Part One:

There are a variety of reasons that I tend to procrastinate.Typically, I’m the kind of person who actually hates doing it (procrastination, that is), so I’ll constantly be rushing to get things done as soon as I possibly can. While this can be helpful at times, it also has some not so great effects as well. For example, because I’m so prone to starting as soon as I can and trying to finish everything all at once, I often end up really overwhelmed, and this can cause me to just not know where to start. Basically, I won’t really procrastinate when I don’t think I have that much work. But when I do, I get really overwhelmed and don’t know where to start, so I start getting distracted as I do my work, continually rambling about how stressed I am and how much stuff I have to do without like. Actually doing any of it.

Another reason I tend to procrastinate is because I think something is boring. Oftentimes, it’s not actually as bad as I build it up to be, but I’ll still fall into that trap. I may have other things I’d rather do, so I’ll be checking off items on my to do list that are more fun to do or easier to do, not knowing where to start or just straight up not wanting to start on something else. Sometimes I also think things are really boring just because I’m not sure how to approach them or am feeling uninspired.

As a perfectionist, another thing that can stop me from just doing the thing is my need for it to be really good if not perfect pretty much the first time around. This makes it a bit of an issue when I’m trying, say, to just do a rough draft, because even though I consciously know that I don’t have to make it perfect, I have this really annoying inability to leave things as “just okay” so I can go back to them later.
(339 words)

Part Two:

Brainstorming: One method I decided to try was brainstorming, which was really helpful to me! Honestly, I’ve been meaning to just jot down a bunch of ideas for what I’m planning on doing for my main entry for the writing comp for…ages. Or what feels like that, anyway. Anyway, during this period of time, I managed to plan out a bit of my concept and the themes of my piece, along with beginning to think about character. It’s definitely far from a finished piece—far from a started piece, at that, but at least I’ve started thinking about how I’m going to make this work. I do have a starting point now!

Listening to music: Listening to music has always been something that helps to motivate me, and it’s why doing things like math homework is one of my favorites because I can just listen to music the whole way through. While I was really dreading doing literally any work on my main entry, I think listening to music (some from Clair Obscur and a Cœur de Pirate song, I believe, if I’m not wrong) by my favorite artists really helps me to just distract myself from the fact that it feels like a chore to allow me to just get the thing done.

Making deadlines: This is also something I’m commonly doing, but seeing as I’ve just generally been all-around trying to avoid my main entry, I haven’t actually gotten around to setting myself mini deadlines for what I want to get done by each day. Today, however, I managed to lay out a rough schedule for when I want my drafting done, my self-editing finished, when I’m getting peer review for it, and finally the formatting and submitting it!
(290 words)

Part Three:

For this activity, I chose time blocking. I used thirty minute increments, and this is what it looks like for me!

(Scratch hates me, find the schedule here instead)

Overall, I think this will help me to accomplish the main things I have to do today while also working in some time for other things that are really important to me—like the writing comp and also playing piano. While I do have a tendency to overestimate my ability to stay focused, I’m really hoping that I will be able to motivate myself to use this method to really keep myself accountable for the time that I’m spending on each activity and such, because I want to ensure that I leave sufficient time to actually work on and write my entry and all of that fun stuff.

I’ve chosen this strategy because it’s one that aligns with how I like to work. Typically speaking, I’ll time block at least a bit on my own, just because I kind of obsessively make schedules for things. I think my putting a solid, much clearer one together here (at least, much clearer than all the ones I do when I’m just rambling on and on about all the things I feel like I have to do) will hopefully help me to stay a bit more on track. Obviously there will certainly be things that won’t go exactly according to plan, but I’d like to make sure that I’m spending, at the very least, half an hour today working on my writing comp main entry. So far, I’ve checked off the step for Chinese homework, and I’ve been right on schedule! We’ll see how much the rest of it holds…
327 words

Katniss has been in many arenas in her life. Ever since the end of the second rebellion, where the efforts of the Mockingjay and everyone who helped her were quashed by President Renoir—Snow’s successor, after he was taken hostage and killed—she’s been the target of every leader. Of course, it wouldn’t do to kill her outright. So every year, they threw her in the arena, a twenty-fifth tribute.

This was her fourth Hunger Games, and somehow, she was still alive.

She stood on the pedestal, lunging forward, ready to run as fast as she could as soon as the gong rang. The countdown, as always seemed far too slow.

33, 32, 31…

As a prior victor, she hadn’t been allowed any extra training, so she’d hardly gotten the chance to get to know her competition. Her potential enemies and allies.

She knew, of course, that it wasn’t their fault the rebellion had ended. Most of them, anyway, save for a few in the Career districts. But still. When you’re in the Hunger Games, you can do little else than to see them as opponents, threats to your life.

21, 20, 19…

In the interviews, only a few had made real impressions on her. The Career tributes were, as usual, stocky and they all looked like they wanted to be the one to finally take down Katniss, but to tell the truth, Katniss could hardly remember most of their names. There was the pair of eighteen-year-olds from Three—Lune and Gustave. The boy had what looked like some fancy prosthetic arm. Of course he did. He was from Three, and they were all about their technology—Katniss only needed to look to Beetee for an example. The girl from Eleven, Sciel, who made it sound like she was just about born with a scythe in her palm.

12, 11, 10…

Now, they were far enough apart that it was hard to tell who was who, but Katniss wasn’t much looking for allies.

Focus, she told herself, because the number was reaching zero.

Sure enough, Claudius Templesmith’s voice blared with the final five seconds all throughout the arena. The strange statue in the middle with the cornucopia was further away than in previous years, but she would make it. She hoped, anyway.

3, 2, 1…

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the seventy-seventh annual Hunger Games begin!”

***

Next thing Katniss knew, she was off her pedestal and flying toward the monolithic figure in the center of the arena. Though the countdown was up, a golden 33 glowed on its face.

Some of the other tributes were already reaching the weapons, so she pushed herself harder, even though her legs were burning. Among those in step with her was Lune, that girl from Three. She seemed to have lost her district partner, because she took the momentary risk to glance over her shoulder for her partner, once she had armed herself with a couple of daggers.

“Gustave?” Katniss heard her ask. Run, you idiot, Katniss thought. She didn’t want to be the one to have to kill her.

The boy—Gustave—quickly followed her, panting. But it wasn’t long before a spear caught him from the back, and he collapsed, choking on blood.

“No, no, no,” Lune said, and Katniss, despite her knowing better, took her by the shoulders and shook her.

“Run. He’s dead. We’ll find someplace together,” Katniss said.
~
Word count: 562 words

I perched myself at the foot of the Statue of Liberty when no one was looking.

Wow, I thought. Her skin is very green.

“Yes, dearest,” Lady Liberty said kindly, and I just about choked.

“S-sorry, I didn’t think that would slip out. My filter isn’t very good,” I told her earnestly. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“No, not at all.” Her kind eyes seemed to absolve me of any guilt. That was good. “Now, shall we get on with the British lessons, Lint?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, albeit a little overeager. Oh, well. She seemed nice at least.

“Okay, so the first thing that you must remember is that the British speak much more…hmm, much more…much better than you,” Lady Liberty told me, and I nodded.

“Well, that’s not a very high bar.”

“Hush!” she said, laughing. “Okay, so the British always talk like they’re going to see the Queen. And they never, ever pronounce their Ts.”

Oh, I knew why that was. “It’s probably because they drank them all!”

“You’re probably right.” I swelled with pride at her words, because, after all, it wasn’t very often someone told me I was right. “Repeat after me, alright? ‘A bo’le of wa’er.’”

“Wow,” I said in awe. “I don’t think I can do that.” I cleared my throat, and she continued looking at me, so I figured I ought to try—she was being so kind about it. “‘A bo’le of wa’er,’” I repeated slowly. “Wait. I did it!”

“You did! Now, since you’ve clearly mastered the no-T rule, we’ll start on the Rs. The British don’t pronounce the letter R unless there’s a vowel after it.”

“So in the other sentence, I would actually pronounce ‘water’ like ‘wa’eh’?” I tilted my head to the side slightly.

“Precisely! You’ve got a knack for this stuff, Lint.”

“Well, I don’t know that I would say THAT,” I said, ducking my head. “Besides, I just have a good teacher. Where did you even learn all this British?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Lady Liberty chuckled. “A friend of a friend told me that her grandniece was learning the language, and her grandniece taught me!”
~
Word count: 359 words

to consume oneself

out of apologies you never sent,
and silence you confused with peace.

Called it healing.
Called it progress.
Painted the walls with mantras you didn’t believe
and stacked shame like bricks.

But hunger grows clever
when you lock it inside.

Whispered comfort while unspooling you,
thread by thread.

that this was what survival looked like—

smiling with a mouth full of splinters, swallowing the hurt
before anyone could see it bloom.
You became a feast you didn’t know you were serving.

And you folded yourself smaller each day,

until you mistook invisibility for peace.

Until you forgot what you looked like
when you weren’t flinching.

No one ever had to destroy you.
You were always
doing it gently. Efficiently.
Doing it first. With clean hands.
So no one else would.

Grammar of the Powerful

They don’t take land first.
They take words.

Rename the river.
Mispronounce the dead.
Write laws in a borrowed tongue
and call it order.

Say freedom
and leave out
who it’s for.

Accent is gate.

The dictionary,
a weapon pressed
into open mouths.

We are taught to translate
ourselves
to survive,
to soften the edges,
to speak in their grammar,
to forget the names
we knew first.

But every translation
loses something.
And what is lost
does not return.

They call it progress.
We call it silence.

fingertips in margins

At the very top of Mount Olympus, Zeus presided over every decision, every happening in the rest of the world. He, the god of lightning, could send terror into every town, could destroy everything with a mere snap of his fingers. Often, he threatened to. And yet, he chose not to, perhaps partially for image, but also because power means nothing if people do not respect it. He enjoyed toying with them, making them wonder if he really would. The best kind of power was unpredictable, the kind that could make the heavens and earth bow to your wishes, if only you exerted it carefully.

Lightning crackled from the tips of his fingers as he held on to the arm of his throne. The other eleven stood before him, his family, his fellow rulers—and his inferiors. For while they were outwardly shown as the Olympians, the great twelve, everyone really knew there was only the great one.

He smiled slightly, knowing they would have to grovel to him for his forgiveness, permission, whatever. He could veto anything they wanted, anything that did not suit his own interests.

And that was many things.

***

Down on the surface of earth, mortals lived in fear of the wrath of the gods, yet they also enjoyed their simple lives. Eleni was happy to live in her tiny town, where everyone was a community. She didn’t need riches, like some yearned for. She heard the talk of the merchants, always searching for more gold. She didn’t need power, not like the gods did.

No, Eleni was perfectly fine to be an everyday citizen who blended in just perfectly. In fact, she might even have preferred that.

To her, it was kind of nice to just be one of the regular people, nothing too special. It was nice to be ordinary, because when you were perfectly fine being ordinary, you didn’t have to worry about what to do to make yourself seem extraordinary.

But Zeus, high atop Mount Olympus, clearly disagreed. When he slammed his staff into the ground, it sent earthquakes across all of Eleni’s continent. When he screamed, she heard it in the storms. She felt it in the lightning, a shock to the system—literally.

Eleni didn’t envy Zeus—and she definitely didn’t envy any of the other Olympians. To her, dealing with that kind of responsibility was too much, and besides, too often, they got ahead of themselves. They thought they were so above the mortals, and yet, they didn’t even know what life on earth really was like. They didn’t know how much joy they had never experienced.
~
Word count: 435 words

You can barely see the Hydrus constellation, a collection of stars that are only visible in the deep southern sky.

Meaning, in Latin, “male water snake,” the Hydrus is like the Hydra (“female water snake”), only much smaller and much lesser-known. It’s made up of nineteen stars, most of which aren’t particularly big or bright.

As someone who’s only ever been in the northern hemisphere, at least, as far as I can remember, I’ve never seen the constellation myself. It’s always been below the horizon, out of sight and out of reach. This, of course, isn’t saying much; as someone who has lived in cities all her life, it’s uncommon that I see many stars at all, let alone real constellations.

Still, from time to time, I wonder about what it must be like to live in such quiet, calm places that even faint, small constellations like the Hydrus are visible. No, not only visible, but actually known enough to matter. I wonder what it must be like to be a part of a culture that sees it on a daily basis.

I’ve always had a bit of a love for hydras. In general. Fifty headed hydras, for one, have always been my favorite way to speedwrite a few more words here and there. In one video game I loved and played when I was younger, Child of Light, one main enemy was a three headed hydra. Recently, I replayed the game with my dad, and it brought back fond memories of my time in the U.S. Then, I couldn’t see the stars much either, but they were there a little more than here, so I knew they were present.

This, of course, is only the hydra. Not the Hydrus.

As I’m writing this, I’m researching the Hydrus, because to be honest, I can’t say I’d ever heard of it before today. Sure, it must have come up in some of my other searches for daily ideas, but I’ve never given it anything more than a passing thought. You’d have thought that, for such a seemingly insignificant constellation, others would as well, and yet, I read about the celestial parts of it that are a part of it.

A part of the Hydrus constellation—or rather, contained by it—is the Hydrus Cluster, a galaxy cluster, and Tucana II, a dwarf galaxy cluster. To think so many galaxies could be contained by what’s even a small set of stars is incredible. There are universes out there all contained by the Hydrus, and there, the center of their world may be the constellation I found, before today, rather inconsequential.

It’s also in close proximity to one of the most spectacular nebulae, celestial objects I’ve always found gorgeous, there are: Large Magellanic Cloud. I’ve always loved the way a star can die yet look so beautiful, like its death is its last way to say “I have lived. I have been here.”

It’s not a part of Hydrus, perhaps, but it’s not unconnected, either. The Hydrus is the home and center of something bigger than itself, despite its not seeming like much. There’s more to it than meets the eye.

I quite like that.
~
Word count: 531 words

At the top of Thao’s inbox, there was an email. Nothing unusual about it. She was a teacher after all, and received emails constantly.

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

Dear Ms. Nguyen,

Her eyes wavered on the screen,

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

The following week was eerily quiet without the presence of the bubbly girl. The days ticked by slowly, the hands on the clock moving with no care for the girl’s absence.

a cloud was overcast on Thao.

The children asked why Iris was absent on her third day of absence

Thao couldn’t make herself face the gaze of the children before her. They only perceived the fact that Iris had been able to miss school, the full picture had not yet been painted for them yet.

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

Iris came back to school a week after her absences started

Nonetheless.

Normally, Ms. Nguyen would ask her to put away her notebook and pay attention to the lesson, but Thao didn’t have it in her to do it. Not now.

and maybe they were partially right in that assumption

Thao passed out a short written assignment to her students. It was a short prompt:

“What’s up?” Thao—or rather, Ms. Nguyen at this moment—asked, “Having trouble with the assignment?”

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

Understanding dawned on Iris’s eyes,

because looking at the way Iris’s eyes were filled with a muddy watercolor blur of sadness, denial, and emptiness was too much of a toll on Thao’s mind. However, Iris called out for her, and the teacher in Thao knew never to ignore a student.

When they neared the day’s end, the time where the students were clustered together around the door, chatter coursing through the room

It was, at the end of the day, nothing but a fake smile.

Iris asked—almost pleaded in a low voice.

She didn’t explain the way the heart stopped, the fact there was so much uncertainty around what happened after, she didn’t explain how the brain shut down. She only explained that he left and wasn’t coming back.

Iris breathed, breath trembling in the air.

It wasn’t a happy smile—or was it a sad one. It was just a smile.

the silent sound piercing to the ears.

Thao Nguyen became a liar that day.

To anyone who may be critiquing this:
Hello! Firstly, thank you so much for being here; it truly means a lot to me. There are a couple things in particular that I'd love your thoughts on, so I figured I'd say this here so you can look for it throughout the piece:

1. Does the voice seem fairly seamless throughout the piece? This was a rewrite of my application for the National English Honor Society, but I also used some passages here and there from my original version here and edited them only slightly. Does it seem like I switch randomly at a certain place?
2. Do I introduce Lauren too late? I feel like I do, but I'm not quite sure how to fit her in earlier, so if you have any thoughts on that, then that'd be really helpful!
3. Do you have any title suggestions or concepts?
4. I'd love any other random, oddly specific, or general feedback—trust me, all of this is helpful.

Hello, hello, members of SWC—otherwise known as the Scratch Writing Camp—and any others. You’ll want to stay tuned for this broadcast, where we’ll be looking at the after-wars chaos.

Now, for all you people who aren’t familiar with what the cabin wars are, it’s where the different cabins pose writing challenges to one another, putting points on the line. It’s almost certainly the single most active time all session, and it runs on two weekends in camp.

Let’s take a look at how cabin wars looks in one particular cabin—Realistic Fiction.

Realistic Fiction, led by Snowy, Surf, and Recca, is a typically relaxed cabin, but this cabin wars has forced its members to be online and get that writing done so they don’t lose any wars.

In this November session of SWC, Real-Fi got three wars practically in a row, putting the campers into a bit of a frenzy to complete them all by the deadline.

Real-Fi definitely had a couple of close calls, with many of its wars being completed mere minutes before their ends. Luckily (and perhaps miraculously), Real-Fi managed to complete all of their wars, making their point loss zero! And more than that, the cabin actually earned points through their diligent completion of the extra challenges.

Cabin wars was a good day for Real-Fi.
~
Word count: 218 words

I felt my foot thud into something hard, and suddenly I was flying. The wind whistled past my ears and the ground came rushing towards me all too soon.
The impact shook me to my bones. For a moment, I was too rattled to get up.
Then I remembered.
This was a race.
I needed to keep moving.

Since the beginning of time, I have had one job: to take memories.

There they stay, gathering dust as the world forgets them– the memories lost, to all except for me.

What is the use of remembrance if it is by the one being who can never truly feel? Their grief echoes through me, but I cannot call it mine. It will never be.

And now I sit upon the worn rug in my small room, lights flickering around me like stars, shining and then burning out. The next one is coming soon, I can feel. His anguish is what reaches me first, a whisper of thought on the chilling wind:

I don’t know how long I’ve been walking– all I know is that there is an ache in my chest and I need it gone.

The fall leaves shimmer in shades of gold and maroon, fireflies emerging from the underbrush, flickering around me.

But all I can focus on now is my grief.

Unloved. Unwanted, even by my own family.

And that was one of the greatest sins in our world. Being alone– being disowned.

It was small, made of interwoven branches, flowers and leaves growing from the sides. It looked equal parts beautiful and dangerous.

Something about it called to my hurt– to the memory of his betrayal.

And I felt the feeling leaking from my thoughts, my memories. Eventually, I couldn’t remember what I had been supposed to think about at all. It was then that I opened my eyes, an unfamiliar woman sitting in front of me. She had a brass lantern on the floor between us, a lantern that now pulsed with golden light. The woman in front of me hesitated for a brief moment, meeting my eyes before clicking the lantern shut.

My hand lifted, like a marionette on strings, to knock on the door. It swung open before my knuckles could meet wood.

“Do you want it back?” She asked,

I did as she asked, and suddenly, the light in the lantern came alive. Color bloomed in the lantern’s glow– shapes shifting, moving… creating a story.

I felt warmth grow in my chest.

so brilliant and beautiful

stabbing in my chest

Unwanted. The word had followed me like a specter.

“You can take that back,” she said quietly, “all that color.”

“And the pain?” I asked her, a chill sweeping over me.

“That’s the trade. Take back what you lost, and with it the pain, or leave it here… and let the quiet remain. It is your choice.”

I left her cottage,

Comfort over color. Forgetting over freedom.