she could. All truly was quite well for a while.

When she got to her grandmother’s house, the door was unlocked, but Red, being the polite child she was raised to be, didn’t want to enter without permission. She knocked at first, but, obviously, her grandmother’s ears weren’t so great anymore, so she didn’t hear. So then Red rang the doorbell. Once. Twice. And then, finally, she decided no one would be coming. That was alright. She would just leave the muffins and go.

She opened the door, and to her great surprise, a big, bad wolf wearing her grandmother’s clothes looked her right in the eye. Red was about to scream, more out of shock than genuine fear, before she realized: how could any wolf have gotten into her grandmother’s clothing? That was simply impossible.

“Grandma!” Red exclaimed, seeing past the disguise. “I made corn muffins with Mom this morning, and I thought I would bring you some!”

Red set the basket of muffins down on the wooden table and embraced her grandmother, who, laughing, removed her wolf mask.

“You caught me,” her grandmother told her. “I had big plans to scare you when I heard you were coming over!”

“Well,” Red said, “you can’t scare me. There was already a wolf when I walked over here. But don’t worry, he didn’t eat any of your muffins.”
~
Word count: 506 words

“I baked you cookies!” Clara exclaimed, thrusting a box filled with chocolate chip cookies onto the table in front of Annalise, who smiled.

“How many am I allowed to have?” Annalise asked, already reaching for the box to take off the lid and help herself to a freshly baked treat.

Clara paused for a moment, seeming to ponder this with great effort. “Hmm,” she mused, “I suppose you could have four. I just have to make sure that there are still some left that I can give to the people on my soccer team and whatever.”

“Oh, that’s fine, four will be plenty.” Annalise immediately picked one up and shoved it in her mouth, of course getting chocolate all over her cheeks. “Wait, these are actually so good,” she said, reaching for yet another cookie when she was hardly finished chewing the first one. “You have to bake these again sometime.”

Clara laughed. “Alright, I’ll try. Maybe for your birthday or something.”

“I would LOVE that,” Annalise responded.

In only a matter of minutes, Annalise had already finished her four cookie allowance, and she sat back, satisfied.

“Thank you SO much for sharing them,” she said to Clara.

“Of course!”

***

It was that night that Annalise began to feel a little funny. The world got a little wobbly, and her vision blurred, and all of a sudden, she could barely walk without falling down.

Oh, no, she thought, but she didn’t know why this was happening. Why she felt so awful. The cookies? Maybe. But she’d had plenty more before, and four cookies wasn’t even THAT many, if you really thought about it…

Wait. Wait a minute. FOUR cookies. Of course.

She had four cookies, and what was it that her grandparents had always said? Never four. That’s what they always told her. Four is unlucky. Four means death.

It was just as she was coming to this conclusion that she toppled completely and the world went dark. Her breaths came shallowly, but it was already set in stone; Annalise was dying.

It seemed that she should have listened, because the very things she thought were myths were killing her.
~
Word count: 360 words

I strum a few chords at the guitar at midnight, humming along to a song I make up as I go. To an outsider, I am not focused on the music. I am only halfheartedly creating, they might say.

But they don’t know.

To write, to sing, I must feel it. It must come straight from my soul; I’ve never been much a fan of the music that’s all just fun tunes with no substance. It’s meant to mean something. It always has been.

Behind the glass, snow falls onto an empty street, lit only by the dim beams of the dying lamps. January has come and gone, and most New Years’ Resolutions are already done and over with.

I hate February. I hate the cold, the snow, the gray skies. I hate the way we no longer have the hope of December, the way we’re left with nothing to do but stay indoors. I hate resolutions because I’ve always broken them by a month into the year, but I keep making them, because it’s nice to feel like I might just make them happen one day…

So in spite of my deep-seated hatred for the month, I make a February Resolution. This month, I will go out. I will write a song. I will love.
~
Word count: 216 words

I look around this strange place—the future, a fact I still can’t get over—and feel this strange sense of familiarity. This is a city I know, that’s for sure. But it looks different; after all, if it’s 2050, then I would have skipped twenty five years. No wonder it looks different.

I try to hold onto the parts that are the same, looking for the new versions of things that I already know. I walk the streets searching for landmarks and any semblance of home.

After a while, I decide it’s not worth wasting time just walking aimlessly. Of course, the future’s good enough, I suppose, but I really would like to get back to my own time and reach the future…whenever I actually get there. I don’t want to spoil everything for myself and live my life with my future looming over my head. No, better to get back when I can.

But first, a short to do list.

There’s so much that, in the present (the past? I don’t know), I am waiting for, so as much as I want to keep some things surprises, I can’t help myself. I need my new music and new books.

I head over to the nearest bookstore and look for new releases on the shelves. Anything by my favorite authors that’s come out recently?

I pick up a whole lot of books on the shelves and bring them, arms full, to the cashier. “Just these, please,” I say.

The cashier eyes me warily, then glances at the massive stack of books that wobbles as I set them on the counter.

“Alright, then.”

The price is far too much, in my personal opinion, but I pay it anyway because as we all know, I have no restraint around books. Especially new books.

After that, I turn on my phone and put in my earbuds, hoping I won’t accidentally run out of battery, because who knows if anyone here has the right charger anymore?

I open Spotify to find any and all new releases, scrolling through my “What’s New” tab eagerly and searching for new music. Of course, I don’t want to spoil too much for myself, so I only record and save a couple of albums and songs. I look for the ones that are coming soonest (at least, by the standards of the present…the past? Whatever) by my favorite artists: BLÜ EYES and Gracie Abrams and Maisie Peters, maybe.

I listen to those all on my way back to the past—2025, I mean. I search frantically for a time machine of some kind, because if I ended up here, surely there must be something to get me BACK, right?

But, hey, if not, at least I’ve got plenty of entertainment to keep me busy. It might be worth trying to find a couple of friends here.
~
Word count: 475 words

Firstly, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! I mean. I’m still a bit more than a month away from that, but whatever. Or since we went back in time, slightly less than eleven months away. Wait, that made more sense in my head than outside it, but anyway!


I figured that even on my birthday, I would probably talk about it largely in the format of writing sprints, because that’s what I have a tendency to do: ramble about what happens every day.

On my birthday, I will invite some of my friends over, as usual! It might be over Thanksgiving break, if everyone is free, but if not, then oh, well, and I’ll do it another time instead. I’ll find a day where pretty much everyone can actually sleep over, because a good deal of the fun of birthdays is getting people together for a longer period of time. Granted, it’s extremely tiring, and my first day as an insert-my-age-year-old (or after my birthday party, since I’ve only had a couple of birthday parties that were actually on my birthday) is always really unproductive, but it’s still fun!


I’ve got a couple of activities planned. Firstly, I’d prepare a little quiz to see how well all my friends know me, which would mostly include stuff about my music taste and a couple of other things I’ve rambled a fair bit about, but that’s just me! I always love the chance to ramble about things.

Another thing I’ll be doing on my birthday is to prepare a scavenger hunt for people! Honestly, I enjoy making scavenger hunts pretty much as much as I enjoy actually doing them in the first place. I’ll make this one a super elaborate one, and I’ll make it go around my neighborhood as well. I’ll probably work with my sister to prepare this so that it’s a bit more manageable.

We’ll also eat my sister’s absolutely excellent s’mores cake, which is the only reasonable cake to have at any birthday party. It’s got a graham cracker crust, chocolate cake, and then, of course, the Italian meringue frosting! It’s truly the best, and she always does a great job of decorating it, too. I remember that one time where she put a mockingjay on it. That was awesome.

I’d probably also force my friends to watch at least part of the Clair Obscur collected cutscenes thing, but unfortunately not the whole thing, because the only even slightly acceptable version (in my opinion) is over four hours long, and that still barely scratches the surface, so…Anyway! We’d start it. We might watch a bit more of Sherlock or something because that’s my other favorite. If this were an ideal birthday, it would actually like COME BACK TO AMAZON PRIME. But if not, I might find some other way to watch it.

We’d probably also play a couple of improv games and spend some time at the piano, singing and playing chords to songs!

Overall, my ideal birthday just looks like spending time with my friends and family and doing the things I love.
~
Word count: 514 words

Part One:

In this near-future of a world, a rift has grown between the scientists and the government. With increasing power being put into technology and science, the government wants to harness that power (particularly as a metaphor or truly nuclear power) to further the interests of their countries. However, the scientists, knowing the dangers of what they’re doing, intend to hide the technology—because once it exists, there’s no way for them to truly control it.

Their solution? To hide it in people.

In this world, you have a social structure similar to the one in ours. At the top, you have (depending on who you ask) either the scientists or the government. After that, you’ll be ranked based on your financial status, with the wealthy at the top, the middle class in the middle, and the peasants at the bottom. Even further below, though, regardless of their financial status, are the people who have been chosen at birth for the hiding technology. Of course, they live according to their normal financial status until they’re found out to be these people, because it’s done by scientists in secret.

Ivy, one of these people with the dangerous science hidden in her, has been found to be an (insert the word for it when I figure it out) when she was eight years old, lives an isolated life along with one other person: Echo, who is like her. Now, she’s eighteen, and her only glimpse into the “real world” is through the cameras. She’s filmed like a doll, a power grab from the government, and all the while they’re toying with both Ivy and Echo to show that they can use them however and whenever they want; rather than being people, they are each treated as a means to an end, just dressed up to seem well-treated and preserve the government’s image.

Ivy, while quiet, is constantly thinking of ways to defy them, whether that be through escape, words, or revealing the truth. She’s defiant and fiercely protective of the people she loves, though sometimes, she can be a bit impulsive, which comes through later in the story.

(356 words)

Part Two:

Immediate threats:
• Alexander Sinclair, who is the one that’s kind of in charge of the whole operation with Echo and Ivy and such. He’s in it for the power and the money, but his goals ultimately contrast with Ivy’s, and he treats the people like they’re anything but that, more like toys in their games.
• Ivy’s thoughts being found out. Ivy, while she tends to bite back the things she wants to say out of practice, has a lot of thoughts against the government and such that are really…probably less than acceptable to the government, and she always runs the risk of them being exposed.
• The media. Similar to the possibility of Ivy’s private thoughts being exposed, the media is a constant threat to Ivy and her life. Although she’s not explicitly threatened by it, it serves as a constant source of fear and hatred for Ivy, because it’s showing a misleading version of the truth to the public, which doesn’t allow for Ivy’s side of the story to be told and therefore further alienates her.

Surprise friends/enemies:
• Echo, Ivy’s only friend, turns out to be terrible and actually betrays her and is against her in…some way. I don’t know.
• One of the guards, who is initially helping the government and the media by watching Ivy and Echo to make sure they don’t do anything unlawful (the horror!!), later realizes the truth of what he’s doing and
• Deirdre, Ivy’s childhood friend, joins the government, despite her reservations, and ends up working against Ivy. She does this out of necessity, perhaps because of monetary reasons, or maybe she’s playing a double agent of sorts but is still kind of regarded as an enemy before Ivy really knows what’s going on because obviously she can’t see what’s going on outside of her own home

Overarching threats:
• The government, who is constantly trying to stop people like Ivy from living a life of their own existence and rather control them for their own purposes and personal gain (and to make themselves seem really powerful to the rest of the world)
• The scientists, who are seemingly working for the good of the world by hiding the technology to prevent it from getting to the corrupt government, ultimately ruins a number of peoples’ lives (including Ivy’s and Echo’s, obviously) through their placement of the technology in unknowing individuals who are then hunted down by the government, scapegoated, controlled, and pretty much everything in between. They’re more of a gray kind of threat, not really trying to be the “bad guys” (I mean, is anyone? But they’re ultimately taking on a pretty consequentialist view by thinking that the good of the many is worth the risk of a few people’s lives)
• The operation itself, which is in some ways resulting in the destruction of these people (I keep saying that because I currently do not have a term for what people like Ivy and Echo will be called, but one day! As if I have not been working on this thing for more than a year and a half by now and like have gotten nowhere, sobbing, but whatever). The operation takes advantage of the technology and weaponizes the people, ultimately killing them in the process. How exactly this works, I don’t know yet, but it’s worthy of further development for sure.

(558 words)

Part Three:

Immediate threats: Alexander Sinclair

Alexander Sinclair is the head of the operation sponsored by the government. He is, in many ways, in charge of controlling the media related to it, and therefore is involved in manipulating the perspectives of the general public to perceive Echo and Ivy as prizes to be won, tools to be used, and anything other than people. While he doesn’t outright express hatred toward either of them, his dislike clearly comes through in other, more subtle ways. For example, Alexander Sinclair commonly looks down on them in his speeches, ignoring their emotions and belittling them on camera by reducing them to objects, not people. He references their power, but only in reference to his own and his country’s. In some ways, he’s very arrogant, thinking himself above all of them, though it is true that his role in the government and the operation do put him at the top of the social hierarchy. He is the one who Ivy tends to focus her anger on, at least initially, though she later realizes that he’s only a small part of a much larger expanse of corruption.

Surprise friends/enemies: The guard

The guard serves as a morally gray character in the story. To Ivy, things initially seem very black and white: she and Echo are the victims, and Alexander Sinclair and anyone who works with him or for him is the antagonist. However, as she learns more about the other people who are involved in this, she realizes that they aren’t all bad and that people join for reasons she may not have suspected.

For example, the guard may have joined for things like financial motivations, or perhaps it was an ultimatum: lose your family or join us. This is something Ivy, an incredibly protective person, can definitely relate to; she would do anything to stop the people she cares about from being hurt, and she has an incredible sense of self-preservation after being pretty much hunted down for so long.

One meaningful interaction Ivy and the guard could have is when he looks conflicted, checks over his shoulder, before helping her to escape, thereby showcasing how he might have been coerced into this system in the same way she was and how his motivations in some way align with her own, but preserving the character that’s been created throughout the novel.

Overarching threats: The government

The government is probably the biggest threat toward Ivy in this story. With them being at the top and her being at the bottom for the social/power hierarchy, she has little ability to control what they do and instead is almost always forced to be a pawn in their games. The government aims largely to control the danger in a different way from the scientists: rather than take preventative measures to stop ANYONE from getting it, they instead choose to harness it all for themselves.

This novel serves as a metaphor and/or reminder of the dangers of nuclear power, and the government’s motivations will serve as a reflection of this as well. The government will, regardless of what’s best for the entire world, focus only on what’s best for them and will do whatever it can to establish itself as the most powerful nation in order to prevent the larger population (especially those with more power) from being hurt.

Their ideas regarding power and how they must utilize it justify their abuse of it in this scenario by a very consequentialist ideology: it’s necessary to do this to these people, because it will help protect the country. It also demonstrates the power imbalance, while Ivy does everything she can to right it throughout the book, whether that be through outward defiance or her internal thinking.

(626 words)

Part Four:

Run.

It’s my first thought after I see the flash. It’s my only thought.

Echo. They didn’t even let me say a thing to her; I just had to watch as they took her away and used her like some toy, but we’re not. Don’t they get it? We’re not.

They didn’t see the fear in her eyes, the way her lips curved around the words Help me when there was nothing I could do in the first place. They don’t know her the way I do, the way we can read each others’ minds.

All of it, all of our stolen conversations and communications through a look, they don’t matter. We stared at them with fear and defiance in our eyes, and all they saw—all they ever saw—was compliance.

I hate them I hate them I hate them.

I am running without fully knowing why. I am running knowing, despite everything, that I will be caught, because of course, I’m never going to make it out of here. I am running despite the fact that the calculating side of me knows it’s only going to make things a hundred times worse, and yet, I can't do anything about it. I have to get away from it, from the ashes on the floor. I am still here, and Echo is in pieces.

One last chance, please. Let them take me instead. But no. I cannot think that, not now. There is no time for guilt, and Echo wouldn’t have wanted it either.

I shouldn’t know these hallways, but I do. I’ve counted the steps so that even blindfolded, maybe one day, I’d be able to make a run for it, but in my head, my escape has always been far more planned. Now, I am just running with nowhere to go, only out, away, as far as I can possibly get from them. My legs burn and threaten to collapse on me, because in ten years, I have not run this much. What was there to do, anyway? There’s nowhere for me to go.

Footsteps. It starts as only a small smattering of them against the ground, one after the other, and I do my best to quieten mine, only mine isn’t a practiced art the way theirs is, and their conversations turn dark as they realize I’m missing.

It’s not just a singular set now, but a herd of chasers, all coming after me, and I can do nothing. I am not fast enough, and they know this place better than I do. I will be lost in here forever.

Alexander Sinclair’s characteristic footsteps pound against the marble floor, and I am not going to make it. His voice isn’t the calm and practiced one you hear on TV, in all of those broadcasts. He is harsh, every syllable clipped and neat as he sends orders.

“She’s there. Get her. Don’t let her slip away. One of you keep your eyes on her, and we’ll get people below.”

They’re going to find me, if they haven’t already.

I struggle for breath, which comes only in short gasps. I have to keep going. I don’t have time.

The boy who missed the clasps of my bracelets—my chains—stands by the window. No. My one chance, gone, and I will be faced, most surely, with a life of servitude, if not death. I may not be so valuable as to avoid that.


But instead, to my shock, he steps aside wordlessly. He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the window. “Don’t let them find you.”
he says, and I know he’s right. But this won’t be without consequence for him.


This will mean punishment for him. Execution, maybe. Why is he helping me? He should not, he should not, he should stay here and save himself…

No. I have no time to think about such things. He casts a glance over his shoulder, watching as Alexander Sinclair approaches, ordering people to catch me. The shadows of the words Thank you stay on my lips, but my voice isn’t working, so I must only think the words, nothing more.

“Get out! Go! What are you waiting for?” he tells me, and I nod frantically, knowing he’s right.

So I push myself off from the windowsill, and the whole time, all I can do is hope.

Run.

(725 words)