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- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
As the title says, I'm putting my SWC stuff here in one topic where I can find it.
Main Cabin, Real-Fi Cabin, and In-Cabin Group
Wordcounter
Main Cabin Dailes: 2nd Nov || 3rd Nov || 4th Nov || 5th Nov || 6th Nov || 7th Nov || 8th Nov || 11th Nov || 14th Nov || 17th Nov || 18th Nov || 19th Nov || 20th Nov || 22nd Nov || 23rd Nov || 29th Nov ||
In-Cabin Dailies: 2nd Nov || 5th Nov ||
Weeklies: 1st || 2nd || 3rd || 4th ||
Writing Competion Entry (it won best style!!! *dances madly*)
Stuff I may want to find later: cathedral dream || lost lifts and lies || cabin cookies
Main Cabin, Real-Fi Cabin, and In-Cabin Group
Wordcounter
Main Cabin Dailes: 2nd Nov || 3rd Nov || 4th Nov || 5th Nov || 6th Nov || 7th Nov || 8th Nov || 11th Nov || 14th Nov || 17th Nov || 18th Nov || 19th Nov || 20th Nov || 22nd Nov || 23rd Nov || 29th Nov ||
In-Cabin Dailies: 2nd Nov || 5th Nov ||
Weeklies: 1st || 2nd || 3rd || 4th ||
Writing Competion Entry (it won best style!!! *dances madly*)
Stuff I may want to find later: cathedral dream || lost lifts and lies || cabin cookies
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Dec. 7, 2021 12:50:27)
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
Daily, 2nd November, 300 / 300 words.
I genuinely had no clue what to write for this… think it's okay but unsure about the style. Not particularly bothered though lol.
In general, nothing matches the sheer bliss of eating chocolate. I would usually say that my favourite sweet item was a derivative of chocolate: dark chocolate in packets, chocolate ice cream, crumbly light flakes.
However, when talking about pudding… well. Britain may not be renowned for its food generally — and many of “its” dishes come from other cultures — but its desserts are both original and widely admired. And that is why I will write upon the subject of sticky toffee pudding.
Sticky toffee pudding is my favourite dessert. It must be served with either cold cream, vanilla ice cream, or custard; perhaps the custard may be warmed, but I much prefer a cold contrast against the steaming hot pudding. Ingredients of the pudding contain dates — although these can be substituted if you dislike the texture — eggs, and of course, toffee. When cooked and served properly, the result is a delicious blend of sweet, chewy, sticky pudding and cold, sweet custard or ice cream running over the top.
Be warned, though: sticky toffee pudding can be quite heavy. Do not consume if you are planning to exercise strenuously within two hours, or you will end up with a stomachache. (The writer may or may not be writing from experience.) Instead, eat it after lunch, then rest for half an hour before perhaps going for a brief stroll.
I was not always such a proponent of sticky toffee pudding. When I was younger, I found it too rich and heavy to manage for long. But then my mother started making it — mainly for my grandfather, who loves it as much as I do — and I have not looked back since.
Reader, I implore you! Please give sticky toffee pudding a try. It is honestly delicious. If you cannot make it yourself at home, I would be surprised — it is an unexpectedly simple recipe for the mouth-watering results it delivers.
I genuinely had no clue what to write for this… think it's okay but unsure about the style. Not particularly bothered though lol.
In general, nothing matches the sheer bliss of eating chocolate. I would usually say that my favourite sweet item was a derivative of chocolate: dark chocolate in packets, chocolate ice cream, crumbly light flakes.
However, when talking about pudding… well. Britain may not be renowned for its food generally — and many of “its” dishes come from other cultures — but its desserts are both original and widely admired. And that is why I will write upon the subject of sticky toffee pudding.
Sticky toffee pudding is my favourite dessert. It must be served with either cold cream, vanilla ice cream, or custard; perhaps the custard may be warmed, but I much prefer a cold contrast against the steaming hot pudding. Ingredients of the pudding contain dates — although these can be substituted if you dislike the texture — eggs, and of course, toffee. When cooked and served properly, the result is a delicious blend of sweet, chewy, sticky pudding and cold, sweet custard or ice cream running over the top.
Be warned, though: sticky toffee pudding can be quite heavy. Do not consume if you are planning to exercise strenuously within two hours, or you will end up with a stomachache. (The writer may or may not be writing from experience.) Instead, eat it after lunch, then rest for half an hour before perhaps going for a brief stroll.
I was not always such a proponent of sticky toffee pudding. When I was younger, I found it too rich and heavy to manage for long. But then my mother started making it — mainly for my grandfather, who loves it as much as I do — and I have not looked back since.
Reader, I implore you! Please give sticky toffee pudding a try. It is honestly delicious. If you cannot make it yourself at home, I would be surprised — it is an unexpectedly simple recipe for the mouth-watering results it delivers.
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Nov. 2, 2021 14:26:12)
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
In-cabin daily, 740 / 150 words:
Note: This may be slightly scary in a horror (non-gore, more fear of the unknown) kind of way.
I woke this morning to the sound of a clock ticking.
When I started drifting out of sleep, I did so uneasily. Something was different. Vaguely, I wondered if perhaps something had moved in the room — a lamp could have tipped over during the night, charring the wooden table next to my bed; my glass of water could have fallen, slowly soaking into the carpet; a blanket could have dropped from the bed and collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor.
I groped out for the lamp. Although it was morning, thick curtains still subdued the light at the window, reducing it to a faint off-white glow under the sill. Dim shapes were visible in the half-gloom: the dark rectangles of the wardrobe and bookshelf, the lighter spot where the radiator ran under the window. As the warm electrical light of the lamp flared out, lifting the shadows, I grabbed my glasses.
On first inspection, nothing seemed amiss. Everything still seemed in place — the same as ever, right down to the patch of ceiling where the paint peeled away to make a lopsided crescent. But I couldn't shake the sense that something had changed.
Then I realised. There was a faint ticking noise coming from outside, from the long corridor that ran the length of the second floor.
Curious, I wondered if perhaps my parents had bought a new clock. Maybe they had impulsively decided to go on a late-night shopping trip, sleeplessly wandered around the floors of a department store still huddled in their dressing gowns. I could almost hear my mother's voice in my imagination. “This is lovely, don't you think, darling?” My father's agreement — “Classic piece. Would suit the upstairs corridor. Ticking might be a bit loud, though.” Their long discussion, still standing there in front of the shelf where it stood, as to the minute details of where it should go. The eventual checkout, tired cashier wondering exactly why anyone would bother to buy clocks past midnight.
It would just be yet another of the items they collected: old, unusual, and nearly if not completely useful. The house was filled with their white elephants — ink-stained, broken-mahogany writing desks, secret drawers filled with crumbling yellow paper; six-inch-tall faceless statues of white marble, long-forgotten gods; strange bronze and brass instruments filled with sand or water. But I felt surprised: we already had four old clocks, one for each floor. They hardly ever brought home the same kind of antique in a short period of time, and my mother had rescued her last finding — a Swiss cuckoo clock — only a month or so ago.
I ventured out to see what new item cluttered the long, dark carved-ivy shelves. They stretched all the way to the stairs against the back wall of the house, blocking out most of the light from the windows on the way. I banged my feet, hips, and elbows on the items protruding out nearly every day.
I expected the ticking noise to come from the far end of the shelf, where newer items were generally placed. It did not. It came from just outside my room.
The grandfather clock — older than I was and broken for far longer — was ticking as if it was new.
The hands on the face of the clock were as still as ever; but they were pointing to a different time from the midnight they had always stayed at. Half-past eleven. The door meant to cover the pendulum was still damaged, revealing shining metal; but now it swung. And the normal dust-filled silence of the corridor was ruptured by the steady ticking beat emanating from the clock.
It should not have felt so petrifying. And yet, as I stood there, hair still rumpled from sleep and cold feet bare on the wooden floor, I felt a terrifying sense of fear grip me, hold me tight. I did what I had not done in years and called out for my parents, raising my voice to drown out the sound of the clock, scared — despite knowing that they would still be in the house this early in the morning — that I would get no reply.
I should not have feared I would not get a reply.
A deep voice — far deeper than my father's light tenor — called back. The words were in a language I didn't recognise. And the echoing footsteps that followed were accompanied by the jingling sound of metal.
Note: This may be slightly scary in a horror (non-gore, more fear of the unknown) kind of way.
I woke this morning to the sound of a clock ticking.
When I started drifting out of sleep, I did so uneasily. Something was different. Vaguely, I wondered if perhaps something had moved in the room — a lamp could have tipped over during the night, charring the wooden table next to my bed; my glass of water could have fallen, slowly soaking into the carpet; a blanket could have dropped from the bed and collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor.
I groped out for the lamp. Although it was morning, thick curtains still subdued the light at the window, reducing it to a faint off-white glow under the sill. Dim shapes were visible in the half-gloom: the dark rectangles of the wardrobe and bookshelf, the lighter spot where the radiator ran under the window. As the warm electrical light of the lamp flared out, lifting the shadows, I grabbed my glasses.
On first inspection, nothing seemed amiss. Everything still seemed in place — the same as ever, right down to the patch of ceiling where the paint peeled away to make a lopsided crescent. But I couldn't shake the sense that something had changed.
Then I realised. There was a faint ticking noise coming from outside, from the long corridor that ran the length of the second floor.
Curious, I wondered if perhaps my parents had bought a new clock. Maybe they had impulsively decided to go on a late-night shopping trip, sleeplessly wandered around the floors of a department store still huddled in their dressing gowns. I could almost hear my mother's voice in my imagination. “This is lovely, don't you think, darling?” My father's agreement — “Classic piece. Would suit the upstairs corridor. Ticking might be a bit loud, though.” Their long discussion, still standing there in front of the shelf where it stood, as to the minute details of where it should go. The eventual checkout, tired cashier wondering exactly why anyone would bother to buy clocks past midnight.
It would just be yet another of the items they collected: old, unusual, and nearly if not completely useful. The house was filled with their white elephants — ink-stained, broken-mahogany writing desks, secret drawers filled with crumbling yellow paper; six-inch-tall faceless statues of white marble, long-forgotten gods; strange bronze and brass instruments filled with sand or water. But I felt surprised: we already had four old clocks, one for each floor. They hardly ever brought home the same kind of antique in a short period of time, and my mother had rescued her last finding — a Swiss cuckoo clock — only a month or so ago.
I ventured out to see what new item cluttered the long, dark carved-ivy shelves. They stretched all the way to the stairs against the back wall of the house, blocking out most of the light from the windows on the way. I banged my feet, hips, and elbows on the items protruding out nearly every day.
I expected the ticking noise to come from the far end of the shelf, where newer items were generally placed. It did not. It came from just outside my room.
The grandfather clock — older than I was and broken for far longer — was ticking as if it was new.
The hands on the face of the clock were as still as ever; but they were pointing to a different time from the midnight they had always stayed at. Half-past eleven. The door meant to cover the pendulum was still damaged, revealing shining metal; but now it swung. And the normal dust-filled silence of the corridor was ruptured by the steady ticking beat emanating from the clock.
It should not have felt so petrifying. And yet, as I stood there, hair still rumpled from sleep and cold feet bare on the wooden floor, I felt a terrifying sense of fear grip me, hold me tight. I did what I had not done in years and called out for my parents, raising my voice to drown out the sound of the clock, scared — despite knowing that they would still be in the house this early in the morning — that I would get no reply.
I should not have feared I would not get a reply.
A deep voice — far deeper than my father's light tenor — called back. The words were in a language I didn't recognise. And the echoing footsteps that followed were accompanied by the jingling sound of metal.
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Nov. 3, 2021 09:15:48)
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC Daily, 3rd November. According to this test, Sparrow has a true neutral alignment.
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC daily, 4th November, 600 words.
Inspiration: “Do you think it's too early to put my pyjamas on?” — my mum.
“Do you think it's too early to put my pyjamas on?” Sparrow wondered aloud, turning towards the window. Although it was only three o'clock, the day was already to fading to a bleak grey dusk. She shivered. She'd got so used to the magically embellished uniforms at her school — with in-woven temperature control charms as well as resistance to potion spills — that wearing something different always felt slightly wrong.
Her older sister Wren, flopped on the bed and doing homework, shrugged. “What else is there to do around here?”
Late November in Allenfall wasn't perhaps the best time for an enjoyable holiday. Seeing her family, who lived hundreds of miles away from her boarding school, was always nice. But if she had to pick a place to be between her warm, friend-and-book-and-potion-filled school or her cold, cramped, revising-sibling-filled house… well, there was really no contest.
Still, at least she was having a break. After sitting five qualifications and around eleven or twelve exams in a single week, Sparrow felt burned out. She'd had to study properly for once. Her normal method in class was winging it, which usually gave her an A– or B. To get the A*s she'd wanted for these particular exams, she'd had to give up brewing potions for a week or so. It might have affected her “small business” (a good cover name for her contraband potion racket) if she hadn't had the forethought to already brew some sleeping draughts. They'd been in large requirement the nights before all the exams. Sparrow calculated that she'd made a profit of nearly two hundred pounds.
Surely there ought to be fun around here to be had for two hundred pounds? In summer, there was plenty of stuff to do. The library and cinema down the street were open until nearly midnight, as was one of the swimming pools. The limiting factor tended to be parents and occasionally (although not usually for Sparrow, who profited from selling potions wherever she went) money.
But looking out of the window at the cold, gloomy, drizzle-and-soggy-leaf-filled street, she couldn't help but doubt that. The day was so ugly that it was getting even her spirits down. She began to regret her decision to come back and see her family. All of them were busy: her mother making Christmas food and decorations for her job at the local bakery; her father still out at his hex-removal job; Wren revising for her mock exams (which were sat at a completely different time than Sparrow's own had been for some reason to do with differing counties); Robin, her younger brother, gone for a sleepover with a friend during his half-term. Although they'd all been pleased to see her, Sparrow had a feeling that they wouldn't have minded much if she hadn't arrived back that half-term at all.
Of course, staying here gave her the added benefit of not having to be around a certain Orion Blazegold. He was staying at school — for no reason she could fathom: he had a perfectly nice house of his own. An estate, actually. Set somewhere in the countryside, according to her friend Stephen's description, with large grounds, deer, and an Ancient Buildings Level 3 listing. Sparrow had got the impression that an Ancient Buildings Level 3 listing was impressive, although she only had a vague idea that it was something to do with the architecture. Which from the postcard Stephen had shown her — from the gift shop — had been very nice indeed.
Sparrow gave herself a mental eyeroll — she sounded like a jealous teenager, which was far too accurate for her liking. Sighing, she picked up her pyjamas, dressing gown, and went into the bathroom to change.
Inspiration: “Do you think it's too early to put my pyjamas on?” — my mum.
“Do you think it's too early to put my pyjamas on?” Sparrow wondered aloud, turning towards the window. Although it was only three o'clock, the day was already to fading to a bleak grey dusk. She shivered. She'd got so used to the magically embellished uniforms at her school — with in-woven temperature control charms as well as resistance to potion spills — that wearing something different always felt slightly wrong.
Her older sister Wren, flopped on the bed and doing homework, shrugged. “What else is there to do around here?”
Late November in Allenfall wasn't perhaps the best time for an enjoyable holiday. Seeing her family, who lived hundreds of miles away from her boarding school, was always nice. But if she had to pick a place to be between her warm, friend-and-book-and-potion-filled school or her cold, cramped, revising-sibling-filled house… well, there was really no contest.
Still, at least she was having a break. After sitting five qualifications and around eleven or twelve exams in a single week, Sparrow felt burned out. She'd had to study properly for once. Her normal method in class was winging it, which usually gave her an A– or B. To get the A*s she'd wanted for these particular exams, she'd had to give up brewing potions for a week or so. It might have affected her “small business” (a good cover name for her contraband potion racket) if she hadn't had the forethought to already brew some sleeping draughts. They'd been in large requirement the nights before all the exams. Sparrow calculated that she'd made a profit of nearly two hundred pounds.
Surely there ought to be fun around here to be had for two hundred pounds? In summer, there was plenty of stuff to do. The library and cinema down the street were open until nearly midnight, as was one of the swimming pools. The limiting factor tended to be parents and occasionally (although not usually for Sparrow, who profited from selling potions wherever she went) money.
But looking out of the window at the cold, gloomy, drizzle-and-soggy-leaf-filled street, she couldn't help but doubt that. The day was so ugly that it was getting even her spirits down. She began to regret her decision to come back and see her family. All of them were busy: her mother making Christmas food and decorations for her job at the local bakery; her father still out at his hex-removal job; Wren revising for her mock exams (which were sat at a completely different time than Sparrow's own had been for some reason to do with differing counties); Robin, her younger brother, gone for a sleepover with a friend during his half-term. Although they'd all been pleased to see her, Sparrow had a feeling that they wouldn't have minded much if she hadn't arrived back that half-term at all.
Of course, staying here gave her the added benefit of not having to be around a certain Orion Blazegold. He was staying at school — for no reason she could fathom: he had a perfectly nice house of his own. An estate, actually. Set somewhere in the countryside, according to her friend Stephen's description, with large grounds, deer, and an Ancient Buildings Level 3 listing. Sparrow had got the impression that an Ancient Buildings Level 3 listing was impressive, although she only had a vague idea that it was something to do with the architecture. Which from the postcard Stephen had shown her — from the gift shop — had been very nice indeed.
Sparrow gave herself a mental eyeroll — she sounded like a jealous teenager, which was far too accurate for her liking. Sighing, she picked up her pyjamas, dressing gown, and went into the bathroom to change.
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
Weekly 1, written from 2nd November– th November
Characters
Character 1 (Mars) is introverted and prefers to watch people, then talk about them with a close friend / write about them in their diary. They can make themselves crack up by imagining conversations between people they know. They like to stay out of the conversation — not participate in it and be able to drift off and think their own thoughts. They dislike talking about themselves (taught it was bad?). They tend to not voice their own opinions, and are afraid of being told they’re wrong.
Character 2 (Anya) is extroverted and outgoing. They love talking to people: debating ideas, books, news. Forming opinions, expressing them and seeing how people react, then changing them based on points other people make, is one of their favourite pastimes. They like arguing with other people or teasing them. They also enjoy listening to other people talking about themselves and asking loads of questions to try to understand different types of people better.
300 words.
Anya rolled her eyes as yet another group of boys, too busy talking to each other to notice other pedestrians, pushed past them. “Personal space, guys?”
Mars, pushing himself back as far out of the way as she could get against the stone of the bridge, winced. “Anya. Can’t you…?” He trailed off as one of the guys turned around.
“What’s the matter? We’re just walking past—“
“If you went in twos,” Anya said, flashing him a quick, fake smile, “then we would be able to get past as well. Of course, that would require learning some manners. I recommend saying please and thank you on a daily basis, which should start you off nicely.”
The guy, obviously flummoxed by the quick influx of words, just stared at her before one of his friends grabbed his arm and pulled him away.
“You have to admit my comeback was at least a little funny,” said Anya to Mars as they walked on.
Mars couldn’t quite stop himself giving a brief involuntary smile. “Yeah. But is it really necessary to… y’know, um, be so—”
“Witty?” Anya jumped in. “I know you were going to say witty. Or clever. Or hilarious. Because all those words describe me absolutely perfectly.”
Mars tried to give her a disapproving look, but couldn’t quite muster it. “If witty is a synonym for confrontational, then yes.”
Anya gave a loud, fake sigh. “Guys like that need to be challenged occasionally. Hogging the path is not only rude but inconvenient for my dream of walking down the centre, ponytail swinging, all eyes on me.”
“Anya, seriously—"
“Mars, seriously,” Anya mimicked back gently. She grabbed for Mars’ hand, swinging it back and forth. “Come on. There are two million plus three hundred thousand people in this city, and we’ve only antagonised one today. Can’t see why you’re complaining.”
Character Motivations
730 words.
Mars just wants people to like him and find him funny. He’s shy and has social anxiety, but has a surprisingly inappropriate sense of humour (which shocks practically everyone apart from Anya, who thinks a) it was to be expected from someone so quiet because they must think a lot and b) it’s hilarious). He would like to be looked after in public and for people to enjoy doing it (stuff like ordering her food from the waiter etc), and to be able to do stuff for them at home, where other people aren’t, in return. He also wants a sense of security — he was brought up travelling in an illegal lorry, avoiding the police by portal, and never stayed anywhere long. He always tried to stay out of trouble when his family got into it, but ended up being shouted at whichever way.
Anya just wants to have fun. Or at least that’s what she tries to make everyone think. Secretly, she’s horribly lonely and wants company above everything else. An only child who wasn’t always amazing at making friends, she focused on becoming one of the “popular girls” in secondary school — but not the mean rich kind, the loud one who’s friends with everyone. She dreams of having a deep relationship with someone, of being able to say random thoughts out of her head and not just be laughed at because “that’s Anya, isn’t she funny?” but actually have them considered and discussed. Or replied to. She wants to be liked for herself — whoever that is — without having to be funny and daring and always entertaining. She wants to be able to relax with someone. She can do that with Mars. And she would do anything not to lose him.
“Uh. Anya.” Mars couldn't meet her eyes across the table. He stared at the dark swirl of the wood grain, examining the reflection of the light. Just ask. “Do you think — erm. You know. When the waiter comes… could you order for me?” He was nearly sure she was going to laugh.
Anya tilted her head to the side. “If you want. Why? Are you… nervous or something?”
Relief seeped through Mars. He felt his shoulders relax, tension draining away. “A little.”
“Can I ask why?” Her tone was gentle. She was smiling at him.
“I just… I don't really like talking to people I don't know.” Mars fumbled over the words. It was so hard to explain: the sense of panic, the tightness in his chest, the sweaty hands. The nauseous feeling when they looked at him, asked him to repeat what he'd said, and he realised it'd come out in a mumbling rush. He shrugged. “I don't know. Social anxiety or something.”
He was conscious, as he said it, of its inadequacy. He should have said more, tried to explain it better. Anya would think that he was ungrateful and rude, that he was lazy for trying to avoid talking to others, that he was just socially inept. Trying to make excuses for lack of manners. After all, she could do it. It seemed as easy as breathing for her. When you'd always been able to see, how could you truly understand complete blindness? You couldn't. You said it must be like living in the dark; but that assumed that a blind person knew what the dark looked like. (Mars had heard someone describe it as what you see behind you when you're looking forwards: Nothingness. He'd liked that description. Of course, if he said it, tried to use it as a metaphor for the way he felt when talking to strangers, it would sound flat, fake, and ineffectual.)
He took a deep breath and tried to shut his inner voice up.
Instead of any of the awful stuff he'd imagined Anya just said, “I'm sorry. Thank you for telling me — I'm… glad you're comfortable enough.” Then she grinned at him. “I'm perfectly happy to order for you, but what do you want? I actually don't know your taste in pizza.”
Mars said, “Margherita? And Coke?” He felt much happier. Anya knew, and she hadn't suddenly started disliking him, and she would order for him. Life felt good.
When the waitress arrived, Mars was more relaxed than usual. Obviously there was still the anxious, twisting feeling when after waitress said, “What would you like to drink?” For a second, he was nervous.
“Coke for both of us, please,” said Anya. She smiled up at the waitress. “Could we order our pizzas too? Margherita for both of us, but one with mushroom and ham topping?”
The waitress nodded, told her that would be fine, and walked off. Mars took a deep breath.
“You looked so nervous,” Anya said. He hadn't realised she'd been watching him. “Were you worried I was going to let you down?”
Mars laughed slightly. “I was worried the waitress would ask me.”
Anya gave him a smug grin. “I made sure you didn't even have to talk to her. Count on Aunt Anya.”
“I don't want you to be my aunt!” protested Mars. “That would be…”
“Interesting,” supplied Anya. They both started helplessly giggling.
As the pizzas arrived, Anya said, “Look, if you're nervous about other stuff like that, I can do it for you. Like with the cash machine…” She grinned at him, teasing him gently.
"I'm not scared of the cash machine, Anya!“ Mars gave her a mock ferocious glare. ”Actually, the little robot voice on the Polygon shopping centre thingy is pretty creepy. Sounds like David Attenborough on helium.“
Anya snorted, loudly. This set them both off laughing again. ”I do apologise for being so unladylike,“ she gasped. ”I must give you my deepest apologies, Lord Mars—“
”Lord Mars?“ He chucked the end of his pizza crust at her. She ducked hastily.
”My Lord Mars, your table manners need working on!“
”Shut up." He made a face at her and she made one back. He felt a surge of rare public happiness: He had managed to enjoy a date, without messing up or anything embarrassing occur. Maybe, one day, this could be normal.
Villain
Anya is a teenage girl who's lonely, despite being one of the “popular kids”. Mars is her only real friend. She would do anything not to lose him. Unfortunately, her definitions of “losing” him include him hanging out with anyone else apart from her…
Story
1170 words.
Anya had been sure that Mars would jump at the opportunity to go out with her again. A romantic comedy film was on at the cinema: They both enjoyed that sort of thing, as well as the chance to eat popcorn and hold hands. She'd been sure that he would agree quickly and they'd be going out this evening. After all, Mars liked her. Maybe better than anyone else in his life.
It was the first time Anya had ever thought she'd been someone's favourite.
But as she stared down at the text message, she knew she was wrong.
That sounds great, but I already have plans for gaming with a guy from school. I'll miss you. Maybe next week instead?
Mars had chosen someone else over her.
She should've known better. It had always happened. Her parents preferred each other, always relieved to get away for “one-on-one time”. Her grandparents liked her cousins better. Her “best friend” in late primary had picked another girl over her when it came down to it. Her current friend group all had someone else they were closer to than her.
But somehow, she'd thought Mars was different. Someone she could have all to herself. Someone who'd be as interested in her as she was in them; someone who would always want to be with her, if they wanted to be with anyone. Someone who just had her and no one else as their top priority.
Obviously that wasn't true anymore.
Anya tried to distract herself that evening, with internet surfing and social media and memes. She made plans with two of the other girls in the “popular” group to go shopping next week, made Olivia laugh about her ex-boyfriend by being extremely rude, and admired Chloe's nails over a video call.
It didn't fill up the aching gap. None of them asked her how she was (Mars always did) or got curious about a joke (the way Mars did) or asked her for her advice on anything. They weren't really friends, she thought. Just people she hung out with but never actually talked to.
When she went to bed that evening, she ended up crying.
The next day was a Sunday. She arranged to meet up with Mars after lunch and walk to a coffee shop. All throughout the day beforehand (which was mainly an hour of phone time after getting up at eleven and having breakfast, then eating lunch while her parents discussed a mutual friend and the weather), Anya felt wracked with nerves. Would it be different? Had he gone off her? Would he gradually start to distance himself?
But to her surprise, it was just the same as usual. Mars looked as genuinely interested in her and happy to see her as he had last time. He hugged her, smiled at her and asked her how she'd been.
For the first time, Anya lied to him. “I've been fine. Video calling some of my friends. We're planning to go out next Saturday for shopping.” See, she thought. I'm not the only one who can do something else with other people in our usual free time.
Mars looked surprised. “I thought we were going to see the rom-com at the cinema? I might've made a mistake—”
“Oh, were we?” Anya pretended surprise. “I'm really sorry. I must've muddled up dates.” She would've usually suggested Sunday instead. But she decided Mars would have to.
“Oh.” He was silent for a minute, his feet crunching on the dead leaves scattered across the pavement. Finally, he said tentatively, “Is it on… do you want to go on, er, Sunday?”
Why had he taken so long to ask? “Yes.” Maybe it had been social anxiety? But why would he feel that with me? I thought… we were close and he trusted me? Maybe it's because of whoever he played the game with. Maybe he trusts them more… Belatedly, she realised there'd been a long pause after she'd said yes. She made herself give him a bright smile. “That would be great!”
Mars smiled back and they entered the coffee shop.
As they sat down, she asked him casually, “So what's your gaming friend's name? Was it fun?”
Mars grinned and launched into a description of how good the friend had been before he mentioned the name. “Chris Lucas.”
An opening.
“Chris Lucas?” Anya made herself sound dismayed. “The nerd one?”
Mars stopped. The smile he always got when talking about something that interested him slid away from his face. “Er…”
“Why are you friends with him? He's… weird.” Anya knew she sounded exactly like the stereotype of a popular girl. She had never really cared about people being “nerds” or “geeky” as long as they were interesting. But hopefully, Mars wouldn't realise that.
Unfortunately, he did. “Why do you care about him being a nerd or weird all of a sudden? You never used to mind. You… I think you even suggested I should play with him? Remember?”
Anya couldn't think of a lie quickly enough. “I…”
Mars stared at her, his eyes widening. “Are you… is this about last night? I—”
“I just don't like him. He used to be mean to me in primary school.” It wasn't technically a lie. He had laughed during her mini presentation and made her cry. Anya left out the part where Chris hadn't realised it wasn't meant to be funny and had apologised afterwards.
Mars straightened up. “Oh. I — why did you suggest I should play with him, then?”
Think. “I thought he'd changed. But he hasn't. He found my profile on Insta last night and sent me loads of hate messages.”
Mars looked shocked. “I — I didn't realise. I'm so sorry. I thought he was nice—”
Anya reached out and took his hand. “Don't worry. It's easy to be deceived by people. They act different depending on who they're around. He might be jealous of you because he wants to date me, but trying to make friends with you to get closer to me? I'm not sure.” Another lie.
“He wants to date you?”
“He was sore because he couldn't go out with me.” Anya shrugged. Again, partially true: Chris had asked her out last year, and avoided her a little when she'd declined — though to be honest, she suspected that was more because he was embarrassed than angry.
She relaxed as Mars promised to stop being friendly with Chris, focused his attention back onto her. They chatted all through coffee — Anya ordering for him again — and made each other laugh so loudly that the waiter asked them to be quieter. Mars looked guilty, his face anxious, until Anya leant forwards and whispered, “He's probably just nervous because that elderly woman is giving us a dagger look. Behind you.”
When Mars turned around, he beheld a twenty-something woman glaring at them both. His resultant splutter made them both laugh hysterically. They went out of the shop holding hands.
Anya was sure again that Mars was hers and hers alone.
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Nov. 6, 2021 23:03:39)
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC daily, 5th November, 700 words.
I actually have loads of weird dreams, so it's hard to pick one xD the choice is between the one where I went on a quest with my friends but can hardly remember anything except it was something to do with B&Q, one where I was someone who hunted down and tortured criminals (made me feel psychopathic and terrible when I woke up because it was so violent??? not like that irl at ALL) and the good one where I climbed to the roof of Coventry Cathedral, holding and lighting a candle while a singing chant drifted from below inside the cathedral. Okay, I think I made it obvious which one I'll pick.
I edited it slightly, of course, and drew attention to certain different features, but the gist of the dream is here.
Morning lay misty and cold over the city. The wind had a sharp, November chill to it, dead leaves scattering with loud crackling noises as they scratched over the pavestones that let to the cathedral. As I watched, one more leaf fell off a tree, miraculously still green; it turned bright yellow as it fell, then unfurling and deepening to an orange-gold colour, which shrivelled and became dry, brown, and stiff as it touched the ground. It lay there, dead, until the wind picked it up and re-animated it in a shivering dance.
I turned away, pulling my coat tighter around me against the nip of the cold. The church lay ahead of me: the path to the archway with the glass doors on the left was shadowed, yet more dead leaves gathering beside the cold iron rails of the steps. I followed along it. I thought I was alone, and yet as I turned to the glass side of the church, I saw that I was not.
A choir, faces and figures masked in deep blue robes, was chanting inside. The melody was haunting. Deep chants were interthreaded with high, pure melodies, soaring high and quiet, up to the dark, criss-cross ceiling of the building. An organ's sombre harmonies underlaid it all, the instrument and player hidden in the shadows. Stained-glass windows, set at angles to the wall, cast multi-coloured light which played over the floor and the figures, turning the dark of the wood and robes to red and blue and green.
I moved inside the doorway of the church. The cold changed, became a shaded place on a summer day rather than the chill bitterness of winter. The masked choir did not respond to me. Their music continued on and no figure turned towards me. I felt a deep sense of unease when I realised that this had made me relax: why should I be so relieved that the singers did not notice me? Why would the idea of them greeting me bring me so much terror? I did not know, and yet somehow, something still told me it was better not to try to find out.
I had only closed my eyes for a moment when I somehow ended up just a few feet away from the nearest robe-hidden singer. Up close, their head was still hidden by shadows; it was not obvious whether their entire head and body was covered by a robe, or a hood was drawn close around their face, or if they had a face. I drew back quickly.
When I had first come in, I had not seen the burning candlesticks, tall and white, standing on a woven metal table. Now they seemed to beckon to me. I approached slowly. An inscription was burnt into the table, scorch marks still visible.
I am the everlasting light. I will never flicker or burn out.
And indeed, the candles were smooth and unmelted, their surface shining slightly. The flame at the top was strangely still, moving only a little. A thin puff of smoke was visible when I looked closely; it seemed to vanish when I stopped concentrating. Their metal holders were engraved with leaves and gleamed dully in the dim light. I reached out for one, my cold fingers warming when they closed around the holder.
I was not sure how I got outside. But then I was climbing. Climbing the iridescent, dappled stone of the church wall, candle still in my right hand. It was strangely easy: the wall gave way to footholds beneath my feet, supporting me wherever I stepped, bending to a handhold whenever I needed one in my left hand. The candle burned steadily in my right: the stone seemed to shrink away from it whenever I held it too close.
The roof was flat, made of the same dappled stone, like the dancing patterns sunlight makes at the edge of the sea. I crossed my legs, candle in front of me, and looked up at the sky. It had darkened, deep grey-blue clouds swirling overhead. There was a clap of thunder, a pale white flash of lightning, and — the sound drumming on the roof around me — it began to rain.
I actually have loads of weird dreams, so it's hard to pick one xD the choice is between the one where I went on a quest with my friends but can hardly remember anything except it was something to do with B&Q, one where I was someone who hunted down and tortured criminals (made me feel psychopathic and terrible when I woke up because it was so violent??? not like that irl at ALL) and the good one where I climbed to the roof of Coventry Cathedral, holding and lighting a candle while a singing chant drifted from below inside the cathedral. Okay, I think I made it obvious which one I'll pick.
I edited it slightly, of course, and drew attention to certain different features, but the gist of the dream is here.
Morning lay misty and cold over the city. The wind had a sharp, November chill to it, dead leaves scattering with loud crackling noises as they scratched over the pavestones that let to the cathedral. As I watched, one more leaf fell off a tree, miraculously still green; it turned bright yellow as it fell, then unfurling and deepening to an orange-gold colour, which shrivelled and became dry, brown, and stiff as it touched the ground. It lay there, dead, until the wind picked it up and re-animated it in a shivering dance.
I turned away, pulling my coat tighter around me against the nip of the cold. The church lay ahead of me: the path to the archway with the glass doors on the left was shadowed, yet more dead leaves gathering beside the cold iron rails of the steps. I followed along it. I thought I was alone, and yet as I turned to the glass side of the church, I saw that I was not.
A choir, faces and figures masked in deep blue robes, was chanting inside. The melody was haunting. Deep chants were interthreaded with high, pure melodies, soaring high and quiet, up to the dark, criss-cross ceiling of the building. An organ's sombre harmonies underlaid it all, the instrument and player hidden in the shadows. Stained-glass windows, set at angles to the wall, cast multi-coloured light which played over the floor and the figures, turning the dark of the wood and robes to red and blue and green.
I moved inside the doorway of the church. The cold changed, became a shaded place on a summer day rather than the chill bitterness of winter. The masked choir did not respond to me. Their music continued on and no figure turned towards me. I felt a deep sense of unease when I realised that this had made me relax: why should I be so relieved that the singers did not notice me? Why would the idea of them greeting me bring me so much terror? I did not know, and yet somehow, something still told me it was better not to try to find out.
I had only closed my eyes for a moment when I somehow ended up just a few feet away from the nearest robe-hidden singer. Up close, their head was still hidden by shadows; it was not obvious whether their entire head and body was covered by a robe, or a hood was drawn close around their face, or if they had a face. I drew back quickly.
When I had first come in, I had not seen the burning candlesticks, tall and white, standing on a woven metal table. Now they seemed to beckon to me. I approached slowly. An inscription was burnt into the table, scorch marks still visible.
I am the everlasting light. I will never flicker or burn out.
And indeed, the candles were smooth and unmelted, their surface shining slightly. The flame at the top was strangely still, moving only a little. A thin puff of smoke was visible when I looked closely; it seemed to vanish when I stopped concentrating. Their metal holders were engraved with leaves and gleamed dully in the dim light. I reached out for one, my cold fingers warming when they closed around the holder.
I was not sure how I got outside. But then I was climbing. Climbing the iridescent, dappled stone of the church wall, candle still in my right hand. It was strangely easy: the wall gave way to footholds beneath my feet, supporting me wherever I stepped, bending to a handhold whenever I needed one in my left hand. The candle burned steadily in my right: the stone seemed to shrink away from it whenever I held it too close.
The roof was flat, made of the same dappled stone, like the dancing patterns sunlight makes at the edge of the sea. I crossed my legs, candle in front of me, and looked up at the sky. It had darkened, deep grey-blue clouds swirling overhead. There was a clap of thunder, a pale white flash of lightning, and — the sound drumming on the roof around me — it began to rain.
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Nov. 5, 2021 16:18:54)
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
In-cabin daily, 5th November, 1760 words.
TW: knife wound + blood description
Prompt: You've been stuck in this elevator for three hours now.
Went a little overboard with this xD
TW: knife wound + blood description
TW: knife wound + blood description
Prompt: You've been stuck in this elevator for three hours now.
Went a little overboard with this xD
I have been finished with the fifty-page-long, tiny-print briefing for nearly ten minutes now. Reluctantly, I give into myself and check my watch. “I can't believe it's been three hours here and neither of us have spoken a single word to the other.”
The remark comes more from boredom than any expectance of a reply, but I am still unsurprised — however foolish it is — when my ex (still technically my fiancé, but I find it satisfying to call him my ex) stops conjuring rainbow sparks to bounce off the lift walls and takes the opportunity to bring in our… disagreement. “I wonder why that could be. Couldn't be because you literally betrayed me to an enemy country or anything.”
I give him a quick, angry stare, pointedly turning away from the camera on the ceiling. There are definitely hidden bugs as well. I know he's angry at me, but really? “Appearances matter,” I say pointedly, hoping he'll get the double meaning. “And just because I chose to tell your mother — what a charming way to refer to her, by the way — that you were taking far too long to get ready doesn't mean you have to ignore me for three hours.”
He catches on nearly instantly. He always has. It was one of the things I always loved about him while we were friends: if he made a slip, he immediately realised and followed my correction plan perfectly. “She lectured me for far longer than it would have taken for me to change, Tissa.”
Perfect: he's using my pet name, something only my intimate friends use. This will hopefully make whoever's watching the cameras believe that the earlier “enemy country” phrase is just an annoyed son disrespecting his mother. At worst, it'll make it into the tabloids as “King Jorge and the changing debacle that nearly derailed his engagement: revealed” with a whole lot of extra made-up waffle to satiate gossip-hungry readers.
“If you're going to sulk, call me Amatis. Not Tissa,” I say, glaring at him. “And I know for a fact you would have spent another hour reading if she hadn't turned up.”
He sighs. “There was time.”
“There was not.”
“She yelled at me for fifteen minutes and I had to finish getting dressed in five because she threatened to assign me another military post!”
“You should've listened to me.” I roll my eyes. I want to stop this stupid, fake conversation. Actually, I want to break up with my fiancé — who hates me — and go home. Impossible at present.
Jorge makes an evil face at me that nearly — nearly — makes me laugh. I think I might actually laugh in spite of everything, but then his face goes dead serious and he says, “You still shouldn't have done it.”
He's not referring to the incident with his mother (which did actually happen this morning). He's referring to the incident where I handed over the plans to his country's most precious safe to my own country so they could steal his crown jewels, sell them off and pay off our war debt. Breaking peacetime. Just after the truce was negotiated between our countries, he was given my hand in marriage, and the war finally stopped.
But it was a good plan. It could have been a good plan. If I hadn't started to like him. If we hadn't become friends. If he hadn't been able to tell, when it came down to the moment where I desperately needed to be believed, that I was lying.
I'm lucky, though. He could have told everyone. Really, he should have told everyone. I would have been killed, of course, for treason, which I doubt he would care about. Unfortunately, Mercia killing the princess of Alba would start off the age-long war between us again. And especially after his father died, Jorge is tired of bloodshed.
Sad, considering what's going to happen.
The lift jerks sideways. Jorge, startled, lets out a yelp. “What the—?”
Then there's a sick, swooping feeling as the cable above us snaps. I pretend to scream. But I'm safe. My father enchanted my safety line — an insanely difficult and expensive magical device to keep a person alive when falling or when something falls on them, kept by someone close to them and a top secret of our country — himself. His plan is to kill Jorge, leaving me, as his queen, on the throne. Then he can move in and rule both Alba and Mercia.
Unfortunately for my father, I'm tired of going along with his plans. I touch the box in my pocket. It carries the safety line I made for Jorge. I know he wouldn't do the same for me… but turns out, I am far too attached.
The world shakes as we crash into the floor. I can hear the camera and audio bugs exploding from the spells activating on impact. For a second, as gasping pain hits my stomach, I think the safety line failed. But we're both fine. Despite the fact that Jorge's body should be sliced into pieces by broken glass, and I should be crushed under the weight of falling wood, we survive.
I crawl out from under the wood, my stomach bruised. Jorge, his olive skin paler than I've ever seen it, is trying to lift the wrong end entirely.
His mouth drops open. “I — I thought you were dead,” he says emptily.
“Pity, isn't it?” I scan the fluorescent-lit, echoing lift basement for the assassins — they'll be here soon, wanting to check that Jorge is dead and I'm alright. They'll be planning to slice me up a little so it's believable that I fell four stories in a lift.
Jorge's face is a mixture of shock, confusion, and something else. “Tissa, what—” he begins. Then stops as he sees two men approaching, ducking from behind the wires. They might pass for lift workers… except for the small but crucial fact that they're armed with knives. Glamoured as pipes, but having the Sight, I can see right through the glamour. It's obvious what they're here for.
Sadly for them, they're never going to make it out of here alive. I hope. As the first one approaches, I pull a knife from my pocket. Enchanted to aim true, it hits its mark. The man goes down with a gurgling cry that's quickly cut off. His companion stops still, unable to understand what just happened.
I haven't killed anyone before. Ever. I want to vomit, but I force myself to concentrate. Summon the knife — now covered in blood — and hurl it at the second guy.
Jorge shouts something. The words blur together as the assassin miraculously ducks. The blade slams into the floor, metres behind him. He runs for it.
Oh no. Oh no. If he gets it… well, that's game over. It's enchanted to never miss its mark when thrown correctly. And who can duck and throw better: a trained assassin or a princess and prince who've never had to do anything other than basic skills?
I Summon it with all my might. The knife vanishes from under his fingers. Just a second before he was about to get it. He freezes, staring at me as if he can't believe his eyes. That particular talent was a secret of the royal family.
Blood drips down my arm as I aim the knife. Just there, and then—
Pain explodes in my arm as it's yanked to the side. Jorge. He screams at me, “What the — do you think you're doing? That guy is just a lift worker—”
The knife has missed, clattered to the floor. I twist in Jorge's grip, trying to Summon it, desperately. “Saving your life, you idiot! Let me go!” I can't see the knife from this angle, and I can't summon it without seeing it.
"Saving my—? Those are knives they're carrying?” He's finally tumbled to it.
“Yes!” I shout at him. “Now let me go so I can get the—”
Crunch. There's suddenly something… sticking out of my side. A knife. The knife. The knife that never misses its mark. Jorge is thrown backwards as the assassin shoves him away, grabbing onto me.
”Traitor,“ he growls. ”You little—”
“Spare the unpleasantries and kill me. Jorge, run!” Then I scream as the pain kicks in.
It's worse than the time I deliberately touched the iron when I was six. I still remember that. A scorching pain, burnt skin that needed to be wrapped in a bandage for two weeks, even with healing spells.
But that stopped. The pain stopped and got better, further away from the moment of agony, as I shoved my hand under the cold water tap.
This just gets worse. The pain builds and builds and then there's an awful twisting feeling as the assassin yanks out the knife. Then it feels like a dam burst inside my ribs, as blood comes pouring out. It's pulsing. That means it's oxygenated. From the heart. And it'll run out fast. Pain pulses through me as the attacker raises the knife, dripping red, for the killing blow.
To my complete shock, he's knocked backwards.
Jorge.
He didn't run.
He didn't leave me.
I can't believe that.
Jorge is surprisingly fast and quick. My vision is blurring, grey-ish spots drifting over everything… but it's over in less than half a minute. The second assassin is dead.
Problem is, I think I'm going to be the same soon, too. Even if I survive the blood loss — which is doubtful — they'll figure out how the assassins got here, what my father's plan was… and killing the king is far more treasonous than stealing the crown jewels.
Unless… ”Jorge,” I gasp. It's so hard to form words. “Can you… this was an accident. The lift. The cable.” My breathing, rapid and shallow, interferes with my talking.
”Tissa,” he says gently, “I know it wasn't.” He's taken my hand. He’s trying to do a healing spell, but he’s never been very good at those and jdging by the amount of blood soaking through my dress, it isn’t working. ”I've called the guards—“
”No. No. I… I was going to save you. The safety line.” I told him about those once, beforehand. When we were friends. As a secret. To his credit, he's never betrayed them. “I made you one.”
His eyes widen. I can't tell whether he believes me or not.
“You—they're service workers. Dressed as them.” I gasp for breath again. ”If… drag them… under wreckage… make it accident…”
He gets it. Thank goodness, he gets it. He jumps up. From where I lie, I can't see anything apart from the flickering fluorescent light strips on the ceiling, but I can hear dragging noises, wood being thumped down, the tinkle of glass. I try to keep conscious, but the world is fading. The last thing I see before I pass out is him racing back towards me, carrying bloody glass shards. "If I put it here, then they'll think…” The rest of the words are a long, meaningless blur. The world fades gently to black.
TW: knife wound + blood description
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Nov. 5, 2021 23:13:19)
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC daily, 6th November, 100 words.
words: poison, piano, moonlight, sword. credit: @snowyforest-
words: poison, piano, moonlight, sword. credit: @snowyforest-
The library should have been empty, deserted. But it was not. Moonlight flowed through the open window, illuminating the statue-still figure of a teenage boy. He was sitting on top of a grand piano, his legs swinging over the keys; a sword, gleaming bright where the light struck it, dangled from his hand. His face was hidden in shadows.
“My lord.” I held out the small, twisted-glass vial. The only reason I was here. I could not wait to get away.
“You are sure the poison will work?”
“Yes.” I hesistated, unsure whether I could leave yet.
“Go.”
I fled.
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Nov. 6, 2021 21:00:14)
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC daily, 7th November, 400+ words:
Memory: annoying my mother by making her freak out after I led her to think that I was drinking mulled wine in church (it was mulled blackberry squash)
Item: my big soft toy hippo
Jas felt disoriented as she looked around. It had changed: different people, different refreshment stand location, different stack of books… She felt a rising tug of panic and automatically took a deep breath.
It calmed her, but not just because of the physical benefits of deep breathing. It still smelt exactly the same: a musty, warm smell of ancient stone, mingling with stacks of old books, dust, and the same polish the volunteers had always used to scrub the pews. Underneath her feet, the flattened blue carpet was just the same as ever. She rubbed her boot over it, back and forth, remembering how she had done that when bored as a kid. Like then, she'd been surrounded by chattering people, all discussing the sermon and the weather.
Jas tilted her head back. The roof of the church was still exactly the same: long, thin wooden rods stretched across from one side of the stone to the other. Beyond them, the arching, dark wood ceiling was dusty. She could see the bleached spot where the lemonade had exploded after Stephen added a fizzing potion to it in an attempt to make “double-fizz lemonade”. A grin started to spread across her face.
They'd changed the crèche, she noticed. Rebuilt the damaged door — she remembered the dent where Finn had slammed himself into it in a rage — and changed the colours of the curtains. She wandered over. As she peered inside, she was hit with a wave of memories: the small, easily broken, brightly coloured wax crayons; the large stack of blue-lined paper, the edges ripped; the toy train that sat in the corner. She kicked it gently: it made the same waking up noise, then a choo-choo noise. She bent down and switched it off.
And then of course, there was the soft toy box. She reached through it, down past the panda and the dragon, right to the bottom. As she remembered, she'd been the only one who'd played with him…
Hippo. A long, red creature with orange spots and a green tail. She'd adopted him, practically. She could remember refusing to play with anything else, getting annoyed when the crèche volunteers tried to get her to do something else. They'd eventually left her in peace. She reached out and hugged the creature before dropping him back in the box.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jas saw someone making a purposeful beeline for her. She had no desire to get stuck in a conversation — or worse, be recognised. Quickly, she unbolted the other door of the crèche and slipped outside.
Memory: annoying my mother by making her freak out after I led her to think that I was drinking mulled wine in church (it was mulled blackberry squash)
Item: my big soft toy hippo
Jas felt disoriented as she looked around. It had changed: different people, different refreshment stand location, different stack of books… She felt a rising tug of panic and automatically took a deep breath.
It calmed her, but not just because of the physical benefits of deep breathing. It still smelt exactly the same: a musty, warm smell of ancient stone, mingling with stacks of old books, dust, and the same polish the volunteers had always used to scrub the pews. Underneath her feet, the flattened blue carpet was just the same as ever. She rubbed her boot over it, back and forth, remembering how she had done that when bored as a kid. Like then, she'd been surrounded by chattering people, all discussing the sermon and the weather.
Jas tilted her head back. The roof of the church was still exactly the same: long, thin wooden rods stretched across from one side of the stone to the other. Beyond them, the arching, dark wood ceiling was dusty. She could see the bleached spot where the lemonade had exploded after Stephen added a fizzing potion to it in an attempt to make “double-fizz lemonade”. A grin started to spread across her face.
They'd changed the crèche, she noticed. Rebuilt the damaged door — she remembered the dent where Finn had slammed himself into it in a rage — and changed the colours of the curtains. She wandered over. As she peered inside, she was hit with a wave of memories: the small, easily broken, brightly coloured wax crayons; the large stack of blue-lined paper, the edges ripped; the toy train that sat in the corner. She kicked it gently: it made the same waking up noise, then a choo-choo noise. She bent down and switched it off.
And then of course, there was the soft toy box. She reached through it, down past the panda and the dragon, right to the bottom. As she remembered, she'd been the only one who'd played with him…
Hippo. A long, red creature with orange spots and a green tail. She'd adopted him, practically. She could remember refusing to play with anything else, getting annoyed when the crèche volunteers tried to get her to do something else. They'd eventually left her in peace. She reached out and hugged the creature before dropping him back in the box.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jas saw someone making a purposeful beeline for her. She had no desire to get stuck in a conversation — or worse, be recognised. Quickly, she unbolted the other door of the crèche and slipped outside.
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC daily, 8th November, 600 words:
based on the cookie… incident… between sci-fi and real-fi
“Fresh cookies! Want some?” Anna held out the plate of warm, chocolate-filled cookies towards the Sci-Fi campers. She grinned. “We have gluten-free, soya-free, and lactose-free options, as well as vegan, vegetarian and carnivore ones—”
“Which ones are these?” interrupted Lightning, moving over to investigate.
“They're the normal type,” Anna said cheerfully. “But the nut-free type are over there if you're allergic.”
“I'm not. I like nuts.” Lightning reached for a cookie.
“STOP!” The voice was Aria's. She raced across the wide white floor of the main cabin to where Anna was standing. “ANNA, WHAT ARE YOU GIVING MY CAMPERS?”
Anna widened her eyes innocently. “Cookies. Want one? We're giving them out to all our friends.”
“Sci-Fi and Real-Fi are enemies,” noted Aria, crossing her arms. She raised her voice. “Campers, don't touch these for now.”
Anna looked hurt — or pretended to. There was a slight grin at the corner of her mouth which quickly vanished when Aria gave her a hard stare. “I'm your best friend! Don't you trust me?”
“Hmm.” Aria picked up one of the cookies, examining it. “Why are you handing out cookies to enemy cabins? That's right,” she added as Anna's face momentarily paled, “I noticed other campers handing them out to your enemies. Although you seem to have targeted us especially.”
Anna had recovered her hurt expression. “Aria, Real-Fi spent ages and ages making these, as a gift to Sci-Fi. They have both dark chocolate chips AND milk chocolate chips, for nutrients and that extra special taste.”
“Extra special taste? Sounds… suspicious.” SmileyWinkyChild raised an eyebrow.
“Considering how amazing these cookies are, it isn't suspicious at all.” Grey, a fellow Real-Fi member, had joined the conversation. “In fact, they're so delicious that nothing else will ever be quite the same.”
“Sci-Fi campers, I forbid you from eating these cookies for you own safety,” Aria called to her cabin. She turned back to Anna, who was still holding the plateful of cookies. “Why are you trying to poison us, Anna? LJ ended up in the hospital last time she had some—”
“She was probably allergic and forgot to tell us,” jumped in Grey.
Anna nodded, giving Aria a wide smile. “You're not allergic to nuts. You could have one of the nutty kind if you like them. Or one of the vegan kind. Very nutritious—”
“Nutritious cookies aren't cookies. They're abominations!” Aria was on the verge of laughter, however. “Anna. Seriously. We can all see through this.”
Anna pretended to pout. “You should trust me! According to google, people who have blue eyes are trustworthy. Therefore, I must be trustworthy because I have blue eyes, and so when I say these cookies have special nutrients in them—”
“YOUR EYES ARE NOT COOKIES, ANNA.” Aria's voice was firm. “You're in Real-Fi — REALISTIC fiction — so you should have realised this fact beforehand.”
“You need to lighten up,” Anna said, ignoring Aria's reasonable point that her eyes were not cookies. “I also spent time in a cathedral today so I must be thinking holy thoughts and not wishing to poison anyone—”
“Neither cathedrals nor eyes are cookies, Anna!” Aria shook her head. “Just answer the question: are the cookies poisoned?”
Anna continued to proceed with her own speech. “Also, I may have beaten Lia in the word wars for the first time ever, but there is absolutely no correlation between that and the special nutrients we added into the cookie. And there's no proof that she nibbled it at all—”
“Anna!” Aria glared at her. “Have you poisoned Lia?”
“Of course not. She's fine.” Anna rolled her eyes. “Seriously. Relax. Have a cookie.”
based on the cookie… incident… between sci-fi and real-fi
“Fresh cookies! Want some?” Anna held out the plate of warm, chocolate-filled cookies towards the Sci-Fi campers. She grinned. “We have gluten-free, soya-free, and lactose-free options, as well as vegan, vegetarian and carnivore ones—”
“Which ones are these?” interrupted Lightning, moving over to investigate.
“They're the normal type,” Anna said cheerfully. “But the nut-free type are over there if you're allergic.”
“I'm not. I like nuts.” Lightning reached for a cookie.
“STOP!” The voice was Aria's. She raced across the wide white floor of the main cabin to where Anna was standing. “ANNA, WHAT ARE YOU GIVING MY CAMPERS?”
Anna widened her eyes innocently. “Cookies. Want one? We're giving them out to all our friends.”
“Sci-Fi and Real-Fi are enemies,” noted Aria, crossing her arms. She raised her voice. “Campers, don't touch these for now.”
Anna looked hurt — or pretended to. There was a slight grin at the corner of her mouth which quickly vanished when Aria gave her a hard stare. “I'm your best friend! Don't you trust me?”
“Hmm.” Aria picked up one of the cookies, examining it. “Why are you handing out cookies to enemy cabins? That's right,” she added as Anna's face momentarily paled, “I noticed other campers handing them out to your enemies. Although you seem to have targeted us especially.”
Anna had recovered her hurt expression. “Aria, Real-Fi spent ages and ages making these, as a gift to Sci-Fi. They have both dark chocolate chips AND milk chocolate chips, for nutrients and that extra special taste.”
“Extra special taste? Sounds… suspicious.” SmileyWinkyChild raised an eyebrow.
“Considering how amazing these cookies are, it isn't suspicious at all.” Grey, a fellow Real-Fi member, had joined the conversation. “In fact, they're so delicious that nothing else will ever be quite the same.”
“Sci-Fi campers, I forbid you from eating these cookies for you own safety,” Aria called to her cabin. She turned back to Anna, who was still holding the plateful of cookies. “Why are you trying to poison us, Anna? LJ ended up in the hospital last time she had some—”
“She was probably allergic and forgot to tell us,” jumped in Grey.
Anna nodded, giving Aria a wide smile. “You're not allergic to nuts. You could have one of the nutty kind if you like them. Or one of the vegan kind. Very nutritious—”
“Nutritious cookies aren't cookies. They're abominations!” Aria was on the verge of laughter, however. “Anna. Seriously. We can all see through this.”
Anna pretended to pout. “You should trust me! According to google, people who have blue eyes are trustworthy. Therefore, I must be trustworthy because I have blue eyes, and so when I say these cookies have special nutrients in them—”
“YOUR EYES ARE NOT COOKIES, ANNA.” Aria's voice was firm. “You're in Real-Fi — REALISTIC fiction — so you should have realised this fact beforehand.”
“You need to lighten up,” Anna said, ignoring Aria's reasonable point that her eyes were not cookies. “I also spent time in a cathedral today so I must be thinking holy thoughts and not wishing to poison anyone—”
“Neither cathedrals nor eyes are cookies, Anna!” Aria shook her head. “Just answer the question: are the cookies poisoned?”
Anna continued to proceed with her own speech. “Also, I may have beaten Lia in the word wars for the first time ever, but there is absolutely no correlation between that and the special nutrients we added into the cookie. And there's no proof that she nibbled it at all—”
“Anna!” Aria glared at her. “Have you poisoned Lia?”
“Of course not. She's fine.” Anna rolled her eyes. “Seriously. Relax. Have a cookie.”
- yishujia
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Scratcher
500+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
Anna continued to proceed with her own speech. “Also, I may have beaten Lia in the word wars for the first time ever, but there is absolutely no correlation between that and the special nutrients we added into the cookie. And there's no proof that she nibbled it at all—”
“Anna!” Aria glared at her. “Have you poisoned Lia?”
“Of course not. She's fine.” Anna rolled her eyes. “Seriously. Relax. Have a cookie.”
I OBJECT!!!! I had writers block for days!!/j
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC daily, 11th November, 530 words.
Sparrow screwed up her face, staring at the rectangular, shiny black-and-silver metal object. “A… laptop computer?”
“No clue what it is.” Stephen shrugged. “They just brought it in as an artefact from that other world. You know. The one without magic. Apparently, it won't work without something… like a kind of spell but not… though? They replaced it with a spell, but they're not sure it'll work well enough to be displayed in the inter-world museum without the thing they have. Oh wait. A Wi-Fi.”
“I don't think there's an a. I think you just call it Wi-Fi, not a Wi-Fi.” Orion frowned, poking the side of the object. “What are the letter buttons for? And why haven't they put them in alphabetical order?”
“You can write stuff on it, according to Mum.” Jas touched one of the letters. “But yeah, I don't know why they didn't arrange them properly—” She jumped back as the upper screen flared, bright white light flashing out from it.
“Uh, what happened? Is it about to… curse us or something?” Anthony was warily standing away from it, as near to the door as he could get. Sparrow wished she could join him, but she didn't want to lose face in front of Orion, who was curiously examining it. “Because I had plans this evening and this suit is not only expensive but comfortable—”
“I think it just switched on,” Jas said mildly. She touched a rectangle on the bottom. When she moved her finger, so did something on the screen. “That's called a mouse, I think — or is it a trackpad? You use it to touch things on the screen.”
“What things?” Sparrow was curious.
“Not sure. Apparently, if you press down on little pictures at the base of the screen, you can do various things like see a calendar or play music or ask questions of… Giggle or something?” Jas sounded unsure. “But I can't see any of those…”
“Wait, doesn't that want us to put in a password?” Orion asked. “What's the password, Jas?”
“I…” Jas shrugged.
“Should we use a spell?” Sparrow wondered.
“I don't think—”
Orion had already cast it. The screen flickered. “Don't worry, Jas—”
“I think those are the little picture things at the bottom!” Stephen leaned forwards. “They're all of weird things, though. A smiley face cut in half? And… squares? And a… thermometer or clock thingy? I can see that's a speech bubble and that's an envelope. And there's something that looks like a calendar… but what is the other stuff?”
“There's a rainbow flower on a white background,” added Orion. “Maybe it's art or something? The big screen has a swirly abstract design.”
“Why would someone display art so small?” Anthony's curiosity had outweighed his fear. He peered at the small icons. “Not very complicated art, I suppose?”
“You press down on them and they do stuff, apparently,” Jas reminded them. She chose the little icon with the blue clock thing. They all sat back in surprise as a large white rectangle appeared. A bar at the top had faint grey writing. “Search or enter website name.” She shrugged. “What should I write?”
Sparrow screwed up her face, staring at the rectangular, shiny black-and-silver metal object. “A… laptop computer?”
“No clue what it is.” Stephen shrugged. “They just brought it in as an artefact from that other world. You know. The one without magic. Apparently, it won't work without something… like a kind of spell but not… though? They replaced it with a spell, but they're not sure it'll work well enough to be displayed in the inter-world museum without the thing they have. Oh wait. A Wi-Fi.”
“I don't think there's an a. I think you just call it Wi-Fi, not a Wi-Fi.” Orion frowned, poking the side of the object. “What are the letter buttons for? And why haven't they put them in alphabetical order?”
“You can write stuff on it, according to Mum.” Jas touched one of the letters. “But yeah, I don't know why they didn't arrange them properly—” She jumped back as the upper screen flared, bright white light flashing out from it.
“Uh, what happened? Is it about to… curse us or something?” Anthony was warily standing away from it, as near to the door as he could get. Sparrow wished she could join him, but she didn't want to lose face in front of Orion, who was curiously examining it. “Because I had plans this evening and this suit is not only expensive but comfortable—”
“I think it just switched on,” Jas said mildly. She touched a rectangle on the bottom. When she moved her finger, so did something on the screen. “That's called a mouse, I think — or is it a trackpad? You use it to touch things on the screen.”
“What things?” Sparrow was curious.
“Not sure. Apparently, if you press down on little pictures at the base of the screen, you can do various things like see a calendar or play music or ask questions of… Giggle or something?” Jas sounded unsure. “But I can't see any of those…”
“Wait, doesn't that want us to put in a password?” Orion asked. “What's the password, Jas?”
“I…” Jas shrugged.
“Should we use a spell?” Sparrow wondered.
“I don't think—”
Orion had already cast it. The screen flickered. “Don't worry, Jas—”
“I think those are the little picture things at the bottom!” Stephen leaned forwards. “They're all of weird things, though. A smiley face cut in half? And… squares? And a… thermometer or clock thingy? I can see that's a speech bubble and that's an envelope. And there's something that looks like a calendar… but what is the other stuff?”
“There's a rainbow flower on a white background,” added Orion. “Maybe it's art or something? The big screen has a swirly abstract design.”
“Why would someone display art so small?” Anthony's curiosity had outweighed his fear. He peered at the small icons. “Not very complicated art, I suppose?”
“You press down on them and they do stuff, apparently,” Jas reminded them. She chose the little icon with the blue clock thing. They all sat back in surprise as a large white rectangle appeared. A bar at the top had faint grey writing. “Search or enter website name.” She shrugged. “What should I write?”
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Nov. 11, 2021 22:49:57)
- AnnaHannah
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Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC daily, 14th November, 200+ words:
favourite fruit: raspberry
favourite vegetable: cucumber
Wherever he goes, Raspber towers over the scene, even though he’s trying not to. Being extremely tall is always conspicuous, but he stands out even more as he is slender and walks with his shoulders bent, his long limbs dangling loosely by his side.
Also, he has rather unusual colouring. His thick, scaly, dark green skin is marked with wet, lighter green scrapes where he’s banged his fingers or arms. Deep pink, tightly coiled hair contrasts sharply against all the green; sometimes it is reflected as a pink tinge shining on his neck.
His voice is surprisingly quiet for such a large man: a deep whisper best describes it, except for the fact that one gets the impression he cannot speak much louder. He never voices an opinion on anything. If asked, he murmurs something to let you know he heard you — “Um. Yes. Not sure.” — and relapses into silence.
He huddles in a pinstriped brown coat, made out of coarse sack-like material, whatever the temperature. A habit of biting his large, misshapen knuckles plagues him; his teeth have a slight green tinge, whether from that or genetics I do not know. A strangely sweet, vegetable or fruity perfume follows him wherever he goes — it is quite pleasant.
favourite fruit: raspberry
favourite vegetable: cucumber
Wherever he goes, Raspber towers over the scene, even though he’s trying not to. Being extremely tall is always conspicuous, but he stands out even more as he is slender and walks with his shoulders bent, his long limbs dangling loosely by his side.
Also, he has rather unusual colouring. His thick, scaly, dark green skin is marked with wet, lighter green scrapes where he’s banged his fingers or arms. Deep pink, tightly coiled hair contrasts sharply against all the green; sometimes it is reflected as a pink tinge shining on his neck.
His voice is surprisingly quiet for such a large man: a deep whisper best describes it, except for the fact that one gets the impression he cannot speak much louder. He never voices an opinion on anything. If asked, he murmurs something to let you know he heard you — “Um. Yes. Not sure.” — and relapses into silence.
He huddles in a pinstriped brown coat, made out of coarse sack-like material, whatever the temperature. A habit of biting his large, misshapen knuckles plagues him; his teeth have a slight green tinge, whether from that or genetics I do not know. A strangely sweet, vegetable or fruity perfume follows him wherever he goes — it is quite pleasant.
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
2nd Weekly, 2717 words:
Part 1.a) 147 words
Secretly amazing at origami
Has never mentioned the fact to anyone else, because, well… they don’t really have friends irl and it’s never come up with their internet friends
Only got good at origami during lockdown when they were bored out of their mind and didn’t have much else to do
Has origami decorating their bedroom — bats stuck to the ceiling like it’s a cave, cranes dangling from string all along one wall, and dragons sitting on top of the bookshelf
Always has paper cuts decorating their hands
Their parents were originally unsure about how their room looks, but they’ve come round to it and are now proud about their child’s origami skills
They asked their parents not to tell anyone outside the family (because they didn’t want to have their personality reduced to an introverted origami bookworm) which confused their parents but they agreed anywayb) 153 words
your eyes are not at all like sapphires
sapphires are hard and cold
yours are filled with blue-bright fires
dancing shadows and chips of gold
(if you notice me staring, please forgive me)
remember how you kissed me
just remember
remember how it felt
sunlight splintering in your wood-dark eyes
the softness of your grey hoodie
laughing slightly after
the scent of my shampoo lingering on your fingers
(how am i meant to forget you)
please leave me
i did love you
and you loved me
but
(there was always a but)
we needed to change with each other
and instead we changed against
and now we try to touch memories and are angry when our words break through the paper-thin walls we surrounded ourselves with
i think i might hate you
i don’t know
if only i could manage indifference
if only i had never known you
or if you didn’t care
Part 2a)
400 words
At age seven, Sparrow had been a brat.
She freely admitted it herself: after all, hadn’t most people been? They’d all acted polite around adults — in fact, Sparrow had been patted on the head by so many grown-ups who thought she was sweet at that age that she still probably had a dent from it — but around other seven-year-olds or family? Not a chance.
Her clearest memory, in fact, was persuading her younger brother Robin to lock both the lavatory doors in the house from the outside. From her now sixteen-year-old perspective, Sparrow couldn’t really see the point of that, to be honest. She supposed it had had some great and deadly significance when she was younger: Rebellion? Crime? Problem-causing?
It was probably attention-seeking, she admitted. Wren got attention for being pretty. Robin got attention for being the youngest. Sparrow, stuck in the middle, only seemed to get attention whenever she misbehaved. This would be a new and novel way of misbehaving.
She’d handed Robin a twopence coin. The bathroom doors in their house had — Sparrow still didn’t know the word to describe them — locks that twisted shut. You could open them (or lock them) from the outside whenever you wanted to with something hard and thin. Like a large coin.
Robin, giggling in four-year-old glee, went to the first bathroom. Upstairs. No one else was upstairs, so it was easy. The lock clicked and turned red.
The second bathroom — opposite the sitting room — was more difficult. Sparrow distracted her parents by walking in and talking to them while Robin went and dealt with the other lavatory. Then she ran off and she and Robin had a fit of giggles, imagining how annoyed their parents would be.
“They’ll shout at us,” said Robin. He snorted and giggled harder.
“It’ll be funny,” agreed Sparrow.
However, to Sparrow’s memory, nothing of the sort had happened. They hadn't even been talked to about it. Her father had just muttered a spell as he walked down the hall and the locks flew open again. A rather disappointing reaction, she’d thought at the time. She’d been expecting a “who did this” and “how dare you be so naughty” at least. Now, she wondered if her parents hadn’t realised that the whole point of the prank was to get attention — and decided to stop further ones by ignoring it.b) 541 words
Fantasy, Mystery, Romance
Wizard bodyguard works with fighter bodyguard to find out who murdered a princess
It should have been impossible for anyone to get past us.
After all, we weren’t just any bodyguards. You don’t hire the average element-wielder and martial-arts-trained guys to guard a princess. You hire a wizard(ess) who can cast complex sleeping and jinxing spells to catch even ghosts out; veterans of the Dark War, trained in combat from birth; a potioneer who can brew tirelessly until even death themself gives up. You hire the best you can.
At least, everyone thought we were the best until the princess was murdered on our watch.
It was just an ordinary night. I was messing around, quietly teasing Mars — for one of the tough combat guys, he was extremely prone to blushing — as we sat outside Princess Laria’s bedroom. We had to keep it down, or else she’d yank the door open and coldly tell us that she was trying to sleep. That, of course, was complete rubbish. She was actually trying to get in some reading time pre-bed. Usually cheap romance novels. I would’ve sympathised — her schedule was chock-full and had been for years — but she never tried to make our job one step easier or even work with us. In fact, I had a strong idea that she disliked us and would have tried to evade us if she hadn’t considered it beneath her attention. Instead, she ignored our presence, occasionally shooting me a withering look when I laughed too loudly at something Mars had said when we were in the lift or waiting in a corridor.
Elrah, the other tough military person, was off duty that night. I envied her then and envy her even more now. She can’t be blamed for what happened. Unlike Mars and I, who are currently sitting in the dungeons.
After a while, we began to get sleepy. And not ordinarily sleepy. It was blinding-headache, shaking-arms, darkening-vision sleepy. I collapsed first — sliding against Mars, which I would’ve
enjoyed in normal circumstances — and don’t really remember anything since. Mars apparently followed me into unconsciousness a minute later. While we were out, the princess’s throat was cut.
Now, sitting in the dungeons, I’m regretting a few life decisions. However, there is one I am still proud of. I have always worked by the mantra that a wizard does not reveal all their secrets… and in this case, it’s worked well. Although the palace have bound my hands in rowan chains and gagged me to prevent incantations being spoken, they haven’t bound my feet. I wiggle forwards and point a toe at Mars.
“What—?”
His chains slide away and I make a muffled sound, trying to indicate he should get my gag off. He gets it quickly, pulling it away sharply. I rapidly speak an incantation to get rid of my chains and another to cancel the warning-spell the guards added to detect magic.
“Well,” I say, turning to him. “I think we’d better be going.” I hold out a hand, ignoring his flabbergasted expression.
“We’re in a dungeon with no way out apart from a heavily guarded staircase!”
“Time for you to travel in your first portal.”
Part 3a) 636 words
Twilight (SPOILERS)
Characters
To be honest, I felt that all the characters were flat — especially the heroine, Bella Swan.
Bella didn’t seem to have any significant motivations that affected the plot. She was briefly unselfish at the beginning of the book, when she moved to Forks so that her mother could have one-on-one time with her husband (I thought this was a feeble plot device and her mother — who I dislike — should have put Bella first). Then she sort of hung around for a bit, being bored, until Edward (her vampire love interest) made an appearance. She quickly became obsessed with him for no real reason. Perhaps for his looks? I can’t see anything else, as at the point that she first starting investigating him they’d barely exchanged a few words, if that. But then their love is described as undying and amazing and incredible… so I don’t think that it was meant to come across that way. She hangs around with him, being in love (way too soon and way too fast) and gasping in awe at all his Amazing Vampire Powers™. Then she gets hunted by James — and not because of any of her own actions and decisions, but simply because she was in the right place at the right time — and they’re separated. She then runs off to try to find her mother, as James tricks her into thinking he’s captured her. (Although I understand why she would do that, I think there’s a plothole. Alice was on the other side of the room when James phoned her. Vampires are meant to have very sharp hearing. How come Alice didn’t hear James talking inside the phone and figure out what was going on?) Then she ends up in a hospital bed — again without having done anything significant — and expresses a wish to become a vampire. I found this annoying.
I actually can’t think of much I like about Bella. I mean, in the films, the actress is pretty and acts her well, but that’s about it?
Edward is extremely creepy. Climbing into someone’s room and watching them sleep at night? Obsessing about the way they smell? Planning to kill them during class? The stalker of the year award goes to Edward Cullen! I don’t see how Bella can like him after he did all that. She needs rescuing.
Again, the only thing I liked about Edward was his actor. Robert Pattinson said some very funny things about Twilight in general. And he’s usually good-looking, although I think they overdid the white makeup thing in the films.
The other characters seemed to be two-dimensional, especially the humans. Jessica — mean-girl-ish vibes, only interested in shopping and dating (stuff which Bella is tOo gOoD fOr *eyeroll*). Angela — nice girl. Mike — shallow teen boy who’s only interested in girls. And so on. The vampires have interesting talents, but they’re all very similar (no backstories as yet). And why do they all have to be coupled up???
Plot was meh. Not too bad, but not imaginative.
Themes were meant to be true love defeating evil, I suppose. Came more across as insta-love will always beat the bad guys in stories, despite how stupid the main characters’ actions are.
The writing style was okay. Not really my thing, but okay.
I’ll be honest here: the worldbuilding wasn’t all that good or consistent. The author just lifted a bunch of Native American culture, then blended it with vampires. Then gave the vampires weird powers (mind-reading, future-foreseeing etc) that had nothing to do with vampire lore. I wasn’t a big fan of it lol.
I’d probably give it a 2 out of 5. Mainly because so many other people like it, so there must be something in it, just not for me.b) 830 words
Hot take: Severus Snape is not a good character and Harry should not have named his son after him.
NOTE: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR HARRY POTTER
Severus Snape is widely considered to be a morally grey character. However, he is generally treated by the Harry Potter fandom as if he is on the “good” side of the spectrum. He has fanpages dedicated to him, fanfics written about him, and many people say that he’s one of their favourite characters.
I agree that Snape has a intriguing backstory and is an interesting character. I have no issue with people who enjoy that. What I do have an issue with is people saying that on the whole, he is a good character — completely ignoring the majority of his life.
Let’s start with his childhood. Snape grew up in a poor Muggle area, with a non-magical or Muggle father who was heavily implied to be abusive towards his mother, a witch. He was bullied by local Muggle children. At this point, it is entirely understandable that he would identify with his wizarding heritage over his Muggle heritage — and perhaps start to loath Muggles as a result. He was a child with an unhappy life.
Perhaps it is also understandable how he became obsessed with his first friend, Lily Evans, at the time. I would say a lonely child fixating on their only companion — the only person who liked them and was kind to them — would actually be quite normal. However, later life should have changed that: Snape’s original infatuation with Lily should have died down as he grew older and made more friends. Unfortunately, it did not.
Throughout his years at Hogwarts, Snape remained both a Muggle-hater and obsessed — dare I say, creepily obsessed — with Lily Evans. As Lily happened to be Muggle-born, I can only suppose he must have justified his liking her by telling himself that she “wasn’t like the other Mudbloods”, that she was “special”, that she was “different”. When his true colours came to light in his fifth year — Lily tried to save him from a group of bullies and he called her a Mudblood, an offensive insult for Muggleborns — his friendship with Lily was quickly ended by her. She had set up boundaries which he kept repeatedly crossing (“all my friends wonder why I’m friends with you when you’ve done these things and hang out with these people”) and then cut ties when he overstepped by calling her a slur. At that point, Snape should have given up on her — either that or made honest amends and tried to change himself to become a better person.
Surprise. He did not. Although he was only a teen at the time — and I suppose there is some measure of excuse in his age — he continued to hang out with a bunch of racist people, then joined a terrorist organisation. No one forced him to do this and it was entirely his own choice. I can see how factors such as the fact that he would probably have been friendless if he had stopped being friends with that group — with the loss of Lily’s friendship, his only options were Slytherins — and that he was bullied by a group of teenagers on the “other side” influenced his decisions. But they were his decisions no less.
Skipping over the part where he remained so creepily infatuated with his childhood friend that he did not care whether or not her family died and stepped over her husband’s dead body and ignored her crying baby to hold her corpse — Snape then, as an adult, bullied children. Abused his power in a position of authority to bully them so badly, in fact, that one child’s biggest fear was Snape.
Of course, Snape apologists will have excuses for this. “Harry looked like James, who bullied Snape! Hermione was a clever young Muggle-born witch who brought up painful reminders of Lily! If Neville had been chosen by Voldemort instead of Harry, then Lily would still be alive! Ron had red hair, like Lily!”
I. Don’t. Care.
Snape was an ADULT. He bullied literal CHILDREN, who didn’t even know about him before he started his vendetta against them. There is no excuse for a teacher to abuse their power to deliberately humiliate and harm children. He even threatened to kill Neville’s pet at one point (then punished Hermione for helping Neville stop it). His actions as a teacher were completely unacceptable and disgusting. They, along with his adult obsession with Lily, are what make me rank him as a bad person who did a few good things.
Snape was not a good person who did shady things. Snape was a creep who bullied children. He did brave things, true — but only motivated by his obsession with Lily Evans. All-in-all, he was more bad than good — and trying to excuse his bad actions is impossible.
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Nov. 15, 2021 19:18:56)
- AnnaHannah
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Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC daily, 17th Nov, 400+ words:
Thick, tall banks of pink flowers release a cloying, sweet scent into the air. Their stems reach well above head height, their bonnet-shaped blooms dangling from short, thin threads. Mingled among them are nettles and brambles. The glint of the river is just visible through them: a thin, brown, slow-moving stream of water, sparks from the bright sun reflecting off it. It looks pretty, inviting even, but I am not fooled. In winter, it becomes a torrent of muddied water, flooding the banks and soaking onto the grass.
It is hard to remember that right now, however, when the grass is thick and warm under my fingers. As I am lying half under the shadow of a tree, some of it is still a luxuriant green, while the rest has dried to a crisp yellow-brown. I tug at it gently and it scratches my fingers slightly, so I let go and roll over.
Beneath me lies the soft, worn-wool, red and green picnic rug. It is old: my family has used it for picnics longer than I can remember. Right now it is sun-warmed, bits of dried grass littering it. I ineffectually try to pull some off before giving up and staring at the blue sky instead. It is clear, unblemished blue, apart from the tiny aeroplane gleaming silver as it tracks its way across the sky. Deep-summer-green leaves, hanging in a thick bunch, obscure some of my view. They are still, silent in the shimmering heat of day.
From here, hidden by the trees and banks of wildflowers (cow parsley, tall buttercups, and the obligatory riverside Himalayan balsam) I can hear a group of people talking, their laughter floating hazily towards me. Teenagers? I am not sure. The day is so warm that most people are indoors or spending time at the swimming pool. Of course, they could always be buying ice cream.
I take another drink of apple juice. It has lost its chill from the fridge and warmed to sticky sweetness on my lips. I rub the stickiness off with the back of my hand before realising that I have just transferred the annoying sensation; when I put my hand back down in the grass, loose bits stick to it in a vaguely unpleasant manner. I scrub my hand hard against the grass and eventually they all fall off.
A bird is sailing down the river, now. A swan. I find myself yawning and wriggle myself into the shade: time for a midday nap.
Thick, tall banks of pink flowers release a cloying, sweet scent into the air. Their stems reach well above head height, their bonnet-shaped blooms dangling from short, thin threads. Mingled among them are nettles and brambles. The glint of the river is just visible through them: a thin, brown, slow-moving stream of water, sparks from the bright sun reflecting off it. It looks pretty, inviting even, but I am not fooled. In winter, it becomes a torrent of muddied water, flooding the banks and soaking onto the grass.
It is hard to remember that right now, however, when the grass is thick and warm under my fingers. As I am lying half under the shadow of a tree, some of it is still a luxuriant green, while the rest has dried to a crisp yellow-brown. I tug at it gently and it scratches my fingers slightly, so I let go and roll over.
Beneath me lies the soft, worn-wool, red and green picnic rug. It is old: my family has used it for picnics longer than I can remember. Right now it is sun-warmed, bits of dried grass littering it. I ineffectually try to pull some off before giving up and staring at the blue sky instead. It is clear, unblemished blue, apart from the tiny aeroplane gleaming silver as it tracks its way across the sky. Deep-summer-green leaves, hanging in a thick bunch, obscure some of my view. They are still, silent in the shimmering heat of day.
From here, hidden by the trees and banks of wildflowers (cow parsley, tall buttercups, and the obligatory riverside Himalayan balsam) I can hear a group of people talking, their laughter floating hazily towards me. Teenagers? I am not sure. The day is so warm that most people are indoors or spending time at the swimming pool. Of course, they could always be buying ice cream.
I take another drink of apple juice. It has lost its chill from the fridge and warmed to sticky sweetness on my lips. I rub the stickiness off with the back of my hand before realising that I have just transferred the annoying sensation; when I put my hand back down in the grass, loose bits stick to it in a vaguely unpleasant manner. I scrub my hand hard against the grass and eventually they all fall off.
A bird is sailing down the river, now. A swan. I find myself yawning and wriggle myself into the shade: time for a midday nap.
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Nov. 17, 2021 22:46:45)
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC daily, 18th Nov, 700+ words:
Viva La Vida — I used to rule the world / Seas would rise when I gave the word
They say that all villains have their comeuppance eventually.
I never thought I was the villain. When I was young, in fact, I was the one the villains attacked. (Well, the bullies. I don’t know if they were true villains, but I hated them more than anyone else in this world.) I was used to being dragged to the darkest depths of the ocean, left to find my way back by myself; being trapped in a deep-sea cave with some huge predator fish, having to find a way out without being killed; being trapped in old ship wreckage, often for days before someone would find me.
Merpeople are not kind. And their treatment of me — weaker than the rest — was no exception.
It all changed when I got my powers. Suddenly, I was important, was transported to the palace. The highest crystal tower shimmered so brightly when the sun struck it at noon that even basking in the reflected light was warm. I remember at first I was nervous, half-thinking it was another prank despite the fact that my bullies did not have the power to do this, before remembering that they could hardly have faked my powers.
The sea responded to me. All I had to do was ask, twitch a finger, and currents would change flow. Tiny waves would soar impossibly high, crashing back with a roar, which I could then quell. When I bent all my effort to it, the seas would even resist the pull of the moon and follow me instead.
Of course the palace wanted me. I could have been the most powerful tool in the oceans if only I had been willing to be just that. Perhaps if I had not already tired of being weak — and seeing others suffering for it — I could have ignored the everyday cruelties the monarchy and their emissaries handed out to the powerless. Perhaps. Perhaps I could have relaxed into being comfortably distanced from reality: living an enchanted dream life, occasionally being called out for battle, and with everything I wanted. But fate had other plans, and instead I tried to get them to change. Tried to get them to see the wrongness, the despicability of their actions. And when they laughed, I used my power to whirl them far away into the deep dungeons where only the dim light of anglerfish provides contrast from the blackness.
Of course, it would never have worked. I should have seen that back then. Forcing people to be kind through punishment is impossible. They just hide their cruelty, bury it in between the cracks in the coral reefs, hide it under the rotting shipwrecks, and conceal it in floating plastic.
And instead, I was called cruel. Harsh. Unreasonable. Enforcing laws no ruler had ever before.
My downfall was plotted and planned many times. I foiled it just as many and so I began to think that I was invincible. I continued to play god under the sea, killing more and more merpeople every year. Their cruelties seemed to grow bigger in my eyes and I repaid them back in full.
Eventually I was defeated. They tried to kill me. And when that did not work, they beached me, forced me out of the sea and cursed me so I could never touch it again, crushed me with the tailless form of something like a human — although I cannot quite pass as one. When they look at me, they see something just a little too different and fear me.
Now I live upon land. Not as an ordinary human, but the spirit who lives in the woods to frighten you. I have taken over a stream, killing the local nymph: now, although it looks ordinary, it is impossibly fast and deep. To set a foot in it is death. It has even gained a worldwide reputation for being the most deadly stream on earth. Life is not too bad, I suppose.
But sometimes, I dream about being ruler of the sea. Perhaps I should have not bothered with blocking the cruelty, and instead become the cruelest. Perhaps…
Viva La Vida — I used to rule the world / Seas would rise when I gave the word
They say that all villains have their comeuppance eventually.
I never thought I was the villain. When I was young, in fact, I was the one the villains attacked. (Well, the bullies. I don’t know if they were true villains, but I hated them more than anyone else in this world.) I was used to being dragged to the darkest depths of the ocean, left to find my way back by myself; being trapped in a deep-sea cave with some huge predator fish, having to find a way out without being killed; being trapped in old ship wreckage, often for days before someone would find me.
Merpeople are not kind. And their treatment of me — weaker than the rest — was no exception.
It all changed when I got my powers. Suddenly, I was important, was transported to the palace. The highest crystal tower shimmered so brightly when the sun struck it at noon that even basking in the reflected light was warm. I remember at first I was nervous, half-thinking it was another prank despite the fact that my bullies did not have the power to do this, before remembering that they could hardly have faked my powers.
The sea responded to me. All I had to do was ask, twitch a finger, and currents would change flow. Tiny waves would soar impossibly high, crashing back with a roar, which I could then quell. When I bent all my effort to it, the seas would even resist the pull of the moon and follow me instead.
Of course the palace wanted me. I could have been the most powerful tool in the oceans if only I had been willing to be just that. Perhaps if I had not already tired of being weak — and seeing others suffering for it — I could have ignored the everyday cruelties the monarchy and their emissaries handed out to the powerless. Perhaps. Perhaps I could have relaxed into being comfortably distanced from reality: living an enchanted dream life, occasionally being called out for battle, and with everything I wanted. But fate had other plans, and instead I tried to get them to change. Tried to get them to see the wrongness, the despicability of their actions. And when they laughed, I used my power to whirl them far away into the deep dungeons where only the dim light of anglerfish provides contrast from the blackness.
Of course, it would never have worked. I should have seen that back then. Forcing people to be kind through punishment is impossible. They just hide their cruelty, bury it in between the cracks in the coral reefs, hide it under the rotting shipwrecks, and conceal it in floating plastic.
And instead, I was called cruel. Harsh. Unreasonable. Enforcing laws no ruler had ever before.
My downfall was plotted and planned many times. I foiled it just as many and so I began to think that I was invincible. I continued to play god under the sea, killing more and more merpeople every year. Their cruelties seemed to grow bigger in my eyes and I repaid them back in full.
Eventually I was defeated. They tried to kill me. And when that did not work, they beached me, forced me out of the sea and cursed me so I could never touch it again, crushed me with the tailless form of something like a human — although I cannot quite pass as one. When they look at me, they see something just a little too different and fear me.
Now I live upon land. Not as an ordinary human, but the spirit who lives in the woods to frighten you. I have taken over a stream, killing the local nymph: now, although it looks ordinary, it is impossibly fast and deep. To set a foot in it is death. It has even gained a worldwide reputation for being the most deadly stream on earth. Life is not too bad, I suppose.
But sometimes, I dream about being ruler of the sea. Perhaps I should have not bothered with blocking the cruelty, and instead become the cruelest. Perhaps…
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC daily, 18th Nov, 800+ words:
Crossover: My OC Sparrow and Clary Fray from the Shadowhunters universe (Cassandra Clare)
Crossover: My OC Sparrow and Clary Fray from the Shadowhunters universe (Cassandra Clare)
Ten Reasons Why I Do Not Like Clary Fray
1. She has red hair. (I have always wanted to have red hair. But the one time I tried to make a potion dye for it… it made me look extremely ugly. Think uglier than a gargoyle — and with about the same greyish skin tone. I don't know how that happened, as my skin usually looks a sort of boiled-ham shade of pink in cold weather and it was the dead of winter at the time… but it did.)
2. She is likeable. So likeable, in fact, that I have decided just out of spite not to like her.
3. She can do amazing battle flip movements and lots of other similar things, like charging at a demon at killing it with a sword in under a minute. She says it's only because she was a Shadowhunter and was trained to do that sort of stuff and that she used to just be ordinary and not be able to until she was taught how — and that if I was also a trained Shadowhunter, I would be able to do them too — but I don't believe her. I would never be able to do a backflip. Even if I was as short as her.
4. She is short and everyone thinks it is pretty. Also, her boyfriend can pick her up and save her from falling and stuff. Which no one will ever be able to do for me because I am 5'9“ and I'm fairly sure I would end up squashing or at least denting whoever tried to catch me when I landed on them.
5. She is surrounded by hot people who are all dating each other and are cleverer than me. Her boyfriend, Jace, who is blond and has muscles, would be a jock if it was not for the fact that he thinks sarcasm is how you talk to people normally. Her parabatai (bonded fighting partner) and best friend, Simon, is cute and has messy brown hair, glasses, talks in nerd (in fact, just my type) — but he has a super-hot, goddess-equivalent girlfriend. Isabelle Lightwood. She wears high-heeled boots permanently and uses them to crush the skulls of her enemies when she's not killing them with a golden whip. She is scary. I am scared of going near her and scared of going near Simon because the last time I tried to talk to him she glared at me and I felt the urge to drink a shrinking potion and run for it. Or become a rat. (Apparently Simon did, once, though, so she would probably regard that as flirtation.)
6. She is constantly attacked by demons. Which are real in this world. And like to try to eat me because I am slow. I have been saved by Clary a total of seven times, Jace twice, and Simon-and-Isabelle working-as-a-(hot)-team once.
7. Clary insists on referring to me as a ”warlock“ and a ”Downworlder". She also says that my hair, which is grey in front, is my warlock's mark (???). I have tried to explain to her at least three times that it was the result of a potion accident when I was thirteen and I didn't dye it back because it was low-key fashionable to have grey hair at the time and then I got attached to it… but no.
8. Clary took me to a random flat, introduced me to Isabelle's brother as a British warlock, then left me when Magnus Bane appeared to cope with a huge crush. (Magnus Bane is the High Warlock of Brooklyn and he is so good-looking that I'd almost believe he only got the job for that… apart from the fact that his spells are legendary.) Actually, I'm happy I met Magnus… but I'm still annoyed that she left me to have to pull myself together in five seconds before he noticed something wrong.
9. Clary tried to get me to undergo sword-fighting lessons and I ended up stabbing myself in the foot. Jace laughed, Isabelle smirked, and Simon looked sympathetic but amused. It was the most embarrassing event in my entire life. I think I redeemed myself slightly by immediately healing it with my own potion as they looked less amused and more curious then… but still.
10. Clary wants me to show her how to make healing potions. But — and I don't mean this in a mean way — she has absolutely no talent for it. Shadowhunters aren't supposed to do magic and it shows. I'm nearly at my wits' end because she's planning to bring Jace, Simon, and Isabelle along tomorrow. Maybe I should just turn them all into rats and have done with it. (I feel like I might get beheaded afterwards, but it would be worth it just to see Jace squeaking in an indignant sort of way and to know I caused his anguish.)
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
3rd Weekly
3020 total words.
3020 total words.
Part 1: Write!
(Link to project) I got three sprites: a girl called Marion who I promptly renamed Isabel because I like the name better; a knight, who represents rebels; and a dragonfly, which means the dragonfly pendant.600+ words
Isabel had been planning to steal the dragonfly pendant for years. Although hardly any but herself knew of its existence, she reckoned that others would fall in with her if she knew. But she could not tell anyone, or her plan might be ruined…
The dragonfly necklace had been forged by faerie smiths years and years ago, when the world was young, as a gift to mortals. It had not been a dragonfly pendant then — just a pendant. It gave them the gift of becoming a faerie for as long as you wore the pendant again — if you wore the pendant for a day, then took it off, you would still be a faerie for another full day.
But when the mortals had started their huge, splintering civil war, the faeries had abandoned their plans for their gift. They had left it inside an ancient, ivy-hung ruin in the middle of a forest. For years, deer browsed around it, squirrels scampered over the roof tops, and birds nested in the old corners, with no one being any the wiser for it.
But then, somehow, a dragonfly had flown onto the pendant and rested on it for hours. When it flew away again, it was enchanted with far longer a life than a usual dragonfly, flying faster and skimming lower over water. It was noticed by people — some tried to catch it, other just stared — until it started to weaken. It started flying back into the wood, to the ancient ruins where the pendant lay. And a child, curious about and interested in the beautiful insect, followed it back.
The insect did not quite reach the pendant but dropped down dead at the door. However, the child decided to explore the old ruin while she was there… and discovered that the pendant lay shining in the middle of the floor, but it was now shaped like a dragonfly. Although the child had no idea what it was, she thought it was pretty and took it home.
Isabel had been that child. As soon as her mother saw the pendant, she had taken it to sell it to a merchant. Isabel had been praised for bringing in some extra money, and they had never thought they would hear of it again.
But then, rumours spread from the west that a rebel was raising an army. Not just any army: an army of men with wings, who did not age and flew fast as an arrow. They seemed to be controlled, as if by another mind. Oblivious to the warfare around them. Just a brainless killing machine, nearly impossible to defeat. And around each of their necks, they wore pendants in the shape of a dragonfly.
Touching them with cold iron or rowan wood made them disintegrate, shrink back into the humans they had already been. Only for a second or so — but in that second, you could grasp their pendants off. And they would remain human.
Isabel's mother had been the one to come up with the theory that the golden dragonfly pendant controlled them all. It had sparkled with magic, she said. She had not thought much of it — pendants often did — but sold it to the merchant. And somehow it had made its way into the hands of the rebel.
That “rebel” was now their king. He enforced rule with an iron (or perhaps golden) hand. The people had to obey his laws to the letter — work uncomplainingly, give up their young men to the dragonfly army willingly, and praise his name — or they would be hunted down by the terrifying dragonfly men.
Isabel was tired of it. Her brother had been taken a year ago, forced into the dragonfly army. She wanted him back.
Part 2: Cliches1. Average person ends up having special powers etc. a) it turns out it was a trick by the person with actual powers to take everyone's focus off themselves b) the special powers are simply the result of a disease spreading throughout the land, and they're one of the earliest to show symptoms
2. The Chosen One. a) actually, anyone can play their part… and they all find this out when the Chosen One dies and their best friend has to take their place without telling anyone b) the Chosen One decides they don't like being the Chosen One anymore and instead joins the villain's side in disguise
3. Enemies to lovers. a) one of the lovers was actually a spy and wasn't in love at all b) they weren't enemies at all in the first place and just decided to do it for the aesthetic
4. Damsel in distress. a) this damsel has explosives and grappling hooks b) damsel purposely put herself in distress because she wants to annoy the guy who'll save her
5. Orphaned protagonist. a) the protagonist's parents are so embarrassing that the protagonist tells all their friends that they're an orphan and live by themselves rather than admit they actually have parents b) the protagonist's biological parents decided to put them up for adoption so they live with a caring foster family instead
Inside my pocket, I clenched my fingers tighter as I approached the man at the desk.
“Good morning! What can I do for you?” He spoke in a polite customer service voice, a smile on his lips. Nothing to betray that there was anything… out of the usual… around here. For a moment, I nearly doubted myself.
“I was wondering,” I said hesitantly, "if maybe I could have a look at the, um, other menu?“ My fingers were beginning to go numb, so I stretched them out a little.
”The other menu,“ he repeated slowly. ”I don't believe we have an other menu on offer today.“ His tone had changed subtly, however.
”The other menu,“ I repeated. ”I was told by a different coworker a few days ago that there was an other menu. I would love to try it.“
His customer service expression still remained, but he stood up. ”Come through this way.“ A doorway behind the desk led into a small, stony passage. ”If you follow this for half a mile, someone will be waiting to guide you to, ah, the other place.“ He picked up an object from the desk — some sort of communication device — and began to speak rapidly into it in another language.
When I reached the end, a woman was waiting. ”You say you want to enter the Dark Lord's service?“ I was surprised she got to it so quickly, without preamble.
”Yes.“
”You swear to obey his orders in attempting to discover the identity of the so-called Chosen One?“ When I agreed, she held out a contract, which I signed. ”I will lead you to your assigned room."
As I walked to my new room — quite big compared to some of the places on offer — I couldn't help laughing a little to myself. It had been almost too easy to get in. I just hoped no one suspected that I was the Chosen One.
Part 3: Tropes and Stereotypes
I used the trope of the princess-unhappy-with-an-arranged-marriage, the running-away trope, the dark forest trope, subverted the damsel-in-distress stereotype, and used the wizard trope.409 words.
The princess clambered out of her window, hanging on to the ivy that stretched across the sun-warmed stone. Sunset stretched across the sky, pinks and oranges and blues mingling as the day died.
She had to get away before anyone could find her. Her wedding — to a prince from a far-away land, who she had barely met — was tomorrow. If she ran away now, to find the person she actually loved, she could marry them instead.
The palace gardens ran down to the forest. Its treetops rose dark and misty above the green grounds, providing a sinister reminder that not everyone had a happy ending. The people who fled into the forest hardly ever came out again. And the princess would become one more of them.
Shadows swirled over the gravel paths as the princess ran towards the forest. Dusk was falling, She vaulted over the stone wall that separated the edge of the gardens from the beginning of the woods just as the sun set.
Night was a dangerous time in the woods, and the princess was slightly frightened as she started to make her way down a small path. Strange creatures made sounds in the darkness; eyes glimmered from the gloom; and she felt a cold prickling feeling across her spine. She had to be there soon…
She gasped as something grabbed for her hands. A man, dressed in dark robes, and holding a staff. One of the wizards who lived in the forest. By legend, they were evil enemies of the palace. The princess should have been stiff with terror. But instead, she laughed.
“I made it!”
“You did.” The wizard pulled back his hood, smiling down at the princess. He kissed her on the cheek. “Mother's busy enchanting the wedding cake so it sings. I did try to stop her, but…”
“A singing wedding cake sounds charming,” said the princess. “I would love even a screaming wedding cake, as long as it was for our marriage.”
The wizard laughed. “Don't give my aunt ideas. I expect she'll try to hex something. She was very against the idea of us being together.”
“As long as she doesn't put a curse on us or our future offspring, I'm happy.” The princess wiggled her fingers, and golden sparks bloomed from the tips. “Or I can just curse her back pre-emptively.”
The wizard grinned and kissed her again, and together the happy couple made their way towards their wedding.
Part 4: Literary Devices1470 words
Isabel was silent and surefooted even in the dark. Soundlessly, she crept through the sleeping palace. Moonlight occasionally flooded through windows, revealing stone walls hung with tapestries or darkly glimmering suits of armour. Even in the dim light, she could see that symbols and motifs of dragonflies were everywhere: carved into the walls, woven into the tapestries, emblazoned onto the swords in the weapons room. She now understood why this place was called the Dragonfly Palace. Originally, she had thought it was just another name from their king: the Dragonfly Monarch, the Dragonfly Army, the Dragonfly Palace.
Her lips tightened as she thought of the pendant. She had to find it, to destroy it. She was sure it controlled all the other copies that were hung around the necks of those forced into the Dragonfly Army. If she could eliminate the original, perhaps the copies would lose their power, and the army would become what it once had been — ordinary men, who remembered their lives before they were turned into killing machines. She could get her brother back.
The only problem was that she was unsure where the pendant was kept. By the king's bedside, perhaps? Maybe he wore it all the time, and so, as he slept, she could kill him, then destroy it? Isabel had no qualms about killing the king; he had killed or taken too many of the people she loved for that. She forced away the thought of her mother's screaming and continued her silent prowl through the palace.
The rooms grew more luxurious as she made her way towards the centre. On the outskirts, there had been rough stone walls and floors, with only a few threadbare tapestries hung here and there. Now, rich carpets covered the floor and curtains hung by the windows; bookcases and pianos stood in several rooms she passed, painting equipment in others. The walls were smooth to the touch, gleaming in the light streaming through the wide, clear glass-filled windows.
Clearly, those who ruled the palace lived a good life. Better than those outside.
She slowed down as she heard voices coming from a corridor. Cautiously, she raised a hand and cast a small spell on herself to make herself invisible; it might not hide her from the king's eyes, if he was wearing the pendant, but it would conceal her from any other human. Feeling safer, she peered around the corner. Guards were standing in front of an ornately carved door illuminated by lanterns on either side, murmuring to each other. Light reflected off the dragonfly pendants around their necks.
Isabel didn't want to hurt them: they had probably had no choice in their job, instead forced to protect the king by the dragonflies around their necks. She was careful with her choice of spell. It knocked them out cold and they crumpled where they stood. They would not wake until the next day. She bent over them and found the key for the door, opening it quickly.
Inside the room lay a large bed, its curtains drawn closed. She made her way towards it, drawing her sword. Cold iron. Excellent for fighting — or killing — the pendant-wearers.
As she pulled back the curtains, the king awoke with a cry. Isabel put her sword to his throat. “Stay still,” she said as calmly and quietly as she could. “Don't make another sound.” He froze. Sensible. With her other hand, she summoned a ball of light and it flared out over his face.
Shock struck through her as she saw his features. A wide-eyed, twenty-something boy, no older than herself, was pressed back against the pillows. There was a pendant around his neck, true, but it shone silver, not the deep gold that Isabel remembered. To her complete surprise, there were no wings visible; although he was lying on his back, the wings were so large that they should have been trailing over the sides of the bed. Perhaps it was a different kind of pendant?
“Who are you?” Isabel demanded. When he did not respond, she pressed her sword tighter against his neck. A line of blood formed, starting to trickle downwards. “Answer me.”
“I—what are you doing—” He broke off as she cut deeper with the sword, blood now spilling quicker. “I'm… a prince. The middle one. Prince Luke.” He tried to say something else, but stopped.
Isabel found herself temporarily scrambling for what to do. She examined the prince, taking note of the thin sword-scar on the edge of his face, just where his dark hair brushed it; the way his eyes were roaming around the room, as if he was looking for a way out; and the similarities in his face to pictures she'd seen of his father's. They both shared the same dark, curling hair and curving nose, but where his father's skin was paler, Luke's was a medium brown tone, and his eyes were the same dark black as her own, rather than the monarch's much-vaunted blue eyes.
A prince could be a useful hostage. But he would make an even better ally — which perhaps she could ensure by removing the pendant from his throat.
She kept the sword steady as she reached out for it. He made a shocked protest as she yanked it over his head. “What—what in the…” His words died away as the pendant was removed. He continued to stare up at her.
“Do you remember anything?” Isabel was familiar with how the pendants usually worked. They made their victims forget all life from before they had put them on while they wore them. Once the pendants were removed, the newly freed tended to have a flashback to the minutes leading up to when they had been forced to wear them; this could be traumatic for some, although perhaps not for a prince. They had trouble remembering much from their time under the pendants for a couple of hours — hours which Isabel could ill afford to wait, but might be forced to — and when they did remember, they often had huge feelings of guilt and remorse to cope with as well as the realisation that a large portion of their life had been stolen from them.
However, this pendant had not been like others. And there did not seem much change in the prince in front of her, apart from a shocked intake of breath.
“Well?” she prompted again.
“I… my father will be furious,” were the first words he said. “I was told to wear that at all times—”
“Do you need to obey everything your father says to the letter?” enquired Isabel. “You do know he's a vicious and cruel tyrant who has enslaved half the population, right?”
The prince stared up at her, unblinking. Isabel was beginning to worry that his eyes had been damaged, somehow, when finally he blinked again. “Wait. Yes.” His eyes widened and he tried to sit up, ignoring the sword. “My brothers — we were going to do something about it, seize power from him—”
Isabel put two and two together. “I expect you said as much to him?”
“Yes. And then — and then…” he trailed off.
“And then,” Isabel continued for him, “he obviously put these pendants on you to make you obey him.” She held out the pendant she was still holding in her hand, letting him take it.
“Yes.” He nodded, then glanced down at the sword. “Um. Not to be rude, but… what exactly was going on here? My memory is still slightly hazy — I remember studying the pendants. Studying how to remove them. That was one of the side effects.”
Isabel knew it could all be a trick, so she kept her gaze firmly on him and her sword still tight against his throat as she said, “I broke into your room under the impression it was your father's. I plan to steal the pendant and destroy it.”
Luke's eyes met hers, tracing over her face as if looking for proof of a lie. When he did not seem to find it, he relaxed. “Our goals align, then. Perhaps you could let me up?”
Isabel removed the sword from his neck, stepping backwards. “Do you know where he keeps it?”
The prince's face creased and he massaged his temple. “I think he wears it at all times. He used to keep it in the treasury, but now… but after my brothers and I attempted to destroy it, he grew more cautious. Despite us being kept under the dragonfly pendants.” He hesitated a second and said, “If you want help, I can offer it.”
Isabel had always seen hers as being a solitary mission. And yet… someone who could lead her to her destination and stop intruders along the way would come in very useful. “I do.”
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Nov. 21, 2021 20:46:15)
- AnnaHannah
-
Scratcher
100+ posts
AnnaHannah's SWC Stuff (November 2021)
MC daily, 20th Nov, 322 words:
“So you do understand.” Cole smiled. “One plus two is seven, and seven plus two is five. Five plus two is nine, so nine plus seven must be…?”
“Eight!”
“Well done.” Cole pressed my hand with another warm smile; he didn't seem to have stopped smiling the first one, and the second one stretched over it in a sweaty layer. They lasted together for five seconds, straining in rictus, before the lower one exploded and reformed as a sulky pout. The pout wobbled slightly, as if he was about to cry, while the second warm smile strained to cover it. “It's not everyone who can master antilogicis, you know. When I was your age, I was the only one in the class who could misunderstand them… although I never did it as perfectly as you.” The upper smile twitched before hastily straightening again. “You're quite brilliant. Been thinking about the scholarship you were offered to Idiocy Towers?”
I shrugged before realising that was a bad idea, as my shoulders continued to bob up and down. “Not sure. What would your opinion on it be?”
Cole's eyebrows wriggled, changing into a shifty expression. He immediately covered them with another pair, widening his eyes. “Well. When I attended, the food compelled one to actually study… not an ideal situation for illogicality students. Idiocy Towers has been renowned for its bad food since the day it was opened and it got a Michelin 5 star…”
Cole didn't know I could see through his expressions, so I kept my tone light as I said, “I thought they turned the nose of your application up?”
Cole laughed. “Oh, you must be mixing it up with my application to Fool's Folly. They did turn the nose of my application up, there. It's always looked slightly bent, ever since. Poor thing.” He sighed. “Anyway, shall I get back to misinforming you? I am paying to do this, you know…”
“So you do understand.” Cole smiled. “One plus two is seven, and seven plus two is five. Five plus two is nine, so nine plus seven must be…?”
“Eight!”
“Well done.” Cole pressed my hand with another warm smile; he didn't seem to have stopped smiling the first one, and the second one stretched over it in a sweaty layer. They lasted together for five seconds, straining in rictus, before the lower one exploded and reformed as a sulky pout. The pout wobbled slightly, as if he was about to cry, while the second warm smile strained to cover it. “It's not everyone who can master antilogicis, you know. When I was your age, I was the only one in the class who could misunderstand them… although I never did it as perfectly as you.” The upper smile twitched before hastily straightening again. “You're quite brilliant. Been thinking about the scholarship you were offered to Idiocy Towers?”
I shrugged before realising that was a bad idea, as my shoulders continued to bob up and down. “Not sure. What would your opinion on it be?”
Cole's eyebrows wriggled, changing into a shifty expression. He immediately covered them with another pair, widening his eyes. “Well. When I attended, the food compelled one to actually study… not an ideal situation for illogicality students. Idiocy Towers has been renowned for its bad food since the day it was opened and it got a Michelin 5 star…”
Cole didn't know I could see through his expressions, so I kept my tone light as I said, “I thought they turned the nose of your application up?”
Cole laughed. “Oh, you must be mixing it up with my application to Fool's Folly. They did turn the nose of my application up, there. It's always looked slightly bent, ever since. Poor thing.” He sighed. “Anyway, shall I get back to misinforming you? I am paying to do this, you know…”
Last edited by AnnaHannah (Nov. 21, 2021 20:44:11)
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