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- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
Daily 07/11/2025
When I stepped on to the genre staircase, it was gleaming and silver, and the stairs undulated beneath my feet, shifting me upwards. Cogs turned far beneath my feet, in an intricate mechanical system far beyond my knowledge. A glass and metal frame stretched over my head, evoking a sense of awe in me. As I looked around, I could see walls of screens, towering high over streets filled with gleaming metal, and technologies I couldn’t identify. Some people even had metal implants in them, perhaps to enhance their senses or provide an extra insight into the world around them.
Then the scene began to shift, and I saw the stairs beneath my feet losing their shine and fading away to wood. Now I had to move manually, and the stairs creaked under my feet. The air was swirling with dust, and to my sides, I could see shelves full of books, records and gadgets. An old-fashioned telephone was mounted on the wall, and a leather briefcase lay discarded on a step. I felt as if I ought to be on alert. I scanned the stairway carefully as I climbed, taking in each detail as I saw it. Maybe there was something to solve there, but it was not for me to solve, as soon the stairs began to change again.
At first, I thought it was some kind of glitter or sequins, but it was something else shining under my feet. Magic? Perhaps. Certainly, as I looked down, I could see an ocean full of writhing, scaled animals unlike anything I had seen before. Something that could well have been a dragon swooped through the air, frighteningly close above me. It opened its mouth, which was full of razor-like teeth, and roared, sending sparks of fire flying down into the sea below me. Yep, that was a dragon. On the coast beyond the sea, a lady with purple skin and pointed ears was looking out over the sea, her violet hair blowing all around her.
While I watched her, the scene began to change again, and then, to my surprise, the stairs melted away from beneath my feet. “Woah!” I cried, as I tumbled to the ground.
All of a sudden, tiny bolts of electricity flew at me from some unseen source. I let out an involuntary scream, scrambled to my feet and ran for it, dodging as best as I could. Around me, there was an urban landscape, of shining tower blocks and wide streets, which should have been bustling with people, but weren’t. Before long, my chest felt tight and my legs were burning. Still, the electricity flew at me, and I kept running. Then the staircase appeared ahead of me, and I threw myself onto it gratefully. “Thank goodness!” I gasped, “I’m built for reading books, not running.”
Curled on up a step
I let my mind wander
Taking a breath
I began to ponder
What genre am I in?
I cannot tell
Though I’ve fallen
Under its spell
There are no clues
Yet I must try
To figure out the
Things that passed me by
Genres if you can't tell:
Sci-fi
Mystery
Fantasy
Action
Poetry
Word count: 520
When I stepped on to the genre staircase, it was gleaming and silver, and the stairs undulated beneath my feet, shifting me upwards. Cogs turned far beneath my feet, in an intricate mechanical system far beyond my knowledge. A glass and metal frame stretched over my head, evoking a sense of awe in me. As I looked around, I could see walls of screens, towering high over streets filled with gleaming metal, and technologies I couldn’t identify. Some people even had metal implants in them, perhaps to enhance their senses or provide an extra insight into the world around them.
Then the scene began to shift, and I saw the stairs beneath my feet losing their shine and fading away to wood. Now I had to move manually, and the stairs creaked under my feet. The air was swirling with dust, and to my sides, I could see shelves full of books, records and gadgets. An old-fashioned telephone was mounted on the wall, and a leather briefcase lay discarded on a step. I felt as if I ought to be on alert. I scanned the stairway carefully as I climbed, taking in each detail as I saw it. Maybe there was something to solve there, but it was not for me to solve, as soon the stairs began to change again.
At first, I thought it was some kind of glitter or sequins, but it was something else shining under my feet. Magic? Perhaps. Certainly, as I looked down, I could see an ocean full of writhing, scaled animals unlike anything I had seen before. Something that could well have been a dragon swooped through the air, frighteningly close above me. It opened its mouth, which was full of razor-like teeth, and roared, sending sparks of fire flying down into the sea below me. Yep, that was a dragon. On the coast beyond the sea, a lady with purple skin and pointed ears was looking out over the sea, her violet hair blowing all around her.
While I watched her, the scene began to change again, and then, to my surprise, the stairs melted away from beneath my feet. “Woah!” I cried, as I tumbled to the ground.
All of a sudden, tiny bolts of electricity flew at me from some unseen source. I let out an involuntary scream, scrambled to my feet and ran for it, dodging as best as I could. Around me, there was an urban landscape, of shining tower blocks and wide streets, which should have been bustling with people, but weren’t. Before long, my chest felt tight and my legs were burning. Still, the electricity flew at me, and I kept running. Then the staircase appeared ahead of me, and I threw myself onto it gratefully. “Thank goodness!” I gasped, “I’m built for reading books, not running.”
Curled on up a step
I let my mind wander
Taking a breath
I began to ponder
What genre am I in?
I cannot tell
Though I’ve fallen
Under its spell
There are no clues
Yet I must try
To figure out the
Things that passed me by
Genres if you can't tell:
Sci-fi
Mystery
Fantasy
Action
Poetry
Word count: 520
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
For the critiquitaire.
The Queen and The Soldier
She is in control. The guards either side of the door; the rows of marble columns; the ornate pattern of swirls on the ceiling: everything is perfectly organised. Outside, her empire is running smoothly. Her dark glossy curls are arranged neatly over one shoulder, her eyes are icey blue, and against the red velvet of her gown, her skin is as white as marble.
She looks up as the doors open, revealing a man in uniform. The Messenger. “Your Majesty!” He exclaims, “A traitorous soldier! He has been caught sending military information to another country.”
“Execute him,” the queen replies, sounding almost bored.
“As you wish, your Majesty.”
The Messenger bows, and one of the guards hurries away to relay the message, his footsteps receding into the distance. “What are the details of the soldier?” the queen asks, after a moment.
She doesn't really care, but it's the customary response. “Soldier number 18792, of the 6th Division,” he replies.
The queen takes a sharp breath, but her face remains impassive. Perhaps she misheard the Messenger, or even misremembered the number. But the more she thinks the more she is sure, this is no ordinary soldier. The memories of all the past nights creep into her mind. The chill of night air, his soft voice, and his gentle embrace. It's him.
The expression of disinterest gives way to one of fear as she gets to her feet. Shoving the Messenger aside, she runs towards the doors, skirts swishing around her ankles. She has no time to see the remaining guard's look of surprise, or to admire the paintings and tapestries on the walls. She runs outside, across the field, towards the stone building. She can't let this happen.
As she runs, it begins to rain. She slips on the muddy ground. Though she tries, she cannot run any faster, and she knows precious seconds are ticking away. She has no control over time.
She reaches the building. No one notices her come in: The Executioner is focused on his task. Then she sees the soldier and her heart begins beating wildly. She has no control over love.
The Executioner has his gun in position. In a decisive movement, he pulls the trigger. The gunshot rings out. The bullet flies through the air… and embeds itself in the queen's chest. She has no control over death.
The queen lies on the ground, a pool of blood spreading around her. The Executioner has frozen and the guard's face is a mask of shock. The soldier runs to her and kneels on the floor beside her, weeping bitterly. Only he knows why she did it.
She is gone. Somewhere dark, lonely, and empty. She finally knows the truth, but the discovery came at too great a cost. Now, she knows the power in love, and the pain that love can bring. She sees the strange beauty of pain. She realises that sometimes the most beautiful things are the things you have no control over.
The Queen and The Soldier
She is in control. The guards either side of the door; the rows of marble columns; the ornate pattern of swirls on the ceiling: everything is perfectly organised. Outside, her empire is running smoothly. Her dark glossy curls are arranged neatly over one shoulder, her eyes are icey blue, and against the red velvet of her gown, her skin is as white as marble.
She looks up as the doors open, revealing a man in uniform. The Messenger. “Your Majesty!” He exclaims, “A traitorous soldier! He has been caught sending military information to another country.”
“Execute him,” the queen replies, sounding almost bored.
“As you wish, your Majesty.”
The Messenger bows, and one of the guards hurries away to relay the message, his footsteps receding into the distance. “What are the details of the soldier?” the queen asks, after a moment.
She doesn't really care, but it's the customary response. “Soldier number 18792, of the 6th Division,” he replies.
The queen takes a sharp breath, but her face remains impassive. Perhaps she misheard the Messenger, or even misremembered the number. But the more she thinks the more she is sure, this is no ordinary soldier. The memories of all the past nights creep into her mind. The chill of night air, his soft voice, and his gentle embrace. It's him.
The expression of disinterest gives way to one of fear as she gets to her feet. Shoving the Messenger aside, she runs towards the doors, skirts swishing around her ankles. She has no time to see the remaining guard's look of surprise, or to admire the paintings and tapestries on the walls. She runs outside, across the field, towards the stone building. She can't let this happen.
As she runs, it begins to rain. She slips on the muddy ground. Though she tries, she cannot run any faster, and she knows precious seconds are ticking away. She has no control over time.
She reaches the building. No one notices her come in: The Executioner is focused on his task. Then she sees the soldier and her heart begins beating wildly. She has no control over love.
The Executioner has his gun in position. In a decisive movement, he pulls the trigger. The gunshot rings out. The bullet flies through the air… and embeds itself in the queen's chest. She has no control over death.
The queen lies on the ground, a pool of blood spreading around her. The Executioner has frozen and the guard's face is a mask of shock. The soldier runs to her and kneels on the floor beside her, weeping bitterly. Only he knows why she did it.
She is gone. Somewhere dark, lonely, and empty. She finally knows the truth, but the discovery came at too great a cost. Now, she knows the power in love, and the pain that love can bring. She sees the strange beauty of pain. She realises that sometimes the most beautiful things are the things you have no control over.
Last edited by evegau (Nov. 8, 2025 12:05:10)
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
Daily 08/11/2025
A critique of Sage's story, which can be found here: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/846732/?page=10#post-8804503
Okay, I’m going to start with the things I think need improving, so don’t worry that it’s all negatives at first, there will be positive things later. The thing that’s immediately striking me is some inconsistency with tenses. Like, “It was another one of those days”, and “I went through the motions…” in past tense near the beginning, but “I make it through my classes”, and “I don’t think anyone will notice” in the next paragraph are in present tense. If this is deliberate, you might want to make it clearer that the past tense is the character reflecting on their morning in the present, if not, it’s probably best to change the few sentences in past tense to present instead.
Now, a couple of points I’d like to make about phrasing and other small things. When you first introduce Jack and Olivia, you miss the second i out of Olivia. At the start of the third paragraph, I think “I will admit. This behaviour is unusual for me” should all be one sentence, with a comma in place of a full stop. The last thing I’d like to say is that it would have been nice to have a bit more of a glimpse of the upbeat side of Mason’s personality at the end of the story, however I appreciate that the writing was done for a daily, so you might not have had time.
Okay, enough of the negative stuff, now I get to tell you what’s cool about your story! I really like the way you handled the emotional arc of the story. You maintain the kind of tired and fed-up tone of the narrator throughout the piece, resolving it with a burst of happiness at the end, which feels earnt rather than random, because of the build-up of different indicators of being forgotten and left out. The use of monochrome to represent the monotony of life and the feeling of being forgotten is done clearly without being heavy handed. Also, the use of quotation marks around the friends is subtle but effective in showing how others treat Mason, the mention of being one of several siblings helpful in giving context to how he feels, and the clarification that he listens to Jack and Olivia’s name in attendance rather than talking to them is quietly impactful (and rather relatable). In the context of it being from the song daily, I think you’ve used lines from the song well in the text, and taken ideas from the lyrics, but developed them to make them your own effectively.
That’s all! I hope it’s helpful.
Word count: 435
A critique of Sage's story, which can be found here: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/846732/?page=10#post-8804503
Okay, I’m going to start with the things I think need improving, so don’t worry that it’s all negatives at first, there will be positive things later. The thing that’s immediately striking me is some inconsistency with tenses. Like, “It was another one of those days”, and “I went through the motions…” in past tense near the beginning, but “I make it through my classes”, and “I don’t think anyone will notice” in the next paragraph are in present tense. If this is deliberate, you might want to make it clearer that the past tense is the character reflecting on their morning in the present, if not, it’s probably best to change the few sentences in past tense to present instead.
Now, a couple of points I’d like to make about phrasing and other small things. When you first introduce Jack and Olivia, you miss the second i out of Olivia. At the start of the third paragraph, I think “I will admit. This behaviour is unusual for me” should all be one sentence, with a comma in place of a full stop. The last thing I’d like to say is that it would have been nice to have a bit more of a glimpse of the upbeat side of Mason’s personality at the end of the story, however I appreciate that the writing was done for a daily, so you might not have had time.
Okay, enough of the negative stuff, now I get to tell you what’s cool about your story! I really like the way you handled the emotional arc of the story. You maintain the kind of tired and fed-up tone of the narrator throughout the piece, resolving it with a burst of happiness at the end, which feels earnt rather than random, because of the build-up of different indicators of being forgotten and left out. The use of monochrome to represent the monotony of life and the feeling of being forgotten is done clearly without being heavy handed. Also, the use of quotation marks around the friends is subtle but effective in showing how others treat Mason, the mention of being one of several siblings helpful in giving context to how he feels, and the clarification that he listens to Jack and Olivia’s name in attendance rather than talking to them is quietly impactful (and rather relatable). In the context of it being from the song daily, I think you’ve used lines from the song well in the text, and taken ideas from the lyrics, but developed them to make them your own effectively.
That’s all! I hope it’s helpful.
Word count: 435
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
1st weekly
Part 1
We are made of pieces of all whom we love
Not broken, just a whole of many parts
At night when I watch the stars up above
I think of all those with a place in my heart
I hold in mind every small decision
That led me to love as I hadn’t before
To heal words and wounds of division
And to strive to love all others yet more
Fear draws near as the darkness encroaches
The stars seem so cold and so far away
Don’t be afraid as nighttime approaches
But hold in yourself the brightness of day
Because love is the truest guiding star
And the pieces that make up who we are
Part 2
Yesterday you asked to find
The ratio of your hand to mine
It's not fair to keep you making up excuses
I just need to take your hand
I just need to understand
That now I can be certain what the truth is
When will I stop running from this human situation?
Now my hands are shaking and I'm getting palpitations
I think for all your efforts you deserve the invitation
Oh, you can hold my hand if you would like
Why must I overthink this?
Well, maybe if I ink this
Onto paper it will fix my resolution
Why do I feel so scared?
Oh, if only I dared
To just do it, that would be the best solution
When will I stop running from this human situation?
Now my hands are shaking and I'm getting palpitations
I think for all your efforts you deserve the invitation
Oh, you can hold my hand if you would like
My nerve breaks when it gets too real
I get held back by the fear I feel
Just take your hand, that's all I need to do
I swear I'll do it one day soon
I feel like I did back in June
In the meantime, at least you know I love you
When will I stop running from this human situation?
Now my hands are shaking and I'm getting palpitations
I think for all your efforts you deserve the invitation
Oh, you can hold my hand if you would like
Darling, you can hold my hand if you would like
Part 3
A group of friends are about to arrive at a party. Rosa is tall and stylish, seemingly in charge. Tara and Olive are stood either side of Harriet, who is reluctant to go in.
Rosa: Oh, come on, it’ll be fun
Harriet: Uh… I don’t really, I don’t think that…
Tara: Don’t worry, there won’t be loads of people there.
Harriet : Your idea of “not loads” is about twenty.
Olive: Seriously, Harri, it won’t be that bad. It’s only for a couple of hours.
Harriet: Okay…
They enter the room. There is a large crowd of people, a table with some food on, and loud music playing.
Rosa: Oh look, it’s Carmen!
Tara: Let’s go and say hello.
Rosa, Tara and Olive walk away, while Harriet stays where she is, at the edge of the room. There is another person there.
The other person : Hello. I’m Tam.
Harriet : Hi. I’m Harriet.
Tam: Are you having nice time here?
Harriet: Uh… mmm. Not really.
Tam: Same to be honest.
They stand in silence for a minute or so, avoiding eye contact.
Tam: Uh, so…
Harriet: Um, uh… yeah?
Tam: Do you want to escape?
Harriet: Huh?
Tam: If we’re not enjoying it, we can go.
Harriet: I guess so. My friends won’t be happy though.
Tam: That’s why we’re escaping rather than just leaving.
Harriet: Okay.
Rosa walks over.
Rosa: Harri! You’re talking to someone!
Harriet:
Tam : Yes, we’re just discussing infrastructure in The Netherlands. Want to join us?
Rosa : Uh, no, thanks. I’ll leave you to it. Bye Harri!
Rosa leaves. After a pause, Tam speaks again.
Tam: Works every time.
Harriet: Wow. I need to remember that.
Tam: Yep. And now, we plan our escape…
Part 4
Have you ever thought about how cool words are? We use them every day of our lives, they shape our pasts and guide our futures. Sometimes, we use words like magic. We speak things into existence: relationships, ideas, abstract concepts. If one day language suddenly stopped working, the world would descend into chaos. I’m talking to you today to share some of the things I love about words and language, and I hope you will take away a bit of the same love and fascination with you.
Firstly, the concept of words as magic. Perhaps in this day and age, words have lost some of their association with the mystical, but there is still a certain sort of magic to them. For example, friendship and relationships often only exist because of how language is used. If you ask someone if you are friends, and they say you are, then you are, even though nothing has happened except the mutual agreement of this. This acts like you are speaking the friendship into existence, and from that point on will act and speak accordingly.
Another fun point to make about words and relationships is that people who spend extended amounts of time talking to each other form what is known as a familect, a particular way of speaking shared by a small group of people, often a family (hence the name) or otherwise a household. This happens because we pick up phrases from people we spend a lot of time with because we often have a subconscious (or conscious!) urge to be more like people we like and/or admire. It’s like your own mini dialect, which I think is really cool!
Language in general is shaped by our social groups. For example, the reason it sounds weird to hear a parent or teacher using Gen Z slang is that they aren’t part of the in-group which uses the slang. Part of the point of slang is that it serves as a social marker to indicate to people which groups of people you identify with, so when someone outside the social group uses it, that feels wrong, because they are subverting expectations about who should use that set of words and breaking the social idea of in-groups.
That’s all for today! I hope you listened listening to me talk about sociolinguistics: it’s a topic I’m really passionate about. If you’re interested in learning more about linguistics, I would recommend having a listen to the podcast Lingthusiasm, or watching videos from YouTubers such as Etymology Nerd, Human1011, or W0rdsatw0rk. Thanks for listening. I hope you have a great day, and maybe a think about language and how we use it too.
Word count: 1122
Part 1
We are made of pieces of all whom we love
Not broken, just a whole of many parts
At night when I watch the stars up above
I think of all those with a place in my heart
I hold in mind every small decision
That led me to love as I hadn’t before
To heal words and wounds of division
And to strive to love all others yet more
Fear draws near as the darkness encroaches
The stars seem so cold and so far away
Don’t be afraid as nighttime approaches
But hold in yourself the brightness of day
Because love is the truest guiding star
And the pieces that make up who we are
Part 2
Yesterday you asked to find
The ratio of your hand to mine
It's not fair to keep you making up excuses
I just need to take your hand
I just need to understand
That now I can be certain what the truth is
When will I stop running from this human situation?
Now my hands are shaking and I'm getting palpitations
I think for all your efforts you deserve the invitation
Oh, you can hold my hand if you would like
Why must I overthink this?
Well, maybe if I ink this
Onto paper it will fix my resolution
Why do I feel so scared?
Oh, if only I dared
To just do it, that would be the best solution
When will I stop running from this human situation?
Now my hands are shaking and I'm getting palpitations
I think for all your efforts you deserve the invitation
Oh, you can hold my hand if you would like
My nerve breaks when it gets too real
I get held back by the fear I feel
Just take your hand, that's all I need to do
I swear I'll do it one day soon
I feel like I did back in June
In the meantime, at least you know I love you
When will I stop running from this human situation?
Now my hands are shaking and I'm getting palpitations
I think for all your efforts you deserve the invitation
Oh, you can hold my hand if you would like
Darling, you can hold my hand if you would like
Part 3
A group of friends are about to arrive at a party. Rosa is tall and stylish, seemingly in charge. Tara and Olive are stood either side of Harriet, who is reluctant to go in.
Rosa: Oh, come on, it’ll be fun
Harriet: Uh… I don’t really, I don’t think that…
Tara: Don’t worry, there won’t be loads of people there.
Harriet : Your idea of “not loads” is about twenty.
Olive: Seriously, Harri, it won’t be that bad. It’s only for a couple of hours.
Harriet: Okay…
They enter the room. There is a large crowd of people, a table with some food on, and loud music playing.
Rosa: Oh look, it’s Carmen!
Tara: Let’s go and say hello.
Rosa, Tara and Olive walk away, while Harriet stays where she is, at the edge of the room. There is another person there.
The other person : Hello. I’m Tam.
Harriet : Hi. I’m Harriet.
Tam: Are you having nice time here?
Harriet: Uh… mmm. Not really.
Tam: Same to be honest.
They stand in silence for a minute or so, avoiding eye contact.
Tam: Uh, so…
Harriet: Um, uh… yeah?
Tam: Do you want to escape?
Harriet: Huh?
Tam: If we’re not enjoying it, we can go.
Harriet: I guess so. My friends won’t be happy though.
Tam: That’s why we’re escaping rather than just leaving.
Harriet: Okay.
Rosa walks over.
Rosa: Harri! You’re talking to someone!
Harriet:
Tam : Yes, we’re just discussing infrastructure in The Netherlands. Want to join us?
Rosa : Uh, no, thanks. I’ll leave you to it. Bye Harri!
Rosa leaves. After a pause, Tam speaks again.
Tam: Works every time.
Harriet: Wow. I need to remember that.
Tam: Yep. And now, we plan our escape…
Part 4
Have you ever thought about how cool words are? We use them every day of our lives, they shape our pasts and guide our futures. Sometimes, we use words like magic. We speak things into existence: relationships, ideas, abstract concepts. If one day language suddenly stopped working, the world would descend into chaos. I’m talking to you today to share some of the things I love about words and language, and I hope you will take away a bit of the same love and fascination with you.
Firstly, the concept of words as magic. Perhaps in this day and age, words have lost some of their association with the mystical, but there is still a certain sort of magic to them. For example, friendship and relationships often only exist because of how language is used. If you ask someone if you are friends, and they say you are, then you are, even though nothing has happened except the mutual agreement of this. This acts like you are speaking the friendship into existence, and from that point on will act and speak accordingly.
Another fun point to make about words and relationships is that people who spend extended amounts of time talking to each other form what is known as a familect, a particular way of speaking shared by a small group of people, often a family (hence the name) or otherwise a household. This happens because we pick up phrases from people we spend a lot of time with because we often have a subconscious (or conscious!) urge to be more like people we like and/or admire. It’s like your own mini dialect, which I think is really cool!
Language in general is shaped by our social groups. For example, the reason it sounds weird to hear a parent or teacher using Gen Z slang is that they aren’t part of the in-group which uses the slang. Part of the point of slang is that it serves as a social marker to indicate to people which groups of people you identify with, so when someone outside the social group uses it, that feels wrong, because they are subverting expectations about who should use that set of words and breaking the social idea of in-groups.
That’s all for today! I hope you listened listening to me talk about sociolinguistics: it’s a topic I’m really passionate about. If you’re interested in learning more about linguistics, I would recommend having a listen to the podcast Lingthusiasm, or watching videos from YouTubers such as Etymology Nerd, Human1011, or W0rdsatw0rk. Thanks for listening. I hope you have a great day, and maybe a think about language and how we use it too.
Word count: 1122
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
Daily 10/11/2025
In my screen break time, I sorted out some wool. (This will probably be very dull to read, so if you are, then I recommend you don’t bother.) I recently crocheted a cardigan, and the yarn left from that was all in one box, while all my other yarn was in another. I laid all the wool (sorry I’m being inconsistent with my terms; I can never choose which to use) out on the floor in colour-categorised groups, which was very satisfying to look at. I discussed potential crochet projects with my mum, before I settled on one I wanted to make – a cosy for the headboard of my bed.
I selected some blue, white, purple, turquoise, light grey and silver to use. Then, I sorted all the remaining wool into the larger empty box, filling the smaller one with yarn for the project. I’m not sure when I’m going to start, but it’s comforting to know I have a project to start if I want to. The current mini cosies on my bed’s headboard are several years old, and not overly amazing (which is okay, because they were one of my first projects), so it’ll be nice to replace them. I find crocheting is really good at making me calmer when I’m stressed, upset or overwhelmed, which is very helpful because not many things can do that. Some other projects I’m planning include making some bunting for my bike basket, making a boring tote bag a bit snazzier and possibly some endeavours into Christmas-themed things, amigurumi, or perhaps both at the same time!
Word count: 264
In my screen break time, I sorted out some wool. (This will probably be very dull to read, so if you are, then I recommend you don’t bother.) I recently crocheted a cardigan, and the yarn left from that was all in one box, while all my other yarn was in another. I laid all the wool (sorry I’m being inconsistent with my terms; I can never choose which to use) out on the floor in colour-categorised groups, which was very satisfying to look at. I discussed potential crochet projects with my mum, before I settled on one I wanted to make – a cosy for the headboard of my bed.
I selected some blue, white, purple, turquoise, light grey and silver to use. Then, I sorted all the remaining wool into the larger empty box, filling the smaller one with yarn for the project. I’m not sure when I’m going to start, but it’s comforting to know I have a project to start if I want to. The current mini cosies on my bed’s headboard are several years old, and not overly amazing (which is okay, because they were one of my first projects), so it’ll be nice to replace them. I find crocheting is really good at making me calmer when I’m stressed, upset or overwhelmed, which is very helpful because not many things can do that. Some other projects I’m planning include making some bunting for my bike basket, making a boring tote bag a bit snazzier and possibly some endeavours into Christmas-themed things, amigurumi, or perhaps both at the same time!
Word count: 264
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
Daily 11/11/2025
Hello. It feels odd to be writing a letter to you that I know full well you will never read, but oh well. Back when I started high school, I didn’t have many friends. I struggled with the change from primary. By my second year of high school, I was not in a great place. I wasn’t sleeping, I felt overwhelmed by school, and the one person I thought I could turn to for help left me more broken than I had been before. Sure, people go through a lot worse than that. On the whole, I have an amazing life, and I am very privileged, I won’t deny that, but for that year or so it was hard. Getting up in the morning felt difficult. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it though.
I suppose that’s where you came in. Though we were friends from the start of year seven, that was the time I appreciated you the most, because even if I couldn’t explain what was wrong, you were still there. Every time some older kid I’d never spoken to before laughed at me, every time I was insulted, every time I was interrogated simply for being who I was, you told me it was because they were jealous that I had the confidence to be myself. I suppose I was an easy target: in a younger year group, looking tired and sad, and quite obviously different in pretty much every possible way. I was a quick way for people to temporarily feel better about themselves, and I won’t blame them for wanting that. Once you said to me that people who cared about what I looked like, what I wore and what I chose to eat, they didn’t matter, and the people who mattered to me didn’t care, because that wasn’t important.
I have a few key memories of you. On was the time at the beginning of year seven, your team absolutely thrashed my team in a netball match in PE, and then afterwards you came and gave me a fist bump and asked how to pronounce my name. That felt pretty significant to me, because a lot of people didn’t care if they were pronouncing right or not. I remember another time, when I had lost a scrunchie without even realising, and you found it for me and gave it back. The last key memory is the time we were the two students picked to make a speech to some visiting parents (and by some I mean… there were several hundred of them). I was terrified about it, but you read what I was going to say, and you told me I was going to do amazing, and that gave me the confidence boost I needed.
Then, not long after that, you told me you’d got a scholarship to a posh school. Of course, I was so happy for you, and you were a smart kid, so you deserved it, but all the same I was disappointed. Some people asked why I didn’t apply for a scholarship too, but I wasn’t willing to give up the life I had built where I was, even for my closest friend, even if it was painful. And so, you left. I still remember how you told me to keep being who I am, and I’ve tried to do that. I last saw you over a year ago. I tried messaging you hello more recently, but you never replied. I still remember the last fist bump, a circular ending from the first on the netball courts under the grey autumn sky. I hope you’re doing okay still. The last thing I heard you were playing guitar in a band with my friend’s boyfriend, but since they broke up, I haven’t heard anything recently. Maybe I’ll speak to you again one day, but for the moment, I am at least sure I will remember you.
Word count: 657
Hello. It feels odd to be writing a letter to you that I know full well you will never read, but oh well. Back when I started high school, I didn’t have many friends. I struggled with the change from primary. By my second year of high school, I was not in a great place. I wasn’t sleeping, I felt overwhelmed by school, and the one person I thought I could turn to for help left me more broken than I had been before. Sure, people go through a lot worse than that. On the whole, I have an amazing life, and I am very privileged, I won’t deny that, but for that year or so it was hard. Getting up in the morning felt difficult. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it though.
I suppose that’s where you came in. Though we were friends from the start of year seven, that was the time I appreciated you the most, because even if I couldn’t explain what was wrong, you were still there. Every time some older kid I’d never spoken to before laughed at me, every time I was insulted, every time I was interrogated simply for being who I was, you told me it was because they were jealous that I had the confidence to be myself. I suppose I was an easy target: in a younger year group, looking tired and sad, and quite obviously different in pretty much every possible way. I was a quick way for people to temporarily feel better about themselves, and I won’t blame them for wanting that. Once you said to me that people who cared about what I looked like, what I wore and what I chose to eat, they didn’t matter, and the people who mattered to me didn’t care, because that wasn’t important.
I have a few key memories of you. On was the time at the beginning of year seven, your team absolutely thrashed my team in a netball match in PE, and then afterwards you came and gave me a fist bump and asked how to pronounce my name. That felt pretty significant to me, because a lot of people didn’t care if they were pronouncing right or not. I remember another time, when I had lost a scrunchie without even realising, and you found it for me and gave it back. The last key memory is the time we were the two students picked to make a speech to some visiting parents (and by some I mean… there were several hundred of them). I was terrified about it, but you read what I was going to say, and you told me I was going to do amazing, and that gave me the confidence boost I needed.
Then, not long after that, you told me you’d got a scholarship to a posh school. Of course, I was so happy for you, and you were a smart kid, so you deserved it, but all the same I was disappointed. Some people asked why I didn’t apply for a scholarship too, but I wasn’t willing to give up the life I had built where I was, even for my closest friend, even if it was painful. And so, you left. I still remember how you told me to keep being who I am, and I’ve tried to do that. I last saw you over a year ago. I tried messaging you hello more recently, but you never replied. I still remember the last fist bump, a circular ending from the first on the netball courts under the grey autumn sky. I hope you’re doing okay still. The last thing I heard you were playing guitar in a band with my friend’s boyfriend, but since they broke up, I haven’t heard anything recently. Maybe I’ll speak to you again one day, but for the moment, I am at least sure I will remember you.
Word count: 657
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
Daily 13/11/2025
It was a quiet Thursday evening in the crochet equipment pouch. The scissors leaned against the lining, cool and sleek in silver, 5mm hook, 3mm hook and 2mm hook were lying on the ground as usual, and the darning needles sat together in a little plastic tub in the corner. “You think she’s going to do any crochet today?” asked 2mm.
“Well, if she is, she isn’t going to use you, titchy,” the scissors replied.
2mm looked taken aback by the cutting remark. “She used me for the micro crochet mushrooms she did…”
“I hate to break it to you, but that was two months ago,” 5mm pointed out.
“Can we go back to the original question?”
“I mean,” 3mm began, “We’ve given you the same answer every day for the past fortnight, 2. She doesn’t have any WIPs since she finished that cardigan, and she’s obsessed with that writing thing she’s doing… What’s it called? SCW?”
“Something like that,” affirmed 5mm.
“I was kind of sad when she finished that cardigan, you know,” mused 3mm, shifting positions in the cramped pouch.
“Yeah, because the only thing she ever uses you for is pieces for applique,” scissors snipped, as they did when agitated.
2mm turned to 5mm. “She uses you for everything. I wish I was like you.”
“Ah, well we all have a purpose in life. You are still useful to her; in the specific circumstances you’re needed in.”
“Yeah, about once a year,” laughed scissors.
“There’s no need to be so spiky, scissors,” chided 3mm.
In response, scissors simply snipped their blades.
“Everything alright out there?” called one of the darning needles.
5mm raised their voice. “Yeah, we’re fine!”
“Good, good,” replied the other darning needle.
2mm sighed. “I guess she’s not going to use us tonight.”
“Hmm,” 3mm replied, “I suppose we just need to be patient and wait for the next project.”
“Yeah,” agreed 5mm, “Well goodnight, everyone.”
3mm snuggled into the lining of the pouch. “Goodnight!”
“Night,” said scissors.
“Sleep well everyone,” mumbled little 2mm sleepily.
“Goodnight needles!” 5mm called out.
“Goodnight! Sweet dreams!” replied the needles in unison.
And so calm descended on the pouch of crochet equipment, where it lay on the floor by the chair, and the hooks, needles and scissors slept peacefully until morning.
Word count: 383
It was a quiet Thursday evening in the crochet equipment pouch. The scissors leaned against the lining, cool and sleek in silver, 5mm hook, 3mm hook and 2mm hook were lying on the ground as usual, and the darning needles sat together in a little plastic tub in the corner. “You think she’s going to do any crochet today?” asked 2mm.
“Well, if she is, she isn’t going to use you, titchy,” the scissors replied.
2mm looked taken aback by the cutting remark. “She used me for the micro crochet mushrooms she did…”
“I hate to break it to you, but that was two months ago,” 5mm pointed out.
“Can we go back to the original question?”
“I mean,” 3mm began, “We’ve given you the same answer every day for the past fortnight, 2. She doesn’t have any WIPs since she finished that cardigan, and she’s obsessed with that writing thing she’s doing… What’s it called? SCW?”
“Something like that,” affirmed 5mm.
“I was kind of sad when she finished that cardigan, you know,” mused 3mm, shifting positions in the cramped pouch.
“Yeah, because the only thing she ever uses you for is pieces for applique,” scissors snipped, as they did when agitated.
2mm turned to 5mm. “She uses you for everything. I wish I was like you.”
“Ah, well we all have a purpose in life. You are still useful to her; in the specific circumstances you’re needed in.”
“Yeah, about once a year,” laughed scissors.
“There’s no need to be so spiky, scissors,” chided 3mm.
In response, scissors simply snipped their blades.
“Everything alright out there?” called one of the darning needles.
5mm raised their voice. “Yeah, we’re fine!”
“Good, good,” replied the other darning needle.
2mm sighed. “I guess she’s not going to use us tonight.”
“Hmm,” 3mm replied, “I suppose we just need to be patient and wait for the next project.”
“Yeah,” agreed 5mm, “Well goodnight, everyone.”
3mm snuggled into the lining of the pouch. “Goodnight!”
“Night,” said scissors.
“Sleep well everyone,” mumbled little 2mm sleepily.
“Goodnight needles!” 5mm called out.
“Goodnight! Sweet dreams!” replied the needles in unison.
And so calm descended on the pouch of crochet equipment, where it lay on the floor by the chair, and the hooks, needles and scissors slept peacefully until morning.
Word count: 383
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
Daily 14/11/2025
Title: On the Other Side of a Heartbeat (From May (@ap0l0))
There are many moments lying on the other side of this heartbeat. Each possibility exists for a moment, only to disappear the next and be replaced with a new set. It’s how the past is shaped. A possibility is chosen with every passing heartbeat. A million other possibilities fade away. In this heartbeat, I’m counting stars from the safety of behind a window. Each star gets a heartbeat to be seen, before it melts away into the crowd.
Some of the most pivotal moments in life are a heartbeat. Whether you say that word, reach out that hand, click that send button. It can set something much greater into motion. Sometimes it becomes the best decision you ever made. Sometimes you spend months regretting it. Sometimes nothing happens. I would say it’s worth it for the times it becomes the best decision you’ve ever made, and besides, it’s all part of how history is shaped.
There is part of me, in fact, rather a large part of me, that would like to be close enough to you that I can feel your heartbeat. I could feel your story being shaped by each chosen possibility. But each possibility of that slips through my fingers while I’m wondering. I hesitate for too long, every time.
I wonder what other people have lost to missed opportunities and possibilities they never realise. I wonder what other people have gained. I wonder how they see time, perhaps as relentless and hurtling on, as a method of healing, or as a kind of fabric to be bent and shaped to a whim. I see time as a sort of forgiving harshness. It can so often tear us away from the people we love, but it will also carry us onwards to others.
Thinking about this is oddly painful. Change is inevitable, it seems, as each choice in each heartbeat takes us further from our starting point. One way or another, I will lose everything I know and love right now, and it will lose me. It’s comforting though, because the same applies to everything that scares me and makes me sad. That will all be washed away by time. Each heartbeat will take us onwards; each heartbeat will remove us further from our current familiar. There is no way to escape it, so we might as well accept it. Everyone I care about will be lost one way or another, but that gives me all the more reason to care about them while I can.
I blink in the bright light as I open my eyes. The ceiling is painfully white, and I wish I could stay buried in my thoughts for a little while longer. You’re there. That much is good, and for that alone it’s worth enduring the lights. The possibility is right there. Surely, I’ve spent long enough thinking about it. All I need to do is reach out. But then, you move. My chance is lost on the other side of a heartbeat.
Word count: 501
Title: On the Other Side of a Heartbeat (From May (@ap0l0))
There are many moments lying on the other side of this heartbeat. Each possibility exists for a moment, only to disappear the next and be replaced with a new set. It’s how the past is shaped. A possibility is chosen with every passing heartbeat. A million other possibilities fade away. In this heartbeat, I’m counting stars from the safety of behind a window. Each star gets a heartbeat to be seen, before it melts away into the crowd.
Some of the most pivotal moments in life are a heartbeat. Whether you say that word, reach out that hand, click that send button. It can set something much greater into motion. Sometimes it becomes the best decision you ever made. Sometimes you spend months regretting it. Sometimes nothing happens. I would say it’s worth it for the times it becomes the best decision you’ve ever made, and besides, it’s all part of how history is shaped.
There is part of me, in fact, rather a large part of me, that would like to be close enough to you that I can feel your heartbeat. I could feel your story being shaped by each chosen possibility. But each possibility of that slips through my fingers while I’m wondering. I hesitate for too long, every time.
I wonder what other people have lost to missed opportunities and possibilities they never realise. I wonder what other people have gained. I wonder how they see time, perhaps as relentless and hurtling on, as a method of healing, or as a kind of fabric to be bent and shaped to a whim. I see time as a sort of forgiving harshness. It can so often tear us away from the people we love, but it will also carry us onwards to others.
Thinking about this is oddly painful. Change is inevitable, it seems, as each choice in each heartbeat takes us further from our starting point. One way or another, I will lose everything I know and love right now, and it will lose me. It’s comforting though, because the same applies to everything that scares me and makes me sad. That will all be washed away by time. Each heartbeat will take us onwards; each heartbeat will remove us further from our current familiar. There is no way to escape it, so we might as well accept it. Everyone I care about will be lost one way or another, but that gives me all the more reason to care about them while I can.
I blink in the bright light as I open my eyes. The ceiling is painfully white, and I wish I could stay buried in my thoughts for a little while longer. You’re there. That much is good, and for that alone it’s worth enduring the lights. The possibility is right there. Surely, I’ve spent long enough thinking about it. All I need to do is reach out. But then, you move. My chance is lost on the other side of a heartbeat.
Word count: 501
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
Two short stories.
1. The Queen and The Soldier
She is in control. The guards either side of the door; the rows of marble columns; the ornate pattern of swirls on the ceiling: everything is perfectly organised. Outside, her empire is running smoothly. Her dark glossy curls are arranged neatly over one shoulder, her eyes are icey blue, and against the red velvet of her gown, her skin is as white as marble.
She looks up as the doors open, revealing a man in uniform. The Messenger. “Your Majesty!” He exclaims, “A traitorous soldier! He has been caught sending military information to another country.”
“Execute him,” the queen replies, sounding almost bored.
“As you wish, your Majesty.”
The Messenger bows, and one of the guards hurries away to relay the message, his footsteps receding into the distance. “What are the details of the soldier?” the queen asks, after a moment.
She doesn't really care, but it's the customary response. “Soldier number 18792, of the 6th Division,” he replies.
The queen takes a sharp breath, but her face remains impassive. Perhaps she misheard the Messenger, or even misremembered the number. But the more she thinks the more she is sure, this is no ordinary soldier. The memories of all the past nights creep into her mind. The chill of night air, his soft voice, and his gentle embrace. It's him.
The expression of disinterest gives way to one of fear as she gets to her feet. Shoving the Messenger aside, she runs towards the doors, skirts swishing around her ankles. She has no time to see the remaining guard's look of surprise, or to admire the paintings and tapestries on the walls. She runs outside, across the field, towards the stone building. She can't let this happen.
As she runs, it begins to rain. She slips on the muddy ground. Though she tries, she cannot run any faster, and she knows precious seconds are ticking away. She has no control over time.
She reaches the building. No one notices her come in: The Executioner is focused on his task. Then she sees the soldier and her heart begins beating wildly. She has no control over love.
The Executioner has his gun in position. In a decisive movement, he pulls the trigger. The gunshot rings out. The bullet flies through the air… and embeds itself in the queen's chest. She has no control over death.
The queen lies on the ground, a pool of blood spreading around her. The Executioner has frozen and the guard's face is a mask of shock. The soldier runs to her and kneels on the floor beside her, weeping bitterly. Only he knows why she did it.
She is gone. Somewhere dark, lonely, and empty. She finally knows the truth, but the discovery came at too great a cost. Now, she knows the power in love, and the pain that love can bring. She sees the strange beauty of pain. She realises that sometimes the most beautiful things are the things you have no control over.
2. Liminal Space
I never intended to disappear. Just one look, I thought, and then I would leave. You can't blame me for being intrigued — the door was just… there. At the top of the grassy slope, it stood, painted a bold and cheerful red, but not part of any building. It was rather incongruous, and yet it seemed as if it was trying to be as polite and unobtrusive as possible. It was so out of place, it felt as if my brain would rather override it than try to explain its presence.
Something about the way it deflected my attention so well made me wonder what lay beyond it. So I walked over. I opened it, I looked through, and… nothing. On the other side of the door, all I could see was the same grassy slope and vivid blue sky. Surely I had been expecting that. The door was in the middle of nowhere, it wouldn't go anywhere. Of course it wouldn't. I stepped through to continue on my way, and then, suddenly, my vision went dark.
It wasn't that I was unconscious. I was still quite aware of what was going on, but I couldn't see a thing. To my relief, the blackness began to fade away before long, and I could make out some shapes, perhaps buildings, nearby. Yes, they were buildings. Red brick, with rows of square windows, more stories high than I could count at a glance. I moved cautiously towards a window and peered through. Only darkness. “Hello?” I called, but the sound only echoed away into silence.
Not quite at ease, I turned around, and yes, the door was still there. I should probably go back, I thought. It looked as if, on the other side, there were only more red brick buildings, but it was probably just an illusion like before. All the same, I was a little anxious, and I stepped back through it hurriedly. Then I froze. I just had time to see there was no grassy slope on the other side, before I was hit with another wave of darkness.
Just as before, my vision slowly returned — and it was my vision that went dark, I was quite sure of that. The world around me stayed bright while I was blinded. This time I got the impression of a brilliant whiteness, though at first it was only grey. I blinked. The light was painful after such total darkness. I looked down. White tiles. I looked around. White walls. I looked up. Rows of bright, white electric lights. I looked down again quickly. What was going on? This didn't make sense, and yet somehow I was horribly sure it was real.
I turned around, and saw the same whiteness stretching away into infinity. Wait. The door. Where was it? I turned again, glancing around frantically. Then I saw it. The pale outline, now only a watery pink, fading away as if dissolved by the harshness of the light. I swallowed down the rising nausea. There was no one here, nothing to hurt me. The place was empty. “Hey,” my voice shook, though I willed it not too, “Is there anyone here?”
No reply. Just terrible, terrible silence. My hands trembled as I turned in a full circle. But there was nothing. Just whiteness expanding on and on and on. I looked down and saw with horror that my hands were far paler than normal, and my legs were slightly translucent. “No…” I tried to whisper, but my voice was only a shadow of its usual self.
Images flashed in my vision. Disjointed places, colours and objects. I tried to make sense of it. Were they clues? A puzzle to solve? It just didn't make sense. Between each vision, I caught snatches of the white space, saw my body fading more each time. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. Dizzy, the pictures descended into nonsensical snippets of patterns, buildings and landscapes. I never saw another person. In the end, I wasn't really panicking. It was inevitable. I watched, almost calmly, detached from my own fear, as I disappeared completely.
1. The Queen and The Soldier
She is in control. The guards either side of the door; the rows of marble columns; the ornate pattern of swirls on the ceiling: everything is perfectly organised. Outside, her empire is running smoothly. Her dark glossy curls are arranged neatly over one shoulder, her eyes are icey blue, and against the red velvet of her gown, her skin is as white as marble.
She looks up as the doors open, revealing a man in uniform. The Messenger. “Your Majesty!” He exclaims, “A traitorous soldier! He has been caught sending military information to another country.”
“Execute him,” the queen replies, sounding almost bored.
“As you wish, your Majesty.”
The Messenger bows, and one of the guards hurries away to relay the message, his footsteps receding into the distance. “What are the details of the soldier?” the queen asks, after a moment.
She doesn't really care, but it's the customary response. “Soldier number 18792, of the 6th Division,” he replies.
The queen takes a sharp breath, but her face remains impassive. Perhaps she misheard the Messenger, or even misremembered the number. But the more she thinks the more she is sure, this is no ordinary soldier. The memories of all the past nights creep into her mind. The chill of night air, his soft voice, and his gentle embrace. It's him.
The expression of disinterest gives way to one of fear as she gets to her feet. Shoving the Messenger aside, she runs towards the doors, skirts swishing around her ankles. She has no time to see the remaining guard's look of surprise, or to admire the paintings and tapestries on the walls. She runs outside, across the field, towards the stone building. She can't let this happen.
As she runs, it begins to rain. She slips on the muddy ground. Though she tries, she cannot run any faster, and she knows precious seconds are ticking away. She has no control over time.
She reaches the building. No one notices her come in: The Executioner is focused on his task. Then she sees the soldier and her heart begins beating wildly. She has no control over love.
The Executioner has his gun in position. In a decisive movement, he pulls the trigger. The gunshot rings out. The bullet flies through the air… and embeds itself in the queen's chest. She has no control over death.
The queen lies on the ground, a pool of blood spreading around her. The Executioner has frozen and the guard's face is a mask of shock. The soldier runs to her and kneels on the floor beside her, weeping bitterly. Only he knows why she did it.
She is gone. Somewhere dark, lonely, and empty. She finally knows the truth, but the discovery came at too great a cost. Now, she knows the power in love, and the pain that love can bring. She sees the strange beauty of pain. She realises that sometimes the most beautiful things are the things you have no control over.
2. Liminal Space
I never intended to disappear. Just one look, I thought, and then I would leave. You can't blame me for being intrigued — the door was just… there. At the top of the grassy slope, it stood, painted a bold and cheerful red, but not part of any building. It was rather incongruous, and yet it seemed as if it was trying to be as polite and unobtrusive as possible. It was so out of place, it felt as if my brain would rather override it than try to explain its presence.
Something about the way it deflected my attention so well made me wonder what lay beyond it. So I walked over. I opened it, I looked through, and… nothing. On the other side of the door, all I could see was the same grassy slope and vivid blue sky. Surely I had been expecting that. The door was in the middle of nowhere, it wouldn't go anywhere. Of course it wouldn't. I stepped through to continue on my way, and then, suddenly, my vision went dark.
It wasn't that I was unconscious. I was still quite aware of what was going on, but I couldn't see a thing. To my relief, the blackness began to fade away before long, and I could make out some shapes, perhaps buildings, nearby. Yes, they were buildings. Red brick, with rows of square windows, more stories high than I could count at a glance. I moved cautiously towards a window and peered through. Only darkness. “Hello?” I called, but the sound only echoed away into silence.
Not quite at ease, I turned around, and yes, the door was still there. I should probably go back, I thought. It looked as if, on the other side, there were only more red brick buildings, but it was probably just an illusion like before. All the same, I was a little anxious, and I stepped back through it hurriedly. Then I froze. I just had time to see there was no grassy slope on the other side, before I was hit with another wave of darkness.
Just as before, my vision slowly returned — and it was my vision that went dark, I was quite sure of that. The world around me stayed bright while I was blinded. This time I got the impression of a brilliant whiteness, though at first it was only grey. I blinked. The light was painful after such total darkness. I looked down. White tiles. I looked around. White walls. I looked up. Rows of bright, white electric lights. I looked down again quickly. What was going on? This didn't make sense, and yet somehow I was horribly sure it was real.
I turned around, and saw the same whiteness stretching away into infinity. Wait. The door. Where was it? I turned again, glancing around frantically. Then I saw it. The pale outline, now only a watery pink, fading away as if dissolved by the harshness of the light. I swallowed down the rising nausea. There was no one here, nothing to hurt me. The place was empty. “Hey,” my voice shook, though I willed it not too, “Is there anyone here?”
No reply. Just terrible, terrible silence. My hands trembled as I turned in a full circle. But there was nothing. Just whiteness expanding on and on and on. I looked down and saw with horror that my hands were far paler than normal, and my legs were slightly translucent. “No…” I tried to whisper, but my voice was only a shadow of its usual self.
Images flashed in my vision. Disjointed places, colours and objects. I tried to make sense of it. Were they clues? A puzzle to solve? It just didn't make sense. Between each vision, I caught snatches of the white space, saw my body fading more each time. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. Dizzy, the pictures descended into nonsensical snippets of patterns, buildings and landscapes. I never saw another person. In the end, I wasn't really panicking. It was inevitable. I watched, almost calmly, detached from my own fear, as I disappeared completely.
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
2nd weekly
Part 1
At its height, the Roman Empire spanned countries on three different continents, making it a superpower unrivalled in its time. Rome itself was a melting pot of different cultures, languages and religions. While many people were sadly brought into the city as slaves, there was also a lot of travel around the empire, and some slaves were later set free and lived as freedmen. Ancient Roman religion was polytheistic (worshipped many gods/goddesses) and had many epic tales and complicated mythology, though the empire later transitioned to Christianity. Lifestyles varied a lot between classes and where in the empire you lived, but a typical house for a middle or upper middle class Roman family would include mosaics on the floor, an atrium with a pool of water, and an inner courtyard. Only the richest could afford a full bath complex, but some might have a small, cold pool. The vast majority of Romans would go to their local bathhouse. Typical Roman clothing consisted of a tunic and sandals, sometimes with a toga for men, and usually with a palla (a versatile strip of cloth that could be used like a scarf or as a head covering) for women, and a cloak in colder weather. Overall, ancient Roman culture is pretty fascinating to me!
Part 2
The sea sparkled in the early evening light, rippling and foaming, waves splashing gently on the shore. A bird pecked about in the sand, its bright eyes gleaming as it searched from supper. Behind it, craggy cliffs stretched up towards the sky, and perched high above was an opulent villa. The columns stood together like a legion of soldiers at the ready, great cylinders of white marble. The steps which led up to the colonnade were also made of marble.
Beyond the columns was a dining area, with space to recline while eating. The floor was tiled with an intricate mosaic, all greens and blues, of leaping dolphins. Frescoes on the wall depicted the trial of Odysseus, listening to the song of the sirens, tied to the mast of the ship, while his sailors had their ears stopped up with wax.
Nestled deep within the villa was an inner courtyard, with vines ladened with grapes twisting around the pillars. Statues of gods were dotted around, gold and silver, gleaming and extravagant. There was a fountain in the middle, which flowed merrily, and thickets of flowers adorned the spaces beside the stone pathways.
To the side of the main building, there was a bath complex. A hot, steamy room, a hot pool, a cold pool and a room for massages with scented oils. The mosaics at the bottom of the pools were distorted by the movement of the water. The slave’s quarters were nearby, so the furnace could be turned on to heat the water quickly. They were small and modest, but comfortable enough.
In the kitchen, several slaves were working hard to prepare a late dinner, chopping herbs and stirring pots. In the grove beyond, a traveller had wandered off the road and was offering a loaf of bread at a shrine to ensure a safe journey. This grove could be seen from the windows of the bedrooms, on the top floor of the villa. In these rooms, the walls were painted in bright colours, in some cases with frescoes. Each room had a bed and a chest for possessions, as well as an alcove for clothes, and a chair and table. In one room, several light linen tunics were hung in the alcove, a pale blue palla was strewn across the bed. The table was scattered with containers of coloured powders for make up, and a cup of pomegranate juice sat half drank beside them.
Part 3
Aurelia is a fourteen year old girl of the equestrian class. Her father is a merchant, and she has two younger siblings, twin brothers Tiberius and Valerius. Her mother died of a sickness when Aurelia was young. They live together in a pleasant house in a port town near Rome. She is bright and curious about how things work, and she enjoys lessons with their tutor. She speaks some Greek as well as her native language (Latin), loves reading poetry and knows a lot of the religious stories of the time. Her father has allowed her to wait for longer than would be the usual custom before being married, so she is enjoying her final years of freedom before she will have more duties, and most likely a family to look after.
She runs some errands for her family most days, often going to the market with one of the two family slaves, as her mother is not there to do that. She spends some time weaving, and she made herself a palla recently, as she is creative and hardworking. Some people think her life is not quite appropriate for a young woman of marriageable age, but most people of the town are friendly with her. She is friends with several girls her age or younger who live on her street, as well as the baker’s daughter, and some of the market stall owners in the town square. She is also friends with Cornelia, a girl from a wealthy family in the patrician class, who lives in a large villa by the sea. She wants to teach Aurelia to be a bit more ladylike.
Aurelia also has a pet dog called Ajax, after the famous hero from the stories. She worships with her family at the household shrine every morning, as despite her unconventional and sometimes rebellious approach to life, she is devoted to her religion. She advocates for the kind treatment of slaves, though she isn’t entirely against slavery, since it’s widely accepted in her culture as a part of normal life. She sometimes writes poetry on wax tablets, the best of which she memorises, copies onto parchment, or both. She would like to publish scrolls of her poetry one day. She generally wears warm colours, often orange or red. She doesn’t care for very elaborate hairstyles, as are fashionable at the time, but she keeps her hair in a simple arrangement, under her palla if she is in the company of any non-family members.
Part 4
Aurelia was still half-asleep when Ajax began to bark wildly. By the time she had made herself presentable and made it down the stairs, the messenger was leaving. Her father held a scroll of parchment. “It’s for you,” he explained, handing it to her.
Aurelia’s eyes scanned the page, and a smiled played across her lips. “It’s from Cornelia. She’d like me to come and visit this summer, when you're away in Rome. She says Tiberius and Valerius can come, and Ajax too. May I go, Pater?”
“Yes, you may,” he shushed the twins as they began to cheer, “On the condition that you take your tutor with you.”
The twins still celebrated, but in a slightly more muted manner.
When the time came around, their father hired a carucca, and they got in, with their tutor, and waved goodbye as they left. Aurelia enjoyed the ride there, spotting shrines to different gods along the way. When they turned a corner, and the sea was revealed, the twins gasped in admiration. It was like the sea beside their hometown, granted, but somehow it was more exciting because of the whole feeling of this being an adventure.
As they arrived, Cornelia was there to greet them, with her mother and her brother Julius. The twins quickly began talking to Julius about typical boy things, like hunting techniques and their favourite charioteers and gladiators. “Aurelia, darling, it’s so good to see you!” exclaimed Cornelia.
“Yeah, you too,” replied Aurelia.
Cornelia sighed. “Sometimes I do wish you’d speak more like a lady.”
“Hmm,” Aurelia sounded unconvinced.
“Either way,” Cornelia continued, “Let me show you to your rooms. Aurelia, you’re to sleep in the blue room, you remember? The one with the shell decorations. And your brothers will be in the red room, with the gladiator fresco.”
The twins cheered when they heard this.
Julius took Tiberius and Valerius to their rooms, while Cornelia took Aurelia to hers. Aurelia unpacked her things, and then Cornelia came back. “You must ache after your journey. Come on, let’s go to the baths.”
They went hurriedly down the stairs, then out to the bath house. Aurelia left her tunic in a niche in the antechamber, before they went quickly though the steam room and into the hot pool. “So, any potential husbands?” asked Cornelia, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, don’t,” replied Aurelia, “I just want to enjoy this without the future.”
“Alright, alright, what have you been doing then?”
Aurelia paused. “Well… I made myself a palla, I wove it.”
“Oh. Couldn’t you get a slave to do that for you?”
“Thing is, I actually kinda enjoy weaving.”
Cornelia frowned slightly. “Alright then. Anything else?”
“I wrote a bit of poetry.”
Cornelia gasped. “Love poetry?!”
“Uh. No,” Aurelia shook her head.
“Oh. Well, really, I don’t know why you hate the idea of marriage so much. You’re talented, someone will appreciate that, surely?”
“Maybe.”
They left the hot pool, had a quick dip in the cold one, then went to the last room for a massage with lavender oil. Aurelia closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment. The future could wait, at least for now.
Word count: 1561
Part 1
At its height, the Roman Empire spanned countries on three different continents, making it a superpower unrivalled in its time. Rome itself was a melting pot of different cultures, languages and religions. While many people were sadly brought into the city as slaves, there was also a lot of travel around the empire, and some slaves were later set free and lived as freedmen. Ancient Roman religion was polytheistic (worshipped many gods/goddesses) and had many epic tales and complicated mythology, though the empire later transitioned to Christianity. Lifestyles varied a lot between classes and where in the empire you lived, but a typical house for a middle or upper middle class Roman family would include mosaics on the floor, an atrium with a pool of water, and an inner courtyard. Only the richest could afford a full bath complex, but some might have a small, cold pool. The vast majority of Romans would go to their local bathhouse. Typical Roman clothing consisted of a tunic and sandals, sometimes with a toga for men, and usually with a palla (a versatile strip of cloth that could be used like a scarf or as a head covering) for women, and a cloak in colder weather. Overall, ancient Roman culture is pretty fascinating to me!
Part 2
The sea sparkled in the early evening light, rippling and foaming, waves splashing gently on the shore. A bird pecked about in the sand, its bright eyes gleaming as it searched from supper. Behind it, craggy cliffs stretched up towards the sky, and perched high above was an opulent villa. The columns stood together like a legion of soldiers at the ready, great cylinders of white marble. The steps which led up to the colonnade were also made of marble.
Beyond the columns was a dining area, with space to recline while eating. The floor was tiled with an intricate mosaic, all greens and blues, of leaping dolphins. Frescoes on the wall depicted the trial of Odysseus, listening to the song of the sirens, tied to the mast of the ship, while his sailors had their ears stopped up with wax.
Nestled deep within the villa was an inner courtyard, with vines ladened with grapes twisting around the pillars. Statues of gods were dotted around, gold and silver, gleaming and extravagant. There was a fountain in the middle, which flowed merrily, and thickets of flowers adorned the spaces beside the stone pathways.
To the side of the main building, there was a bath complex. A hot, steamy room, a hot pool, a cold pool and a room for massages with scented oils. The mosaics at the bottom of the pools were distorted by the movement of the water. The slave’s quarters were nearby, so the furnace could be turned on to heat the water quickly. They were small and modest, but comfortable enough.
In the kitchen, several slaves were working hard to prepare a late dinner, chopping herbs and stirring pots. In the grove beyond, a traveller had wandered off the road and was offering a loaf of bread at a shrine to ensure a safe journey. This grove could be seen from the windows of the bedrooms, on the top floor of the villa. In these rooms, the walls were painted in bright colours, in some cases with frescoes. Each room had a bed and a chest for possessions, as well as an alcove for clothes, and a chair and table. In one room, several light linen tunics were hung in the alcove, a pale blue palla was strewn across the bed. The table was scattered with containers of coloured powders for make up, and a cup of pomegranate juice sat half drank beside them.
Part 3
Aurelia is a fourteen year old girl of the equestrian class. Her father is a merchant, and she has two younger siblings, twin brothers Tiberius and Valerius. Her mother died of a sickness when Aurelia was young. They live together in a pleasant house in a port town near Rome. She is bright and curious about how things work, and she enjoys lessons with their tutor. She speaks some Greek as well as her native language (Latin), loves reading poetry and knows a lot of the religious stories of the time. Her father has allowed her to wait for longer than would be the usual custom before being married, so she is enjoying her final years of freedom before she will have more duties, and most likely a family to look after.
She runs some errands for her family most days, often going to the market with one of the two family slaves, as her mother is not there to do that. She spends some time weaving, and she made herself a palla recently, as she is creative and hardworking. Some people think her life is not quite appropriate for a young woman of marriageable age, but most people of the town are friendly with her. She is friends with several girls her age or younger who live on her street, as well as the baker’s daughter, and some of the market stall owners in the town square. She is also friends with Cornelia, a girl from a wealthy family in the patrician class, who lives in a large villa by the sea. She wants to teach Aurelia to be a bit more ladylike.
Aurelia also has a pet dog called Ajax, after the famous hero from the stories. She worships with her family at the household shrine every morning, as despite her unconventional and sometimes rebellious approach to life, she is devoted to her religion. She advocates for the kind treatment of slaves, though she isn’t entirely against slavery, since it’s widely accepted in her culture as a part of normal life. She sometimes writes poetry on wax tablets, the best of which she memorises, copies onto parchment, or both. She would like to publish scrolls of her poetry one day. She generally wears warm colours, often orange or red. She doesn’t care for very elaborate hairstyles, as are fashionable at the time, but she keeps her hair in a simple arrangement, under her palla if she is in the company of any non-family members.
Part 4
Aurelia was still half-asleep when Ajax began to bark wildly. By the time she had made herself presentable and made it down the stairs, the messenger was leaving. Her father held a scroll of parchment. “It’s for you,” he explained, handing it to her.
Aurelia’s eyes scanned the page, and a smiled played across her lips. “It’s from Cornelia. She’d like me to come and visit this summer, when you're away in Rome. She says Tiberius and Valerius can come, and Ajax too. May I go, Pater?”
“Yes, you may,” he shushed the twins as they began to cheer, “On the condition that you take your tutor with you.”
The twins still celebrated, but in a slightly more muted manner.
When the time came around, their father hired a carucca, and they got in, with their tutor, and waved goodbye as they left. Aurelia enjoyed the ride there, spotting shrines to different gods along the way. When they turned a corner, and the sea was revealed, the twins gasped in admiration. It was like the sea beside their hometown, granted, but somehow it was more exciting because of the whole feeling of this being an adventure.
As they arrived, Cornelia was there to greet them, with her mother and her brother Julius. The twins quickly began talking to Julius about typical boy things, like hunting techniques and their favourite charioteers and gladiators. “Aurelia, darling, it’s so good to see you!” exclaimed Cornelia.
“Yeah, you too,” replied Aurelia.
Cornelia sighed. “Sometimes I do wish you’d speak more like a lady.”
“Hmm,” Aurelia sounded unconvinced.
“Either way,” Cornelia continued, “Let me show you to your rooms. Aurelia, you’re to sleep in the blue room, you remember? The one with the shell decorations. And your brothers will be in the red room, with the gladiator fresco.”
The twins cheered when they heard this.
Julius took Tiberius and Valerius to their rooms, while Cornelia took Aurelia to hers. Aurelia unpacked her things, and then Cornelia came back. “You must ache after your journey. Come on, let’s go to the baths.”
They went hurriedly down the stairs, then out to the bath house. Aurelia left her tunic in a niche in the antechamber, before they went quickly though the steam room and into the hot pool. “So, any potential husbands?” asked Cornelia, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, don’t,” replied Aurelia, “I just want to enjoy this without the future.”
“Alright, alright, what have you been doing then?”
Aurelia paused. “Well… I made myself a palla, I wove it.”
“Oh. Couldn’t you get a slave to do that for you?”
“Thing is, I actually kinda enjoy weaving.”
Cornelia frowned slightly. “Alright then. Anything else?”
“I wrote a bit of poetry.”
Cornelia gasped. “Love poetry?!”
“Uh. No,” Aurelia shook her head.
“Oh. Well, really, I don’t know why you hate the idea of marriage so much. You’re talented, someone will appreciate that, surely?”
“Maybe.”
They left the hot pool, had a quick dip in the cold one, then went to the last room for a massage with lavender oil. Aurelia closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment. The future could wait, at least for now.
Word count: 1561
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
Daily 16/11/2025
Light! It is a wonderful thing. Without it, none of us would be able to see. You'd never see the faces of your family, your cosy house, or your beloved pet cat! But wait… what if there was a way to have light without relying on the sun? Then, you could see your family, your house and your beloved pet cat, even at night! How incredible!
It works by using electricity to heat up a thing and… wait, no, you don't want to hear that— it's boring! We can just tell you it's magic. Yes, these magical lights will let you have the light without the sun, on gloomy days or at night, or even underground! You'll never have to worry about being scared of the dark again! So amazing!
You should buy it today! It only costs a billion pounds, and we have a 10% extra offer at the moment! Totally worth it! Lights can be installed in houses, outside (though we can not guarantee weather resistance), for businesses or other institutions, under the sea (though we can not guarantee water resistance), in vehicles, and pretty much anywhere as long as you pay us.
Imagine the brilliance! The radiance! You could brag to all you friends about the amazing new technology you have! Shine a light on the future and brighten up your life today!
Terms and conditions:
There is no warranty.
Lights may not work.
You may be left broke.
We can not accept liability for scamming you.
Word count: 250
Light! It is a wonderful thing. Without it, none of us would be able to see. You'd never see the faces of your family, your cosy house, or your beloved pet cat! But wait… what if there was a way to have light without relying on the sun? Then, you could see your family, your house and your beloved pet cat, even at night! How incredible!
It works by using electricity to heat up a thing and… wait, no, you don't want to hear that— it's boring! We can just tell you it's magic. Yes, these magical lights will let you have the light without the sun, on gloomy days or at night, or even underground! You'll never have to worry about being scared of the dark again! So amazing!
You should buy it today! It only costs a billion pounds, and we have a 10% extra offer at the moment! Totally worth it! Lights can be installed in houses, outside (though we can not guarantee weather resistance), for businesses or other institutions, under the sea (though we can not guarantee water resistance), in vehicles, and pretty much anywhere as long as you pay us.
Imagine the brilliance! The radiance! You could brag to all you friends about the amazing new technology you have! Shine a light on the future and brighten up your life today!
Terms and conditions:
There is no warranty.
Lights may not work.
You may be left broke.
We can not accept liability for scamming you.
Word count: 250
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
17/11/2025
A recipe for good mental health
Ingredients:
Mindfulness
Enjoyable activities
Healthy social connections
Relaxation
Music/creative outlet (optional)
Happy memories
Aspirations
Hope
For the topping:
Exercise
Healthy diet
Good sleep schedule
Kindness
Prayer (optional)
Exact quantities of each ingredient will vary due to individual preference.
1. Start by leaving the mindfulness to rest in a warm place for half hour.
2. Then, gently fold in some time spent doing enjoyable activities, social connections and relaxation. If you would like to add music or a creative outlet, sprinkle it in here.
3. Add some happy memories, some aspirations and some hope.
4. Bake in the oven at 180 degrees Celsius for thirty minutes.
5. For the topping, mix some exercise and a healthy diet, before you sieve in a good sleep schedule.
6. Once the base is cool, spread on the topping. Decorate with slices of kindness, both to yourself and others. If religious, sprinkle on some prayer.
7. Your mental health is ready to eat. Enjoy!
Word count: 166
A recipe for good mental health
Ingredients:
Mindfulness
Enjoyable activities
Healthy social connections
Relaxation
Music/creative outlet (optional)
Happy memories
Aspirations
Hope
For the topping:
Exercise
Healthy diet
Good sleep schedule
Kindness
Prayer (optional)
Exact quantities of each ingredient will vary due to individual preference.
1. Start by leaving the mindfulness to rest in a warm place for half hour.
2. Then, gently fold in some time spent doing enjoyable activities, social connections and relaxation. If you would like to add music or a creative outlet, sprinkle it in here.
3. Add some happy memories, some aspirations and some hope.
4. Bake in the oven at 180 degrees Celsius for thirty minutes.
5. For the topping, mix some exercise and a healthy diet, before you sieve in a good sleep schedule.
6. Once the base is cool, spread on the topping. Decorate with slices of kindness, both to yourself and others. If religious, sprinkle on some prayer.
7. Your mental health is ready to eat. Enjoy!
Word count: 166
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
Daily 18/11/2025
The door was locked. That much was certain. “Servants! Servants, come and let me out!” yelled a man with long a cloak, rattling the handle.
“There are no servants to help you here,” whispered an ethereal voice, which belonged to an equally ethereal woman who wore a silver circlet on her head.
“Someone explain to me what is going on,” demanded a man with a harsh, grating voice.
His skin was coated in metal, which squealed as he turned his head to survey them all, as they stood in the empty, white room. “I think it’s quite clear that none of us know,” came the cutting reply of a woman in a white suit, in fact so white that the only colour was her blazing blue eyes, “We need a plan. But first, we need to introduce ourselves. I’m Director Zaran, of Stardust City.”
“I am Daestin,” lilted the ethereal woman.
“My name is Java,” rasped the metal man, “I am the captain of the scrimlar army.”
The man in the sea-blue cloak finally abandoned the door and turned towards the others. “Enk,” he declared, “King Enk.”
“King of where exactly?” asked Director Zaran.
“Uh… um, the land!” stumbled King Enk.
“Hmm. I see.”
The Director looked unimpressed. “So, Zaran,” began Java, “How to you plan do get us out of here?”
“We need to examine the door. We can also assess each of our strengths and weaknesses to assign roles in the plan.”
“I am not sure that one has any strengths,” hissed Daestin, looking disdainfully at Enk.
Enk ignored the remark but decided not to argue. Daestin, despite her uncanny insubstantiality, looked like she could do some damage, in her way. At that moment, there was a flash of light. As the four assembled there blinked away the impact of the sudden brightness, they realised a girl had materialised among them. “Hello,” she said, surveying them from behind her purple-framed glasses, “I thought I really ought to tell you that there is no way to get out of this room, to save you the bother of trying to escape.”
“And who are you to tell us that?” growled Java, the first to regain his wits
The girl simply smiled.
“Go on, do tell us,” murmured Daestin, a look of mildly haughty interest on her face.
Director Zaran raised her eyebrows, as if to prompt the girl. King Enk look quite unsure what to do with himself. Finally, the girl replied. “I…” she paused for dramatic effect, “Am your author.”
Word count: 421
The door was locked. That much was certain. “Servants! Servants, come and let me out!” yelled a man with long a cloak, rattling the handle.
“There are no servants to help you here,” whispered an ethereal voice, which belonged to an equally ethereal woman who wore a silver circlet on her head.
“Someone explain to me what is going on,” demanded a man with a harsh, grating voice.
His skin was coated in metal, which squealed as he turned his head to survey them all, as they stood in the empty, white room. “I think it’s quite clear that none of us know,” came the cutting reply of a woman in a white suit, in fact so white that the only colour was her blazing blue eyes, “We need a plan. But first, we need to introduce ourselves. I’m Director Zaran, of Stardust City.”
“I am Daestin,” lilted the ethereal woman.
“My name is Java,” rasped the metal man, “I am the captain of the scrimlar army.”
The man in the sea-blue cloak finally abandoned the door and turned towards the others. “Enk,” he declared, “King Enk.”
“King of where exactly?” asked Director Zaran.
“Uh… um, the land!” stumbled King Enk.
“Hmm. I see.”
The Director looked unimpressed. “So, Zaran,” began Java, “How to you plan do get us out of here?”
“We need to examine the door. We can also assess each of our strengths and weaknesses to assign roles in the plan.”
“I am not sure that one has any strengths,” hissed Daestin, looking disdainfully at Enk.
Enk ignored the remark but decided not to argue. Daestin, despite her uncanny insubstantiality, looked like she could do some damage, in her way. At that moment, there was a flash of light. As the four assembled there blinked away the impact of the sudden brightness, they realised a girl had materialised among them. “Hello,” she said, surveying them from behind her purple-framed glasses, “I thought I really ought to tell you that there is no way to get out of this room, to save you the bother of trying to escape.”
“And who are you to tell us that?” growled Java, the first to regain his wits
The girl simply smiled.
“Go on, do tell us,” murmured Daestin, a look of mildly haughty interest on her face.
Director Zaran raised her eyebrows, as if to prompt the girl. King Enk look quite unsure what to do with himself. Finally, the girl replied. “I…” she paused for dramatic effect, “Am your author.”
Word count: 421
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
Daily 19/11/2025
I sat on the duck as it flew along. The duck was surprisingly slippery, though it was still soft, and its eyes glinted with excitement, despite the fact that I had kidnapped it. Honestly, being a fox (albeit a small one), I’m not quite sure how I fitted on the duck. Oh well. The sky was very pretty that afternoon, bright and blue with little wispy clouds drifting across it like strands of cotton wool. The lines and curves of them made them look almost like writing. As I began trying to read them, the duck squawked angrily. Perhaps I had misread its expression earlier. I held on as it flapped its large, feathered wings wildly, trying to shake me off. “No duck!” I cried, “I need to take over the Gulf of Canada!”
My valiant steed seemed to understand that my cause was a noble one, and stopped trying to throw me off, though it carried on squawking in a disgruntled manner. Once we arrived, I jumped off the duck, but then I realised the Gulf of Canada was made of water. My tail streamed out behind me, billowing and rusty red, as I plummeted, further and further down. Suddenly, I had an idea. “Summonio elephantio!” I yelled.
Sure enough, a large, grey elephant appeared beneath me. For a moment, the solidity of its wrinkled skin reassured me, but then I realised – the elephant was falling, just like I had been! Oh no. “Summonio wingsio onio thisio elephantio!” I cried.
As I held my breath, the fall turned into a more deliberate dive, which the newly bewinged elephant pulled out of, pulling me up into the air. I realised then that the duck was still following me. In fact, it followed us all the way to the moon. I looked out over the expanse of pitted, dusty greyness. I sniffed the floor a bit, but the dust made me sneeze. “I thought we were going to take over the Gulf of Canada!” the duck squawked, in an annoyed manner rather than angry or disgruntled this time.
“Eh,” I replied, “I guess we’ll have to take over the moon instead."
Word count: 360
I sat on the duck as it flew along. The duck was surprisingly slippery, though it was still soft, and its eyes glinted with excitement, despite the fact that I had kidnapped it. Honestly, being a fox (albeit a small one), I’m not quite sure how I fitted on the duck. Oh well. The sky was very pretty that afternoon, bright and blue with little wispy clouds drifting across it like strands of cotton wool. The lines and curves of them made them look almost like writing. As I began trying to read them, the duck squawked angrily. Perhaps I had misread its expression earlier. I held on as it flapped its large, feathered wings wildly, trying to shake me off. “No duck!” I cried, “I need to take over the Gulf of Canada!”
My valiant steed seemed to understand that my cause was a noble one, and stopped trying to throw me off, though it carried on squawking in a disgruntled manner. Once we arrived, I jumped off the duck, but then I realised the Gulf of Canada was made of water. My tail streamed out behind me, billowing and rusty red, as I plummeted, further and further down. Suddenly, I had an idea. “Summonio elephantio!” I yelled.
Sure enough, a large, grey elephant appeared beneath me. For a moment, the solidity of its wrinkled skin reassured me, but then I realised – the elephant was falling, just like I had been! Oh no. “Summonio wingsio onio thisio elephantio!” I cried.
As I held my breath, the fall turned into a more deliberate dive, which the newly bewinged elephant pulled out of, pulling me up into the air. I realised then that the duck was still following me. In fact, it followed us all the way to the moon. I looked out over the expanse of pitted, dusty greyness. I sniffed the floor a bit, but the dust made me sneeze. “I thought we were going to take over the Gulf of Canada!” the duck squawked, in an annoyed manner rather than angry or disgruntled this time.
“Eh,” I replied, “I guess we’ll have to take over the moon instead."
Word count: 360
Last edited by evegau (Nov. 19, 2025 20:04:16)
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
Daily 20/11/2025
The spinner selected:
Survivor
Romance
Long forgotten place
Foil
As the church bells sounded the hour, Lana entered the library. Glancing around, she could see she was the first there. Time to wait. She crossed the bright centre of the room, before she stepped into the more shadowy fantasy and sci-fi section in the far corner. She ran her delicate fingers absentmindedly over the spines of the books there, thinking that of all the wild stories contained within their pages, her real story was probably wilder. Finally, she pulled one out from the many on the shelves and settled down on a sofa to read.
“Hey, Lana.”
Absorbed in her book, it took her a moment to register his voice. She looked up, disorientated. “Felix?”
“Come on,” said Felix, “You can’t tell me you weren’t expecting me. We arranged this.”
Lana tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry. The book was good.”
“It’s alright,” he laughed, flopping down next to her on the sofa.
There was a long pause, filled only with intense eye contact. “It’s been a while,” remarked Felix, finally.
While they had crossed paths a few times recently, it was true that they hadn’t arranged to meet up in a long time. Not outside the hospital. “Yes,” replied Lana, and after another significant pause continued, “I know this relationship really hasn’t gone to plan…”
“Don’t you dare apologise,” Felix told her firmly, though there was a joking tone to his voice, “It’s not your fault.”
“Yeah… I know, I just…” Lana sighed, “There’s so much that could’ve happened by now that… hasn’t.”
“It’s okay. I promise you, it’s okay.”
Lana didn’t reply immediately. She thought of this time a year ago, the last time they had been to this library. She had almost forgotten it existed in the events that followed. It was only a month later that the illness had come. She had expected Felix might drift, as all the time she was stuck in the hospital, he was out in the world doing other things, and their relationship was still so fragile and new. But against all the odds, here he was. Still. Perhaps it had partly been that while she overthought and worried about everything, he saw things in a clear-cut sort of a way. He was the hope to her despair, the simplicity in everything she saw as complicated, and in the same way, she was the caution to his running headfirst into everything without a second thought, the gentleness to his roughness. “Lana…” he began, bringing her back to the present.
It was rare for him to hesitate. “Yeah?”
“There is one thing that could’ve happened by now that I can help with…”
“Oh?” Lana tilted her head.
Each pause was filled with more intense eye contact than the last. “… I love you.”
Word count: 465
The spinner selected:
Survivor
Romance
Long forgotten place
Foil
As the church bells sounded the hour, Lana entered the library. Glancing around, she could see she was the first there. Time to wait. She crossed the bright centre of the room, before she stepped into the more shadowy fantasy and sci-fi section in the far corner. She ran her delicate fingers absentmindedly over the spines of the books there, thinking that of all the wild stories contained within their pages, her real story was probably wilder. Finally, she pulled one out from the many on the shelves and settled down on a sofa to read.
“Hey, Lana.”
Absorbed in her book, it took her a moment to register his voice. She looked up, disorientated. “Felix?”
“Come on,” said Felix, “You can’t tell me you weren’t expecting me. We arranged this.”
Lana tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry. The book was good.”
“It’s alright,” he laughed, flopping down next to her on the sofa.
There was a long pause, filled only with intense eye contact. “It’s been a while,” remarked Felix, finally.
While they had crossed paths a few times recently, it was true that they hadn’t arranged to meet up in a long time. Not outside the hospital. “Yes,” replied Lana, and after another significant pause continued, “I know this relationship really hasn’t gone to plan…”
“Don’t you dare apologise,” Felix told her firmly, though there was a joking tone to his voice, “It’s not your fault.”
“Yeah… I know, I just…” Lana sighed, “There’s so much that could’ve happened by now that… hasn’t.”
“It’s okay. I promise you, it’s okay.”
Lana didn’t reply immediately. She thought of this time a year ago, the last time they had been to this library. She had almost forgotten it existed in the events that followed. It was only a month later that the illness had come. She had expected Felix might drift, as all the time she was stuck in the hospital, he was out in the world doing other things, and their relationship was still so fragile and new. But against all the odds, here he was. Still. Perhaps it had partly been that while she overthought and worried about everything, he saw things in a clear-cut sort of a way. He was the hope to her despair, the simplicity in everything she saw as complicated, and in the same way, she was the caution to his running headfirst into everything without a second thought, the gentleness to his roughness. “Lana…” he began, bringing her back to the present.
It was rare for him to hesitate. “Yeah?”
“There is one thing that could’ve happened by now that I can help with…”
“Oh?” Lana tilted her head.
Each pause was filled with more intense eye contact than the last. “… I love you.”
Word count: 465
- evegau
-
Scratcher
36 posts
Eva's Writing Thread (SWC July 2025)
The Queen and The Soldier
She is in control. The guards on either side of the door; the rows of marble columns; the ornate pattern of swirls on the ceiling: everything is perfectly organised. Outside, her empire is running smoothly. Her dark, glossy curls are neatly arranged over one shoulder, her eyes are icy blue and, against the red velvet of her gown, her skin is as white as marble.
She looks up as the doors open, revealing a man in uniform. The Messenger. “Your Majesty!” He exclaims, “A traitorous soldier! He has been caught sending military information to another country.”
“Execute him,” the queen replies, sounding almost bored, “Immediately.”
“As you wish, your Majesty.”
The Messenger bows, and one of the guards hurries away to relay the message, his footsteps receding into the distance. “What are the details of the soldier?” the queen asks, after a while.
She doesn't really care, but it's the customary response. “Soldier number 18792, of the 6th Division,” he replies.
The queen takes a sharp breath, but her face remains impassive. Perhaps she misheard the Messenger, or even misremembered the number. But the more she thinks, the more she is sure. This is no ordinary soldier. The memories of all the past nights creep into her mind. The chill of night air, his soft voice, and his gentle embrace. It's him.
The expression of disinterest gives way to one of fear as she gets to her feet. Shoving the Messenger aside, she runs towards the doors, skirts swishing around her ankles. She has no time to see the remaining guard's look of surprise, or to admire the paintings and tapestries on the walls. She runs outside, across the field, towards the stone building. She can't let this happen.
As she runs, it begins to rain. She slips on the muddy ground. Though she tries, she cannot run any faster, and she knows precious seconds are ticking away. She has no control over time.
She reaches the building. No one notices her come in: The Executioner is focused on his task. Then she sees the soldier and her heart begins beating wildly. She has no control over love.
The Executioner has his gun in position. In a decisive movement, he pulls the trigger. The gunshot rings out. The bullet flies through the air… and embeds itself in the queen's chest. She has no control over death.
The queen lies on the ground, a pool of blood spreading around her, seeping into the ground like a red ink blot on a page. The Executioner has frozen and the guard's face is a mask of shock. The soldier runs to her and kneels on the floor beside her, weeping bitterly. Only he knows why she did it.
She is gone. Somewhere dark, lonely, and empty. She finally knows the truth, but the discovery came at too great a cost. Now, she knows the power in love, and the pain that it can bring. She sees the strange beauty of pain. She realises that sometimes the most beautiful things are the things you have no control over.
She is in control. The guards on either side of the door; the rows of marble columns; the ornate pattern of swirls on the ceiling: everything is perfectly organised. Outside, her empire is running smoothly. Her dark, glossy curls are neatly arranged over one shoulder, her eyes are icy blue and, against the red velvet of her gown, her skin is as white as marble.
She looks up as the doors open, revealing a man in uniform. The Messenger. “Your Majesty!” He exclaims, “A traitorous soldier! He has been caught sending military information to another country.”
“Execute him,” the queen replies, sounding almost bored, “Immediately.”
“As you wish, your Majesty.”
The Messenger bows, and one of the guards hurries away to relay the message, his footsteps receding into the distance. “What are the details of the soldier?” the queen asks, after a while.
She doesn't really care, but it's the customary response. “Soldier number 18792, of the 6th Division,” he replies.
The queen takes a sharp breath, but her face remains impassive. Perhaps she misheard the Messenger, or even misremembered the number. But the more she thinks, the more she is sure. This is no ordinary soldier. The memories of all the past nights creep into her mind. The chill of night air, his soft voice, and his gentle embrace. It's him.
The expression of disinterest gives way to one of fear as she gets to her feet. Shoving the Messenger aside, she runs towards the doors, skirts swishing around her ankles. She has no time to see the remaining guard's look of surprise, or to admire the paintings and tapestries on the walls. She runs outside, across the field, towards the stone building. She can't let this happen.
As she runs, it begins to rain. She slips on the muddy ground. Though she tries, she cannot run any faster, and she knows precious seconds are ticking away. She has no control over time.
She reaches the building. No one notices her come in: The Executioner is focused on his task. Then she sees the soldier and her heart begins beating wildly. She has no control over love.
The Executioner has his gun in position. In a decisive movement, he pulls the trigger. The gunshot rings out. The bullet flies through the air… and embeds itself in the queen's chest. She has no control over death.
The queen lies on the ground, a pool of blood spreading around her, seeping into the ground like a red ink blot on a page. The Executioner has frozen and the guard's face is a mask of shock. The soldier runs to her and kneels on the floor beside her, weeping bitterly. Only he knows why she did it.
She is gone. Somewhere dark, lonely, and empty. She finally knows the truth, but the discovery came at too great a cost. Now, she knows the power in love, and the pain that it can bring. She sees the strange beauty of pain. She realises that sometimes the most beautiful things are the things you have no control over.
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