SWC Megathread ࿔*:☘︎･ November 2025

silverlynx-

Daily 11th November - Letter

Dear Anonymous Twin,
I am writing this letter to you to let you know how much you are appreciated by me - I don’t let you know enough, or even at all how much I do appreciate you, as I’m just afraid (this sounds stupid, sorry!!) to show it. I don’t think you can get closer to someone than literally being born two minutes apart. I loved every single second of chaos when we shared a room - playing ‘Peekaboo’ and ‘No more monkeys jumping on the bed’ (which always resulted in a head injury) and discos before bed. I remember the first time when I moved up to my current room, and I wouldn’t go to sleep. I woke our parents up and made them set up a cot (I was 5!!) in our room so I could sleep there. In Year 1, I remember when I wasn’t partners with you in class for the first time, and I was holding back tears for the next few weeks.

I just want to thank you for being so supportive of me - even when it’s hard. Over the years we have separated more, as it’s natural when we’re put in different classes, to make our own friends. We aren’t so dependent on each other any more, but we are still very close. On the recent residential when we were put in different houses (15 miles away from each other) that was my first proper time being away from you, for more than one night, and I missed you so much.
I don’t think there’s a thing I don’t know about you - apart from your music taste! And I don’t think there’s anything I’ve kept from you either! Despite obvious sisterly arguments, you are pretty much my best friend, and I feel so privileged that I can even have a twin (so that I don’t have to make friends whenever I go to one-off events!), let alone one like you! We can get a bit sick of each other, which is completely expected when you were literally together before birth, and it is annoying being 2 minutes younger than you, and the fact that you're two inches taller than me as you were breach birth so you took up all the space in the womb (and apparently you were kicking me as well - how rude!)… I could go on and on, but there are so many more good things that I could list about you, better and deeper than little fights over height differences. You’re extremely silly (which is a compliment by the way), and a very thoughtful person. You worry very deeply if someone even vaguely criticises you, and that shows how much you care. Thank you for being so incredible <3
Love from your annoying (amazing) twin sister,
Silvi (I nearly wrote my name :00)

seIkie-

☽ critiquitaire ☾

title: burning
words: 785

writing thread

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

a/n: the lack of quotation marks & the lack of paragraph breaks during the dialogue is intentional.

My father used to bake pumpkin pie. I think it was the only dish he knew how to make. He'd burn the spaghetti sauce my mom had him keep an eye on. The pancake batter would turn lumpy and gray, even as he swore up and down he'd followed the back-of-the-box recipe to a T. Pumpkin pie, though—that, he made perfectly. He would bake it in the fall, whenever the first tree lost all of its leaves. At night, when my father was asleep, my brothers and I had wrapped our arms around tree trunks and shook them until leaves fell like flurries around us. We'd sneaked back inside like it was some big secret. (Mom has half a dozen blurry photos of four silhouettes in the night.) More often than not, it was a tree we passed in the car that convinced my father it was time.

We weren't allowed in the kitchen while he baked. The pumpkin pie was something sacred to him. (It was sacred to us, too, because it tasted delicious.) I had asked Mom about it when I was younger, and it crosses my mind to ask her again now that I'm old, but then I think of her expression. The bridge of her nose squinched, her eyes narrowed, and her lips tightened. She told my wide-eyed self, Someone very special taught him. Now, I realize she didn't know. That was a lie she clung to. I try to puzzle it out for myself. I think of my father a lot—more than I did when he was alive, certainly. My therapist says it's not unusual. Everyone seeks resolution. She says I should bake my own pumpkin pie.

I've tried. I've tried many times. I don't have the patience to wait for fall. I bake pies anyway: when I'm happy, when I'm sad, when I'm frustrated. I never resolve anything. Half the time, I come out of a stupor to find my kitchen a disaster. I sit on the chipping tile floor with a pan in front of me and what is, ostensibly, a pumpkin pie atop it. It doesn't look like a pumpkin pie, let alone my father's. If I'm supposed to infer something about him from my experience, I infer that my father was angry, or perhaps a saint. I pry the pumpkin pie from the pan with a spatula and spend half an hour scrubbing off its charred crust.

My father did offer to teach me once. My brothers said he never asked them. But I was passing through the kitchen one day, and my father said, Come here. He had pans spread across every counter. I looked over his shoulder and out the window: the tree limbs were bare. I said, What? My father cuffed me on the back of the head. Don't “what” me, he said. Yes, Dad? I said. How about you help me with this, he said, and he put his hand atop the stand mixer. Ummm—here, I glanced at the front door. He caught me. What're you looking at? he asked. My friends are outside, I said, and I pulled out the soccer ball I'd stuffed under my hoodie. (It belonged to my oldest brother.) My father looked at the front door, too. You want to go do that? he said. All right, go ahead. He ruffled my hair with one big palm. It felt like he could've crushed me. I left. It's my fault I don't know better.

I have dreams of that day and other days. My father teaches me to bake pumpkin pie. He is as stern as he was when he was alive, with a voice like gravel under shoes. After these dreams, I always bake a pie. They are perhaps my worst pies. I cry halfway through making the puree, and while I keep it snot-free, some tears land in the bowl. I cry often when I bake. It's part of the process. My therapist says it's not unusual. Grieving is natural. She says it'd be weirder if I didn't cry. (I'm thinking about terminating her.)

It's futile to wish I'd stayed that day. I admit it openly. (That's part of our problem. My therapist misunderstands me.) I don't grieve that lost day. I don't grieve my father's pumpkin pies. I don't grieve at all, some days. That is the past, and my god-awful pumpkin pies are the present. I try a dozen different recipes. Nothing changes. I sit on my kitchen floor and pick at the least-burned part of the pie. It tastes bad. I wonder how many pies my father made before he perfected his recipe. I wonder how many times he cried.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Alfalfa78

letter
- - -

Dear Chuey,

So… I thought I was going to write a letter to a family member or maybe an IRL friend but… I couldn’t stop thinking of you and the positive impact you’ve had on my life, both on- and offline. So, uhm, hello!!! Prepare for a super sappy, possibly unfiltered, and very run on letter from yours truly!

I think the first time we interacted was sometime in November ’24. That was the first time I had ever really been active in SWC, and it was by far my most memorable session. It was the first time I had really interacted with anyone in the main cabin, actually. And I still remember the conversations we had fondly.

But I think the first time we really, properly interacted was when you picked me for your co for Mystery in March. I wasn’t expecting to get picked by anyone, if I’m being honest with myself. And then I woke up and checked on Scratch and I had about a dozen notifications. I was confused, and then scrolled down all the way to the bottom of my unread and…

It was you, offering me co-leader for Mystery.

I was so shocked and so giddy over someone as cool as ChueyTheCat (!!!) picking me (!!! Me!!!) me as their co-leader! I cannot explain the wiggles and giggles I got as I accepted the offer. I am unashamed to admit that I couldn’t sit still and had to do a little jog around my house to calm down.

And, to be honest, I still get a similar feeling whenever you pop up in my inbox, or when I see one of your comments in the main cabin. The slight smile that spreads over my face when I read your comments is always welcome. There’s been many a time when I haven’t been feeling the best and you’ve cheered me up, simply because you’re you.

You’re just so supportive and nice and funny and wonderful and I’m really glad I can consider you as a friend.

I still remember roleplay day, when you referred to me as “ friend” in narration. Honestly, I teared up a little. It was just so sweet and there were just so many emotions I was feeling in that moment that I can’t name them. But you’re my friend, one of my dearest ones on Scratch and I just…

You’re you and I’m me and we’re friends and—

*indescribable gibberish because guh, feelings are hard*

But I really respect and admire you, even to this day. You’re one of the reasons I still came back after I got blocked in March. I felt so guilty for letting you down as a co-leader. Yet… you were so kind and accepting and you didn’t say anything mean or passive aggressive like I had been envisioning for weeks and weeks.

So! Uhm! Yes! Thank you for being you!!! I love you (platonically), thank you for being such a nice friend. :]

– Love, Bea

- - -
(500 words)

-NotWillow-

──★ ˙ letter daily
420 words … november 11

Some people leave footprints on your heart. Today’s daily is for them. In honor of Remembrance Day, write about someone who had a meaningful impact on your life. Maybe they inspired you, supported you, or just made things a little brighter. Whether they’re someone you knew personally or admired from afar, write a 400-word letter to them. What would you say if you could thank them, remind them of a moment you still think about, or just let them know they mattered. This daily will earn you 500 points. Please don’t include real names or overly personal details if you’re sharing it on Scratch <3

Dear code-explosions,
Hi, I know that you will probably never see this, but I wanted to write this letter for you. We've been friends for such a long time here on this platform, and you have made such a huge impact on my life. I still have no idea what to call you, (I am NOT calling you Girlypop or Dang) but you are seriously one of my closest friends.

I know we aren't really sappy and sweet to each other, but seriously, I just had to dedicate this to you. I remember when we first met, when I was still on a different account. It has been 4 years since then. I remember when we were trying to make the other go back to her old account. You were one of the reasons why I stayed on Scratch, and I cherish the memories we have together. Even though we never actually met, I feel as if I've known you for forever.

You were someone I could always talk to and bother. I still look through our old comments, and I laugh at the memories we shared. You made me feel that I was worth something, and I think that without you, I would be way different.

We both shared very goofy personalities, and have laughed together. I still remember our “funerals” for together. Even though I unshared my side, I still enjoy rewatching it over and over. I also remember when you got revenge on me, and pranked me as well. I remember that it was the result of starting a prank war. But of course, I made it too complicated so we never did it.

Another thing that I am very grateful for is that you never asked questions. By that I mean, you didn't care where I was from, how old I was, or anything. You just talked with me about things, even if you didn't exactly know much. You would let me ramble about K-Pop, while you were a Lendrick Kamar fan, which I also had fun hearing you yap about.

I also remember having multiple conversations going on at once, sometimes even on different accounts. Like in one comment chain, we could be talking about my bio, while there is another conversation about school going on at the same time. It made things a lot more chaotic and fun.

I miss you so much code-explosions, I really hope I could talk to you again. You are someone I will never forget. <3

zodiacdog

Word war - 211 words
Prompt: “”He got the feeling that maybe he shouldn't have bargained with the unicorn." (I didn't actually get to the main part of it

)
A lush green forest surrounded him. He looked around, mesmerized by rhe flitting shadows and shifting trees. It seemed like the whole forest was alive, thrumming with force. He sighed softly, shaking his head to focus. The forest had been known to draw people in, and they rarely came back out. He swallowed nervously and continued his trek. As he continued walking, he neared a clearing in between the dense trees. Squeezing through a couple close trunks, he emerged into a beautiful sight. A thick canopy blocked out most sunlight, and fireflies flitted around the clearing. Other light was provided by orange and blue fluorescent mushrooms, shining brightly against the dark back drop. And in the center, grazing elegantly, was a unicorn. It raised its head, a mouthful of grass still in its mouth, and finished its meal without acknowledging him any more. He gulped, and said, “Uh, hello?” The unicorn turned back around to face him, this time, annoyance clear on its face. “What?” It asked in a grumpy tone. He jumped back, shock clearly on his face. The unicorn nickered in amusement. “What, never seen a talking unicorn before?” beofre he could respond, the unicorn continued. “If you’re here, you want something. So get on with it.” He swallowed

moosywoosy

{ title I’ll come up with later }

TRIGGER WARNING FOR MENTIONS OF DEATH AND GRIEF!!

୨┋◦ ʚ { ღ } ɞ ◦┋୧

At the top of Thao’s inbox, there was an email. Nothing unusual about it. She was a teacher after all, and received emails constantly. It wasn’t an email to a sports club or some other subscription, but an email from a parent, as she could tell from the fact the sender was labeled as ‘Nicole Ayala’. She recognized that name, as she had met her during parent-teacher conferences a few months back. Her cursor laid on top of the email, blinking.

Putting away the first graders’ spelling tests, she clicked open the email.

Dear Ms. Nguyen,

Hello, I would like to talk to you about my daughter, Iris. She is likely going to be absent for the next week or so.

Her older brother has recently passed away in an accident, and I’m having a hard time explaining to her that her older brother won’t be coming back. She’s going to need a long time to process what happened. She’s still a kid, after all, so she hasn’t quite grasped onto the concept of death yet.

I also want to address how things are going to be once she starts coming to school again. For one, she probably still won’t quite understand what has happened to her brother. I am not asking you to lie to her, but please be gentle with her. Kids process grief in strange ways, and it’s going to be hard for her to have to face it at such a young age. Please do not push her, and make sure she’s doing well.

From,
Nicole Ayala

Thao only stared at the email with bated breath as she read through line after line. Her computer screen was the only light in the woman’s dark apartment. Her eyes wavered on the screen, reading the lines through her glasses—as if a reread would make her find another meaning of the words between the lines.

Iris was a good kid, she shouldn’t have had to go through this at her age. Nonetheless, Thao typed a response.

I understand. Thank you for telling me. I’ll be sure to be gentle with her.

—

The following week was eerily quiet without the presence of the bubbly girl. The days ticked by slowly, the hands on the clock moving with no care for the girl’s absence. When the children all sat on the rug for storytime, the absence of the girl felt daunting. Usually, a student’s absence wouldn’t hold this much weight on Thao’s heart. However, knowing the reason why was something as serious and as terrible as what it was—a cloud was overcast on Thao.

The children asked why Iris was absent on her third day of absence—of course they did, children were always going to be curious like that. Ms. Nguyen only smiled and told them Iris had personal, important matters to attend to, that currently took priority over school.

The children complained about how lucky Iris was to be missing school, Ms. Nguyen shushed them and told them they were being insensitive. They did, for the words of the adults were law to them, though there were grumbled protests. Thao couldn’t make herself face the gaze of the children before her. They only perceived the fact that Iris had been able to miss school, the full picture had not yet been painted for them yet.

Thao almost hoped it never would be, but fantasies like that never came true.

—

Iris came back to school a week after her absences started, completely lining up with what her mother had said. Her eyes were tired, her lips curved downwards. It felt so fundamentally wrong to see that face on a child. Nonetheless. Ms. Nguyen still smiled, asked if Iris needed help putting her backpack away, or taking down her chair. Iris only responded with a curt nod instead of the usual enthusiastic yes. Ms. Nguyen only nodded back and helped Iris out.

No one had to know that Thao’s expression turned solemn the moment she turned away.

Iris only responded to Thao’s help with a hushed ‘thank you’, before taking her seat and drawing in her notebook. Normally, Ms. Nguyen would ask her to put away her notebook and pay attention to the lesson, but Thao didn’t have it in her to do it. Not now.

Even as Ms. Nguyen was explaining basic addition on the whiteboard, her eyes couldn’t help but wander to the girl’s notebook, scratchy lines covering the pages from top to bottom.

She continued the lesson, and her students ultimately decided not to comment on the way her eyes flitted randomly throughout. They just chalked it up to adults doing adult things they didn’t understand—and maybe they were partially right in that assumption.

—

Thao passed out a short written assignment to her students. It was a short prompt: ‘What does hope mean to you?’ She watched as her students wrote away on their papers, but Iris only drew flowers on the edges. In a classic manner for a teacher, she approached Iris’s desk, crouching down to meet her level.

“What’s up?” Thao—or rather, Ms. Nguyen at this moment—asked, “Having trouble with the assignment?” Iris tapped her fingers on the desk, before nodding slowly.

“…I guess I know what hope is. It’s when you want something.” Iris murmured, drawing circles on her pink rubber eraser. “Like, I hope I’ll have mac n’ cheese for dinner.”

Thao nodded, “Right, that’s one way to think of hope. But, remember what we’ve learned about verbs and nouns? A verb is…”

“An action word.”

“A noun is…”

“A person, place, or thing.”

“Good job!” Ms. Nguyen watched the girl’s chest slightly inflate at the praise. It was the first sign of emotion other than bitterness that Thao saw in the girl. Ms. Nguyen continued, “Hope, can also be a noun. Say, let’s think of hope, as a noun, to be…the ability to hope, the ability to believe good things will happen.”

Understanding dawned on Iris’s eyes, she bobbed her head up and down before beginning to write her answer.

“Well, do you have it?” Ms. Nguyen smiled, ready to make her grand escape—because looking at the way Iris’s eyes were filled with a muddy watercolor blur of sadness, denial, and emptiness was too much of a toll on Thao’s mind. However, Iris called out for her, and the teacher in Thao knew never to ignore a student.

“Ms. Nguyen,” Iris whispered. “Is it possible to lose hope?”

“Hm?”

“Is it possible to…lose the ability to hope? I mean, I hope I’ll have mac n’ cheese for dinner tonight, but sometimes I get tired of mac n’ cheese and don’t wanna eat it ever again.” Iris spun her eraser in her hand. “So, is it possible to lose hope like that?”

Thao’s eyes narrowed, eyebrows knitting together tightly. It hurt knowing where it was that this question was coming from, and what was only another gut punch was the analogy that Iris had presented her with. It was another bleak reminder, that at the end of the day, Iris was still a kid who had gone through too much.

“Yes, sometimes people lose hope.” Thao answered honestly—she didn’t like lying to kids, unless she was lying about Santa Claus, but that didn’t count. “But, people regain it too. Tell me, don’t you eventually want to eat mac n’ cheese again after not wanting it for a while?”

Iris shrugged, “I guess.”

“It’s the same for hope, after you lose it, you can eventually gain it back.” Thao stood up and made her departure, not willing to spend another minute staring into the shell of her student’s former self. However, Thao was still able to see the small light of understanding in Iris’s eyes before she moved on to help someone else.

Ms. Nguyen received Iris’s assignment a few minutes later.

‘Hope is when I want something, but it’s also something I can have. Hope is something that I lose sometimes, but I can eventually get it back.’

Thao would deny tearing up at the sight.

—

When they neared the day’s end, the time where the students were clustered together around the door, chatter coursing through the room, Iris had approached Ms. Nguyen’s desk. Her eyes, still downcast, were an outlier from the rest of the group. She fiddled with her fingers, Ms. Nguyen only met her with a warm smile like she always did, it was an expression she had always put in place. In front of difficult children, when children cried, or when she needed to greet her class in the morning. It was, at the end of the day, nothing but a fake smile.

“Ms. Nguyen, is it true sometimes people leave and never come back?” Iris asked—almost pleaded in a low voice.

That was what death was as explained to children, and it was only natural she’d ask. Her mother likely told her nothing more than, ‘your brother is gone, and he’ll never come back.’. She didn’t explain the way the heart stopped, the fact there was so much uncertainty around what happened after, she didn’t explain how the brain shut down. She only explained that he left and wasn’t coming back.

“Yes. Sometimes people leave and never come back.”

Iris breathed, breath trembling in the air. It was a dark contrast amongst the regular, light-hearted chatter usually in the room. Her eyes begged for an answer, gleaming under the cheap lights on the ceiling.

“My mom said I won’t see my brother again, but I don’t believe her.” Iris looked up. “Ms. Nguyen, do you think I will see my brother again?”

Iris smiled as she asked it—but it wasn’t the type of smile you’d see when a child won a prize at a fair, or the type of smile you’d see when you aced a test. It wasn’t a happy smile—or was it a sad one. It was just a smile.

Thao had prayed silently that she’d never get asked a question like this, much less from the innocent eyes of a first-grader. Nonetheless, Thao had to give her answer. Iris scratched the strap of her backpack, the silent sound piercing to the ears. But despite it, Thao made a decision.

Even if Iris would hate her for it one day—surely it couldn’t hurt to let the girl indulge in fantasy for just a little while. With all the sincerity Thao had, she smiled.

“Yes, I’m sure you will.”

Thao Nguyen became a liar that day.

ᯓ | 1747 ωσя∂s

୨┋◦ ʚ { ღ } ɞ ◦┋୧

Last edited by moosywoosy (Nov. 12, 2025 02:53:14)

taylorsversion--

Weekly 2 ☆ Historical Fiction
0/1500 words

─────────────

Part 1 ⋅ Researching The Time Period (Victorian Era) ⋅ 0/200 words

–1837 to 1901
– Steam Train was introduced
– Cities were overcrowded
– Women were married off
– There was a big social divide between wealthier and poorer families
– Children had to work from a young age
– Local football matches became popular
– Railways allowed professional football teams to be introduced and allowed both players and fans to go to matches

The Victorian Era saw a lot of change happen when it came to industry and technology. There were lots of advances in science and medicine, but this era also brought on harsh jobs and poor working conditions. For the larger part of the Era, education was not compulsory for children, and many worked in factories, on farms, and in coal mines. According to Google, life expectancy increased by about 10 years.

The Victorian Era was a time of either extreme wealth or extreme poverty,

Last edited by taylorsversion-- (Today 16:52:56)

KittyQween9000

Word Count: 499
Daily - 13

*theme music starts playing*
Show host: Welcome tooooo that show that you apparently watch sometimes or uh, you wouldn’t be watching it right now… anyways on to the showwww Tonight we present to you an interview with that one book that you started over a year ago and keep telling yourself that you will finish.
*camera switches to a different view of an interviewer sitting in one chair and a book sitting in another chair facing each other*
Interviewer: Hello, Welcome to That Show that You Apparently Watch Sometimes. With us today is that book that you started a while ago and keep telling yourself you’re going to finish. Book that You Started a While Ago and Keep Telling Yourself You’re going to Finish, it’s an honor to have you here tonight.

Book that You Started a While Ago and Keep Telling Yourself You’re going to Finish: It’s truly my honor. You know I feel like it really does bring up the fact that you know we do exist. And it would be nice if people actually finished reading us.

Interviewer: So, we will just be asking you some questions and hopefully you can give us some insight into being well, you. So, what do you personally think of what you do every day as well, you.

Book that You Started a While Ago and Keep Telling Yourself You’re going to Finish: Well, you see. The person who decided to start reading me started reading me around 14 months ago. And now I sit on the shelf and watch them read other books instead of me. And while I can’t speak for every book that every person started reading and keep telling themselves they will finish. I personally do feel a bit abandoned since they continue to read all these books, and I sit half read and wonder if they’re no longer interested in the story or if they even remember it at this rate

Interviewer: Do you ever have people tell you that you could have worse problems than not being read?

Book that You Started a While Ago and Keep Telling Yourself You’re going to Finish: No, actually. Surprisingly no. But, I used to sit next to a book - I think it was the Secret Garden but, I made the mistake of telling her that I had been sitting half read for a couple of months and she - The Secret Garden told me that I don’t have it the worst here since she had been sitting there with only 15 pages left for nearly 3 years.

Interviewer: Interesting… Anything else that you would like to say?

Book that You Started a While Ago and Keep Telling Yourself You’re going to Finish: Just, if people can remember about us more. We do exist and if people can finish reading us that would be nice.

Interviewer: Alright, you heard them, and thank you for watching That Show that You Apparently Watch Sometimes, have a good night

*theme music plays*

1lMaM

personification daily: 13/11

tick
tock
forever i watch, slightly apart from true time in our lowly form of seconds and minutes, a fractured bone a few minutes from the ‘real’ time we use. forever my hands roll around the same circle and the same marks and the same times of day, and i'm strapped forever to the same left wrist. forever i count the minutes, the strange human construct trying endlessly to cover a perfect constant with a three-dimensional model. this is my life. this is every turn of every gear, every button press and flash of light.
tick
tock
tick
tock
i lie untouched. time ticks, seconds and minutes and hours and days, and the month on the inset digital screen ticks from 12 back to 1. cold objects pile around me, pushing me further down the cold, soulless wall. time ticks and ticks and ticks and i lie untouched, and i begin to wonder whether i will be used in the near future. i do not believe i can lie here forever. as long as time lingers on, there is still time for me to be found again. the month ticks again to 2. i've almost forgotten what it's like to be worn-
a warm hand pulls me from the grave.
the same left wrist straps me on again.
tick
tock
time travels on, a crawl, a whirlwind, and i carve a place in this wrist and this world. my silicone band bends, and i barely touch water even though i was made to withstand it. my hands still tick, cutting invisible circles as they jut away from the standard time, digital seconds still counting ever upwards. i lie untouched, hints of cold brushing my face, and then i am picked up again. i wonder sometimes if this is what everything experiences. does every object feel as if on an endless pendulum between loved and forgotten? did the photos next to me feel a spike of joy - or perhaps relief - when they were finally picked up? when they were remembered again? perhaps they realise they are only paper, and that is only one of their purposes….
but i can only try to project an incorrect time, like a two-dimensional model of the earth. of course, we tried that too.
tick
tock
tick
tock

(392 words)

Asha-the-SWC-fan

Daily 13
The Wrath of Page 237
I felt it the moment it happened.
That slow, sneaky little fold.
Your greasy thumb pinched my corner, and crkkk!—
A dog-ear.
The audacity.
Do you have any idea what that does to a book’s self-esteem?
I was immaculate. Straight-backed. Crisp. Smelled faintly of intellect and secondhand bookstore nostalgia.
Now? I look like I’ve been through a divorce and a flood.
You monsters always say, “Oh, it gives the book character!”
Character? I’m not a rescue cat. I had dignity.
That fold isn’t “character,” it’s cartilage damage.
Ever heard of a bookmark?
They literally exist to prevent this kind of emotional violence.
You could’ve used a receipt, a napkin, your phone—heck, a single crumb of self-respect.
But no. You went for me.
Now my corner is permanently bent, like I’m doing some kind of literary yoga pose.
The other pages won’t stop talking about it. Page 18 calls me “Origami.” Page 92 says I “look lived in.”
Yeah, well, Page 92 has a coffee stain the size of regret, so maybe they shouldn’t talk.
You humans really think books don’t judge you.
Ha. I’ve seen what you highlight.
You underlined “We accept the love we think we deserve” and then texted your ex five minutes later.
Pathetic.
Still… I’ll give you this. You keep coming back.
You reread me, you laugh, you cry, you spill your secrets between my lines.
So maybe the fold’s not just a scar. Maybe it’s proof. Proof that someone couldn’t quite let go.
But don’t get sentimental now. I’m not that easy.
Until then?
I’m manifesting.
And maybe—just maybe—plotting to papercut you the next time you dog-ear me.
No one ever suspects the book.

Last edited by Asha-the-SWC-fan (Nov. 13, 2025 15:30:09)

sweetcakefamily

Tilly's personification daily // #13

I remember the first day I saw her. Deep brown eyes gleaming with delight from a round little face, mouth pulled into a grin of incandescent joy. At first I was simply relieved to be out of the suffocating folds of paper I had been forced into by those brutish adults who left me concealed in that darkness for hours, then quickly irritated by the squeals of little girls that grated into my ears once I was freed from the flimsy prison.
But then those eyes, golden brown, serene like autumn, enveloped me in such affection that no gaze had ever made me feel before.
The way she traced her stubby fingers over my little black eyes, pulled at the draping brown antlers about my ears, and squeezed at my big khaki snout while everyone’s voices echoed with ‘happy birthday dear Laia’ around us is a memory forever etched into my mind, and my delight only soared from there.
She would hug me every night underneath cosy piles of heart-printed blankets. Show me off fitted in pastel pink, yellow and green gowns. Hold deliciously flaky pastries oozing with deep purple blueberries and steaming with sweet aromas to my snout even though I could never taste it at her little tea parties where it was just me and her. Bring me into the car whenever her family went to the shops, dancing me on her lap and often leaning my head out of the window as we sped down the road when her parents in the front weren’t looking, sending exhilarating wind whipping through my antlers.
She named me ‘Deer’, the simplest name she could have thought of given what I was—but ‘that thing’, ‘the big nosed toy’ and ‘that wonky-eyed reindeer’ were thrown around a lot back at Thompson’s Toys, so ‘Deer’ was the sweetest name I’d ever been called.
As she grew older, it got even better. Chill afternoons snuggled under her arm while she watched dainty ladies with flapping crystalline wings on a glowing black screen on the wall turned into riveting adventures in the garden where she cut out aeroplanes from paper and sent me flying to dizzying heights—although due to gravity the flights were rather short. Or days at the park where she set me sailing across puddles when it rained in a boat made of cardboard and shaped to my size in perfect fashion. Or, my personal favourite, when she took me with her on a REAL plane to some country that was brighter and more sunny than the one we left behind, and made sandcastles in front of me on the beach and held me to pose with her in front of dazzling grey castles that towered into the sky.

(Ending here because I’ve reached beyond the word minimum and I’ve gtg :’D)
456 words

FairyAyla

Daily 13:

What if your sadness could sigh? Or your coffee mug got jealous when you used a different one? That’s the magic of personification—bringing the world to life by giving anything a voice, a mood, a little bit of drama. Pick something—an emotion, an object, a season, a time of day—and imagine how it thinks, feels, or speaks. What does it want? What does it hate? How does it see the world? Write 300 words to earn 350 points and a bonus 100 for sharing—and don’t forget, everything has a personality if you look at it sideways.

Hello! I am a clothes drawer. I hold lots of yummy clothes. Expect, ah, I can’t actually eat them, since the clothes belong to someone else. So I just hold them, inside me, til someone needs them. They do taste very good, though. It’s nice having lots of clothes in your mouth, even though you can’t actually eat them. I hold lots of pants, miscellaneous clothes, and most importantly, underpants. My neighbor, who is also a clothes drawer, holds pants, shirts, and some more miscellaneous clothes. There are also some clothes on top of us, since not everything fits, or our owner forgot to put the clothes in. We also have a bunch of notebooks and stuff on top of us as well. My poor neighboring clothes drawer, is very full of clothes. They probably have a stomach ache. They also have scented bags in them, to make the clothes smell nice. I wish I had one. They’re lucky. It’s very annoying, when someone leaves your drawer open, and you have to wait for someone to close it, then sometimes something weird will fall in there, and it’s very unpleasant, having a random thing in your mouth. You see, the drawers are kind of like our mouths. Yes, we each have multiple mouths. It’s not weird, don’t be rude. You humans only have one mouth, which is weird, if you ask me. But you didn’t, since no one seems to ask clothes drawers questions. How very rude. I wish we were asked questions, it’d be fun to answer them. I love talking. How can a clothes drawer can talk, you might be asking?. We talk the same as you, silly! Anyway, I suppose I should be finishing up, I wouldn’t want to bore you. My neighboring clothes drawer says I do that. Anyway, goodbye! Have a clothful day!

308 words

Last edited by FairyAyla (Nov. 13, 2025 19:03:39)

silverlynx-

Daily 13th November - Personification
339 words

Grief. It swallows you whole. It drowns you in a limitless ocean. It wreathes jagged thorns around your heart.
Grief stabs you in the back, right when you don’t see it coming. It drains all the colours from your world, and leaves you in a place of hollow, empty darkness that stretches on for what can seem forever.

Grief is loneliness. Isolation. Being trapped in a prison with cold iron bars that close in on you further and further. Grief is shown through the tears that roll down your cheeks from your red-rimmed eyes, the hands that clench into pearly white fists, the raw cries of pain that you may never see them again, that they’re lost on their own, without you to lead them.

Grief is fear. Fear of the unknown. Being suffocated, choked by a merciless hand that never seems to cease until you finally give up. When you simply don’t know what to do, or say, or be and there’s no one there to comfort you or guide you through it all, to make you laugh through your tears.

Grief is hopelessness. Every single time you reach out to tell them a funny joke, or give them a piece of advice, you feel the familiar numbness bleeding through. It’s when you need a shoulder to lean on, and they’re not there. When you can feel stress engulfing you and you need familiar arms to wrap around you and all you meet is Grief’s icy embrace.

Grief is also hope. And curiosity. Of what’s beyond our own understanding, who will meet us at the all too short path of life. Where you will meet them again, and that grief will finally be snatched away from you, replaced by a feeling of wholeness and unity. Hope that they may be watching over you, high above, far beyond the scattered constellations in the inky black sky and the wispy clouds and the pulsing moon, and urging you to see, without your eyes, and find them.

Milkysplash

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Unfiled Document 02 - Misc Writing 2

Words: 720

An edited version of this piece. There is no real context for this except for news room comdedy. I'm considering submitting this for the writing comp, so please be as harsh as you like with your critique!

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“Good afternoon, your headlines at twelve,” Miranda greeted, with the most serious look she could. This was a news programme, after all.

“Actress Lizzie Lee has announced the creation of a fundraising event for all those affected by the recent floods. Isn’t that nice?” Casey chirped, as she read out the first headline of the programme.

Miranda lightly prods Casey on the shoulder, to which Casey seemed somewhat shocked. “Miranda! What are you doing?” Casey hissed, before turning back to the camera. “Our National Correspondent Kiara Sanchez will be interviewing her later on the show, so that’ll be exciting.”

Miranda continued the readout with a straight face. “Train strikes are continuing all across Sunshine Bay, with the workers’ union demanding better pay and conditions. Transport for Sunshine Bay, Citylink, and Eastern Railway are advising anyone making a rail journey today to check before you travel.”

“And!” Casey interjected, excitement colouring her voice, “twelve-year-old Dylan Zheng has just won the Sunshine Bay National Robotics Competition. He took first place and he’s the youngest ever to do so! I wish I could be him,”

“A recent report also showed that fewer young people have the mathematics skills to succeed in everyday life. We’ll be talking to the Sunshine Bay University Maths Department to see how they’ve been working on fixing the skills shortage.” Miranda added, attempting to bring back the serious tone the news programme was supposed to have.

The introduction music plays, and when the screen cut back to the studio, Casey looked somewhat annoyed and scolded.

“Good afternoon, Sunshine Bay! We, your wonderful co-hosts and co-newsreaders, will be with you for the next half hour, covering all the top stories from this morning.” Casey seemed to perk up as she began reading the news headline. “Our top story today, Actress Lizze Lee has just announced her fundraising event for those who’ve been affected by the recent floods, to be held in partnership with Resilience Sunshine Bay. Our National Correspondent, Kiara Sanchez, has more! I’m excited for this.”

The scene cut to Kiara, as she stood with the actress under a gazebo. “Good afternoon, Casey and Miranda. I’m here with Lizzie Lee, here to tell us all about her new fundraising event. So, Lizzie, what made you want to start this event?” Kiara moved the handheld microphone over to the actress.

“Oh, so um, you know, people have been affected very deeply by these floods and I wanted to do my part.” Lizzie said, as she attempted to keep facing straight at the camera. “Some members of my family, who like, aren’t as fortunate as me, their homes got flooded, and that made me think very deeply about my connection to the city and its community.”

“And what will be happening at this event?” Kiara asked.

“This event? Oh, um, well, it’ll be on March 3rd and I’m hoping to have it right out here by Marina Bay. We’ll be holding a bit of a concert. I love myself a good concert, and I thought, ‘what better way to raise money than a concert?’” Lizzie explained. “We’ll also have like, um, donation stands, and um, also some food, and there’ll be tons of volunteers, and I hope everyone can come out in support of those who’ve had damaged homes.”

“Well, that sounds like a lot to look forward to. Thank you for your time, Lizzie,” Kiara thanked the actress for her time, before moving back to face the camera.

The scene cut back to the studio, where Kiara and Casey were clearly bickering.

“You,” Miranda hissed, “need to learn how to keep a straight face. This is a NEWS SHOW, Casey. You need to be serious.”

“But it doesn’t hurt to crack some jokes, right?” Casey asked. “I mean, news shows are normally quite boring, so-”

“No. Humour.” Miranda stated, as seriously as she could. She was also clearly annoyed.

“Yeah, but-!” Casey started, before being interrupted by the producer.

“You’re on air!” A faint voice could be heard shouting from off camera.

Miranda immediately straightened up, looking clearly embarrassed at her argument being caught on camera. “My apologies for my colleague,” Miranda said, apologising to the camera. “And to you, as well, Kiara.”

In the background, Kiara was trying to compose herself. “Don’t worry about it,” Kiara said, somewhat smiling.

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Last edited by Milkysplash (Nov. 13, 2025 20:13:49)

Alfalfa78

personification
- - -

And there she goes again to fill up her water for the nth time already. Girl, quit procrastinating!!! It’s literally just an essay. But what do I know? I’m just a plush she crocheted because she wanted to quit doomscrolling.
Anyways, while she’s gone getting more water… I suppose I could talk a little about myself. I’m an axolotl plushie, lopsided and a little potato shaped. My mouth is crooked and my eyes are almost aligned properly. But, hey, I’m her first crochet project, and I personally think I’m pretty good.
But you know what’s not good??? Procrastination!!!
Oh and look she came back with not only a refilled water bottle, but also a package of goldfish. She always does this, even if she’s trying to break out of the habit. She’s gotten a little better, definitely. Plus, she’s made some good progress.
“… psst,” the grey yarn beside me hisses. Fortunately, our creator is deaf, apparently, because she doesn’t hear us whenever we talk.
“Yeah?” I ask, unable to move.
“What’s it like out there?” it asks. It’s been sitting there in a bag for about two months now, almost three. Bea says that she’ll get to it eventually, but she’s too tired to do it.
“Uh,” I say, very, very eloquently. “Very blue. And bright. But it gets dark when she’s gone.”
“Yeah?” it replies. “How long did it take you to get out there?”
“A month? Maybe two,” I answered after a moment. “You’ll be soon, don’t worry.”
“Well, I certainly hope so!” the crochet hook beside the bag pipes up. “I’ve been waiting to be used for like ever.”
“Oh hush,” I hiss. “The other crochet hook is so much nicer than you.”
It gasps. “How dare you! I am an all around excellent crochet hook, thank you very much.” It continues on, oblivious to the fact that I’ve tuned it out.
“Wait!!!” I say as our human cheers quietly to herself. “She did it!”
“Did what?” the yarn and crochet hook ask simultaneously.
“Finished her essay!” I say, very proud of our human, even if she’s oblivious to our conversations about her.

- - -
(357 words)

moosywoosy

ᯓ | тιηу тαℓє 13

What if your sadness could sigh? Or your coffee mug got jealous when you used a different one? That’s the magic of personification—bringing the world to life by giving anything a voice, a mood, a little bit of drama. Pick something—an emotion, an object, a season, a time of day—and imagine how it thinks, feels, or speaks. What does it want? What does it hate? How does it see the world? Write 300 words to earn 350 points and a bonus 100 for sharing—and don’t forget, everything has a personality if you look at it sideways.

୨┋◦ ʚ { ღ } ɞ ◦┋୧

Solemnly, she stares down. Revolving around this world has always been all she could ever do. As she reflects the light from her brother down to earth, she shines a magnificent light. Of course, she loves this light of hers. However, her inferiority to her brother has always been a reigning issue of hers, for she relies completely on her brother. She is nothing without her brother’s light—and of course his light is so much more magnificent than hers. The earth praises her brother, while she only revolves around them.

The moon has nothing without the sun, shining brought amongst the stars, the matter of gases that surrounded her. The sun was the only reason she was able to shine—so what would she be without her brother? It was then that she realized just how inferior she was to her brother. After all, if she relied on another light to shine—then why should it matter? Her light was nothing but a reflection of his. If anything—could it really be considered ‘her’ light if it was really just her brother’s reflection?

But one day—it’s finally her turn, her turn for the earth to admire her in the same way as it had her brother. When her orbit finally allows for her to block out her brother, walking in front of her brother, deviously, blocking out his light as best she can. The earth admires her, it was rather easy to please.

Her brother smiles at her, as she blocks out the sun’s most precious light. He’s not upset, only grinning with pride and admiration.

“What's it like, with all the attention on you?” Her brother feels even warmer than he already was, but nonetheless, she ignores it.

“Never better.” She smiles, her craters a spectacle of her. She was admired now, for blocking out her brother, rather than for reflecting the light of his.

“Mind taking the attention of me if you like it so much?”

“If only I could.”

Her brother sighs wistfully, “If only indeed…”

Eventually it became time for them to part, her brother only stares at her as she drifts away, grinning.

ᯓ | 355 words

୨┋◦ ʚ { ღ } ɞ ◦┋୧

taylorsversion--

13.11.25 ★ Personification Daily
305/300 words

i am a pen. and i have watched in silence as your fingers fly across that keyboard, as your writing appears on a screen. i have watched for generations and generations as i have been shaped from a quill to a fountain pen to the ballpoint pen i am today, and i have been there while you have mapped the stars and sketched masterpieces and sent love letters.

but sure. bin me. do whatever you want. take out all of the energy in this world for your small, bright, screens, and i’ll sit in your school bag, drying up ever so slowly. my art and i are dying slowly, but sure. — filter blocked —

i am much more than a stream of black ink. i can be any colour, shape, size, and thickness, and i can be used for much more than just to-do lists. can the letters on your document be so versatile? would you prefer symbols on a screen to the feeling of truly getting your words out onto paper?

i am a pen, and i do not like being discarded. so please, remember me, and i'll be so grateful.

because i can not remember the endless times i've wondered about how if one day, you’ll rummage through your things, find me, and decide that i am your tool to letting your words flow, feelings express themselves, and making your visions come to life. it will not be because of homework, or notes, but because you want to and because you choose me.

even now, this has been written up using a keyboard.

so i will wait for a day, week, month, year. i'll wait for the day where you realise the mightiness of the pen, and the worth of something that doesn't rely on cloud storage.

Last edited by taylorsversion-- (Nov. 14, 2025 00:01:41)

theawesomemarbler

back to main post

November 13th Daily

I lay still on the ground, with the people on the busy streets casually ignoring my presence for the past few weeks. They threaded and stepped on my body endlessly, yet none of them decided to sweep me away. I don't remember how I got into this situation. Was it natural for me to be like this? Or was it intentional that I'm left behind like this here? I wished I have my answers to how I winded up like this, but in reality, I might never know the truth, and I will suffer endlessly until I die.

I know one thing for sure, I'm being abandoned. There's no way someone doesn't see me like this, I'm supposed to be attractive to the eyes, yet no one is batting an eye to come help me! I'm a living being too, so why are you guys neglecting me? I- I don't want to die… I don't want to die!

I tried to pant, or breathe, or find ways to calm down. Yet I'm just a wilted bouquet of roses, staring up to the brightly lit full moon smiling down upon me. Is it already nighttime? I failed to notice the time. But then again, I don't know how fast or how short time passes anyway. I'm just going to rest, there's nothing anyone can do…

“Giving up so soon?”

I heard a mischievous voice whisper in my ear. Wait, my ear?

“Hey, get up! We got things to discuss. Uh- Shimmy, please stay with me.”

Get up? I have legs? Wait, who is this person and why is she talking to me?

“I can hear ya, y'know? You're speaking pretty loud if it's supposed to be your own thoughts.” Oh.

“Seija, don't bully her! Stick with the plan!” A jovial voice called from a distance as a young girl, probably an inch tall, was flying towards us in a comically large bowl. In her hand held some sort of yellow mallet. I don't know what it is, but I sensed it could be dangerous.

“Who are you two?” Was my first sentence I spoke consciously.

“Oh, silly me. I forgot introductions.” The mischievous one answered me, I was hoping it would've been the inchling instead. “I can still hear you, by the way. You need to distinguish your thoughts and speeches!” I rolled my eyes. “The name is Seija! And this is my friend Shinmyoumaru, but I call her Shimmy.”

“What do you two want with me? And why am I human all of a sudden?”

“You see, we need to cause a little chaos around Gensokyo, and we need your assistance. That's why we transformed all abandoned objects into youkai called tsukumogami to help us in this! Though the writer wants to add a little cheat to this story to fit the daily theme.” Seija sighed, while I look at her in confusion. I understood what she meant until the last sentence.

“We need mistreated objects to help enact as much chaos as they are likely to be more vengeful. So, would you wanna join us?”

Join them, in pursuit of chaos? Not revenge?

“I'll pass…”

“No you won't.”

Seija's demeanor had changed entirely.

“A beautiful bouquet of roses… tossed to the streets after a failed confession from a male counterpart. You were a symbol of depression and misery, yet you are perhaps still really humorous, or is it just a mask to hide your grief inside?” I did not like the way she stared at me, but deep down, there was something in me that stirred.

“And then, endlessly, you were tossed around the streets, your roses all wilted away, at the brink of death, but we managed to save you. And this is how you treat your saviors? By rejecting the one thing they ask of you?”

“Seija! You're gonna make her cry!”

I think the inchling was referring to me, was I really about to cry?

“Fine, I'll join you in your plans.” A voice I knew it was my own said words that were not of mine.

“Excellent, now let's go. Shoshin Hanami (花美傷心)”

687 words

ChueyTheCat

my stupid idiot hair || 300 words || Daily No. 13

You smile evilly to yourself. It’s difficult, given that you don’t actually have lips, or a face, or a body, but, well, it’s the mind that counts. Or something like that. Human sayings are so hard to remember.
The human whose head you’re currently attached to is currently attacking you with a brush. Sometimes, tamed by a good dose of conditioner or hairspray (it’s murder on your feisty spirit), you let the bristles pass harmlessly through your strands. Today, though, your human didn’t even bother to unravel her braid properly before trying to smooth you down, and you’re also not in a good mood. When the brush begins to run through you again, you grab it and pull. The human pulls back, tugging gently at first and then harder.
The brush snaps.
The human stares at it uncomprehendingly, growling to herself.
The fun doesn’t stop there, either. For your next trick, you tangle yourself in the hair bands she tries to use to get you out of her face, and when she gives up on that, you stand straight up in the air.
Your human groans, trying to smooth you down, but you’re not in the mood. You stick up farther than ever.
She stomps off in a foul mood, considering aloud the possibility of hacking about two feet of her hair off.
Perfect. Now she’s just as grumpy as you are. Mission accomplished. You feel pleased with yourself. She didn’t even notice that you clung to the bobby pins lost in the frizzled mass of whatever style she tried cooking up sixty seven minutes earlier. You plan to drop them out of yourself at the worst possible moment.
For your final trick, you snap the one hair band she managed to wrestle into you.
This is a good day.

KitVMH

November 13 Daily

315 words

“Ugh, Summer, why is it so warm? It’s November.”
“You said I could take over!”
“I said you could fill in. Just for the week. Along with Winter.” Fall looked around. “Where is Winter?”
“It left,” said Summer. “We may have had a teensy disagreement…”
“Summer.” Fall sighed, the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. “I told you to work together. Balance each other out.”
“I tried. But Winter kept making it to cold, and said I was making it too hot—”
“It is too hot.”
“So we tried taking turns, and I let it have its turn fair and square, except it still made things too cold so I made them warmer, and it didn’t like me ‘interfering’ with its turn, so… Well, basically, it left.”
“Winter,” Fall called. “Is this true?”
Winter gusted in, a burst of cold air. “Summer is always making it too hot. Trying to take over everyone else’s months. I tried to even the score…”
“You’re about to get, like, a whole six months to yourself!” said Summer. “Couldn’t you just let me have one more week—”
“You already had your time. You think you deserve the whole year?”
“No, but—”
“Enough, both of you!” snapped Fall. “This is my time. Not yours — either of yours. I thought you two together could help me out for just a bit while I got everything in order. And I come back to find it’s seventy degrees in November!”
“It would be even hotter if Summer had its way,” Winter grumbled.
Summer gave a mirthless laugh, the sound of crashing waves. “You’re one to talk! You made it snow two days ago!”
“Only barely. I didn’t even make it stick.”
Fall sighed again. “I should’ve known better than to trust you two. Honestly, can you ever agree on anything? Next time I’ll talk to Spring. It’s the only other decent season.”

Last edited by KitVMH (Nov. 13, 2025 23:42:46)

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