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- TokoWrites
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
✮ ~ Toko's Writing Thread ~ ✮
SWC
11/7 - 794 words
The first time Lena met Ezra, he was repairing the telescope in the university’s old observatory. He had ink on his fingers and a constellation drawn in the margin of his notebook—Orion, tilted sideways like a question mark.
“You study the stars,” she said.
“I listen to them,” he answered, smiling faintly.
She laughed. No one talked like that anymore. But there was something magnetic in the way he said it, as though he really did hear them whispering. Soon, nights turned into dawns spent on the rooftop, lying under cold blankets and sharing lukewarm coffee, mapping dreams onto the sky. Lena hadn’t planned on falling in love, but she did, in the quiet way gravity takes hold of a comet.
Ezra told her he was working on something big. “A signal,” he said. “Not random static — a rhythm. It repeats every seven hours. Like a heartbeat.”
She teased him, called him her “mad scientist.” He didn’t mind. He only asked her to keep it secret until he was sure.
Then came the night he stopped answering her messages.
Lena found him three days later in the cellar beneath the observatory. The place smelled of damp wood and rusted metal. Cables snaked across the floor, leading to a strange contraption—half satellite dish, half altar. Ezra was sitting on the ground, staring at it, whispering something under his breath.
“Ezra?”
He didn’t move.
When she touched his shoulder, he flinched so violently that she stumbled back. His eyes were glassy, pupils wide as if he’d been staring into the sun.
“They heard me,” he said. “They answered.”
On the desk beside him was a recorder, still running. A sound pulsed from it, a rhythmic thumping, like a distorted heartbeat. Beneath it, voices layered in and out, human but wrong, syllables stretched and folded backward.
“It’s not a signal,” he murmured. “It’s an opening.”
The cellar light flickered, and in that stuttering glow, Lena saw the walls move. Not physically, but the shadows seemed to breathe, exhaling a faint mist. Her skin prickled.
“Ezra, stop this. Please.”
But he only smiled, the kind of smile that doesn’t belong to the living. “It wants to meet you.”
The lights went out completely.
In the dark, something whispered her name. Not Ezra — something deeper, ancient. The floorboards shook, the cables hissed like snakes, and the pulsing grew faster, faster, until it was a roar that filled her skull.
Then—silence.
When Lena woke, the cellar was empty. No cables. No machine. No Ezra. Only the smell of ozone and a faint shimmer on the floor, as if starlight had pooled there and forgotten to fade.
She told the police he’d disappeared during an experiment. They wrote it off as a tragic accident. No one believed her when she said the stars were changing.
Because they were.
Every night, she saw a new pattern forming in the sky, points of light blinking in that same seven-hour rhythm. She recorded them, obsessed, the way he had been. She barely ate, barely slept. She didn’t care. She needed to know what he’d found.
And then, one night, her computer pinged.
A message appeared on the screen: HELLO, LENA.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. The message repeated, not typed, but encoded in binary, as though the computer itself were translating a transmission.
HELLO, LENA. WE MISS YOU.
She wanted to scream. Instead, she whispered, “Ezra?”
WE.
Static filled the speakers. Through it came a faint voice, his voice, but layered, multiplied, wrapped around itself like an echo from a thousand mouths.
“It’s beautiful here,” he said. “Join us.”
And before she could move, her computer camera light flicked on. She saw her reflection, eyes wide, lips trembling, and behind her, a faint outline in the air, shimmering like heat.
The outline smiled.
The world didn’t end that night. It just began to tilt.
A week later, astronomers announced a strange phenomenon: dozens of new stars appearing overnight, arranged in geometric patterns no natural force could explain. Power grids failed. Communication satellites glitched, transmitting bursts of sound, the same rhythmic thump that had filled Ezra’s cellar.
By the end of the month, the signal wasn’t coming from space anymore. It was coming from inside the network—television static, phone calls, digital clocks flickering in sync. People began hearing whispers through their devices, seeing faces in reflections that weren’t their own.
Governments blamed a cyberweapon. Scientists blamed solar storms.
Lena knew better.
She’d seen the shimmer spreading across the city, bright as static, rewriting the air. She walked through it unafraid, because she could hear Ezra calling her name again, through every screen, every pulse, every star.
When the sky finally opened and the world filled with light, she smiled.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m here.”
11/7 - 794 words
The first time Lena met Ezra, he was repairing the telescope in the university’s old observatory. He had ink on his fingers and a constellation drawn in the margin of his notebook—Orion, tilted sideways like a question mark.
“You study the stars,” she said.
“I listen to them,” he answered, smiling faintly.
She laughed. No one talked like that anymore. But there was something magnetic in the way he said it, as though he really did hear them whispering. Soon, nights turned into dawns spent on the rooftop, lying under cold blankets and sharing lukewarm coffee, mapping dreams onto the sky. Lena hadn’t planned on falling in love, but she did, in the quiet way gravity takes hold of a comet.
Ezra told her he was working on something big. “A signal,” he said. “Not random static — a rhythm. It repeats every seven hours. Like a heartbeat.”
She teased him, called him her “mad scientist.” He didn’t mind. He only asked her to keep it secret until he was sure.
Then came the night he stopped answering her messages.
Lena found him three days later in the cellar beneath the observatory. The place smelled of damp wood and rusted metal. Cables snaked across the floor, leading to a strange contraption—half satellite dish, half altar. Ezra was sitting on the ground, staring at it, whispering something under his breath.
“Ezra?”
He didn’t move.
When she touched his shoulder, he flinched so violently that she stumbled back. His eyes were glassy, pupils wide as if he’d been staring into the sun.
“They heard me,” he said. “They answered.”
On the desk beside him was a recorder, still running. A sound pulsed from it, a rhythmic thumping, like a distorted heartbeat. Beneath it, voices layered in and out, human but wrong, syllables stretched and folded backward.
“It’s not a signal,” he murmured. “It’s an opening.”
The cellar light flickered, and in that stuttering glow, Lena saw the walls move. Not physically, but the shadows seemed to breathe, exhaling a faint mist. Her skin prickled.
“Ezra, stop this. Please.”
But he only smiled, the kind of smile that doesn’t belong to the living. “It wants to meet you.”
The lights went out completely.
In the dark, something whispered her name. Not Ezra — something deeper, ancient. The floorboards shook, the cables hissed like snakes, and the pulsing grew faster, faster, until it was a roar that filled her skull.
Then—silence.
When Lena woke, the cellar was empty. No cables. No machine. No Ezra. Only the smell of ozone and a faint shimmer on the floor, as if starlight had pooled there and forgotten to fade.
She told the police he’d disappeared during an experiment. They wrote it off as a tragic accident. No one believed her when she said the stars were changing.
Because they were.
Every night, she saw a new pattern forming in the sky, points of light blinking in that same seven-hour rhythm. She recorded them, obsessed, the way he had been. She barely ate, barely slept. She didn’t care. She needed to know what he’d found.
And then, one night, her computer pinged.
A message appeared on the screen: HELLO, LENA.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. The message repeated, not typed, but encoded in binary, as though the computer itself were translating a transmission.
HELLO, LENA. WE MISS YOU.
She wanted to scream. Instead, she whispered, “Ezra?”
WE.
Static filled the speakers. Through it came a faint voice, his voice, but layered, multiplied, wrapped around itself like an echo from a thousand mouths.
“It’s beautiful here,” he said. “Join us.”
And before she could move, her computer camera light flicked on. She saw her reflection, eyes wide, lips trembling, and behind her, a faint outline in the air, shimmering like heat.
The outline smiled.
The world didn’t end that night. It just began to tilt.
A week later, astronomers announced a strange phenomenon: dozens of new stars appearing overnight, arranged in geometric patterns no natural force could explain. Power grids failed. Communication satellites glitched, transmitting bursts of sound, the same rhythmic thump that had filled Ezra’s cellar.
By the end of the month, the signal wasn’t coming from space anymore. It was coming from inside the network—television static, phone calls, digital clocks flickering in sync. People began hearing whispers through their devices, seeing faces in reflections that weren’t their own.
Governments blamed a cyberweapon. Scientists blamed solar storms.
Lena knew better.
She’d seen the shimmer spreading across the city, bright as static, rewriting the air. She walked through it unafraid, because she could hear Ezra calling her name again, through every screen, every pulse, every star.
When the sky finally opened and the world filled with light, she smiled.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m here.”
- TokoWrites
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
✮ ~ Toko's Writing Thread ~ ✮
SWC
Weekly 1 - 1508 words total
Part 1: Poetry - 162 words
The night hums like a wound,
and I press my ear to it,
listening for something softer than grief.
You left your coat by the door—
an empty shell of warmth,
a ghost that still smells of rain.
I tell myself you’re only gone for a while,
that the silence isn’t hollow but full
of things I can’t yet name.
When I speak, my voice startles the air.
It sounds like someone else’s,
like language learned too late—
awkward, brittle, breaking in the mouth.
I used to think love was a steady thing,
a flame that learned its own rhythm.
But now I see it was a hand trembling
over a candle, unsure which to save—
the warmth or the light.
I gather your words,
crumbs scattered on the table.
Some I swallow whole;
others I cannot bear to touch.
And still, the house stays quiet,
as if mourning is a ritual the walls perform
in whispers I’m not meant to hear.
Part 2: Songwriting - 215 words
Verse 1
Steam curls like ghosts above the tracks,
Your laughter fades into the black.
You said, “Don’t wait,” but I still do,
Counting stars that look like you.
Pre-Chorus
There’s coffee cold on the windowsill,
A name I can’t say, a clock that won’t still.
Chorus
So I sing to the empty platform lights,
To the echo of you in the dying night.
If leaving’s an art, you’ve mastered the hue—
A brushstroke of silence, a sky without blue.
Verse 2
The ticket tears like autumn leaves,
My heart forgets what it believes.
Every goodbye sounds the same—
A whisper caught in a runaway train.
Pre-Chorus
The rails hum low, a mournful tune,
A promise fading under the moon.
Chorus
So I sing to the empty platform lights,
To the echo of you in the dying night.
If leaving’s an art, you’ve mastered the hue—
A brushstroke of silence, a sky without blue.
Bridge
Maybe next year, I’ll stop waiting here,
Maybe by then, the smoke will clear.
But every train that passes through
Carries a piece of you.
Final Chorus
So I sing to the empty platform lights,
To the ghost of you in the fading night.
If love’s a journey, I missed the cue—
The train’s long gone, and so are you.
Link to part 3 since forums are breaking on me and i dont have time to root for unsuitable language
Part 4: Speechwriting - 608 words
Let’s talk about language, the quietest kind of power there is.
Empires weren’t built on guns alone. They were built on words—translated, rewritten, stolen. Every time a conqueror renamed a river, a street, or a child, they weren’t just taking land. They were taking meaning. They were erasing and rewriting reality itself, letter by letter, syllable by syllable.
Language is how we dream, how we remember. To strip it away is to unmake a people from the inside out. You don’t need chains when you can make someone speak your tongue instead of theirs. You don’t need to burn books when you can convince generations to stop writing them in their mother language. The most efficient form of colonization has always been linguistic.
In R. F. Kuang’s Babel, students study translation at Oxford, turning words into silver that literally powers empire. It’s fantasy, yes, but barely. Even today, English sits at the top of the academic world, demanding to be spoken before you’re allowed to be heard. Papers rejected for poor grammar. Accents mocked. Dialects flattened into “proper” English. It’s the same story, rewritten in modern ink: power disguised as politeness.
We are told that translation is connection. That language learning is unity. And yes, sometimes it is. But translation can also be control. When a word moves from one tongue to another, something is always lost. Sometimes it’s beauty. Sometimes it’s truth. Sometimes it’s the soul of the sentence, hollowed out until it fits comfortably in someone else’s mouth.
Think of all the words that don’t exist in English: saudade, hiraeth, mamihlapinatapai—feelings whole civilizations named, but which English only circles around, never reaches. When we lose those words, we lose ways of feeling the world. The empire doesn’t just take land; it takes imagination.
And yet, I refuse to believe that language only divides. Every borrowed word is also a survival. Creoles, pidgins, dialects—they’re not corruptions. They’re resistance. They’re proof that even when empire takes your words, it can’t take your voice. These hybrid languages sing like patchwork quilts: stitched from wounds, but alive with color. Every accent, every code-switch, every “wrong” word is someone refusing to disappear.
To speak a language the empire tried to erase is a rebellion. To write in it is an uprising. Even to mispronounce, to mix tongues, to invent your own grammar, that’s creation. That’s defiance.
So here’s my challenge to you, SWCers:
Use language like rebellion. Write in the words your heart was born with. Make mistakes that would horrify grammar guides. Mix languages, steal them back, twist them into something that no colonizer could understand. Because that’s what art is: not purity, but reclamation.
And remember—language doesn’t have to be perfect to be powerful. The first poets didn’t worry about commas. They worried about being remembered. The first storytellers didn’t write to impress editors. They spoke so their children would know their names.
Every sentence you write, every phrase you whisper into the air, adds to that living archive of resistance. Language doesn’t belong to classrooms or institutions. It belongs to mouths, to the people who dare to speak.
Because language is not property. It’s pulse. It’s breath. It’s blood that runs through time and refuses to dry. It belongs to whoever dares to speak it, write it, read it—whoever claims it, even shakily, even imperfectly.
And in a world that keeps trying to silence us, through censorship, through erasure, through shame, speaking, truly speaking, is the loudest act of defiance there is.
So go on. Steal the language back. Whisper in every tongue they told you to forget. And let the empire tremble at the sound of you.
Weekly 1 - 1508 words total
Part 1: Poetry - 162 words
The night hums like a wound,
and I press my ear to it,
listening for something softer than grief.
You left your coat by the door—
an empty shell of warmth,
a ghost that still smells of rain.
I tell myself you’re only gone for a while,
that the silence isn’t hollow but full
of things I can’t yet name.
When I speak, my voice startles the air.
It sounds like someone else’s,
like language learned too late—
awkward, brittle, breaking in the mouth.
I used to think love was a steady thing,
a flame that learned its own rhythm.
But now I see it was a hand trembling
over a candle, unsure which to save—
the warmth or the light.
I gather your words,
crumbs scattered on the table.
Some I swallow whole;
others I cannot bear to touch.
And still, the house stays quiet,
as if mourning is a ritual the walls perform
in whispers I’m not meant to hear.
Part 2: Songwriting - 215 words
Verse 1
Steam curls like ghosts above the tracks,
Your laughter fades into the black.
You said, “Don’t wait,” but I still do,
Counting stars that look like you.
Pre-Chorus
There’s coffee cold on the windowsill,
A name I can’t say, a clock that won’t still.
Chorus
So I sing to the empty platform lights,
To the echo of you in the dying night.
If leaving’s an art, you’ve mastered the hue—
A brushstroke of silence, a sky without blue.
Verse 2
The ticket tears like autumn leaves,
My heart forgets what it believes.
Every goodbye sounds the same—
A whisper caught in a runaway train.
Pre-Chorus
The rails hum low, a mournful tune,
A promise fading under the moon.
Chorus
So I sing to the empty platform lights,
To the echo of you in the dying night.
If leaving’s an art, you’ve mastered the hue—
A brushstroke of silence, a sky without blue.
Bridge
Maybe next year, I’ll stop waiting here,
Maybe by then, the smoke will clear.
But every train that passes through
Carries a piece of you.
Final Chorus
So I sing to the empty platform lights,
To the ghost of you in the fading night.
If love’s a journey, I missed the cue—
The train’s long gone, and so are you.
Link to part 3 since forums are breaking on me and i dont have time to root for unsuitable language
Part 4: Speechwriting - 608 words
Let’s talk about language, the quietest kind of power there is.
Empires weren’t built on guns alone. They were built on words—translated, rewritten, stolen. Every time a conqueror renamed a river, a street, or a child, they weren’t just taking land. They were taking meaning. They were erasing and rewriting reality itself, letter by letter, syllable by syllable.
Language is how we dream, how we remember. To strip it away is to unmake a people from the inside out. You don’t need chains when you can make someone speak your tongue instead of theirs. You don’t need to burn books when you can convince generations to stop writing them in their mother language. The most efficient form of colonization has always been linguistic.
In R. F. Kuang’s Babel, students study translation at Oxford, turning words into silver that literally powers empire. It’s fantasy, yes, but barely. Even today, English sits at the top of the academic world, demanding to be spoken before you’re allowed to be heard. Papers rejected for poor grammar. Accents mocked. Dialects flattened into “proper” English. It’s the same story, rewritten in modern ink: power disguised as politeness.
We are told that translation is connection. That language learning is unity. And yes, sometimes it is. But translation can also be control. When a word moves from one tongue to another, something is always lost. Sometimes it’s beauty. Sometimes it’s truth. Sometimes it’s the soul of the sentence, hollowed out until it fits comfortably in someone else’s mouth.
Think of all the words that don’t exist in English: saudade, hiraeth, mamihlapinatapai—feelings whole civilizations named, but which English only circles around, never reaches. When we lose those words, we lose ways of feeling the world. The empire doesn’t just take land; it takes imagination.
And yet, I refuse to believe that language only divides. Every borrowed word is also a survival. Creoles, pidgins, dialects—they’re not corruptions. They’re resistance. They’re proof that even when empire takes your words, it can’t take your voice. These hybrid languages sing like patchwork quilts: stitched from wounds, but alive with color. Every accent, every code-switch, every “wrong” word is someone refusing to disappear.
To speak a language the empire tried to erase is a rebellion. To write in it is an uprising. Even to mispronounce, to mix tongues, to invent your own grammar, that’s creation. That’s defiance.
So here’s my challenge to you, SWCers:
Use language like rebellion. Write in the words your heart was born with. Make mistakes that would horrify grammar guides. Mix languages, steal them back, twist them into something that no colonizer could understand. Because that’s what art is: not purity, but reclamation.
And remember—language doesn’t have to be perfect to be powerful. The first poets didn’t worry about commas. They worried about being remembered. The first storytellers didn’t write to impress editors. They spoke so their children would know their names.
Every sentence you write, every phrase you whisper into the air, adds to that living archive of resistance. Language doesn’t belong to classrooms or institutions. It belongs to mouths, to the people who dare to speak.
Because language is not property. It’s pulse. It’s breath. It’s blood that runs through time and refuses to dry. It belongs to whoever dares to speak it, write it, read it—whoever claims it, even shakily, even imperfectly.
And in a world that keeps trying to silence us, through censorship, through erasure, through shame, speaking, truly speaking, is the loudest act of defiance there is.
So go on. Steal the language back. Whisper in every tongue they told you to forget. And let the empire tremble at the sound of you.
Last edited by TokoWrites (Nov. 9, 2025 17:15:54)
- TokoWrites
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
✮ ~ Toko's Writing Thread ~ ✮
SWC
11/10 - 405 words
Okay, so after yesterday’s Cabin Wars, my eyes basically felt like fried eggs because I was so locked in, even though I didn’t write all day. So when today’s daily said to “touch grass,” I actually laughed. Fair enough. I didn’t go outside (too warm, too lazy), but I did put away my devices and grab my journal and scrapbooking stuff instead.
At first, it felt weirdly quiet. No clicking keys, no text or email pings, no background noise, just the sound of my pen scratching across paper. My handwriting looked terrible at first, which made me laugh again. It’s funny how fast you forget how to actually write when you’re used to typing everything. But after a few lines, it started to feel kind of nice—slow, but in a good way.
I started journaling about Cabin Wars: how stressful it was to keep coming up with new ideas, how fun it was to see what people were getting words from, and how tired my brain felt afterward. Then I pulled out my scrapbook and started cutting things from old magazines. I had no plan at all. I just grabbed whatever caught my eye: a photo of a mug, a sky-blue background, a quote that said “take a breath.” I glued everything down in a messy collage, and somehow it all worked.
Honestly, I lost track of time. What was supposed to be a fifteen-minute break turned into almost an hour. My desk was a disaster—scraps of paper everywhere, glue stick with no cap, a pen that somehow rolled under the chair—but I didn’t even care. It felt good to make something without worrying about how “good” it was. There’s no undo button with scissors and glue, but that’s kind of the point. You just go with it.
When I finally sat back down at my computer, it didn’t feel as bad to look at the screen. My brain felt calmer, like I’d done a little creative reset. I think that’s what this daily was trying to get us to do, not just stop working, but actually do something that fills your creative tank back up. Yesterday was about pushing ourselves to write as much as we could. Today was about remembering why we like creating in the first place.
So yeah, I didn’t technically “touch grass.” But I did touch paper, glue, ink, and a little bit of chaos, and I think that counts.
11/10 - 405 words
Okay, so after yesterday’s Cabin Wars, my eyes basically felt like fried eggs because I was so locked in, even though I didn’t write all day. So when today’s daily said to “touch grass,” I actually laughed. Fair enough. I didn’t go outside (too warm, too lazy), but I did put away my devices and grab my journal and scrapbooking stuff instead.
At first, it felt weirdly quiet. No clicking keys, no text or email pings, no background noise, just the sound of my pen scratching across paper. My handwriting looked terrible at first, which made me laugh again. It’s funny how fast you forget how to actually write when you’re used to typing everything. But after a few lines, it started to feel kind of nice—slow, but in a good way.
I started journaling about Cabin Wars: how stressful it was to keep coming up with new ideas, how fun it was to see what people were getting words from, and how tired my brain felt afterward. Then I pulled out my scrapbook and started cutting things from old magazines. I had no plan at all. I just grabbed whatever caught my eye: a photo of a mug, a sky-blue background, a quote that said “take a breath.” I glued everything down in a messy collage, and somehow it all worked.
Honestly, I lost track of time. What was supposed to be a fifteen-minute break turned into almost an hour. My desk was a disaster—scraps of paper everywhere, glue stick with no cap, a pen that somehow rolled under the chair—but I didn’t even care. It felt good to make something without worrying about how “good” it was. There’s no undo button with scissors and glue, but that’s kind of the point. You just go with it.
When I finally sat back down at my computer, it didn’t feel as bad to look at the screen. My brain felt calmer, like I’d done a little creative reset. I think that’s what this daily was trying to get us to do, not just stop working, but actually do something that fills your creative tank back up. Yesterday was about pushing ourselves to write as much as we could. Today was about remembering why we like creating in the first place.
So yeah, I didn’t technically “touch grass.” But I did touch paper, glue, ink, and a little bit of chaos, and I think that counts.
- TokoWrites
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
✮ ~ Toko's Writing Thread ~ ✮
SWC
11/11 - 601 words
Dear (my sixth grade english teacher)
I still remember the first day I walked into your classroom in sixth grade. The walls were alive, covered in words, colors, and quotes that seemed to reach out and grab me by the shoulders. I had never seen English taught like that before. You didn’t just talk about books; you made us step inside them. You turned metaphors into murals, grammar into games, and essays into something almost like art. You made the classroom feel like a world where language mattered, not just because of grades, but because it helped us understand ourselves and others.
Before your class, I thought writing was something you did for school, even though I did enjoy it. But you taught me that writing could be a home. I still remember the day you gave us that creative assignment to “write from the point of view of something that can’t speak.” You laughed when I chose to write from the perspective of a tree, and you told me, “You found a voice where most people would have seen silence.” That sentence stayed with me. It still does. Every time I write, whether it’s an essay, a journal entry, or even a note like this, I try to remember how you made words feel alive.
You had this way of seeing people. You noticed the quiet ones, the ones who stayed on the edges of the classroom. You noticed when someone’s day was a little heavier than usual. You didn’t need to make a big scene, just a gentle comment, a knowing look, or a smile that said, I see you. You matter.
When I heard the news a few years later, that you were gone, I didn’t understand. I was in eighth grade, and even though I knew people could hurt deeply, I couldn’t comprehend how someone who had given so much light could end up in such darkness. For a long time, I felt angry at the unfairness of it. Angry that someone who made others feel so seen might have felt unseen herself.
Now that I’m older, I think I understand a little better, not the “why,” but the truth that sometimes the kindest people carry the heaviest burdens. It breaks my heart that I never got to tell you how much you meant to me, or how often your lessons echo in my life. But I guess that’s what I’m doing now.
If I could speak to you today, I’d thank you. I’d thank you for showing me that learning doesn’t have to be about perfection—it can be about curiosity, wonder, and even play. I’d thank you for teaching me that stories aren’t just words on a page; they’re a way of connecting hearts across time. And I’d thank you for proving that even one teacher, in one classroom, can leave a mark that lasts far beyond the school year.
Sometimes, when I write something I’m proud of, I imagine showing it to you, the way I used to wave my notebook in the air, waiting for your reaction. I think you’d smile and tell me to keep writing, to keep noticing the world in color, to keep finding voices in silence.
You once told us that “every good story leaves footprints.” I didn’t realize until later that teachers do too. Yours are still there—in the words I choose, in the way I see the world, and in the gratitude I feel every time I sit down to write.
Thank you for everything. You mattered, more than you probably ever knew.
With love and remembrance,
Toko
11/11 - 601 words
Dear (my sixth grade english teacher)
I still remember the first day I walked into your classroom in sixth grade. The walls were alive, covered in words, colors, and quotes that seemed to reach out and grab me by the shoulders. I had never seen English taught like that before. You didn’t just talk about books; you made us step inside them. You turned metaphors into murals, grammar into games, and essays into something almost like art. You made the classroom feel like a world where language mattered, not just because of grades, but because it helped us understand ourselves and others.
Before your class, I thought writing was something you did for school, even though I did enjoy it. But you taught me that writing could be a home. I still remember the day you gave us that creative assignment to “write from the point of view of something that can’t speak.” You laughed when I chose to write from the perspective of a tree, and you told me, “You found a voice where most people would have seen silence.” That sentence stayed with me. It still does. Every time I write, whether it’s an essay, a journal entry, or even a note like this, I try to remember how you made words feel alive.
You had this way of seeing people. You noticed the quiet ones, the ones who stayed on the edges of the classroom. You noticed when someone’s day was a little heavier than usual. You didn’t need to make a big scene, just a gentle comment, a knowing look, or a smile that said, I see you. You matter.
When I heard the news a few years later, that you were gone, I didn’t understand. I was in eighth grade, and even though I knew people could hurt deeply, I couldn’t comprehend how someone who had given so much light could end up in such darkness. For a long time, I felt angry at the unfairness of it. Angry that someone who made others feel so seen might have felt unseen herself.
Now that I’m older, I think I understand a little better, not the “why,” but the truth that sometimes the kindest people carry the heaviest burdens. It breaks my heart that I never got to tell you how much you meant to me, or how often your lessons echo in my life. But I guess that’s what I’m doing now.
If I could speak to you today, I’d thank you. I’d thank you for showing me that learning doesn’t have to be about perfection—it can be about curiosity, wonder, and even play. I’d thank you for teaching me that stories aren’t just words on a page; they’re a way of connecting hearts across time. And I’d thank you for proving that even one teacher, in one classroom, can leave a mark that lasts far beyond the school year.
Sometimes, when I write something I’m proud of, I imagine showing it to you, the way I used to wave my notebook in the air, waiting for your reaction. I think you’d smile and tell me to keep writing, to keep noticing the world in color, to keep finding voices in silence.
You once told us that “every good story leaves footprints.” I didn’t realize until later that teachers do too. Yours are still there—in the words I choose, in the way I see the world, and in the gratitude I feel every time I sit down to write.
Thank you for everything. You mattered, more than you probably ever knew.
With love and remembrance,
Toko
Last edited by TokoWrites (Nov. 11, 2025 05:32:41)
- TokoWrites
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
✮ ~ Toko's Writing Thread ~ ✮
SWC
Weekly 2 - 1995 words
Part 1 - 361 words
Manchester in the 1830s was not merely a city, it was an engine. The air itself seemed mechanized, pulsing with the rhythm of thousands of looms, presses, and steam pistons. Every street was a corridor of invention and exhaustion, lined with factories whose windows glowed like furnaces even in daylight. The Industrial Revolution had remade life into something altogether new—an orchestra of progress conducted in smoke and sweat.
Language, too, was changing. The newspapers shouted headlines in blocky type, pamphlets whispered rebellion, and every factory sign bore the sharp smell of fresh ink. Where once people told stories by candlelight, now the presses did it for them—fast, efficient, and unfeeling. The city’s workers spoke a dozen dialects: Yorkshire burrs tangled with Irish lilts and Welsh vowels. In the taverns, one might hear men from distant villages trying to understand each other, finding that even their accents had to evolve to keep pace with the machines.
Education was a mark of progress, but it also drew boundaries. Scholars and clerks used language like a tool of power, while factory workers were expected to obey the written notices without question. The few who could read both the factory rules and the pamphlets of the radicals held quiet influence. Words became weapons—sometimes subtle, sometimes incendiary.
At the same time, linguistics itself was emerging as a discipline. Scholars sought to catalogue languages, to create order where there was chaos, just as engineers sought to mechanize labor. Grammar was industry’s intellectual twin—each sentence, like each machine, required precision to function. Yet language refused to be tamed entirely. It grew in the cracks, in whispered jokes between workers, in songs that echoed over the cotton mills, in letters home written phonetically because spelling was a luxury.
It was a time when people were learning to speak the new dialect of modernity, with factories and furnaces shaping not only the skyline but also the way humans communicated. The Industrial Revolution was not just a mechanical transformation; it was a linguistic one. Words, like iron and steam, were being reforged. And somewhere amid the smoke and machinery stood those who still believed that words could mean more than commands.
Part 2 - 468 words
Dawn never truly arrived in Manchester; it simply dimmed the soot. The morning light, weak and hesitant, seeped through a veil of smoke, catching on the rooftops of endless brick factories. From the towering chimneys, black clouds rose like accusations against the pale sky. The air smelled of metal, damp cotton, and the peculiar sweetness of burning coal—a scent that clung to every building, every coat, every breath.
Along the cobbled street, the rhythmic hiss of steam engines underscored the waking city. Carriages rattled past half-asleep workers trudging toward the mills. The factory doors yawned open like mouths swallowing them whole. Inside, the world was mechanical: rows of iron frames and belts stretching into infinity, gears spinning in hypnotic repetition. The clang of the looms was ceaseless. It was an unbroken symphony of productivity that filled the lungs as much as the ears.
The walls were damp, painted in a permanent film of grey. Shafts of dusty light pierced through narrow windows, illuminating the suspended mist of lint that hung in the air like fog. The workers looked spectral in that haze, with men, women, and children moving in practiced silence, their motions almost synchronized, as though language itself had been replaced by the rhythm of machinery.
And yet, in the cracks of that silence, language survived. A muttered curse when a thread snapped. A whistle that meant “watch out.” Songs hummed under the roar of the looms—half-melodies carried over generations, refracted by new accents, new lives. Even the factory’s printed notices, nailed to the walls, spoke in a strange new dialect of command: Efficiency is Prosperity. Waste is Treason.
Beyond the mills, the city sprawled outward in rows of cramped terraced houses. Narrow alleys separated them—alleys that smelled of ash and rain. The windows glowed with candlelight at night, and through them came faint sounds of families speaking, arguing, telling stories in voices hoarse from smoke. Every block had its own dialect, its own rhythm of speech.
In the city center, the contrast was striking. The newly built library, funded by reformers, gleamed with glass panes and quiet reverence. Inside, the air was cool, heavy with the musk of paper. Shelves stood like altars to knowledge, their spines bearing titles in Latin, Greek, and the crisp emerging English of dictionaries and treatises. To enter there from the factory was to step into another world: from clatter to stillness, from soot to ink.
The linguist-turned-worker might walk these streets at dusk, hands still blackened from machine grease, mind echoing with both language and labor. He would hear the city as if it were speaking—each hiss of steam a vowel, each hammer a consonant, every factory whistle the rising tone of a new industrial grammar.
Manchester was a dictionary in motion, and every street a sentence written in soot.
Part 3 - 424 words
Name: Elias Finch
Age: 29
Occupation: Former linguistics scholar, now a textile factory worker
Time Period: Manchester, 1835
Elias Finch was once a student at Cambridge, a mind drawn to the geometry of grammar, to the puzzle of how words build worlds. His fascination with language had been almost religious. He saw each dialect as a fingerprint of the human soul. But when his father’s debts mounted and the family’s fortune collapsed, Elias was forced to abandon academia. He found himself in Manchester, trading ink for iron, manuscripts for machinery.
His new life was one of noise and repetition. In the factory, conversation was rare; the machines spoke louder than any man could. Elias’s hands, once used to turning pages, now fed cotton into looms. Yet his mind refused to go silent. Each sound, the hiss of steam, the clatter of gears, seemed to him a new vocabulary. He began to imagine the machines were forming a language of their own: rhythmic, mechanical, but not meaningless.
Elias’s motivation is understanding. He is desperate to reconcile two worlds—the articulate grace of human thought and the mechanical efficiency of progress. He keeps a small notebook hidden in his coat, where he jots down comparisons: The loom as syntax. The worker as verb. The overseer as punctuation. In this way, he “translates” the industrial world into the language he once knew.
Bravery, for Elias, is not found in rebellion but in retention, in the refusal to forget meaning in a world that reduces men to moving parts. His defiance is quiet: teaching fellow workers to read at night, translating pamphlets that speak of better wages, writing secret letters for those who cannot write their own.
Class affects him deeply. Once considered a gentleman, now he is an anonymous cog. His speech still carries the rhythm of academia, though he softens it, hiding education like contraband. His appearance has changed: soot-lined fingernails, a threadbare coat, a posture bent by labor. Yet in his eyes burns the stubborn curiosity of the scholar he used to be.
Elias’s backstory is tragic, but not without dignity. He chose survival over pride. He could have begged patronage or fallen into ruin, but instead, he entered the machine willingly—to understand it, perhaps even to humanize it. His journey is one of translation: of language, of class, of meaning itself.
In 1835 Manchester, Elias Finch stands between eras—the last of the scholars who believe that words can save, and one of the first workers who realizes that even machines can be taught to speak.
Part 4 - 742 words
The factory roared like a living creature. Elias had stopped hearing it as noise; now it was a kind of grammar. The hiss of the pistons was the opening clause, the thump of the looms the sentence’s heartbeat, and the final whistle, when it came, was the exhausted period at the end of every day.
He moved along his line, hands guiding cotton through the teeth of the machine. Once, he’d have dissected the sound—phonemes of industry, consonants of progress—but today his mind was on a different word: Union.
It was written on a scrap of paper passed to him that morning by a woman from the spinning room. She had pressed it into his palm, eyes quick and quiet. Beneath the printed headline, roughly inked and half-smudged, were sentences calling for better pay, for safer hours, for dignity. But the pamphlet was written in language most of the workers could not yet read. That, Elias thought, was the cruelest irony: the revolution was printed, but unreadable.
When the bell rang for the midday break, he retreated behind the storeroom where the machines’ breath was faint. He took out his notebook, already blackened around the edges from soot and oil. On one page, he began to write a translation—not between tongues, but between classes. He rewrote the pamphlet in simpler words, taking away the academic flourishes of its author. “All men and women,” he wrote, “deserve to live without hunger or fear. You make the cloth; you should not go cold.”
It was the same message, but now it could be understood. He copied it onto scraps torn from the backs of delivery forms, his handwriting small but steady.
That evening, when the lamps flickered on and the overseer’s boots echoed away, Elias slipped the scraps under the benches, between spools of thread, into pockets of coats hung on hooks. The machines clattered on, unknowing.
The next morning, the air felt different. The workers moved with new energy, eyes flicking toward one another, whispers darting like sparrows between the looms. A phrase had begun to spread—his words, translated and retranslated through accents and mouths: “We make the cloth; we should not go cold.”
Elias heard it murmured in Lancashire brogue, in Irish cadence, in the hesitant tones of children. It was imperfect, but alive.
At noon, the overseer noticed the murmurs. “What’s that noise?” he barked. Silence followed, except for the hiss of the steam engine. Elias kept his gaze low.
Later, in the quiet of the boardinghouse, Elias wrote again. He tried to make sense of what he had done. Was this translation or treason? In his notebook he scribbled: Language is not owned. It moves like steam. It finds cracks, escapes, reshapes itself.
The weeks that followed brought rumors. A strike in Bolton. A pamphlet in London echoing the same phrase his hand had written. Elias said nothing, but every time he fed cotton into the loom, he thought of the words circulating like threads through a vast, unseen tapestry.
One evening, as he left the factory, the woman who had first given him the pamphlet was waiting. “They say your words are spreading,” she said softly. “Did you mean for that?”
Elias hesitated. “I meant for them to be understood.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s enough.”
Winter settled in. Frost on the windows, coal smoke thicker than ever. The city seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Then, one morning, the whistle never blew. The looms were still. Workers stood outside the gates, hundreds of them, their faces hard with resolve. In their hands, banners painted in crude, uneven letters bore his phrase—misspelled, simplified, alive.
Elias stood among them, invisible and necessary. For once, he did not correct the grammar.
When the police came, he didn’t run. They found his notebook, pages full of notes comparing machine rhythms to linguistic syntax, margins full of translations. They called it seditious. But when the magistrate asked what it meant, Elias only said, “It’s a study of how machines learn to speak.”
They laughed, of course. But in the crowd outside the courtroom, workers chanted the phrase again and again, their voices rising like steam. Elias smiled faintly as he was led away. The words were no longer his. They belonged to the city now.
And in the factories, when the looms began again, their rhythm seemed changed. Softer. More human. Almost articulate.
For Elias Finch, that was enough. Language had survived the machine.
Weekly 2 - 1995 words
Part 1 - 361 words
Manchester in the 1830s was not merely a city, it was an engine. The air itself seemed mechanized, pulsing with the rhythm of thousands of looms, presses, and steam pistons. Every street was a corridor of invention and exhaustion, lined with factories whose windows glowed like furnaces even in daylight. The Industrial Revolution had remade life into something altogether new—an orchestra of progress conducted in smoke and sweat.
Language, too, was changing. The newspapers shouted headlines in blocky type, pamphlets whispered rebellion, and every factory sign bore the sharp smell of fresh ink. Where once people told stories by candlelight, now the presses did it for them—fast, efficient, and unfeeling. The city’s workers spoke a dozen dialects: Yorkshire burrs tangled with Irish lilts and Welsh vowels. In the taverns, one might hear men from distant villages trying to understand each other, finding that even their accents had to evolve to keep pace with the machines.
Education was a mark of progress, but it also drew boundaries. Scholars and clerks used language like a tool of power, while factory workers were expected to obey the written notices without question. The few who could read both the factory rules and the pamphlets of the radicals held quiet influence. Words became weapons—sometimes subtle, sometimes incendiary.
At the same time, linguistics itself was emerging as a discipline. Scholars sought to catalogue languages, to create order where there was chaos, just as engineers sought to mechanize labor. Grammar was industry’s intellectual twin—each sentence, like each machine, required precision to function. Yet language refused to be tamed entirely. It grew in the cracks, in whispered jokes between workers, in songs that echoed over the cotton mills, in letters home written phonetically because spelling was a luxury.
It was a time when people were learning to speak the new dialect of modernity, with factories and furnaces shaping not only the skyline but also the way humans communicated. The Industrial Revolution was not just a mechanical transformation; it was a linguistic one. Words, like iron and steam, were being reforged. And somewhere amid the smoke and machinery stood those who still believed that words could mean more than commands.
Part 2 - 468 words
Dawn never truly arrived in Manchester; it simply dimmed the soot. The morning light, weak and hesitant, seeped through a veil of smoke, catching on the rooftops of endless brick factories. From the towering chimneys, black clouds rose like accusations against the pale sky. The air smelled of metal, damp cotton, and the peculiar sweetness of burning coal—a scent that clung to every building, every coat, every breath.
Along the cobbled street, the rhythmic hiss of steam engines underscored the waking city. Carriages rattled past half-asleep workers trudging toward the mills. The factory doors yawned open like mouths swallowing them whole. Inside, the world was mechanical: rows of iron frames and belts stretching into infinity, gears spinning in hypnotic repetition. The clang of the looms was ceaseless. It was an unbroken symphony of productivity that filled the lungs as much as the ears.
The walls were damp, painted in a permanent film of grey. Shafts of dusty light pierced through narrow windows, illuminating the suspended mist of lint that hung in the air like fog. The workers looked spectral in that haze, with men, women, and children moving in practiced silence, their motions almost synchronized, as though language itself had been replaced by the rhythm of machinery.
And yet, in the cracks of that silence, language survived. A muttered curse when a thread snapped. A whistle that meant “watch out.” Songs hummed under the roar of the looms—half-melodies carried over generations, refracted by new accents, new lives. Even the factory’s printed notices, nailed to the walls, spoke in a strange new dialect of command: Efficiency is Prosperity. Waste is Treason.
Beyond the mills, the city sprawled outward in rows of cramped terraced houses. Narrow alleys separated them—alleys that smelled of ash and rain. The windows glowed with candlelight at night, and through them came faint sounds of families speaking, arguing, telling stories in voices hoarse from smoke. Every block had its own dialect, its own rhythm of speech.
In the city center, the contrast was striking. The newly built library, funded by reformers, gleamed with glass panes and quiet reverence. Inside, the air was cool, heavy with the musk of paper. Shelves stood like altars to knowledge, their spines bearing titles in Latin, Greek, and the crisp emerging English of dictionaries and treatises. To enter there from the factory was to step into another world: from clatter to stillness, from soot to ink.
The linguist-turned-worker might walk these streets at dusk, hands still blackened from machine grease, mind echoing with both language and labor. He would hear the city as if it were speaking—each hiss of steam a vowel, each hammer a consonant, every factory whistle the rising tone of a new industrial grammar.
Manchester was a dictionary in motion, and every street a sentence written in soot.
Part 3 - 424 words
Name: Elias Finch
Age: 29
Occupation: Former linguistics scholar, now a textile factory worker
Time Period: Manchester, 1835
Elias Finch was once a student at Cambridge, a mind drawn to the geometry of grammar, to the puzzle of how words build worlds. His fascination with language had been almost religious. He saw each dialect as a fingerprint of the human soul. But when his father’s debts mounted and the family’s fortune collapsed, Elias was forced to abandon academia. He found himself in Manchester, trading ink for iron, manuscripts for machinery.
His new life was one of noise and repetition. In the factory, conversation was rare; the machines spoke louder than any man could. Elias’s hands, once used to turning pages, now fed cotton into looms. Yet his mind refused to go silent. Each sound, the hiss of steam, the clatter of gears, seemed to him a new vocabulary. He began to imagine the machines were forming a language of their own: rhythmic, mechanical, but not meaningless.
Elias’s motivation is understanding. He is desperate to reconcile two worlds—the articulate grace of human thought and the mechanical efficiency of progress. He keeps a small notebook hidden in his coat, where he jots down comparisons: The loom as syntax. The worker as verb. The overseer as punctuation. In this way, he “translates” the industrial world into the language he once knew.
Bravery, for Elias, is not found in rebellion but in retention, in the refusal to forget meaning in a world that reduces men to moving parts. His defiance is quiet: teaching fellow workers to read at night, translating pamphlets that speak of better wages, writing secret letters for those who cannot write their own.
Class affects him deeply. Once considered a gentleman, now he is an anonymous cog. His speech still carries the rhythm of academia, though he softens it, hiding education like contraband. His appearance has changed: soot-lined fingernails, a threadbare coat, a posture bent by labor. Yet in his eyes burns the stubborn curiosity of the scholar he used to be.
Elias’s backstory is tragic, but not without dignity. He chose survival over pride. He could have begged patronage or fallen into ruin, but instead, he entered the machine willingly—to understand it, perhaps even to humanize it. His journey is one of translation: of language, of class, of meaning itself.
In 1835 Manchester, Elias Finch stands between eras—the last of the scholars who believe that words can save, and one of the first workers who realizes that even machines can be taught to speak.
Part 4 - 742 words
The factory roared like a living creature. Elias had stopped hearing it as noise; now it was a kind of grammar. The hiss of the pistons was the opening clause, the thump of the looms the sentence’s heartbeat, and the final whistle, when it came, was the exhausted period at the end of every day.
He moved along his line, hands guiding cotton through the teeth of the machine. Once, he’d have dissected the sound—phonemes of industry, consonants of progress—but today his mind was on a different word: Union.
It was written on a scrap of paper passed to him that morning by a woman from the spinning room. She had pressed it into his palm, eyes quick and quiet. Beneath the printed headline, roughly inked and half-smudged, were sentences calling for better pay, for safer hours, for dignity. But the pamphlet was written in language most of the workers could not yet read. That, Elias thought, was the cruelest irony: the revolution was printed, but unreadable.
When the bell rang for the midday break, he retreated behind the storeroom where the machines’ breath was faint. He took out his notebook, already blackened around the edges from soot and oil. On one page, he began to write a translation—not between tongues, but between classes. He rewrote the pamphlet in simpler words, taking away the academic flourishes of its author. “All men and women,” he wrote, “deserve to live without hunger or fear. You make the cloth; you should not go cold.”
It was the same message, but now it could be understood. He copied it onto scraps torn from the backs of delivery forms, his handwriting small but steady.
That evening, when the lamps flickered on and the overseer’s boots echoed away, Elias slipped the scraps under the benches, between spools of thread, into pockets of coats hung on hooks. The machines clattered on, unknowing.
The next morning, the air felt different. The workers moved with new energy, eyes flicking toward one another, whispers darting like sparrows between the looms. A phrase had begun to spread—his words, translated and retranslated through accents and mouths: “We make the cloth; we should not go cold.”
Elias heard it murmured in Lancashire brogue, in Irish cadence, in the hesitant tones of children. It was imperfect, but alive.
At noon, the overseer noticed the murmurs. “What’s that noise?” he barked. Silence followed, except for the hiss of the steam engine. Elias kept his gaze low.
Later, in the quiet of the boardinghouse, Elias wrote again. He tried to make sense of what he had done. Was this translation or treason? In his notebook he scribbled: Language is not owned. It moves like steam. It finds cracks, escapes, reshapes itself.
The weeks that followed brought rumors. A strike in Bolton. A pamphlet in London echoing the same phrase his hand had written. Elias said nothing, but every time he fed cotton into the loom, he thought of the words circulating like threads through a vast, unseen tapestry.
One evening, as he left the factory, the woman who had first given him the pamphlet was waiting. “They say your words are spreading,” she said softly. “Did you mean for that?”
Elias hesitated. “I meant for them to be understood.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s enough.”
Winter settled in. Frost on the windows, coal smoke thicker than ever. The city seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Then, one morning, the whistle never blew. The looms were still. Workers stood outside the gates, hundreds of them, their faces hard with resolve. In their hands, banners painted in crude, uneven letters bore his phrase—misspelled, simplified, alive.
Elias stood among them, invisible and necessary. For once, he did not correct the grammar.
When the police came, he didn’t run. They found his notebook, pages full of notes comparing machine rhythms to linguistic syntax, margins full of translations. They called it seditious. But when the magistrate asked what it meant, Elias only said, “It’s a study of how machines learn to speak.”
They laughed, of course. But in the crowd outside the courtroom, workers chanted the phrase again and again, their voices rising like steam. Elias smiled faintly as he was led away. The words were no longer his. They belonged to the city now.
And in the factories, when the looms began again, their rhythm seemed changed. Softer. More human. Almost articulate.
For Elias Finch, that was enough. Language had survived the machine.
Last edited by TokoWrites (Nov. 12, 2025 05:26:24)
- TokoWrites
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
✮ ~ Toko's Writing Thread ~ ✮
SWC
11/13 - 918 words
I arrive quietly, like a sigh you didn’t know you were holding. The world doesn’t notice me at first; they’re still tangled in summer’s golden hair, drunk on her warmth and noise. I don’t mind. I’ve never been the flashy one. I’m the in-between, the soft breath between laughter and silence, between endings and beginnings.
My footsteps sound like dry leaves scraping across sidewalks. My touch leaves behind a faint chill that makes people pull sweaters out of closets and wrap their hands around mugs. I see them pause at windows, watching the trees blush themselves bare, and I feel a small ache because I know what comes next. They’ll curse me when I start to leave. They’ll say I was too short, too sharp, too fleeting. They’ll call me the end of something, when all I ever wanted was to be a pause.
Do you know what it’s like to be everyone’s favorite for a moment, and then no one’s? To be adored for your colors, your festivals, your pumpkins and bonfires, and forgotten as soon as the first frost bites? That’s me. Autumn, the beautiful, the melancholy, the “finally not too hot.” They dress in my colors and sip my spices, but they never ask how I feel when the trees turn from gold to gray.
Sometimes, I envy Summer. She doesn’t have to try. The world tilts toward her, eager and alive. The grass hums under her feet; the oceans shimmer for her. Even Winter, with all his severity, has his loyal ones—the quiet souls who find poetry in his stillness. But me? I’m a transition. A hinge. I’m loved for what I lead to, not for what I am.
Still, I take pride in my craft. I paint with decay, yes, but decay has its beauty. I know how to let things go gracefully. I whisper to the trees, “It’s all right to fall.” I teach them how to release without regret. I tell the sun to lower his voice, the wind to play gently with scarves, the world to slow down just enough to notice itself. I am the season of noticing.
The children don’t think about any of that, of course. They just chase me, literally. They run through my piles of leaves, scattering my art across driveways and yards, laughing like I’m a game. I pretend to be annoyed, but truthfully, I adore them. Their joy is honest, and it reminds me that life doesn’t always have to be profound. Sometimes, it just needs to be loud and full of motion.
Nights are my favorite. When the crickets start their soft chorus and the moon hangs heavy, I wander through neighborhoods, listening. I hear people talk about plans, about the holidays creeping closer, about change. Change—that’s my word. My entire existence is built on it. I am transformation embodied, the soft turning of time. But I wish I could tell them that change doesn’t have to hurt. It’s just another way of saying alive.
Sometimes I meet Rain, my frequent companion. She’s unpredictable, moody, but kind in her own way. She likes to linger in my gray afternoons, washing the color from the sky. We talk about everything—her endless travels, my brief stay. She teases me for being sentimental. I tell her she wouldn’t understand. She always moves on before anything can mean too much.
At dawn, I visit the fields. The crops bow low, ready for rest, and I thank them for their service. The farmers thank me, too, though they don’t know it’s me they’re thanking when they wipe sweat from their brows and murmur gratitude for a good harvest. I like those quiet moments—work well done, cycles completed, endings that make room for beginnings.
But I have my darkness, too. There are days I linger too long. My winds grow impatient, sharp. I take the warmth too quickly, strip the trees too bare. On those days, I hear the whispers: “It’s too cold already.” “When will winter come?” I shrink back, ashamed. I never mean to overstay. I just lose track of myself sometimes.
Every year, when my time draws near its end, Winter sends word ahead. I feel his breath in the air—clean, unyielding, inevitable. I start packing my colors, folding away my reds and ambers, tucking my golds into the soil for safekeeping. The animals hurry, the humans hurry, and I slow down. I take one last look at the world I’ve brushed with beauty and think, Maybe this time, they’ll remember me kindly.
Sometimes, I linger just a bit, hiding behind Thanksgiving tables and football games. I love the sound of families gathering, the smell of roasting and cinnamon. That’s when I feel closest to belonging—like I’m not just passing through but being held. And then, when the first snow falls, I finally exhale and let go.
Winter arrives with his crisp edges and quiet grace. He nods to me, and I nod back. No hard feelings. We’ve always understood each other—two sides of stillness. Before I go, I turn back to the world and whisper, Rest. Breathe. Remember that endings can be gentle.
And just like that, I’m gone. But somewhere, in a forgotten pile of leaves or in the amber memory of an October afternoon, I still hum softly. I’m the rustle underfoot, the faint scent of smoke, the ache that feels almost like peace.
I am Autumn. I don’t ask to last forever. I only ask to be noticed while I’m here.
11/13 - 918 words
I arrive quietly, like a sigh you didn’t know you were holding. The world doesn’t notice me at first; they’re still tangled in summer’s golden hair, drunk on her warmth and noise. I don’t mind. I’ve never been the flashy one. I’m the in-between, the soft breath between laughter and silence, between endings and beginnings.
My footsteps sound like dry leaves scraping across sidewalks. My touch leaves behind a faint chill that makes people pull sweaters out of closets and wrap their hands around mugs. I see them pause at windows, watching the trees blush themselves bare, and I feel a small ache because I know what comes next. They’ll curse me when I start to leave. They’ll say I was too short, too sharp, too fleeting. They’ll call me the end of something, when all I ever wanted was to be a pause.
Do you know what it’s like to be everyone’s favorite for a moment, and then no one’s? To be adored for your colors, your festivals, your pumpkins and bonfires, and forgotten as soon as the first frost bites? That’s me. Autumn, the beautiful, the melancholy, the “finally not too hot.” They dress in my colors and sip my spices, but they never ask how I feel when the trees turn from gold to gray.
Sometimes, I envy Summer. She doesn’t have to try. The world tilts toward her, eager and alive. The grass hums under her feet; the oceans shimmer for her. Even Winter, with all his severity, has his loyal ones—the quiet souls who find poetry in his stillness. But me? I’m a transition. A hinge. I’m loved for what I lead to, not for what I am.
Still, I take pride in my craft. I paint with decay, yes, but decay has its beauty. I know how to let things go gracefully. I whisper to the trees, “It’s all right to fall.” I teach them how to release without regret. I tell the sun to lower his voice, the wind to play gently with scarves, the world to slow down just enough to notice itself. I am the season of noticing.
The children don’t think about any of that, of course. They just chase me, literally. They run through my piles of leaves, scattering my art across driveways and yards, laughing like I’m a game. I pretend to be annoyed, but truthfully, I adore them. Their joy is honest, and it reminds me that life doesn’t always have to be profound. Sometimes, it just needs to be loud and full of motion.
Nights are my favorite. When the crickets start their soft chorus and the moon hangs heavy, I wander through neighborhoods, listening. I hear people talk about plans, about the holidays creeping closer, about change. Change—that’s my word. My entire existence is built on it. I am transformation embodied, the soft turning of time. But I wish I could tell them that change doesn’t have to hurt. It’s just another way of saying alive.
Sometimes I meet Rain, my frequent companion. She’s unpredictable, moody, but kind in her own way. She likes to linger in my gray afternoons, washing the color from the sky. We talk about everything—her endless travels, my brief stay. She teases me for being sentimental. I tell her she wouldn’t understand. She always moves on before anything can mean too much.
At dawn, I visit the fields. The crops bow low, ready for rest, and I thank them for their service. The farmers thank me, too, though they don’t know it’s me they’re thanking when they wipe sweat from their brows and murmur gratitude for a good harvest. I like those quiet moments—work well done, cycles completed, endings that make room for beginnings.
But I have my darkness, too. There are days I linger too long. My winds grow impatient, sharp. I take the warmth too quickly, strip the trees too bare. On those days, I hear the whispers: “It’s too cold already.” “When will winter come?” I shrink back, ashamed. I never mean to overstay. I just lose track of myself sometimes.
Every year, when my time draws near its end, Winter sends word ahead. I feel his breath in the air—clean, unyielding, inevitable. I start packing my colors, folding away my reds and ambers, tucking my golds into the soil for safekeeping. The animals hurry, the humans hurry, and I slow down. I take one last look at the world I’ve brushed with beauty and think, Maybe this time, they’ll remember me kindly.
Sometimes, I linger just a bit, hiding behind Thanksgiving tables and football games. I love the sound of families gathering, the smell of roasting and cinnamon. That’s when I feel closest to belonging—like I’m not just passing through but being held. And then, when the first snow falls, I finally exhale and let go.
Winter arrives with his crisp edges and quiet grace. He nods to me, and I nod back. No hard feelings. We’ve always understood each other—two sides of stillness. Before I go, I turn back to the world and whisper, Rest. Breathe. Remember that endings can be gentle.
And just like that, I’m gone. But somewhere, in a forgotten pile of leaves or in the amber memory of an October afternoon, I still hum softly. I’m the rustle underfoot, the faint scent of smoke, the ache that feels almost like peace.
I am Autumn. I don’t ask to last forever. I only ask to be noticed while I’m here.
- TokoWrites
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
✮ ~ Toko's Writing Thread ~ ✮
SWC
11/14 - 805 words
To the Darkness That Shackled Us
The night arrived without footsteps, without warning, as if it had always been here, waiting in the hollow between heartbeats. We did not notice it at first. Darkness is gentle when it begins its work, a soft seam that loosens the edges of the world, a velvet hush that convinces you it is only rest. But soon, the silence thickened. Soon, our shadows were no longer tied to us but wandered ahead like guides to a place we never wished to go.
We learned the darkness by name when it settled into our bones.
It began in the valley where we lived, a place shaped like an open hand that had once held sunlight tenderly. As children, we raced across its golden fingers, believing light was a loyal companion. But seasons turned, and the valley—our cradle, our quiet kingdom—became a basin where night collected, pooling like ink until even the moon forgot to rise.
Fear became our inheritance. We carried it carefully, like glass lanterns whose wicks refused to burn.
I remember the last morning before the darkness finished its descent. The sky was a diluted blue, worn thin by winter. I stood beside Mira, my sister not by blood but by everything that mattered. She traced the fading light with her eyes as though memorizing the shape of hope before it vanished. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely sound: “If the light leaves, do we leave too?”
I wanted to give her certainty, but in the valley of gathering shadows, certainty was a currency that no one possessed. So I offered her the only truth I had: my hand, warm against hers, fingers intertwined like roots refusing to let go.
The darkness arrived fully that night.
It did not roar or rage. It simply existed more loudly than we did. It swallowed the horizon, then the hills, then the paths we once walked without fear. Colors drained from memory. Even names felt dimmer. We found that the deeper we walked into the valley, the more the darkness tugged at us, as though it sought not to blind us but to claim us.
People whispered of curses, of ancient debts owed to forgotten gods. Others said the darkness was only our own sorrow given form, that the valley had become a mirror. But Mira, with her quiet bravery, believed neither. She said the darkness was not a punishment, nor a prophecy. It was a question.
And every question demands an answer.
So we gathered what little pieces of ourselves still glimmered. Mira carried a shard of a broken mirror—she insisted that even fractured reflections held truth. I carried a book whose words had faded but whose spine remembered the warmth of countless hands. Others joined us, bearing small relics: a rusted spoon, a half-woven basket, a feather from a bird no one remembered seeing. These were not weapons, but reminders—anchors against oblivion.
We walked toward the heart of the valley, where the darkness was sharpest, thick enough to taste. It was cold and metallic, like fear distilled. Our steps made no sound. Even breath felt borrowed.
But something stirred beneath the silence. A pulse. A rhythm. The sense that the darkness itself was breathing, watching, waiting.
Mira lifted her mirror shard. Its edge caught nothing—no light remained—but she held it as though she expected it to bloom. “Do you hear it?” she whispered.
And I did.
A low thrum, like a distant drumbeat, yet strangely familiar. It was the collective echo of our forgotten memories—the laughter of summers past, the lullabies sung to sleeping children, the warmth of hands clasping in celebration and grief. The darkness had not taken these from us; it had only hidden them, buried them beneath its heavy cloak.
“We are still here,” Mira said, louder now, her voice a fragile rebellion.
One by one, we lifted our relics. The basket, the spoon, the feather—all small, simple things, but they vibrated gently, resonating with the pulse beneath the valley. And for a moment, the darkness trembled.
Light did not burst forth. No grand miracle split the sky. Instead, something subtler happened: the darkness loosened. Not vanished—never vanished—but eased its grip, like a hand unclenching.
In that softening, we felt our names return to us. The valley recognized us again. We saw each other’s faces not clearly, but enough.
We realized then that the darkness had shackled us not because it was powerful, but because we believed we were powerless.
So we walked back together, our relics held close, our steps steady. The night remained, but no longer as ruler—only as witness.
And in the fragile dawn that followed, Mira spoke the words that would echo in our valley for generations:
“To the darkness that shackled us—we thank you for teaching us how to rise.”
11/14 - 805 words
To the Darkness That Shackled Us
The night arrived without footsteps, without warning, as if it had always been here, waiting in the hollow between heartbeats. We did not notice it at first. Darkness is gentle when it begins its work, a soft seam that loosens the edges of the world, a velvet hush that convinces you it is only rest. But soon, the silence thickened. Soon, our shadows were no longer tied to us but wandered ahead like guides to a place we never wished to go.
We learned the darkness by name when it settled into our bones.
It began in the valley where we lived, a place shaped like an open hand that had once held sunlight tenderly. As children, we raced across its golden fingers, believing light was a loyal companion. But seasons turned, and the valley—our cradle, our quiet kingdom—became a basin where night collected, pooling like ink until even the moon forgot to rise.
Fear became our inheritance. We carried it carefully, like glass lanterns whose wicks refused to burn.
I remember the last morning before the darkness finished its descent. The sky was a diluted blue, worn thin by winter. I stood beside Mira, my sister not by blood but by everything that mattered. She traced the fading light with her eyes as though memorizing the shape of hope before it vanished. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely sound: “If the light leaves, do we leave too?”
I wanted to give her certainty, but in the valley of gathering shadows, certainty was a currency that no one possessed. So I offered her the only truth I had: my hand, warm against hers, fingers intertwined like roots refusing to let go.
The darkness arrived fully that night.
It did not roar or rage. It simply existed more loudly than we did. It swallowed the horizon, then the hills, then the paths we once walked without fear. Colors drained from memory. Even names felt dimmer. We found that the deeper we walked into the valley, the more the darkness tugged at us, as though it sought not to blind us but to claim us.
People whispered of curses, of ancient debts owed to forgotten gods. Others said the darkness was only our own sorrow given form, that the valley had become a mirror. But Mira, with her quiet bravery, believed neither. She said the darkness was not a punishment, nor a prophecy. It was a question.
And every question demands an answer.
So we gathered what little pieces of ourselves still glimmered. Mira carried a shard of a broken mirror—she insisted that even fractured reflections held truth. I carried a book whose words had faded but whose spine remembered the warmth of countless hands. Others joined us, bearing small relics: a rusted spoon, a half-woven basket, a feather from a bird no one remembered seeing. These were not weapons, but reminders—anchors against oblivion.
We walked toward the heart of the valley, where the darkness was sharpest, thick enough to taste. It was cold and metallic, like fear distilled. Our steps made no sound. Even breath felt borrowed.
But something stirred beneath the silence. A pulse. A rhythm. The sense that the darkness itself was breathing, watching, waiting.
Mira lifted her mirror shard. Its edge caught nothing—no light remained—but she held it as though she expected it to bloom. “Do you hear it?” she whispered.
And I did.
A low thrum, like a distant drumbeat, yet strangely familiar. It was the collective echo of our forgotten memories—the laughter of summers past, the lullabies sung to sleeping children, the warmth of hands clasping in celebration and grief. The darkness had not taken these from us; it had only hidden them, buried them beneath its heavy cloak.
“We are still here,” Mira said, louder now, her voice a fragile rebellion.
One by one, we lifted our relics. The basket, the spoon, the feather—all small, simple things, but they vibrated gently, resonating with the pulse beneath the valley. And for a moment, the darkness trembled.
Light did not burst forth. No grand miracle split the sky. Instead, something subtler happened: the darkness loosened. Not vanished—never vanished—but eased its grip, like a hand unclenching.
In that softening, we felt our names return to us. The valley recognized us again. We saw each other’s faces not clearly, but enough.
We realized then that the darkness had shackled us not because it was powerful, but because we believed we were powerless.
So we walked back together, our relics held close, our steps steady. The night remained, but no longer as ruler—only as witness.
And in the fragile dawn that followed, Mira spoke the words that would echo in our valley for generations:
“To the darkness that shackled us—we thank you for teaching us how to rise.”
- TokoWrites
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
✮ ~ Toko's Writing Thread ~ ✮
SWC
11/16 - 327 words
Introducing the One, the Only…The Dazzling Dictionary!
Think dictionaries are just boring books collecting dust on your shelf? Think again! The Dazzling Dictionary isn’t just a dictionary—it’s a thrill ride of words, a treasure chest of knowledge, and your new best friend all rolled into one!
With over 100,000 words packed into one sleek, adventure-ready volume, the Dazzling Dictionary is perfect for anyone who wants to impress friends, crush crossword puzzles, and win every word game known to humankind. Need to sound smarter at brunch? Want to wow your teacher or boss? The Dazzling Dictionary has you covered. And yes, it even comes with pronunciation guides that will make you sound like a walking TED Talk.
But wait—there’s more! Each page is sprinkled with little hidden surprises: quirky etymologies that make you giggle, fun facts that make you say “Whoa, I never knew that,” and even little challenges to test your brainpower. Feeling bored? Flip to any random page and watch your curiosity ignite—this is like a theme park for your brain!
Are you a pun enthusiast? A lover of language? A future spelling bee champion? Then the Dazzling Dictionary is basically your soulmate. Did you know the word hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia (the fear of long words) is in here? Yep, we’ve got you covered. You might even discover words you didn’t know you could use to confuse your siblings or impress your crush.
And here’s the best part: the Dazzling Dictionary is fully portable! Take it to class, the library, or even on your morning commute. Who knew that carrying around a book could make you look so intellectually fabulous?
Stop letting boring words control your life. Take charge. Be bold. Be brilliant. Be the human thesaurus you were born to be!
The Dazzling Dictionary: turn every “meh” moment into a mind-blowing, word-tastic adventure!
Order now and we’ll throw in a free bookmark shaped like a magnifying glass, because sleuthing through words has never been this fun!
11/16 - 327 words
Introducing the One, the Only…The Dazzling Dictionary!
Think dictionaries are just boring books collecting dust on your shelf? Think again! The Dazzling Dictionary isn’t just a dictionary—it’s a thrill ride of words, a treasure chest of knowledge, and your new best friend all rolled into one!
With over 100,000 words packed into one sleek, adventure-ready volume, the Dazzling Dictionary is perfect for anyone who wants to impress friends, crush crossword puzzles, and win every word game known to humankind. Need to sound smarter at brunch? Want to wow your teacher or boss? The Dazzling Dictionary has you covered. And yes, it even comes with pronunciation guides that will make you sound like a walking TED Talk.
But wait—there’s more! Each page is sprinkled with little hidden surprises: quirky etymologies that make you giggle, fun facts that make you say “Whoa, I never knew that,” and even little challenges to test your brainpower. Feeling bored? Flip to any random page and watch your curiosity ignite—this is like a theme park for your brain!
Are you a pun enthusiast? A lover of language? A future spelling bee champion? Then the Dazzling Dictionary is basically your soulmate. Did you know the word hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia (the fear of long words) is in here? Yep, we’ve got you covered. You might even discover words you didn’t know you could use to confuse your siblings or impress your crush.
And here’s the best part: the Dazzling Dictionary is fully portable! Take it to class, the library, or even on your morning commute. Who knew that carrying around a book could make you look so intellectually fabulous?
Stop letting boring words control your life. Take charge. Be bold. Be brilliant. Be the human thesaurus you were born to be!
The Dazzling Dictionary: turn every “meh” moment into a mind-blowing, word-tastic adventure!
Order now and we’ll throw in a free bookmark shaped like a magnifying glass, because sleuthing through words has never been this fun!
- TokoWrites
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
✮ ~ Toko's Writing Thread ~ ✮
SWC
11/17 - 425 words
Autumn Enchantment Pumpkin Muffins
Ingredients:
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
1 cup pumpkin puree (fresh or canned)
½ cup unsalted butter, melted
¾ cup brown sugar
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ cup sparkling apple cider (for a touch of magic!)
1 pinch of “fall fairy dust” (a sprinkle of edible gold glitter or finely ground star anise, optional but highly recommended)
Instructions:
Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C) and line a 12-cup muffin tin with whimsical paper liners. If you’re feeling extra magical, chant a little warming spell over the oven—anything cozy and bright works!
Mix your dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. This is the heart of your autumn flavor, and it smells like a leaf-strewn forest just waiting to be explored.
Combine wet ingredients. In another bowl, blend the pumpkin puree, melted butter, brown sugar, eggs, vanilla extract, and sparkling apple cider. The cider isn’t just for flavor—it adds a secret effervescence that makes these muffins bounce just slightly when they’re fresh from the oven.
Merge the mixtures. Slowly fold the dry ingredients into the wet mixture. Be gentle—you don’t want to deflate the magic! Stir until just combined; some lumps are perfectly fine and add character to your enchanted muffins.
Add the fairy dust. Sprinkle your “fall fairy dust” over the batter and fold it in carefully. Close your eyes and imagine the warmth of autumn sunlight as you mix; it’s this intention that gives the muffins their mystical charm.
Spoon into tins. Using a large spoon or ice cream scoop, divide the batter evenly among the 12 cups. Each one should be brimming with fall flavor and promise of delight.
Bake. Place in the oven for 18–22 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean and a faint golden aura surrounds the muffins. Let your imagination guide you—you might even hear a soft “ding” of magic!
Cool and enjoy. Allow the muffins to rest for at least 10 minutes before eating. These treats are best enjoyed with a warm cup of cider, shared with friends, or used as a secret potion in your next magical adventure.
Optional twist: Whisper your favorite autumn wish over the muffins before serving. Legend has it that whoever eats one will feel an extra spark of cozy happiness and inspiration for the season.
11/17 - 425 words
Autumn Enchantment Pumpkin Muffins
Ingredients:
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
1 cup pumpkin puree (fresh or canned)
½ cup unsalted butter, melted
¾ cup brown sugar
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
½ cup sparkling apple cider (for a touch of magic!)
1 pinch of “fall fairy dust” (a sprinkle of edible gold glitter or finely ground star anise, optional but highly recommended)
Instructions:
Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C) and line a 12-cup muffin tin with whimsical paper liners. If you’re feeling extra magical, chant a little warming spell over the oven—anything cozy and bright works!
Mix your dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. This is the heart of your autumn flavor, and it smells like a leaf-strewn forest just waiting to be explored.
Combine wet ingredients. In another bowl, blend the pumpkin puree, melted butter, brown sugar, eggs, vanilla extract, and sparkling apple cider. The cider isn’t just for flavor—it adds a secret effervescence that makes these muffins bounce just slightly when they’re fresh from the oven.
Merge the mixtures. Slowly fold the dry ingredients into the wet mixture. Be gentle—you don’t want to deflate the magic! Stir until just combined; some lumps are perfectly fine and add character to your enchanted muffins.
Add the fairy dust. Sprinkle your “fall fairy dust” over the batter and fold it in carefully. Close your eyes and imagine the warmth of autumn sunlight as you mix; it’s this intention that gives the muffins their mystical charm.
Spoon into tins. Using a large spoon or ice cream scoop, divide the batter evenly among the 12 cups. Each one should be brimming with fall flavor and promise of delight.
Bake. Place in the oven for 18–22 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean and a faint golden aura surrounds the muffins. Let your imagination guide you—you might even hear a soft “ding” of magic!
Cool and enjoy. Allow the muffins to rest for at least 10 minutes before eating. These treats are best enjoyed with a warm cup of cider, shared with friends, or used as a secret potion in your next magical adventure.
Optional twist: Whisper your favorite autumn wish over the muffins before serving. Legend has it that whoever eats one will feel an extra spark of cozy happiness and inspiration for the season.
- TokoWrites
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
✮ ~ Toko's Writing Thread ~ ✮
Autophagy
to consume oneself
You built a home inside your ribs
out of apologies you never sent,
and silence you confused with peace.
Called it healing.
Called it progress.
Painted the walls with mantras you didn’t believe
and stacked shame like bricks.
But hunger grows clever
when you lock it inside.
It learned your voice. Learned how to mimic reason.
Whispered comfort while unspooling you,
thread by thread.
You told yourself
that this was what survival looked like—
smiling with a mouth full of splinters, swallowing the hurt
before anyone could see it bloom.
You became a feast you didn’t know you were serving.
And you folded yourself smaller each day,
until you mistook invisibility for peace.
Until you forgot what you looked like
when you weren’t flinching.
Somewhere in the middle of surviving,
you mistook collapse for strength.
Mistook numb for healed.
Mistook smaller for safer.
No one ever had to destroy you.
You were always
doing it gently. Efficiently.
Doing it first. With clean hands.
So no one else would.
Grammar of the Powerful
They don’t take land first.
They take words.
Rename the river.
Mispronounce the dead.
Write laws in a borrowed tongue
and call it order.
They say peace
and mean obedience.
Say help
and mean control.
Say freedom
and leave out
who it’s for.
Syntax is strategy.
Accent is gate.
The dictionary,
a weapon pressed
into open mouths.
We are taught to translate
ourselves
to survive,
to soften the edges,
to speak in their grammar,
to forget the names
we knew first.
But every translation
loses something.
And what is lost
does not return.
They call it progress.
We call it silence.
to consume oneself
You built a home inside your ribs
out of apologies you never sent,
and silence you confused with peace.
Called it healing.
Called it progress.
Painted the walls with mantras you didn’t believe
and stacked shame like bricks.
But hunger grows clever
when you lock it inside.
It learned your voice. Learned how to mimic reason.
Whispered comfort while unspooling you,
thread by thread.
You told yourself
that this was what survival looked like—
smiling with a mouth full of splinters, swallowing the hurt
before anyone could see it bloom.
You became a feast you didn’t know you were serving.
And you folded yourself smaller each day,
until you mistook invisibility for peace.
Until you forgot what you looked like
when you weren’t flinching.
Somewhere in the middle of surviving,
you mistook collapse for strength.
Mistook numb for healed.
Mistook smaller for safer.
No one ever had to destroy you.
You were always
doing it gently. Efficiently.
Doing it first. With clean hands.
So no one else would.
Grammar of the Powerful
They don’t take land first.
They take words.
Rename the river.
Mispronounce the dead.
Write laws in a borrowed tongue
and call it order.
They say peace
and mean obedience.
Say help
and mean control.
Say freedom
and leave out
who it’s for.
Syntax is strategy.
Accent is gate.
The dictionary,
a weapon pressed
into open mouths.
We are taught to translate
ourselves
to survive,
to soften the edges,
to speak in their grammar,
to forget the names
we knew first.
But every translation
loses something.
And what is lost
does not return.
They call it progress.
We call it silence.
Last edited by TokoWrites (Yesterday 14:51:12)
- TokoWrites
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
✮ ~ Toko's Writing Thread ~ ✮
SWC
11/18 - 802 words
It begins with a shimmering, that fragile unspooling of reality that sounds like a silver bar breaking, not with a shatter but with a sigh. The Oxford tower glows at its ribs, every engraved match-pair vibrating as though struck by an unseen tuning fork. Within its circular heart, Robin feels language tug at him like a tide, pulling syllables from his chest. The air thickens. The walls tilt. Every vowel in the room sharpens to a blade.
He whispers, Not again, but translation magic never listens.
A seam opens in the air. Out spills night.
Then—footsteps, soft as moth wings but undeniably present. A girl steps through, haloed in drifting snow that should not exist indoors. Alina Starkov squints at the lantern-rimmed chamber, still clutching the golden flare of sunlight she had summoned instinctively. “Saints,” she breathes. “Why does every portal lead to another library?”
Behind her stride two others: the witchy swagger of Nikolai Lantsov, pretending he meant to fall through a tear in the world, and the quiet storm of the tracker, Mal, surveying the walls like they might pounce.
But the seam has not finished. It unfurls again, like the skin of the universe has decided it is merely parchment waiting to be inscribed.
A boy and his daemon stumble in—Lyra Belacqua, cheeks ruddy, eyes furious. Pantalaimon bristles, tiny pine marten claws digging into her sleeve. “This isn’t Jordan College,” she declares. “Who messed about with Dust this time?”
“You’re in Oxford,” Robin says helplessly, “but not—well—not your Oxford.”
Lyra groans. “How many Oxfords are there? Do they breed?”
Hardly a breath later, another pair arrives: two gentlemen in dark coats, trailing the faint scent of rosewater and catastrophe. Jonathan Strange surveys the Babel tower with the delighted air of a man who sees a structure and thinks only of what spells might be cast upon it. Beside him, Mr. Norrell tightens like a corset at the sight of so many reckless variables. “Strange,” he hisses, “we do not meddle with foreign magic. We agreed.”
“No, you agreed,” Strange says, and touches a silver bar with a scholar’s hunger.
The bar glows—and thrums—and hums a note so pure the characters feel it in their bones.
Robin steps forward quickly. “Please don’t touch anything.”
“Impossible,” says Strange.
“Highly advisable,” says Norrell.
What follows is the exact chaos one might expect from gathering ambitious scholars, volatile magicians, and exhausted revolutionaries in a tower built from the fragile seams of language itself.
Alina, drawn to the bars’ shimmer, tries to translate light into a form that might harmonize with silver. It works beautifully for a second, until it works terribly, which is to say: the tower suddenly fills with drifting orbs of sunlight that act like confused bees.
Lyra swats at them. Pantalaimon sneezes sparks.
Nikolai, delighted, suggests capturing one for research. Mal pulls him back before he can burn off an eyebrow.
Meanwhile, Strange attempts to summon a current of wind to clear the air, but his spell catches on the tower’s translation magic, flipping weather into syntax. A gale roars up, made entirely of words. Fragments of forgotten languages spiral around them in a storm of syllables: Akkadian verbs, ancient Welsh charms, scraps of Chinese oracle-bone inscriptions. Each glints like a sliver of glass.
Robin, hearing Babel hum at this unbearable pitch, knows the tower is close to fracturing. It was never meant to hold the weight of so many worlds at once.
He grabs a drifting word, cups it in his palm. It pulses softly, like a heartbeat. “Language brought you here,” he says. “Maybe language can send you back.”
Lyra squints. “You mean we just… read ourselves home?”
“Something like that,” Robin replies, though he hardly believes it.
But Norrell straightens, as though arriving at a conclusion he dislikes but accepts. “A concordance,” he murmurs. “A shared utterance across worlds. If we speak the right sentence together—each in our own tongue—perhaps the tower will release us.”
Alina nods. “Then choose the sentence.”
Robin thinks of all the words he has ever studied—words as bridges, words as weapons, words as chains. He settles on the only one that feels honest.
“Try this,” he says quietly.
We return by the paths we make together.
And so they speak.
Alina in Ravkan.
Lyra in the low warm vowels of Brytain.
Strange in crisp King’s English, Norrell in fussier Old Northern inflection.
Robin in Mandarin, Cantonese, and English all braided into one breath.
The tower brightens—then softens—then exhales.
One by one, they fade, returning to their own impossible stories.
When the last spark dims, Robin stands alone in the circular chamber. Babel is quiet again. But the air tastes faintly of sunlight, snow, and the prickling thrill of other worlds. He smiles, despite everything.
“Languages,” he whispers, “will never stop opening doors.”
11/18 - 802 words
It begins with a shimmering, that fragile unspooling of reality that sounds like a silver bar breaking, not with a shatter but with a sigh. The Oxford tower glows at its ribs, every engraved match-pair vibrating as though struck by an unseen tuning fork. Within its circular heart, Robin feels language tug at him like a tide, pulling syllables from his chest. The air thickens. The walls tilt. Every vowel in the room sharpens to a blade.
He whispers, Not again, but translation magic never listens.
A seam opens in the air. Out spills night.
Then—footsteps, soft as moth wings but undeniably present. A girl steps through, haloed in drifting snow that should not exist indoors. Alina Starkov squints at the lantern-rimmed chamber, still clutching the golden flare of sunlight she had summoned instinctively. “Saints,” she breathes. “Why does every portal lead to another library?”
Behind her stride two others: the witchy swagger of Nikolai Lantsov, pretending he meant to fall through a tear in the world, and the quiet storm of the tracker, Mal, surveying the walls like they might pounce.
But the seam has not finished. It unfurls again, like the skin of the universe has decided it is merely parchment waiting to be inscribed.
A boy and his daemon stumble in—Lyra Belacqua, cheeks ruddy, eyes furious. Pantalaimon bristles, tiny pine marten claws digging into her sleeve. “This isn’t Jordan College,” she declares. “Who messed about with Dust this time?”
“You’re in Oxford,” Robin says helplessly, “but not—well—not your Oxford.”
Lyra groans. “How many Oxfords are there? Do they breed?”
Hardly a breath later, another pair arrives: two gentlemen in dark coats, trailing the faint scent of rosewater and catastrophe. Jonathan Strange surveys the Babel tower with the delighted air of a man who sees a structure and thinks only of what spells might be cast upon it. Beside him, Mr. Norrell tightens like a corset at the sight of so many reckless variables. “Strange,” he hisses, “we do not meddle with foreign magic. We agreed.”
“No, you agreed,” Strange says, and touches a silver bar with a scholar’s hunger.
The bar glows—and thrums—and hums a note so pure the characters feel it in their bones.
Robin steps forward quickly. “Please don’t touch anything.”
“Impossible,” says Strange.
“Highly advisable,” says Norrell.
What follows is the exact chaos one might expect from gathering ambitious scholars, volatile magicians, and exhausted revolutionaries in a tower built from the fragile seams of language itself.
Alina, drawn to the bars’ shimmer, tries to translate light into a form that might harmonize with silver. It works beautifully for a second, until it works terribly, which is to say: the tower suddenly fills with drifting orbs of sunlight that act like confused bees.
Lyra swats at them. Pantalaimon sneezes sparks.
Nikolai, delighted, suggests capturing one for research. Mal pulls him back before he can burn off an eyebrow.
Meanwhile, Strange attempts to summon a current of wind to clear the air, but his spell catches on the tower’s translation magic, flipping weather into syntax. A gale roars up, made entirely of words. Fragments of forgotten languages spiral around them in a storm of syllables: Akkadian verbs, ancient Welsh charms, scraps of Chinese oracle-bone inscriptions. Each glints like a sliver of glass.
Robin, hearing Babel hum at this unbearable pitch, knows the tower is close to fracturing. It was never meant to hold the weight of so many worlds at once.
He grabs a drifting word, cups it in his palm. It pulses softly, like a heartbeat. “Language brought you here,” he says. “Maybe language can send you back.”
Lyra squints. “You mean we just… read ourselves home?”
“Something like that,” Robin replies, though he hardly believes it.
But Norrell straightens, as though arriving at a conclusion he dislikes but accepts. “A concordance,” he murmurs. “A shared utterance across worlds. If we speak the right sentence together—each in our own tongue—perhaps the tower will release us.”
Alina nods. “Then choose the sentence.”
Robin thinks of all the words he has ever studied—words as bridges, words as weapons, words as chains. He settles on the only one that feels honest.
“Try this,” he says quietly.
We return by the paths we make together.
And so they speak.
Alina in Ravkan.
Lyra in the low warm vowels of Brytain.
Strange in crisp King’s English, Norrell in fussier Old Northern inflection.
Robin in Mandarin, Cantonese, and English all braided into one breath.
The tower brightens—then softens—then exhales.
One by one, they fade, returning to their own impossible stories.
When the last spark dims, Robin stands alone in the circular chamber. Babel is quiet again. But the air tastes faintly of sunlight, snow, and the prickling thrill of other worlds. He smiles, despite everything.
“Languages,” he whispers, “will never stop opening doors.”
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