~~~~~~~~intro~~~~~~~
Hello! I'm Coolgirl100- from the mythology cabin! This is where I'm going to put my writing!
~~~~~~~dailies~~~~~~~
1: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=11#post-6080490 (didn't count)
2: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=21#post-6083898
3: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=30#post-6087165
4: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/654424633/
5: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=35#post-6091766
6: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=41#post-6094972 (unfinished daily)
7: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=46#post-6097374 (not enough words apparently)
8: Unable to do it.
9: Inactive that day.
10:Take a personality test as your character would.
11: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=62#post-6109176
12: I think that was roleplay day.
13: Cabin Wars I think.
14: Unable to do it.
15: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=74#post-6119836
16: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=78#post-6122960
17: Unable to do it.
18: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=82#post-6128167
19: Three-word stories.
20: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=85#post-6132719
21: What time is tea time when tea time is time?
22: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=89#post-6138346
23: I took a break. ^^
24: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=98#post-6143987
25: Inactive that day.
26: Cabin Wars.
27: 200 points instead of 100 points for won word war.
28: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=106#post-6153781
29: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=108#post-6155851
30: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=110#post-6158966
31: I'll be inactive!!
~~~~~~~weeklies~~~~~~~
1: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=33#post-6089724 (unfinished)
2: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=66#post-6111905 (couldn't finish)
3: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=84#post-6131317 (unfinished)
4: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=103#post-6149016
~~~~~~~other stuff~~~~~~~
Word War 1: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=74#post-6119446 (lost)
Word War 2: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=85#post-6132890 (lost)
Word War 3: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=104#post-6151450 (lost)
Word War 4: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=106#post-6153714 (won)
Word War 5: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=108#post-6155874 (lost)

I'm exited for SWC to start

gh0stwriter wrote:

✦ My SWC Writing Log

━ intro ━

welcome to my SWC writing forum! I’m Peggy in the Real-Fi Academy, & here i’ll link my activities and stuff I do for this SWC session to keep it organized :)

note: there aren’t any links yet, since SWC hasn’t started yet

━ dailies ━
<link>

— weeklies —

<link>

— in-cabin activities —

<link>

— workshops —

<link>

— other —
<link>

REAL-FI ACADEMY FTW!

Hi there I was wondering how do you change the link name?

✦Millie’s SWC table of contents:

━ intro ━
Haiii. I’m Millie and I’m in Mystery Monastery this session!

— dailies —

March 1
March 2
March 3
March 4
March 5
March 6
March 7
March 8
March 9
March 10
March 11
March 12
March 13
March 14
March 15
March 16
March 17
March 18
March 19
March 20
March 21
March 22
March 23
March 24
March 25
March 26
March 27
March 28
March 29
March 30
March 31

— weeklies —
Weekly 1
Weekly 2 DUCK ANT MOUSE NUT I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED IT
Weekly 3
Weekly 4
Weekly 5

— word wars —

— other writing —

— writing competition—

Collab between Damsonblossom and Isauree

A Rulebreaker's Rainfall

Sam stepped out onto the rainy road really regretting they had forgotten to bring an umbrella. Annoyed, they pulled their hood up and tried not to get wet. They desperately tried to work out which was better, running or walking. Eventually, they decided to run so they could be in the warm and dry quicker. Running wasn’t their best thing, so they kept slowing down. They saw children carrying umbrellas and adults with umbrellas and wished they had remembered to bring one. Their mum told them in the morning to bring one, but they thought the weather would be fine so they decided not to bring one. Sam was so angry with the weather forecast! They had said it would not rain. Look what a state they were in now, because of their stupidity!
They started slowing down, but then quickly started back up. If they had to get home in this weather, they made up their mind it would be best to try and not get wet. They continued running through the pouring rain nearly drenched through to the bone. Even though they had put their hood on before, it wasn’t helping much anymore. They made up their mind never to trust the weather forecast again.
Sam's schoolbag bounced up and down behind their back, while their open pencil case and books were making even more of a mess of themselves. It was only when Sam reached the centre of town that they plucked up the courage to ask for a lift. They were fourteen, so they were old enough to get a lift by themselves, right? They know their parents wouldn’t agree with this, but they thought this would be better than getting pneumonia. Feeling very uneasy, they made their way over to the taxi rank in the town centre. There was only one taxi at the rank, but Sam had seen others around town earlier. Thursdays probably weren't usually the busiest for taxis, but the torrential rain seemed to have caused a surge in the number of people requiring a ride. The taxi was black and inside was a man smoking an enormous cigar. Sam considered waiting for another one, but waiting would require sitting in a café or getting soaked in the rain. If they were getting a taxi, it was now or never.
This was probably one of the scariest things they had ever done. Sam was known to overthink things sometimes, but they decided they couldn’t overthink now. Acting a lot bolder than they felt, she made sure they had their bag and walked over to the taxi waiting. “Umm, excuse me, how much would a ride to Fairy Road cost?” asked Sam. Their nerves began to skyrocket and they felt themselves shivering. “It’s a bit cold out here.”
“Three pounds fifty,” the taxi driver replied decidedly. “Just you?”
“Yeah, just me…”
“Aren’t you a bit young to be taking a taxi on your own kid? But hop on anyway.” Now Sam was slowly rethinking what they had done. Had this been the right idea? The thought piled up and… “Are you gonna get in, kid? I’m waiting for that dude,” the driver said, pointing at the smoking man, “but I can quickly drive you.”
“I’m coming,” replied Sam, cautiously opening the door and stepping inside the taxi.
“Where did you say you wanted to go?” the driver asked quickly.
“Fairy Road,” Sam replied, shutting the door behind them. There was no going back now.
After a few minutes, Sam noticed they were heading back in the direction of their school where they had come from.
“We’re going the wrong way!” Sam exclaimed in realisation. The driver said nothing.
“Hey. Stop! Please! Kidnapping is a crime!” Sam yelled. They fumbled in their pocket for their phone, but alas. Of course today was the one day when they forgot their phone. They started panicking. They could either try to open the door or scream loudly or attack the driver. They casually tried to open the door, but in vain! The driver had locked the door. Their only way out now, would be to attack the driver. They lunged forwards and grabbed the driver.
The car began to swerve from the road. It crashed off the street and onto the pavement.
“What are you doing?” came the driver’s yell. “We’re going to crash!” Frantically, Sam pressed down the button to open the window. The window slowly opened.
“Help!” they screamed at the top of their voice! Unfortunately, it was too late. The car crashed into one of the nearby shops, shattering all the glass in the window.
Sam lay startled on the ground, blood surrounding them. In hindsight, maybe it would have been better if they had just walked. “What. On. Earth. Were. You. Doing. Child?!!” The driver furiously yelled. “Now I’m in this mess”, he gestured towards the car, “Because of you!” He yelled, spitting out the last word.
Fortunately for both of them, the hospital just happened to be opposite them on the other side of the road: medics rushed out to help them. Sam was bruised, but he was not badly hurt. One of the medics was phoning the police. “We’ve had a car crash, a taxi with an adult and child crashed right outside Our Medics Hospital.”
“Are you ok?” the paramedic asked Sam. “Can you give me your parent's number so I can call them, please. Let me help you up”, she said. “Now, how are you feeling?”
“Not too great. I think I'm just recovering from the shock,” Sam replied.
“Ok. Can I just have your guardian's number please?”
“Ok,” Sam uncertainly said and began to dictate the number.
“Thanks! I’ll call them now”, the paramedic said with a reassuring smile. ‘Beeep. Beeep Beep’, the phone rang.
“Hello? Your child has been in a car incident outside Our Medics Hospital. Please could you come here as soon as possible to pick them up and take them home.” The medic put the the phone down. “Your mother’s coming, she’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Oh no. Could it not have been their father that came? Sam had to face their mother straight on, in ten minutes. They racked their brains for the best arguments he could come up with. Here they were, standing in the rain, once again. Rain, Sam decided, is not that bad after all.
They waited and worried. They would have to come up with a good reason why they decided to take the taxi. And that would be hard. Their parents had specifically told them a while back that they were not meant to take a taxi alone as they could be kidnapped.
Three minutes passed. Five minutes passed and then ten minutes. Their mum had still not arrived. It was fifteen minutes after the call when she finally showed up. However, unlike Sam’s expectations, she was all tears and no anger.
“Sam,” she gasped between sobs as she got out of her car. “I’m so glad you’re ok.”
“Mum… I’m so sorr…”, Sam said, trying to apologise.
“Stop. You know you did something wrong and I do too. But you’re safe now and that’s all that matters,” she said through choked sobs. Both mother and child were hugging each other and weeping in relief that Sam was ok and weeping to get rid of the worry they had.
Once she had filled out the forms required by the hospital, Sam’s mum was free to take them home.
Later that night, the rain began to pour again. This time, Sam was inside. Soon, Sam fell asleep. The next day, they woke up to a snow-covered town of pure white…

Fanfic entry

The Morse Code which Exposed Her
Murder Most Unladylike Fan Fic
Characters not in the book series:
-Ms.Wetherall - Games teacher
-Ms.Wickham - Head teacher


'Kitty, Beanie, Lavinia, Hazel. HURRY UP!', Daisy yelled. ‘How long does it take you to make your beds? We need to be first to games or Ms.Wetherall will punish me’. ‘Stop exaggeration, Daisy’, Hazel replied ‘If we leave in five minutes, we’ll still be early anyway'. ‘Thank you Hazel. I don’t care if I'm late. You know I don't care about games', Lavinia retorted. ‘Just shush and hurry up!’, Daisy impatiently responded
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few minutes later, the four girls entered the changing rooms after having been hurried by Daisy like there were on battlefront and had to be on time by the exact minute. Daisy running ahead as usual, Hazel, Kitty and Beanie walking at normal pace and Lavinia dragging herself along behind them.
'Because of you I'm now two minutes behind schedule. I thought I could rely on you to be quick', Daisy grumbled. ‘Daisy…Hazel…I can’t find my hockey stick and there is some sort of note in my locker where my hockey stick is meant to be', Beanie said. ‘Oh No! What’s going to happen now? Hazel, can you look at the note, please?' ‘Beanie, if you would like us to investigate, you must ask me before asking Hazel as I am the President. But all right, I’ll let you off this time. Give me the note, Beanie’, Daisy ordered. The note read:
‘I see you have found me Daisy. I would like to play a game with you. Solve this code and find the next clue: oday ouyay ikelay ethay ymgay upboardcay?’
‘It’s pig Latin for Do you like the gym cupboard?’, Hazel announced. ‘I knew that ages ago. Anyway, I think we have a case on our hands. Should we go to the gym cupboard or go to games?’, Daisy asked. ‘Let’s go to the cupboard and find this person’, Hazel answered. ‘Kitty, Beanie, Lavinia, you go to games and tell Ms.Wetherall that I have gone to the San with Hazel’, Daisy bossed around. ‘Why do we always have to continue with ordinary life and you get to follow the adventure?’, Kitty protested. ‘It is more suspicious if five of us run around school rather than if two of us run around school. Don’t you want us to find your hockey stick, Kitty?’, Daisy asked. ‘Well fine. If you must’, Kitty grumbled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The three girls trudged off to games while Hazel and Daisy ran to the gym cupboard. At the back, there was another note scribbled on a sheet of paper. It read:
So you found me? Did you enjoy it? Solve this code:
.. / … . . / - …. .- - / -.– — ..- / .– .- -. - / - — / -.- -. — .– / .– …. — / .. / .- – / .-. .- - …. . .-. / - …. . -. / ..-. .. -. -.. .. -. –. / -.- .. - - -.– .-..-. … / …. — -.-. -.- . -.– / … - .. -.-. -.- .-.-.- / .– . .-.. .-.. –..– / –. — / …. . .-. . / - — / ..-. .. -. -.. / – . —… / -… — — - / .-. — — – .-.-.- / -.. .- .. … -.– / – ..- … - / -.-. — – . / .- .-.. — -.
A few moments later, Hazel jumped up. ‘The morse code says: I see that you want to know who I am rather then finding Kitty’s hockey stick. Well, go here to find me: boot room. Daisy MUST come ALONE’. ‘Hazel, you go back to games and say that I am in the San. I will go on alone. I am not afraid as Heroins never die’. ‘Are you sure, Daisy. Who knows who or what is waiting for you.’, Hazel asked. ‘I WILL go alone, Hazel. Go back to games’, Daisy said. ‘Fine’, Hazel replied.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hazel walked back to games, while Daisy made her way to the boot room. She opened the door. ‘A..Amina?’, she stuttered. ‘Yes. It’s me. You may be wondering why I dragged you here. I wanted to get you into trouble. You have gotten Hazel, Kitty, all your friends, other students and me into trouble before. You do all of that and then get off without any trouble. My aim was to get you into trouble. I have succeeded!’, Amina explained. ‘Thank you for that, Amina. How are you going to get me into trouble?’, Daisy scornfully said. ‘Well, look behind you’, Amina replied. Daisy slowly turned around and was started by who she saw there. ‘Hello Daisy. I will put an end to your detecting for now. You were pretending to be in the San. And don’t blame Hazel. You always get other people in trouble, so you don’t get into trouble’, Ms.Wickham, the headmistress said. ‘Come with me Daisy’, Ms.Wickham dragged her out of the room. Daisy just managed to see Amina smirking before disappearing around the corner

edit: I'm just keeping my writing on a doc now, having a table of contents was kind of complicated ^^'

꧁ ✎ ❁ Riley's SWC Writing! ❁ ✎ ꧂

Hello! My name's Riley, they/them! I'm from hi-fi (historical fiction). I'm going to be posting my SWC writing for March 2022 here

✎

~ word goal ~

➵ idk anymore but hopefully I'll update/8000

✎

~ dailies ~

➵ march 1st: intro! ~ in-cabin daily
➵ march 2nd: inanimate object ~ in-cabin daily
➵ march 3rd: ice cream flavors!
➵ march 4th: character aesthetic
➵ march 5th: magical powers :0
➵ march 6th:
➵ march 7th:
…

✎

~ weeklies ~

➵ week 1
➵ week 2
…

✎

~ word war proofs ~

➵ word war with @-cityniqht :D AND IT WON
➵ word war with @Cherryblossom211 didnt win but thats ok

✎

~ writing comp entry ~

✎

~ other random writing ~

➵ writing

꧁ ✎ ❁ Thank you for reading my SWC writing! ❁ ✎ ꧂

—Riley <3 p.s. hi-fi for the win! >:)

╔════════════════════════════════════╗
꒰꒰Moss's March SWC Writing꒱꒱
╚════════════════════════════════════╝
Hi, this is where I plan to link all of my writing so I can find it more easily!
I'd love to hear what you think of my stories! Let me know on my profile if you want to critique anything ^^
╔════════════════════════════════════╗
꒰Dailies꒱
╚════════════════════════════════════╝
╰► March 1 (go to writing)
╰►March 2 (go to writing)
╰►March 3 (go to writing)
╰► March 4 (go to writing)
╰►March 5 (go to writing)
╰► March 6 (go to writing)
╰►March 7 (go to writing)
╰►March 8 (go to writing)
╰►March 9 (go to writing)
╰►March 10 (go to writing)
╰►March 11 (go to writing)
╰►March 12 (go to writing)
╰►March 13 (go to writing)
╰►March 14 (go to writing)
╰►March 15 (go to writing)
╰►March 16 (go to writing)
╰►March 17 (go to writing)
╰►March 18 (go to writing)
╰►March 19 (go to writing)
╰►March 20 (go to writing)
╰►March 21 (go to writing)
╰►March 22 (go to writing)
╰►March 23 (go to writing)
╰►March 24 (go to writing)
╰►March 25 (go to writing)
╰►March 26 (go to writing)
╰►March 27 (go to writing)
╰►March 28 (go to writing)
╰►March 29 (go to writing)
╰►March 30 (go to writing)
╰►March 31 (go to writing)
╔════════════════════════════════════╗
꒰Weeklies꒱
╚════════════════════════════════════╝
╰►Week 1 (go to writing)
╰►Week 2 (go to writing)
╰►Week 3 (go to writing)
╰►Week 4 (go to writing)
╰►Week 5 (go to writing)
╔════════════════════════════════════╗
꒰ Word Wars꒱
╚════════════════════════════════════╝
╰►
╔════════════════════════════════════╗
꒰Writing Competition꒱
╚════════════════════════════════════╝
╰►

Hi-Fi for the win!!!

❊ Goose's Writing Thread ‒ March 2022 ❊

Hello, I'm Goose :inserts some amazing emoji that totally sums up everything about me:

〈 Main Cabin Dailies 〉

⟶ March 1 (266 words); Hey! I'm Goose, a writer who has apparently had to introduce herself more than five times today only (school, you know how it is). I use the pronouns she/her and this is my third session of swc, which I am chaotically excited about, as I am within my rights to do (of course). Moving away from all formality, I use caps lock a lot when I'm hyped and I'm generally friendly, (at least, I hope I am, please don't let this be some sort of false reality) so please stop by to talk to me if you ever want someone to chat to about totally random things! I'm in the very fabulous non-fi this session and I am on a writing grind so hopefully I manage to complete my word goal for the month. Aside from my goals and stuff like that, my favourite genre right now is dystopian and I'm always looking for book suggestions so feel free to suggest something if you think I'd like it. I probably will, seeing as I basically have liked every book I've ever read (apart from that one book that I do not speak about and have no idea what it is called. But that one doesn't really count, in my opinion). This is turning into a rant with me trying to impress myself with additional information, but I am also engaged to a duck called Juno (platonically) who I write about a lot, and that is practically my personality summed up. I hope that this short passage can help you understand just how chaotic I am!

⟶ March 2 (604 words); I wait desperately everyday for my goal to be fulfilled. I want to be treasured as the best marker by my owner, who I constantly strive to impress. I wish to feel the glide of my thick tip against a whiteboard as often as possible. I adore the spotlight. I would love to create majestic loops and swirls only, not some scribble that nobody looks twice at. Unfortunately, I have a long way to go if I am to achieve my goal. For one thing, my owner is not the most pleasant soul when it comes to maintaining stationary. He discards us when running out only slightly, gets us lost in every crevice in the house, and writes so firmly in a scrawl that you can't help it but run out of ink. We don't know what happens to our discarded friends, but we do know to be wary and to not follow in their footsteps.

Once, when brought to school, I surveyed the other markers to see if they were treated similarly, and they all agreed without protest. That is, they all agreed bar a young marker who pettily told us that her owner ‘never ever gets rid of us. It’s a lil' horrifying when you're just rolling round and come across a pen-corpse, but I'm use to it now.' To this I listened earnestly, and once she had finished her miniature rant, I remarked about how organised her owner must be and the similarity to the tidiness of everyone else's desk, and she only nodded solemnly at that and admitted that it was not the cleanest of homes.

Speaking of school, I think I may be at my happiest when there. To socialise with equally intelligent peers, to see a fellow marker waltz across the board in such an elegant way; pure heaven for a marker such as myself. I can only wish to have such a position someday. Being the marker for a teacher means all eyes on you, being in the spotlight, the centre of attention: however you would like to phrase it. It is one of my goals on my bucket list, and one I suppose will not be completed for a long time, not unless my owner suddenly comes to terms with how wonderful I am.

I have tried leaving little notes for him. Once I wrote a limerick on why I was his best marker on his whiteboard, with a fancy embellishment around to prove my commitment, but when he came in he just groaned and rubbed my hard work out with his sleeve. He couldn't even bring himself to use the official whiteboard cleaner! This hurt my feelings more than I wanted it to, so the next day I got back at him by writing especially well and making sure that his scrawl was more presentable than usual. Upon first glance, this may not seem like a punishment, (and it isn't, I suppose, for the writer or the artist) but getting good marks on his exams is not something my owner adores and I am sure that he did amazingly on the exam that he was supposedly studying for. I'm not exactly certain what exam that was, as most of it seemed to be just ‘I will do work eventually’.

Anyway, I must stop writing now. My owner could be peering through the lock of the door and alarming my members of stationary sets, so I'll tuck this away in a corner somewhere and hope that someone sees it. Hopefully they will. I'd adore to become famous as a writer– another goal on my bucket list.

⟶ March 3 (770 words); Saltwater, Camomile, Orchid
Sitting hunched up on the hugely busy streets of her hometown was a girl, her face screwed up in pain. Every time that she moved, she winced, and this meant that it would take more than a while for her to get back home. Not that there was anywhere she really called ‘home’ anymore. Her apartment was less of a home and more of a pit that she had been dropped into involuntarily. It was a temporary establishment for her to reside in until her circumstances picked up. She didn't find the chances of that likely.

The girl let out a shout as a car whisked by, sending a deluge or water down over her bare head. The distinct flavour of salt on her tongue made her spit, the saliva mixing in with the rest of the dripping water off her clothes. She straightened up automatically, biting her lip to stop the pain from flooding over her. Her dog, Orchid, danced around her heels, headbutting her leg so often that eventually it faded into pain, too. “Stop.” She snapped at him, and he did stop the repeating attacks for a second, licking her wet shoes before darting away. The teenager cast an annoyed glance back at him, and his excited demeanour faded into a subdued expression. She noticed that the bounce in his step had gone with her disappointed stares, and that made her just a little guilty. But guilt didn't make everything better.

As she walked (limped would be a more technical term for it) she thought up as many ways as possible to seek revenge on the people that had inflicted such drastic pain upon her. She could become horrendously rich and buy a couple of hundred cars, like the one which had just passed, and splash in every puddle in the world to pay the driver back. She could get a million cats and feed them all of Orchid's favourite foods until he was fed up with it and willing to be a nice, obedient dog. And she could employ special scientists to design an even bigger instrument of torture for the people who had hurt her properly. These plans were only for her dog, who she liked despite his annoying happiness, and a stranger that she probably would never interact with again.

After she limped a stop forward, the girl heard manic barking from Orchid, who had apparently forgotten about her distaste already. She turned around with a misty glare to quieten him with a couple of words like, ‘you stupid dog, stop barking, it sounds absolutely terrible and you aren’t impressing anyone, especially not whatever idiotic mammal you're chasing this time,' but had to stop after ‘you stupid’ because Orchid actually had reason for such urgent barks. He was being cradled in a tall woman's arms, a woman with shortly cut hair and the distinct aura around her that she was not exactly the coolest person with insulting your own dog. The girl backed away, hands up, and remained silent.

She didn't think this woman knew anything about her, but it couldn't be any harm to be cautious, correct?

The blonde woman set down Orchid, who looked up at her for a second before scattering to take place behind his master. “Who're you?” The girl demanded, not caring too much about her manners at this particular point. All her limbs ached, her headache was pounding against her skull, and she had the distinct feeling that she was bleeding somewhere. But the woman did not seem to care too much about her physical ailments, and was whipping out a notepad, it seemed? Desperately confused, she and Orchid took a step forward, the dog pushing against her leg again. This time she ignored the pain in favour to scan the words that were being written down.

'I can't actually speak, but you seem hurt. Do you need some help? I could bring you home. I have a car.

“Who are you?” The teenager repeated, reaching down to rub Orchid's fur. He yelped with joy at this and bounced up to lick affectionately at her face, which meant that she simply had to push him away. She peered down at the paper again, watching as the words appeared in a scrawl.

I'm called Camomile. Who are you? Do you want to be brought home?

The girl chewed her lip again, staring deeply into this stranger's expression to look for concealed threat. There was none.

“I don't have a home.” She shrugged. “Not a real one, anyway.”

Been there, done that, buddy. was the regretful answer.

⟶ March 4 (no words); https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/654511635/

⟶ March 6 (540 words); partner was @-seiun!
He was going back to a place he'd hoped he would never see again. The man felt his fingers gripping his collar, and when he dropped them, they clenched at his shirt until it was just a mess of fabric and lines. He told himself firmly to inhale and exhale. That didn’t go well. He started panting audibly, collecting many concerned glances from strangers that passed by. Julian – for that was his name, given to him by the very people he was going to visit – stopped outside a seemingly normal park and tried to stop himself from panting.

The park did look normal, Julian saw. He had grown accustomed to strange happenings in that park, and with swaying willow trees and nothing much else apart from a few paths. For a second, the thought popped into his mind that this could be a different park, and he didn’t need to go visit after all. This made him stop panting, and suddenly he forced himself to walk through, his legs mechanically stomping down the path, alerting all wildlife hidden carefully in the trees.

His legs brought him to his destination without his directions. It was a log, a rather stumped one, with a slice cut out of it. With shaking fingers, he delved through his pockets to find the entry card he was looking for. It came in the form of a flute, carved with his initials, crafted in this very park. “Help.” He whispered to himself, before he pushed his dark locks of hair out of his eyes and pushing the flute into the slot.

Julian squatted next to the log, shielding it from the view of anyone else who might enquire about the flute, and waited as it retracted. The log swiveled around in a manner that made him think of a science-fiction novel, capturing the flute in its firm hold and keeping it safely underground. It left a gaping hole in the earth, a hole which contained a speaker.

The speaker was carefully toned to have the rustle of leaves in the background so that if it malfunctioned, nobody would suspect anything more than windy day. Someone spoke to Julian through the speaker, though, and that was what he was scared of.

“Hello, Julian,” came the metallic voice through the box, “It’s nice to see you back here. What happened to never returning? What happened to being rich and famous and good?” The last word was declared with a snicker. The man clenched his fists and suppressed a scowl from appearing on his face.

“I do intend to never return after this visit. But my flute was malfunctioning, so I was wondering whether I could still access home. Seems like you guys put in a few improvements since I was last here.”

“Well, just a couple. Wouldn’t you like to come in? Say hello to your family, your friends? You wouldn’t have to stay long.” A staircase appeared down the hole, just like he had assumed it would. All he needed to do was to lever himself into the hole and be greeted by his old acquaintances, get his flute back, and leave forever. Easy, right?

“Not easy.” The voice chuckled, as Julian clambered down to the staircase.

(commentary; both stories were about returning to a childhood home and obviously both were about having unpleasant memories of the places. Mine was more about it being haunted with ways that Julian had forced himself to get rid of, whereas Aria's was about losing family at the lighthouse, I believe the settings were obviously different as well, with one being a lighthouse and one being in a park. Both characters had tried to suppress the memories and hadn't wanted to return, but they were both forced to).

⟶ March 7 (496 words); I answered 1, 2, 5 and 6
1) My character's biggest fear is probably losing someone she loves. Seeing as she has ties with her father leaving for a couple of years and being left alone, suppressed, terrified, turning to her imagination for all guidance and communication, she doesn't want that to happen again. She possibly has separation anxiety and when away from someone that she trusts, she loses all rationality and lets herself zone into a mindless dream that everything will turn out alright, making it a hundred percent worse for herself if it doesn't. She often reminds herself that the person she has lost is fine, and that without them she is capable of living, although if she knows the person well it takes a long time for her to heal and doesn't put much effort into life. My character basically knows the side effects of her fear and she doesn't want those to be inflicted upon both her family and herself.

2) The thing that makes my character tick is most likely people underestimating the values of family or themselves. She was more or less brought up to take care of herself and finds it infuriating when others with so much potential waste it, or they moan about how useless their families are when she knows her own care deeply for each other, even if they don't care as much for her. My character tries not to be too annoyed about it to their faces, but if she has someone to rant about taking platonic relationships for granted, she will indeed rant to them about it for a long time.

5) I think my character would be very tempted to betray a friend in order to get approval, which is definitely her deepest desire. However, if she cares morally about her friend's approval, she would never betray them as in the end she would get approval she cares about anyway. If it was someone who she was friends with but she believes them to have malicious desires behind the friendship, she wouldn't hesitate to betray them for everyone else's approval, as it was more than likely that she was friends with them for approval in the first place. She does care a lot for her friendships though, so it really depends on the person.

6) My character would more than likely like pop music; probably whatever is most popular with her friends at the moment, as though she has strong views, she doesn't tend to waste breath on opinions she doesn't really care about expressing. She would also possibly have a few secret playlists of songs that she can relate to so she doesn't have to show anyone who may judge her for it– girl in red would probably be one of those artists. When regarding clothes, she'd wear a mixture of aesthetics she'd like and designer clothes that are popular to create her own specific styles– I think she'd probably wear a mixture of deep blues and creams normally.

⟶ March 8 (444 words); (unfinished piece)
A girl was standing there with arms akimbo. She glared at the screen, picked up a chair, and thrust it through it.

Through the screen. The chair was no longer a chair; a half-hearted shell of the antique it had once been. She reckoned that the screen was no longer boastfully interactive, either. It was flickering on and off, with a strange hissing sound coming from the rotor. That wasn’t what she had originally thought would happen, but you learn something new every day.

“Sorry!” Melanie apologised, swinging around with her hair fluttering down around her shoulders. She would have looked the picture of innocence if she hadn’t been grasping a chair leg and the ground around her covered with glass shards. “I just had to do that, you know.” At this she swung the leg over her shoulder and shook her hair out, letting it cascade down her back.

“This isn’t acceptable behaviour!” The teacher struggled to say, blinking hurriedly with nerves. Melanie stood there, feeling and looking kind of stupid, as a couple of kids passed by and chortled their surprise directly at her. “Give me your parents’ number, I need to contact them about this. They’ll need to pay.”

Melanie’s head raged as she summarized the interaction between her geography teacher and her parents. They most likely would deny her existence and leave her in trouble with the school. She’d pay the screen off, she swore. But not with the help of two adults who barely acknowledged that she lived in their house and had since she was born.

“Please don’t contact them.” She begged, letting the chair leg go and fall to the floor with a resounding crash. “Please, please. I’ll pay it off. I swear. Just don’t contact my parents, because they won’t want to pay for my multitude of mistakes.” The teenager felt tears well in her eyes, and she flicked them away roughly.

“Well, I don’t know. Certainly, you can pay for it, but they need to know what you did. You might need therapy, or something–”

The teacher was cut off by what seemed like Jennifer’s most softly spoken voice.
–
They’re gone, all of them.
But I’m still here, and that means that there’s a tree left.
I go to the far end of the orchard and I see it: the biggest one there is, towering over the others, a tire swing extended out over the sea. It has tiny pink blossoms, the ones that should have been everywhere else today.
I curl up on the tire swing and I wait, I wait, I wait, for someone to come get me and tell me the trees are okay.
–
It takes a while. A long while, actually. I stay curled up on the tire until my head spins from the gentle tugging and pulling of the wind. Every so often my eyes flutter open for reassurance that this tree has not shed its leaves for the black ones, and every time I am reassured with the sight of pink petals. It doesn't stop myself from worrying though. I worry until I hear the sound of footsteps and I open my eyes, jumping up, my legs kicking out wildly in the air before I fall to the ground. My eyes stray around the area, looking for the source of the noise; but it's just a dog. Not a human, not my mom, not my friends; just a stray dog that I have never seen before. My shoulders sag, and the dog obviously notices. There is a look on its face that makes me think that it is insulted.

“Sorry.” I whisper, trying to hold myself together. “I'm sorry for looking so disappointed, but it's just because I am.” Then, upon the realisation that this comforts neither of us, I hold my arms out half-heartedly. “Come here, lil' doggy, I need some comfort.”
The dog approached with wide eyes, and gently lay down beside me, resting its head on my knee as I scratch behind its scruff. I smile down at it with some sort of care and push the tire swing above us, watching the blossoms swirl in the wind. I don't just hope for them to remain a pretty pink, a wonderfully smelling source of delight; I plead for my life that they will. I don't know what happened to everyone else I know; in fact, I'm still in shock) but I do know that the best thing I can do is stay put, as if I am lost. I have to just hope that my tree will stay wonderfully alive and colourful and nothing will go wrong.

The dog lets out a bark, jumping to its feet, as the tire swing soars overhead. It leaps around savagely, snapping its jaws at it, before looking at me and grunting. Just as I outstretch my hand to entice it back into a hug, it begins barking even more madly, running a couple of steps away before coming back, lapping, zigzagging, making my head spin even more than the swing did. I get up and stagger after it. It barks, doubles back to lick my hand, and takes off into the forest of black leaves. I turn back to the tree, whisper a temporary goodbye, and follow it reluctantly.

Nothing could ever go wrong, right?

⟶ March 10 (612 words); The duck’s feathers quake as he thrashes through the pond, reeds entwining in his webbed feet, threatening to pull him under. He has to get away from his family. Frightened of imperfection, they are coming for him, coming for him to exile him or perhaps do even worse. There is no need for this, no need for this constant pain. He knows what they are doing, and he has already exiled himself. The duckling reaches down to clumsily snap the rods pulling him into the murky depths of his once-home, just as a horrendous, terrifying quacking rises only ripples away.

“He’s here! He’s here!” They cry, lunging towards him, aiming for his eyes. The reeds are not snapping, and they are coming. They are coming, they are coming—

The ugly duckling shields himself with his feathers as the onslaught barrages against himself. He can see the snarling faces of his siblings through the gaps as they rip past each feather, one by one, inflicting minute pain every time;

and the reeds break

just as he is about to fall.

He smiles to himself and plunged into the pond, away from the furious other ducklings. He can hear their furious cries of “Mother! Mother! He’s escaping! Escaping!” but at this point he doesn’t even care. All he cares about is exiling himself and escaping. Exile. It sounds brief but lovely to a broken duckling as he tries to swim away from his toxic family. His feathers don’t work as well anymore, and they flap in his face, making movement a hundred times more difficult. Droplets of water flick onto the nape of his neck as he sails away, finally reaching the surface. He gasps for air and lets the wind take him. He doesn’t mind where it takes him, as long as it is away, away from here and away from his family.

It is a long swim to his destination, but the duckling does not mind. He breathes in and out as he reaches the bank, and curls up, soaked through his feathers and exhausted. He wants to go to sleep. His breathing slows down to a solid pace as he drifts off to sleep.

While he is asleep, a child walks by. She sees to duck and smiles, hooking his beak with her finger and cradling him in her arms that way. It is not affectionately. The child smooths down his lopsided feathers and skips away to alert her mother of the finding. A small duckling to raise and keep for times of hunger.

The duckling wakes up in the kitchen of the little girl. Her mother’s figure is illuminated from lightning outside, streaks of it running down her side. The rolling of thunder jerks the duckling out of oblivion, and he crouches in the weak light, terrified. His eyes fall on a open window, and he waddles forward to it instantly. Cautiously, he tries to fly upwards with great beats of his wings, like he had seen his mother do so many times before. With broken wings and a weak heart, he cannot fly high enough to reach the window; he cannot fly at all. It alerts the woman, however, and she turns towards him, a menacing grin splitting across her face.

“Hello, little duck.” She coos, and the duckling scampers backwards until against the wall. He breathes in and out, his beak open, shivering heavily. “It’s cold in here, ain’t it? Let’s—“ her breath is scalding hot against his meek feathers, “make it warmer, shall we?”

The ugly duckling lets out a shaky quack and waddles forward, brushing his feathers in her face.

He cannot remember what happens next.

⟶ March 11 ( words); Photopunk;

'Hello! I'm a teenager who loves photography and art <3 I spend my time going on walks alone to find good pictures that I'm proud of. My favourite colours are rose pink and a soft crimson'

⟶ March 14 (314 words); Sunlight shines through the slits of the window. It makes me shift over, eyes fluttering open for a moment. Beside me lies the dread of my maths homework; circles. Pi, in particular. Despite learning about pi for so long, I have no idea what it even means. According to my teacher, it is the ‘ratio of the circumference to its diameter’. Something like that. I ignore my mind and yawn drowsily.

My mother pops her head around the door, tutting at my state. “Get up, child. You have school soon. Finished all your homework?” I mumble in reply, my face buried in my hands; thank goodness maths is not today but tomorrow, as I doubt I'll ever be able to finish this torture that comes in the form of homework.

I spend all day procrastinating. I play chess with my sibling, I go exercising after a long run, I have a pillow fight with myself, and somehow I lose; all these things are little distractions from my pi homework.

I cannot fight the temptation to do anything else. I yawn, roll over in bed the night before. I don't feel like another night of desperate cramming, so I force myself to sit down on my desk, take a big breath, and recite pi and how it is useful.

3.14. The first three digits of it. It goes on to be 3.14159265359. Pi is infinite. It goes on forever, just as this homework seems to be lasting for all eternity. Pi is used to find the area and circumference of a circle; I do not have the slightest idea how. Why would a long, everlasting number have anything to do with circles? I find myself lolling backwards in my chair, deeply miserable and definitely bored. If only maths was not so dull; I could figure out what ‘pi’ is and how to use it then.

⟶ March 15 (508 words); ‘cost me an arm and a leg’

“That will cost you an arm and a leg.” The shopkeeper remarks bluntly. He holds out a palm, broken fingernails curling in grime as I remove my arm from my socket and lay it on his hand. It weighs him down, of course, and I rub where my shoulder should be with a grimace, but he sets it down on the counter and holds his hand out again. I kneel down, my only hand rubbing against my boot as I remove it. Then, kicking it aside, I whisper tender, loving remarks to my heels and tear off my leg as well. A couple of tears flood my eyes.

They were good limbs. Very good limbs, indeed.

The shopkeeper is used to seeing such a display of weakness, and pats me on my back for a moment before he disappears behind the counter. I notice how he gathers up my limbs with such care; they are to be cherished and then used whenever he is buying something expensive. Shopkeepers have all the luck. Whatever they are paid, they keep, and probably they never have to part with their legs and arms.

I clutch my new notebook to my chest with my one arm, admiring its dark shade and golden trimmings along the side. It really is a fine specimen of a book, definitely worth my extremities. On the road, there are many people with the same situation as me; hopping along with one leg, grinning with one tooth, holding one arm up to an empty space; but there are equally as many smirking with their full batch of teeth and skipping along with all limbs securely in place. They are the rich ones. We are the poor.

I set down the notebook for a second to finger the change in my pocket, little pieces of my fingernails that I can save up to get a replacement arm and leg. A better version.

I know it takes a long time to grow back an arm and a leg, and I simply can't wait that long.

I limp along, sending nods towards my friends that I've known for years. Most of them are in the same situation as me, but a few lucky ones have all arms and legs intact and wave at me cheerfully with both arms and kick into the street with both legs, one at a time. I don't appreciate such mocking, but I nod, smile, and make a clapping gesture against my stomach. They smile back. We all smile here; we smile and ignore our gaping wounds. That makes it better.

“That'll cost you an arm and a leg!” I hear someone call out from their shop, and when I peer through the window, I see the two talking; a shopkeeper and a poor child who only wants a chocolate bar.

“An arm and a leg! An arm and a leg!” chime in the rest of my city, and in that, the rest of my life joins in the cry.

⟶ March 16 (604 words); Knee Deep at ATP! I may have translated it a couple too many times pfft-
Every word I do starts with an oval and ends with an oval

His eight fingers now weigh one pound.

And this is according to the curriculum

Feel how your heart is beating.

then it can be a winter coat

Summer may not be the best place to keep secrets.

Quality is the theme, but I found it

This is T Records K Records, hold hands

I know he took me to the beach

I know it's for me

Every time you get out of the sandbox

when we meet views

I read, “You are in Group B.”

“It’s not what they want, but what they want,” he said.

Of course I need another chance

"It doesn't matter what you look like.”

Of course I need another chance

He traced an oval through the dust. His finger accumulated the excess, but he did not mind; instead, he traced another and another, over and over, until the desk was covered with ovals upon ovals. “Oval.” He whispered to himself, absentmindedly, “This is ovular.”

Jars of all sorts cluttered the table around him. They shone with strange omission, sending pale light flooding on his face. Some were filled with strange peculiarities, others with nothing out of the ordinary. His heart palpitated as he looked firmly at the ovals, tracing over them again. They were clear, now, and his finger has more dirt on it. It didn’t particularly matter.

School. He thought of, for no reason in particular. He thought of people laughing and being known as smart and generous. To be known positively was not something that he was used to. School. He missed school. He yearned for learning and interaction. He wished for petty secrets that nobody truly cared about.

He ran his hands over the lining of his coat. It was furred, made by himself, with rough stitches running up and down the hem. It was not particularly pretty, but it was warm. His handmade coat was a generous shield against the rest of the world. Even in midsummer (like it was now, he was fairly sure) he was fitted in the same coat. It meant that there was never any secrets hidden around in jars or tucked into corners; he carried them all in his shoulders, in his coat.

The thought of school brought the thought of childhood. The man sighed— a life of outcast had done no good to him. He often thought up pictures of holidays in his mind. His brain supplied him with thoughts of him climbing out of a sandbox in the local park, greeting his childhood friends with cries of ‘I’ve missed you!’ and ‘Be back soon, okay?’

His mind then skipped over a few unimportant details that would make him sink into grief, and into the time where all he had to make was one choice.

“Group A or Group B?” The scientist calls, propping up her spectacles. One leads to inevitable fame and glory, other to friendship and life. “Group A? Group B?” The scientist calls, and he already knows what to reply.

The wrong choice.

He recoiled from the desk. The man surrendered, hands up, his furry coat falling down like drapery below his hands. They were rough and calloused. They were hands that knew of fame and had lost it, hands which had touched upon life’s desires and let it fall through his fingers.

It’s not what you want, it’s what they want, it’s not want you want, it’s what they want, it’s not what you want because you want fame, it’s what they want, they want, it’s not what you want, it’s what they want —

He looked a broken man, he knew that. Sitting in an underground base that only he had seen in twenty years, there was no way to describe him as put-together, complete. He had a winter coat on in the depths of summer and was scared of his own memories.


It’s not what you want, it’s what they want, it’s not what they want anymore, it’s what they want, it’s what they want, it’s what they want, no second changes when it’s not what you want but what they want —


“Let me relive it.” He whispered, staring at the ovals. “I will make the right choice this time. Please. Give me another chance.”


It’s not what he wants, but he already knows what to reply.

⟶ March 18 (601 words); The Time Quintet
The blonde man smiles and crouches down beside the snake, which is curling along the wall with no real threat. “Hello, Louise the Larger.” He laughs softly, reaching his hand out to stroke her. Her cold scales feel strange against his pale skin, but he does not retract it until she disappears in the hole in the wall, leaving him alone. “Goodbye, Louise!” He calls after her departing form, then he stops crouching and straightens up. “You know where I'm going, don't you? Please tell me that I'll be back.” The man utters the last part with a whisper.

He makes his way back through the twin's vegetable patch, stepping carefully through the buds before he steps back inside the house. His neck bare of any scarf, his head bare of a hat, he is greeted by a rushing of warmth and familiarity as he walks into the kitchen. Charles Wallace finds himself among his family; his mother, standing beside the stove, cooking up some delicious remedy for them to eat as a final goodbye, his father, who managed to escape his duties for work and instead is reclining on a comfortable, well-worn arm chair, reading aloud an extract from a book on theories to do with space, the twins, bouncing a ball between them, crouched in front of a fire, Meg and her fiancé, Calvin, sitting at the kitchen table and listening to the radio, Meg's head on Calvin's shoulder, the image of pure love. He takes his own place next to his father, rubbing his chin against his leg in a childish gesture that he never got to enjoy truly as a child.

“Tell us again about your job.” Dennys leans back, his blonde hair even paler against the oak-wood floor. Sandy follows the gesture, their unbelievable likeness fooling even Charles Wallace for a second. He glances over at Meg and Calvin and can tell from the flash in her eyes that she is a mixture of nostalgic and horrified. He does not want her to be either.

“Well, it's extremely secret and I cannot talk about it. But I'll be back soon, on holiday, maybe.” He explains, and his brother's share exasperated looks. Still, nothing makes their father's tribute to his leaving less special, which is a ruffle of his hair and the whisper in his ear that “I am proud of you, my son.”

Charles Wallace will miss his father, who he has gotten to know through alikeness, just as the twins have gotten to know each other through being together since they were born. He will miss the twins, too. They, in their calm, ordinary manner, instil some faith in him that they are a calm, ordinary family, in a way. He knows how much he will miss his mother; he can feel the aching in his chest where his love for her already resides. But he will miss his sister, Meg, the most.

Meg is the one that has been with him through everything. She is the one who he can read like a book, a familiar one, too, that has been passed down for centuries and can be read with all senses, rather than just sight. Meg is all that and more. She is his comfort, and he will miss her because they have never been separate before. Not like the twins, who have been associated with each other and have been in the same bunk beds since childhood; Meg is more like a sense that has always been there, and Charles Wallace has the feeling that he will be losing that sense shortly.

⟶ March 20 (670 words); You can't stop yourself from marvelling at how amazing the decoration is. Exhibits are dotted all around all around the first floor, ranging from aged trophies carved with ‘Non-Fi For The Win’ to framed scrolls of previous writing competition winners. Stormi, Jia, Ollie and Maia all lead you over to the centre exhibit, where there is an engraved statement in the glass. You stare up at it, trying to make sense of the foreign language that it is written in. Stormi points up at it as you tip your head in question, telling you swiftly, “It means ‘we hate autocorrect in this cabin’. Don't question it.”

You laugh, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, I agree. Not questioning it, don't worry.” You raise your hands in surrender, smiling round at the four faces.

“Anyway, moving on from that– would you like a tour?” Ollie questions with a large smile. “There are four floors apart from this one. This is the main floor, you see!”

You nod, glancing around at all the separate stairways climbing steadily up the museum. “Where do we go first?”

“To the rules. Our guidelines, if you will.” Jia decides, instantly strolling towards a large framed picture, which has more than a couple of lines typed onto it.

All four of them take turns to explain the rules, emphasising on each element of the rules; to put sleep and real life in front of SWC, to be a dedicated, kind camper, to clarify anything that could possibly need clarifying as to stop statements being misinterpreted and feelings from being hurt. All pretty basic rules, but you note them down mentally just to make certain you follow them.

Then, as you finish memorising the guidelines, you follow the leaders to the second floor, where Maia proudly proclaims that this floor is the Archives. The room seems to be quite empty, apart from a single lightbulb and stacks upon stacks of bookshelves.

Upstairs is Stormi's floor, called ‘The Stacks’, where she quickly explains the basic expectations of someone who is sorted into Non-Fi, specially known as the best cabin.

The third floor contains fossils upon fossils, which are known to be quite ancient and have much sentimentality pinned upon them. Ollie talks a little about the Artefacts, Non-Fi's currency, and how you can trade them in to help solve a particular mystery that Non-Fi has been struggling with for a while. You smile and nod along, trying to pin it all down in your brain.

The last floor of Non-Fi is Jia's Gallery, which contains many beautiful pictures crammed together where there wasn't space on the primary floor. She has a short speech for you about the other things you can use artefacts for, such as a painting of yourself or for gambIing, and these things let you tip your head and consider the options greatly. You simply cannot wait to start writing – your fingers are already itching at the thought, which is a sign of a great session.

Finally, Stormi, Jia, Ollie and Maia collect together at the very edge of Non-Fi, which has a large window overlooking the rest of the cabins. They point out Non-Fi's siblings (Fan-Fi and Sci-Fi) and then to the allies, which are more numerous than the siblings. Neutrals and Friendly Neutrals are pointed out with a few gestures, and finally they conclude with enemies, which all have nicknames that you laugh at. The main cabin, the biggest of them all, is in the centre of camp, looking down on everyone else, and it is the building that all the most important events of SWC will be documented in. You lean out the open window to get a closer view, before being pulled back.

The last stop of the tour is simply the Non-Fi canteen, which consists of many bean bags, computers and cupboards filled with cookies, which you pounce upon with delight. You claim a spot near a window and settle down, scanning the computer and clicking open a new tab; and start writing.

⟶ March 22 (366 words); The forest looked empty, he reckoned. He thought that perhaps it was. There was no sounds emerging, no sweet call of a bird in its nest or a bee buzzing from its hive. For once, the forest was empty and quiet.

This he in question was a nature examiner, someone employed to check the native species and see if they were thriving. This particular man had no longing to spend more time in a dark forest than he had to; so cautiously, he took down his first note ('outside perimeters quiet, unusual') and tiptoed inside.

At once he was confronted with hanging vines in his face, with little ladybugs crawling all over them. He swatted at them manually before he realised that they were home to wildlife, and he took that down in his notebook, too ('insect kingdom normal and large'). The examiner clutched his notebook to his chest, ducked around the vines and spun around upon hearing a noise.

“Ha!” He sang, looking down at a little burrow that had appeared in front of him. “Look-ie what I found, ha,” the man let out a piercing whistle that probably scared the wildlife, but it didn't deter the creatures coming up behind him –

While taking down a note about the location of the burrow, ('mysterious burrow?') he checked over his shoulder and found himself goggling at a shadow. A large one, a creeping one. The shadow had long ears and impressive wings, beating its way towards him. It was coming towards him.

He began scribbling in his notes, ('strange creature approaching!') in order to document his what-seemed-inevitable demise. Meanwhile, the shadow got closer, until it was just a peculiar shaped and coloured rabbit loping out into the open. With wings.

The examiner turned back and stared. Stared for a lot longer than necessary. The rabbmoth stared back, having nothing else to do. Then it flew.

It was not graceful flight. The rabbmoth fluttered, fell, fluttered a little higher, kicked out its paws, and dove again. Nevertheless, it was flight, and the man was documenting it quickly as it happened, not only with his notes but with a video camera.

The rabbmoth squeaked as the nation cooed.

⟶ March 23 (463 words);
For a start, this is a wonderful piece! I adore your descriptions and how you slowly eased the writing from being a slowly paced, thoughtful story to being something more urgent and more mysterious. I always love these sort of stories, to be honest. Anyway, I just have a couple things to point out (though really these aren't too important, just some small points). The first thing that you could possibly improve on is the clarity in which Elina is described – she describes her old self as ‘the old kind woman that she used to be’, as well as ‘the sour young woman she had been’.
These both seemed to point to her past self, but in the first sentence she seems to be longing for her former, kind self, whereas in the second she seems to dislike her characteristics? I can't tell whether this was intentional with the storyline/inner conflict or this was just a mistake, so perhaps you could try to develop these parts in future stories to make it clearer?
Elina is a wonderful character, and her feelings are just as raw and emotional as any normal person would be (which is a hard thing to develop in writing, so congratulations on that), but the last part of the piece seems slightly conflicted with the rest of the passage – was this just because she finally had come in touch with her true self, or was the rest just a facade to prove to herself that she wasn't a bad person? I love how she relies on the phrase ‘happiness is in the present’, especially because it seems to maximise the ending to its best, where she is swallowed up because of the past, even though her happiness relied in the present.
The last point I have is about the description, and this is really just a filler point as it isn't too important. Elina comes upon a lake in the middle of your writing which she didn't seem to notice beforehand; a lake is something that character's eyes are particularly drawn to, especially in a wide, open area, so it seems more realistic that rather than simply finding herself at the lake, she should assess that the lake is present and direct herself towards it, which frees up a little room for more description in your writing. As I've mentioned before, the description is really lovely, though, so don't take this too seriously if you think the way you've put it is just fine (which it is).
Those are really the only things I need to point out, aside from a few spelling mistakes, pacing errors and such that I don't particularly need to elaborate on; well done for this amazing piece and thanks for letting me critique it!

⟶ March 24 (234 words);
“I'm going to fall,”
“She lied about liking ice-cream.”
“It's her least favourite food!”
“I'm going down, I'm going down, help!”
“I need to buy something quickly.”
“I hate you, I hate you.”
“You're driving me over the edge!”
“Go back and back, over and over,”
“Get them with my fists.”
“I will continue my travelling.”
“My favourite flavour is blueberry, what about yours?”
“You annoy me greatly.”
“Are you proud of me?”
“I hate me, I hate myself,”
“That was called the real game. Play again?”
“This is idiotic.”
“Take two, come along–”
“Who's here? Role call, everyone,”
“Just go like, this, see!”
“Quiet! Silence! Be silent, friend, or you'll know what happens,”
“No.”
“I just need an axe, one axe, I swear.”
“I took out the other team, sent them bawling off the pitch.”
“See, I can do it, just as well as you.”
“Stupid.”
“Imagine being as good as me.”
“Stop. I know it's hard, and it is, really, but can't you just relax? No need to do anything drastic.”
“The thing is that I really just don't know what to say.”
“I hate you as well, by the way.”
“You're sweet. In a toddler-begging-for-new-toys-sort of way. Nonetheless, still sweet.”
“I can't believe they'd say that!”
“Everyone in a line, we don't have all day.”
“Elizabeth?”
“They're not answering.”
“That's not a good score, is it, buddy?”
“You could do better.”

⟶ March 28 (814 words); November 8th

Cookies are not something to be hoarded. When I tried, my parents condemned me for severe eating problems and confiscated my entire stash. I still had access to the chocolate chip kind; from the school cafeteria and from my friends, which I stuck in my lunchbox and hid underneath my bed, not to eat but to admire, but the rest of the cookies were confiscated and hidden for my parents to snack on when hungry. I was offended. I did not want to scoff the cookies, to appreciate their delicious flavours and their toppings (though in reality I would have adored to do that) I was using the cookies as a collection to boast about. I had a lot of friends who had their various collections; toy cars, sticks, interestingly shaped rocks – but I was the only one who thought of crystallizing something well-appreciated for all time. Well, I failed. My parents let me know of that.

I was younger then, less young and definitely less sensible, so now I have figured out something better to collect. Something one of a kind, something wondrous, amazing, miraculous, something all my friends will marvel at and enjoy. I am going to collect memories.

Memories, you may think, head tipped. Memories? Yes, you are correct; memories are my new collection, and I am starting right now, just by starting this diary. This will be the first memory of ky collection. When people all over the world think of my name, they will associate it with this diary, and we will rise up to stardom in everyone else's memories, too. See? This collection is nothing more than a jump to popularity.

November 9th

Today was interesting. Not incredible interesting, where people were sacrificing their mental health to become my friends and become famous, permanently engraved in my new collection of memories; no. Today was interesting because I lost a friend.

I told him about my newest collection, which was a large mistake at the start. He snickered and told my bluntly that he could collect more memories than me any day; which I promptly answered back that I'd like to see him try. Maybe that was a little problematic of me, as he stuck out his hand, shook mine viciously and told me that he'd add more memories than me and he was starting right that moment. I laughed over his head and continued my pursue, documenting the people who I talked to and who were nice to me, subtly skipping over those I dislike.

I saw him talking to someone who I was about to go over to, laughing and chuckling at their pathetic jokes. I was going to do that. I was going to give them both this once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity and let them leave eternally in memory. Well. They aren't allowed to do that now, those people that he is buying onto his side; they are against me now, and I am purposefully marking out their names and avoiding direct contact.

I can be brave, too.

November 23rd

This race has not stopped. My notebook was absolutely full today, filled with people I needed to check up on and talk to until I was certainly part of their world and they were definitely part of mine. I saw him doing the same, across the courtyard, and he had not caught on that it was more urgent, as he was messing about with a crowd of his old friends, caring too much for a singular, rowdy bunch. Meanwhile, I talked to twenty-five people at break, discovered a group of intelligent people who told me that my goal was definitely possible, and spent all night last night writing up my notes.

After school, I went to the stationary store in the mall to supply myself with another notebook, and I saw a huge lavender one, all set with pencils and pens to come with it and a speckled pattern on the spine. I fell in love. I snatched it, bought it and hugged it, all the while thinking to myself how superior I was now.

This new notebook will be my road to victory, I assure you.

December 1st

My mind is full to the bursting. Who knew that being this social would be a curse? I've been setting time away for myself and schoolwork, but most of my life seems to be spent in endless groupchats and sassy remarks now. My friends are a revolving, interchanging circle, and today I saw him at break. I strolled over innocently, and he only shook his head, half-laughing, and told me that he had more memories as of yet. I shook my head as well (and shook him on his shoulders) and departed. I had life to catch up on. We didn't set a date to compare, but I know the day will come eventually.

⟶ March 29 (445 words); My characters most likely bounce around gleefully when I'm not there, watching over them and writing about them like some kind of empress. I imagine them in numerous scenarios so I can't really pin them down into one setting and make them stay there while I'm not writing; I can totally conjure up an image of a couple of my protagonists leaping off on amazing journeys the second I turn my back. But, if I was to try and make a setting where they relax after I write about them and they do what I tell them to (the power of writing, I think), I would think it would be a cave behind a waterfall.

For one thing, imagine how cool this would be. I'd imagine it being a beautiful, pristine, shimmery sheet of water on the outside, and the inside it is an only-slightly-damp home. They'd have beanbags and swivel chairs all over the place, with all different sentiments of their past and present; an easel, a bookcase full of well-beloved books and diaries, a desk for procrastinated upon work (and for displaying the stories they are in, of course). The walls would be half-stone, half-stone brick, and they'd be covered in gorgeous moss and flowers as well.

If this is not the picture of delight, I don't know what is. Another thing that they would use it for would be a hiding place; as, let's face it, I am not exactly the most pleasant person in the world and force them into a lot of uncomfortable situations. My characters want somewhere safe where they can relax and feel comfortable, not somewhere in some mythical city where they could be betrayed at any moment.

This waterfall-room would also be in a mixture of their favourite colours. They could have pride flags on one wall, along with posters and paintings that they have created– maybe even a tapestry, if one of the artistic ones got around to it– and the rest would be a wondrous mixture of all their favourites. Purple, black, white, teal, crimson, gold; all of these mixed together in a way that it isn't just a glaring palette, but a work of art.

And if I ever start writing about them while they are catching up on their rest, it would be a perfectly easy method of transport to get to their original world; they could have some sort of fantasy portal at the back, around a corner so it isn't in the forefront of the room, which brings them instantly back where they should've been in the first place. This way, they can juggle relaxation and work without too much hassle.

〈 In-cabin Dailies 〉

⟶ March 1 (204 words); A highly exhausted camper is sitting curled up in a chair, her sleeves pulled over her face in an entirely drowsy pose. When she notices that she is supposed to be introducing herself, she manages to pull herself up straighter and smiles as un-intimidatingly (is that a word? I don't think that's a word) as possible. “Hey! I'm Goose. I use pronouns–” She glances down at herself, stops mid-sentence, then promptly begins again while twining her hair into a decidedly untidy plait. “I use she/her pronouns, and I like writing and reading a lot. Obviously. I want to do my best for this incredible cabin this session, and I'm probably going to be talking in non-fi a lot so this is a disclaimer for that.” At this, Goose does thumbs-up in the general direction of the person she is speaking to.

“This feels like an interview.” She remarks, before finishing her impromptu introduction with a couple of words. “I hope I manage to talk to everyone in non-fi this session, and see you later!” As soon as this statement is finished, she huddles back into her drowsy position, pulling her knees up to her chest and basically just hiding until the person leaves.

⟶ March 2 (393 words); can't actually share it because it has spoilers oops

⟶ March 3 (229 words); Sun shone down softly. The beams, the rays, hit the rocks fiercely. So fiercely, in fact, that the rocks began to split apart. Big chunks of sedimentary rock began to tumble down the landscape, hitting every obstacle head-on. They crumbled into fine ash, sending clouds of the smoke writhing and wriggling through the sky. The rest of the rock scattered along the rest of the sea, amongst the greenery and foliage, the dandelions swaying side to side with the tremors and shaking before falling to their unfortunate demise. This cycle continued until Sun could awake, stretching, yawning, moving for the first time in centuries. Sun was just a helpless, young individual that had fallen asleep so long ago, and now they could move! Moving was a pleasure. Moving was the deepest pleasure that they had had in a long, long while, and they decided to move as much as possible. Getting up proved to be a struggle, but they pursued the challenge until at last they were on shaky feet and could stumble from their little cave of boulders which they had known as home for a long while, to a world that was unfamiliar. And possibly unfriendly. But Sun was looking forward to all of those incredibly dangerous endeavours so much already. After all, it could only be more exciting that sleeping curled up for their entire life.

〈 Weeklies 〉

⟶ Weekly 1 (2584 words);
Poetry – 312 words

Sense – Haiku

The scent of incense

Settles itself around my

Senses and remains



Writer’s Block – Free Verse

Writing is

A pen gliding softly against a page

Words appearing as if magic

Not good enough, try again

Try a hundred times and still not be perfect

Or try once and get what you were aiming for

Asking people for help

Being worried about not being good enough

Or being content for moments

A lack of motivation

A lack of ingenuity, originality

Characters who are so happy together

Do you need to have a more exciting life

To emphasise the ones you want

Your characters to possess?

Writing is

Putting a pen to a page

But no words come out



Bouncing – Limerick

The active child leaps into the air

She hovers, fingers outstretching

Flying for a moment

Then suddenly plummeting

To the safety of the trampoline



Ducks – Acrostic

Doing what they please

Underwater, overwater

Calling out to fellow ducks in quacks

Keen to snatch all bread

Sailing across a smooth pond



Knights – Ballad

A heavily clothed knight

With a visor pulled over his face

Dashes forward, head held high

Moving with practiced pace

The knight swings a mighty sword

A dagger aloft in pocket

His iron shoes clank in the dusk

A picture adorned in his locket

The warrior raises a hefty crowd

To look upon him with pride

He does not startle, but hesitates

“Hello,” He sighed

The people push around with shouts

They demand of him many things

But the knight does nothing but sit

And then rides off as he sings

The knight sings a lofty tale

That tells of his adventures

His armour bumps against his steed

As he embarks on another venture

The knight does not stop riding

Until the dusk is dawn

Then he carols once again

And the birds all sing along

Essays – 509 words

Bears and lions are both commonly known as strong, intelligent animals by all animal-lovers. However, you may wonder which would win in a fight. When considering all different aspects of the animals and their lifestyles, it is easy enough to deduct which would succeed in upping the other in a battle.

When considering pure weight and height, bears instantly gain the advantage. Bears are heavier and taller than lions; the maximum weight of a bear is 990 lbs / 450 kilograms, and bears also fight on two paws rather than four, giving them the height if they were to battle against a lion.
However, when it comes to speed, lions can outpace a bear. They can run in short bursts of up to 50 mph / 80 kph and apart from that can sprint steadily. Bears can in fact reach the same speed but cannot keep running as long as a lion could, giving the lion the advantage.
Both animals are intelligent and therefore are quite strategic. Lions tend to stick in their pride and circle their prey, making it impossible for them to escape. A lone bear relies on size and natural power to strike with its forepaws and scare away any possible threats. Both animals tend to end a fight with a bite; but bears have stronger jaws and can inflict twice as much damage with a bite than a lion.
Seeing as I need to include every aspect of their tactics and skills, lions are better at fleeing from battle than a bear is. Lions assess their opponent and have the speed to run to their pride if they need backup, whereas bears let their opponents decide whether the fight is on or not. Of course, bears can still run and escape if they do need to, but lions gain the aspect of having more of a back-up plan on the fight or flee chart.
Personally, I believe that a bear would win a fight against a lion. With size and strategy on their side, it most likely would lead to their victory. Seeing as lions are more likely to fight in prides rather than alone, they are less accustomed to fighting against the pure power of a bear and I feel that this would lead to their downfall.


Bears and lions are both admirable animals, of course. Lions in a pride are almost certain to outspeed and outwit their prey, and bears have excellent skills in combat and have wonderful survival instincts. In the end, although lions are certainly powerful animals, if these two animals were to happen upon each other in the wild, the bear would succeed at the end. It definitely wouldn’t get off free from injury, but it certainly could inflict more damage than it would take on, and the lion would have to either accept defeat and flee or lose to the bear. In conclusion, the bear is the stronger animal and would defeat a lion in a fight— although a pride of lions versus a bear is a different story.

Script-writing – 716 words

Erity set down the translucent jar of cinnamon, peeking at it through large brown eyes. “What do you do with this?” She catechised, her fingers gripping the lid in order to unscrew it.

Her mentor laughed and came to a stop next to her, arms full of sage. “It’s cinnamon. It has lots of health purposes, you see; it can be beneficial for an aging brain, and it has anti-bacterial purposes.”

The child nodded as if she knew what was being explained to her and unscrewed the lid, letting the heavenly scent waft around the cabin. The sibyl set down the sage, and gently guided Erity to the cluttered table, letting her dish out the cinnamon into small bags as she pleased. Busying herself with the work, the twelve-year-old dutifully separated the congregation of spice until her attention was barely lingering.

“What should I do now, Mentor?”

The woman looked up, her golden hair caught by the sunlight and hanging like rich thread. “You haven’t finished with the herbs?”

Erity glanced down with no real appetite for the work, then dealt out the cinnamon to each jar as if she was preparing for war. She only stopped this facade when she was plainly laughed at, and when she turned backwards, an indignant smile on her face, her mentor was at her side to guide her through the next step.

“Cut the sage for me, love. I’ll finish the cinnamon and sort it away— this is the cupboard you put these things in.” The older stooped down to the oak-made storage system, placed the individual jars of cinnamon, and shut it promptly. Erity carefully disposed of the stems of the sage and washed it, making sure to not let the moisture drip. It was all worth it when she caught the spark of a smile on the sibyl’s face, and she leant down to store the precious leaves as well.

“Excellent. Last one for now; go find me some echinacea.” Those were harder to find. The name did not associate with anything in the child’s mind before she was prompted to look for ‘purple’, which she did. Along the way, she described vividly how much she loved flowers and herbs, as if to entice her prey out into the open. She at last discovered the flowers on a shelf in a jar, which she pocketed and brought back to show her mentor with pride.

“Got it.” And then, “What does it do?”

The sibyl pried it from her hands and set it down onto the counter, removing the lid and dusting the fragrance against Erity’s wrist to check for allergies. She waited patiently for the red to show, but it never did and she was deemed safe. “It’s for common colds, mostly. Some catch on quicker than one would expect. However, it does also boost immunity.”

“Amazing.” Erity pondered, with another glance; “It’s very nice.”

“Yes.” was her response, but she was not looking at the plant or at Erity.

-

“This place is cool.” Erity declared as she followed the sibyl into the clearing, only a few minutes walk away from the tribe and blessed with countless herbs and spices.

“You are very informal.” said her mentor, who was kneeling down to inspect a flourishing plant.

“Informality is my specialty.” She chanted, and then exclaimed, “Hey! That rhymes!”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of,” Erity apprehended, her own hands stuck firmly by her side in order not to brush against anything poisonous, which she was warned that it could be a possibility.

“Yes. Come over here, please, love?” The child scampered over (not unlike a squirrel) and set her eyes firmly on the plant.

“This is chervil. It’s medicinal in a plethora of ways— I’ll spare you from the details, for now— but it is a good example of a herb that needs to be savoured.” She took hold of Erity’s fingers and lowered them gently onto the leaves. The younger held her breath and let them brush against the green before the sibyl let go.

“Uproot them from here.” She gestured at another flare of the herb and slowly massaged the stem, working up instead of down and then plucking the first leaves that she came to. “Work up so you take the oldest leaves. See?”

“I see.” Erity confirmed, and hummed a lilting melody that her brother had taught her by ear as she took the oldest of the leaves on the first plant, and a couple of the older ones on the second. Though the silence was comfortable; Erity thrived in comfortable silences and avoided the uncomfortable sort; she interrupted the serenity within minutes.

“Why do you talk so little?” She stared at the back of her mentor’s head until she got an answer.

“The less I talk, the more important the words I speak are.”

“Okay.” She tipped her head, cupped the leaves in her palms and mounted them onto the original pile. “Do you miss talking a lot?”

“No.” The sibyl turned, hair draped over her front and snaking down her shoulders. “It’s not that I miss it, because I know there is more of a chance that I can spout a prophecy if I don’t. You’ll have to learn to watch your tongue too, little one.”

“As in, not saying bad things? And not lying? Because I don’t lie. I swear.” She promised, and there was an earnest sparkle in her eyes.

“I trust that you don’t lie.” was the answer. “But unneeded talking does not increase the probability of you being prophetic.” Her fingers stroked through the child’s hair and her voice, honey-like and floating, wrapped around Erity’s head and filled a void she had not known was there.

In a desperate attempt to say anything, she thrust her cacophony of leaves at her mentor and grinned. “More leaves.” She murmured, then covered her mouth with shock that she couldn’t stomach the urge to talk for a second.

“We’ll work on it.”

Erity nodded with wide-eyed agreement, desperate to work on it immediately. She kept her lips pursued as she organised the last of the leaves into order, watching as the sibyl got to her feet and glided across the clearing. Well-polished fingers hovered over a purple plant before pulling back. The child was too naïve to notice the expression that flashed across her face.

That was a look she would not grow familiar to for a long time.


—–




ERITY and PIPER are working in their hut. ERITY is sorting through the jars, whereas her mentor is supervising her.



ERITY sets down the cinnamon.


ERITY

What do you do with this?



PIPER (laughing)

It’s cinnamon. It has lots of health purposes, you see; it can be beneficial for an ageing brain, and it has anti-bacterial benefits, too.



ERITY nods and begins separating the spice for a minute.



ERITY

What should I do now, mentor?



PIPER

But you haven’t finished with the herbs?


ERITY continues reluctantly as Piper laughs.


PIPER

Cut the sage for me, love. I’ll finish the cinnamon and sort it away— this is the cupboard you put these things in.


ERITY dutifully washes and cuts the sage while PIPER finishes with the cinnamon in silence.


PIPER

Excellent. Last one for now; go find me some echinacea. Okay?


ERITY (enthusiastic)

Okay!



ERITY looks around, not knowing what echinacea is. PIPER notices.


PIPER

It’s purple, love.


ERITY (embarrassed)

I love herbs a lot, I really do. Echinacea? We have great work, I feel all grown up. Gosh, my family will be so envious when they hear how busy my day was. Echinacea? Dealing with herbs, and cutting sage and putting cinnamon in bags, though you really did that. You do a lot. Do you find it difficult, doing everything by yourself? But I’m here now. You don’t need to fret about having to do so much work now that I’m here, right? Ah, echinacea!


ERITY grabs hold of the jar and waves it around in the air.


ERITY

Got it! What does it do?



PIPER presses the herb against ERITY’s wrist.



PIPER

It’s for common colds, mostly. Some catch on quicker than one would expect. However, it does also boost immunity.


ERITY

Amazing! It’s very nice.


PIPER

Yes.


PIPER and ERITY now are strolling through the forest, looking for herbs in a special clearing that the older knows about.



ERITY

This place is cool!



PIPER (laughing)

You are very informal, you know.



ERITY

Informality is my specialty, informality is my specialty— hey, that rhymes!


PIPER

Sort of?


ERITY

Sort of.


PIPER

Yes. Come over here, please, love, I need to show you something.



ERITY kneels beside PIPER.



PIPER

This is chervil. It’s medicinal in a plethora of ways— I’ll spare you from the details, for now— but it is a good example of a herb that needs to be savoured. Uproot them from here. Work upwards so you take the oldest leaves first.


ERITY (hums)

I see. Why do you talk so little?



PIPER

The less I talk, the more important the words I speak are.


ERITY

Okay; do you miss talking a lot?


PIPER

No. It’s not that I miss it, because I know there is more of a chance that I can spout a prophecy if I don’t. You’ll have to learn to watch your tongue too, little one.


ERITY

As in, not saying bad things? And not lying? Because I don’t lie. I swear.


PIPER

I trust that you don’t lie, love. But unneeded talking does not increase the probability of you being prophetic.


ERITY sits in silence for a moment before not being able to resist the urge to speak.


ERITY

More leaves? Oops–



She covers her mouth, cringing at her mistake and the terrible amount of speaking she normally did.


PIPER

How much do you normally speak, honey?



ERITY

An awful lot. I talk to my brother, and my mother, and I used to talk to my dad, when he was alive. I told my brother about our lesson last time, where you taught me all that stuff about amazing herbs and spices and all. Where do those come from? This clearing, or near here? Please teach me it all, mentor, I want to make my family proud of me. They weren’t too proud in the beginning, you know. My mother did tell you that, didn’t she? She doubted that I was special enough to train under you. I heard her tell Griffin so.

ERITY looks slightly wilted, as if her world was breaking down underneath her, and blinks as PIPER gently strokes her head with her free hand.

PIPER (softly)

You’re talented enough; and more than that, you were chosen, chosen by your ancestors and chosen by mine. Let’s make this worth it, shall we?

ERITY

We will! I’ll make it worth it, every day, I swear, all you need to do is ask and you shall receive my help and–

PIPER

We’ll work on it.

The scene closes on them working away silently.

Non-Fiction – 442 + 605 words

Geese are amazing birds which come in all shapes and colours; you can have a snow-white goose commonly called a Snow Goose, a black, brown and white Canadian Goose; you can very literally have any of the 96 species that have been discovered over the world. Although of course other birds and pleasant in appearance and habits, there should be no doubt that a goose is far superior to other similar birds, and here’s why.

My first point is that geese are far bigger than ducks, the other species frequently associated with them, which shows that they could easily rule a pond if they had the need to. They have longer legs, larger feathers, longer necks— not even the largest type of duck could be larger than a common goose. Although ducks typically have more colourfully patterned feathers than geese, I personally find that the geese colour pallet is a pleasant aesthetic and distinguishes each species of goose from the next.

The second remark to make here is that geese are one of the most intelligent birds, far smarter than both chickens and ducks. Geese have sparkling memories and can remember people, animals and situations without hesitation. This makes them excellent guard birds if you need a spy to watch over your property (not that I can imagine geese being employed officially or anything, that would be ridiculous).

Another thing I simply have to point out is that geese make excellent pets. They are extremely loyal and affectionate, and if they happen to trust you, they can also seek physical contact and snuggle up to your lap. Could you possibly imagine having such an amazing creature hugging you? As long as you have suitable space for them in your garden, geese are easy to keep and are good companions/watch-outs to have around your home.

My last point is that, seeing as I am nicknamed after them, geese are worthy birds to have as your favourites. I am a walking embodiment of what devotion to such a wonderful species is (sort of) and I’m completely on board if you ever want to have a conversation about my namesakes, (this is a completely valid point, in case you were wondering).

I hope I have at least somewhat convinced you to look into this waterfowl and see behind its feathers to the intelligent bird hidden behind that. Geese are truly fantastic birds and I also hope that next time you see one, you think back to these facts and show it the respect it deserves.

(422 words)



A Completely Accurate Guide to Goose’s Writing Schedule

(and definitely not elaborated upon so I can make it seem more elegant than it actually is)


Wake up earlier than you usually do, as to have the whole house quiet when you write (it’s usually distracting when someone is trotting around trying to make a cup of coffee while you get a spark of inspiration).

Find somewhere comfortable to write, preferably with the same kind of lighting that would be in the place that you’re writing about — if it’s night in my world, then I’ll completely dim the lights and get my lamp on the lowest setting possible— if it’s a bright summers day, I’ll go outside if it’s good enough weather or crank the light up to the highest.

Another way I set the aura is by getting sounds that match the typical sounds of the setting. This is one that I only half recommend, as if you tend to get sidetracked like me you’ll click onto another video and procrastinate. The best thing to do is eliminate any possible distractions, which means no sounds, unfortunately. However, if you do want the sound of rain or bird songs in the background, then do add those minute details to your early-morning (or late night, actually) writing experience.

Then, it’s time for you to start actually writing! I normally have a set few prompts for me to do first, although you could easily find them at this step. I have a couple of websites that I tend to go to for prompts, and do three at the start of every session. A couple of prompt examples would be, ‘assign a random personality trait to one of your characters — how does their behaviour change?’ or ‘describe whatever your character has in their bedroom in detail’. Ordinarily, my first three prompts are based around characters and personalities. Be sure to set yourself a time limit so you don’t get too caught up with these prompts.

The next step of my routine is to focus on a piece or part of writing that I could do better on. An example of this would be working on fears, phobias and how to represent them. I tend to research before I tackle any main issues that could affect my character’s well-being because I don’t want to portray it wrong, though it really is up to you. My routine for this part is to spend about ten minutes researching, and writing a quick five minute piece to use later on if I need to check how it would affect my character realistically.

The last step of my routine is to end with some freehand writing or a quick character questionnaire. It depends on my mood and whether I have lots of time left or not— but I mainly just spurt out as many ideas possible onto paper without caring about how polished the piece has to be. It doesn’t really matter about the finished product for any writing you do in this routine; it’s mainly just about being conscious of writing and feeling proud of your progress at the end. The character questionnaires are fun and let you delve into your character’s mind, whereas the freehand helps you feel accomplished at the end of the session. Choose whichever and have fun writing!

(Disclaimer thing; this is my current routine because I’m dealing with some writing block; some people might prefer to work on bigger projects than messing around with prompts and stuff like that, and it really just depends on the person— do whatever you like more!)

⟶ Weekly 2 (3153 words);

Part 1; https://scratch.mit.edu/studios/27746876/comments/#comments-178464423
boom2ratz; Footsteps echoed around the forest, and the only source of light was the fire on the torch that Jordan was carelessly swinging around. Something was off about these woods. It was quiet, and everything seemed normal, but there was just /something/ about it…

GraceOBrien13; Every rustle in the bushes sent a terrified shiver creeping up his back. Every bird's squawk – because they were frightening calls, not the musical songs that birds usually spurted – made him stumble slightly. Jordan used one hand to grip at the torch, and his other lingering on his pocket, where he had stored his valuables. The leaves from the trees came cascading down around him, coloured in crimsons and oranges, but Jordan could not distinguish a leaf from an enemy through the darkness.

boom2ratz; Perhaps this stroll through the woods would be less scary if he weren't cold, sweaty, and hungry. He felt like he couldn't focus, and if anything at all tried to attack him, they– or it– would succeed. Jordan took his hands from his pocket for a moment to slowly wipe the sweat off his face. Every branch he stepped on sounded like a deadly growl. He could hear his pocket watch clearly. Tick. Tick. As soon as it started beeping, indicating midnight, he heard a terrifying sound behind him.

GraceOBrien13; Panic and alarm combined in his eyes as he sent a hurried glance behind him. It was too dark to see more than a shifting, twining shape in the background, no doubt waiting for the perfect time to strike. Jordan had a feeling that that time would be coming sooner rather than later. He began running forward, tripping over logs, sending alarmed glances behind him to ward off the hunter. Brambles seemed to reach out and entwine themselves in his sleeves, ripping off the cloth viciously and leaving scratches as reminders of their presence. The pocket watch had apparently rose in volume, sending the tick, tick, pounding through his skull, as if the watch was numbering his seconds before what seemed like his inevitable demise.

boom2ratz; Fear flooded his entire body, consuming him. Tick, tick. Heartbeats. Jordan didn't dare shut his eyes. Instinctively, his arm threw the torch backwards. He heard some trees engulf in flames and could see the firelight out of the corner of his eyes. But the creature seemed to be indifferent to the flames. If anything, it seemed to have made it faster. Now, it seemed as if the predator was mocking him, and imitating his watch. Tick, tock. His eyes glanced back, but he could still not see the monster. And suddenly, Jordan let out a scream as he heard himself splash down into some sort of swamp.

GraceOBrien13; He struggled, arms thrashing. The water was salty, stinging his tiny cuts and scrapes with vicious intent. Jordan tried to swim to the surface, but fear (alongside the ticking of his watch) was throbbing in his mind and all he could focus on was the monster ahead. What if the monster was aquatic? What if it had been luring him to the swamp in the first place? But no – Jordan still had some sense – the fire would have been effective then. All he could do was rely on the hypothesis that the monster was not as fast in water. After coming to this conclusion, his eyes bulged as he quickly began to sink, away from the monster, and away from the sweet air.

boom2ratz; Again, animal instinct swept over him, and he threw himself onto a large log he found. For a moment, Jordan was proud of himself, but the pride quickly vanished as soon as the log started sinking with him. Tick, tock. Soon, it would all be over.

GraceOBrien13; “Help.” He croaked out, but he knew that nobody would come for help. He was in the middle of nowhere, hunted down by a mysterious monster, atop a sinking log. Jordan had to realise that it was highly unlikely to expect others. Grappling at a pointed stick breaking off the log, he yanked it off and swiped it towards the monster, pasting a predatorial expression on his face.

boom2ratz; However, the rush of adrenaline he had just had passed quickly; he tried to gasp for air, but in a matter of seconds, he was completely submerged in the slimy, green water.

GraceOBrien13; The stick poked into his chest, making his breathing even shallower. He didn't know what to do. What was there to do? He was stuck scrambling for air, clinging onto the faint remnants of life; what could an ordinary person do in this situation? Jordan was about to give up all hope when he felt his body slam into the bank of the swamp, and a vicious wave of the creature diving after him sent him onto land.

(804 words total)


Part 2
Fawn Browne
Sixteen
Deer Hybrid
Personality and Traits:

Fawn tends to be an easy-going person. She is modest about her abilities and is very emphatic, which helps her connect to the people she is talking to. Although shy most of the time, when around people she knows and trusts she finds herself outgoing and excitable. Fawn notices her surroundings through perceptiveness and often notes things down in a little notebook she carries on her at all times. However, Fawn is touchy about her heritage and being modest takes her so far as to not like talking about herself, which, when with strangers, can lead to her seeming irritable and not talkative. If someone that she has built up a strong friendship with tells her a lie, she is more likely than not to believe it earnestly, making her gullible. She also isn’t very accepting of her own positive traits and tends to notice on her negatives. Nevertheless, this soft-spoken deer hybrid aims to be kind to everyone and is quite extroverted around her friends, making her a pleasant person to converse with and quite good in a situation where she is alone. She is particularly fond of natural environments and has an extensive memory of flora and fauna, which helps her slight memory problems for other subjects. Fawn is usually well liked by her peers and appreciates that fact greatly.

(221)

Wants, Hopes and Strengths:

Fawn wishes to do her best in all she takes part in. She sets herself goals to complete to establish some sort of temporary faith in her, and hopes to grow her friend-group and talents considerably. She often branches out to different hobbies for the skills and has a wide range of abilities. Fawn is a supportive friend and has no problem with assisting someone in need. She has a lot of strengths that she underestimates, including her listening skills and her empathy. Fawn’s ability to click with strangers is one of her talents that she does appreciate, however, and she tries to input it in every situation that involves social communication, often subconsciously. Fawn also hopes to spend more of her time around and learning about nature, which she excitedly repeats to whoever will listen. Despite her memory problems, she has managed to amass a large selection of knowledge around plants which she carries around in her notebook. Fawn is a confident, easy-going hybrid who, although not proud of her heritage, is well-liked by her peers and knows a lot about nature and ways to make people enjoy their days. She is reasonably good in any situation that needs persuasion or is centred around nature and understanding it, and eagerly awaits a situation that would make her display her strengths and skills in these certain areas.

(227 words)

Dislikes and Phobias:

Fawn dislikes people who take a normal heritage for granted. She dislikes being a hybrid as it means people see her differently from the ordinary people, and often takes the time to conceal her hybrid parts. She regularly wears a hood to cover her ears. Fawn also dislikes deforestation, cruelty, and abuse. These are all touchy subjects for her and she tends to avoid anything that reminds her of such tragedies. Fawn has a couple of phobias, too; she has atychiphobia (fear of imperfection) which leads to her having panic attacks in work and school related issues, and a mild form of claustrophobia (fear of confined places) which she usually manages to ignore apart from having an increased heart rate. Fawn tends to sidestep any panic attacks or breakdowns with the promise that it isn’t important.

(136 words)

Part 3;

This story takes place on a mountain. It has little wildlife apart from great spruce and fir trees, which cover the entire partiality of the west side of the mountain. Snow falls in mounds all over the trees, and it is very dark at this part of the hill, making it easy to get lost. There are bushes of yew and holly berries growing underneath the trees, which are all poisonous and extremely hazardous to eat raw. Outside of the forest, there is a long fence that covers the entire bottom of the hill, apart from one select patch, in which there is a large mesh gate that is easy to climb over. The rest of the mountain is covered in snow, too, but snowdrops poke their delicate heads through it at points and disturb the soft white blanket. There are a few lone trees on the east side of the mountain, one of which a magnificent oak tree which spreads its branches far over the rest of the hill; it is bare of leaves at this time of year, the depth of winter. The tree is home to many animals which are hibernating around and inside in the colder months. There is regularly a barn owl which has defied the laws of its kind seen at dusk, swooping around and hunting the few mice still active at this time. At the time that the story is set, the barn owl is ravenous for any source of food as the mice have all starved or are hidden away. It tends to circle around the tree and has a large nest on the second-highest branch of the majestic oak tree. The nest is weaved of sticks and snatches of grass pulled from the mountain and it is slowly decaying from age. The owl, however, is as strong as a predator as ever, and is decidedly known as the lord of the mountain.

The rest of it is the epitome of serenity. There are little disturbances of the heavy snow apart from flowers of many colours, all different types, too. It is hard to find a place to sit, as all of the grass is soaked through and definitely wet. However, near the forest there grows to be less flowers and more dark blades of grass visible. On the very top of the mountain, at the spot height, there is a single sunflower that grows continuously, despite the misty weather. It bobs side to side for the majority of the time and smiles up at the zenith directly above it, instilling some sort of faithfulness in any passersby.

(436 words)

Part 4;

All sorts of unlucky things have begun happening — and somehow your character is the only one to accept that. The curse starts after a family event where they have an argument based about superstition and luck. Superstitious events, such as walking in the path of a black cat or strolling underneath a ladder (of course, you choose), bring upon the bad luck and lead up to the climax of the story. At last it gets bad enough for them that they have to put an end to what has become a horrific week with everything going wrong, and they travel to a place that a book said was the luckiest possible. Your character has to stop these happenings from evolving into something much worse without alarming the people around them. The unlucky things could be losing some little, mostly unimportant thing, being late for an event, or continually acting clumsy. Each of these events all irritate and annoy your main character, without anyone else noticing.

(165 words)

Part 5; Character by @Sandy-Dunes, Setting by @IAreQuestionMark, Premise by @KitVMH
Elsie slumps over on her desk. On normal occasions, she would be doing homework or something alike to that, without caring too much of the fact that the sun is shining and the birch trees outside are waving their pale leaves around, almost touching the window panes. But her teachers gave her no homework today; luckily enough, she got off scotfree and she wasn’t exactly sure why. Sure, teachers could possibly have changes of heart sometimes, but that isn’t what is bothering her. What is bothering her is that she has nothing else to do in the spare time.

Her room is spotless. She cleaned it yesterday, and even then, it wasn’t overly untidy; just a couple of books out of place. Now, her overloaded bookshelves are prettily organised, settled alphabetically, with a couple of peonies that Elsie had snatched from her garden tucked in between her favourites. She strolls over to inspect the quality of the flowers. Their petals are barely ruffled, and it seems like they will not wilt for another few days, even without water. She relents in her inspection and begins pacing around her room, whispering the qualm of ‘what can I do? What can I do?’ Elsie loathes having nothing to do; she peppers her life with interesting details and hobbies to skip away from this exact problem.

“What if I check on the rest of the house?” She mumbles aloud, then a light sparks into her eyes. Yes. Yes. “That’s it. I’ll check on the rest of the house.” The girl pulls open her door, smiling at the stickers that she had stuck there as a child, desperate for aesthetic. Then, with some horror, her smile morphs into something less pleasant. A grimace.

“What’s this?” She calls down to her family, but nobody answers.

Elsie steps forward to touch her hand against the wood. It is old. Old is the only way to explain it. It has mystical carvings written into it, telling of many stories, she supposes, through the ages. It is dark oak and is madly in contrast with the rest of her quite modern house. She tilts her head. “How can it be old?” She muses to herself, touching the wood a second time, tracing her finger in the slots. It comes away with dust. “It can’t be old. It wasn’t here when I went into my room, certainly.”

Elsie moves backward, pressing herself against her bedroom door, and stares hard at the old-new one again. Her mind ticks and turns as she tries to find any way that it is possible. Even if her parents did have a new door installed, they would have consulted her about it first, and why would they need a door if there was nothing behind it? It seems that most of her thoughts are questions, and the girl sinks into momentary dismay at the uncertainty of it all. Then, of course, she perks up.

“How do I know that there is nothing behind you?” She addresses the door, which does not answer in any way.

Lifting her weight against the doorknob, she finds locked. Of course. In every single story she has read which contains appearing and disappearing doors, (which isn’t a lot, though enough for her to be knowledgeable about this situation) they are locked. And so she leaves it. She does not bother questioning her parents about the appearance, either; they will tell her when she is ready.

A week later, or around that time, a key appears in her closet. Elsie had opened the door anxiously to sort out her clothes for a fundraiser her school was hosting, and there it was; like some unexpected visitor that she had been yearning so desperately for. It was an old key too, as she had suspected it to be. It was aged and brass, and she instantly pocketed it to try out later.

Now, it is later, and Elsie is trying it out.

She fits it in the doorknob cautiously; and it fits, it fits, just as she assumed it would. It is a hard duty to pull the door open, as it involves many twists of the doorknob and much jingling of the key, but at last, it opens. Elsie lets out a sigh of tranquility and relief, just before she rams her shoulder against the ornate designs to open it properly. Then, as she steps back from the doorway, it opens properly with a creak. She smiles before stepping inside.

The smile contorts to one of horror.

Whatever she assumed was behind that mysterious, oh-so-beautifully designed old door, it was not this. This is the opposite of what she had expected. Whilst her own room is so clean that all her close friends admire it, this room was the opposite. It has a flashy keyboard on a small desk that looks like a replica of hers, apart from the fact that the paint is peeling off; it has two doors, one that she assumes to be a closet but it horrifically dirty, one she thinks just might be a bathroom; and worst of all, the floor is a pile of junk.

The floor is covered with the most unpleasant things imaginable to a person who appreciates cleanliness. There are cartons of everything possible, there are socks that have lost their pair, there are crisp packets loitering everywhere and below all these things a grimy blanket that looked like it hasn’t been washed since before Elsie was born. The bed is hardly more than a sleeping bag amist all this junk, and even then it seems like it has morphed into being part of the sea, with the duvet falling off and dripping painfully into the what-Elsie-sees-as-knee-high ocean of germs. She shudders.

The desk is not much better, and from such a way away she can only make out the outlines of broken lead. The keyboard, each letter outlined with a neon colour, is very visible in the dimly lit room, and through her disgust she can see a lamp on the other side of the room. The bathroom door is closed; hopefully it stays that way, as Elsie cannot think of anything worse than this room, and does not intend to have it proven to her that there can be worse.

Just as she steps out of the door, standing on tip-toes to stay as far away from the floor as possible, she hears a masculine voice. It sounds almost drowsy, as if the person just woke up from hibernation. Elsie spins around, checking her own door for any signs of intruders, but the voice laughs and seems to be from behind her. She twists again and is met face-to-face with the owner of this bedroom, a boy who looks exactly like her.

“Hello?” Her voice comes out squeakily high.

“Nice to meet you.” The boy sticks out his dirty hand, wiping it on his equally dirty trousers before offering it to her. “I’m Elise.”

(1164 words)

⟶ Weekly 3; (3243 words);
Part 1: (946 words in total!)

I took inspiration from egg’s cover of ‘heather’ (the instrumental) (496 words)

She smiles. He smiles back.

“Are you okay?” She asks softly. He nods.

The world is a chorus behind them, a singing chorus, over and over the same two notes.

That—that was how they were.

That was how we were.

I stop. My eyes water slightly as I stare into the rippling pool, the water folding over itself in waves, the haunt of two people long ago, in another life, in another legacy. The reflection of the pool is not me; it is them; a boy and a girl, sitting on the edge of a pond, gazing at the water, gazing at each other. They do not have to speak to hear each other, and they definitely do not. They don’t break the fragile noise of silence and the faint singing of themselves before this.

Eventually they do talk. Days pass with no noise between them. They return frequently, with secrets to tell and nobody except each other to share them with. She tells him the mysteries through hugs and unspoken promises to never leave, he tells them through looks and glances, through the rippling of the water. The weeks pass with only the sound of footsteps running up and down the cobbled path around the well.

Eventually, they do talk. Months pass with little communication. They meet up at the archway with rambling roses and lilies, and they stroll down the pathway with entwined fingers and perfect smiles. They are there, this boy and this girl, but they are not with each other. Still the orchestra sings and plays their haunting song, and still the two do not speak.

Eventually, they do talk. It is a warm day and he gives her his coat to lie down amongst the grass with. She accepts it without a word and lays it down, gently, carefully, as he skims a pebble in the well. It falls within two swoops, and the sound echoes across the near-silent garden. He shrugs, and she shrugs back. With a soundless laugh, she beckons for him to come sit down beside her, and he does—he would never leave her stranded.

She smiles at him, and she would smile for a long while after this. She inches her chin up to his shoulder and whispers, “I think it’s time we talk.” He nods, and she stops him from nodding anymore with her withdrawal. “Come to the well?”

“Okay.” She is dragging him around a lot now, but it is okay, for she has a sweet voice and a sweet personality, and he owes it to her to obey. He sidles up, sits down on the rock, and she pushes him. He fails to stay afloat, the chorus of the song comes back around again, and she is fleeing, running. He does not speak.

Eventually, they do talk. The garden is my frequent haunt, with the combined sound of her echoes every single time I return. I live, but just barely. I survive.

and from a piano cover of beetlebug’s ‘overgrown garden’ (450 words)

The pianist hesitated by his spot. On the stage, he could see bright, glaring, lights, and the person that he had originally planned to do the duet with. He, too, had overly flushed cheeks because of the light, and when the man on stage settled down comfortably at the unfamiliar piano, he found himself worried, terrified for the competition.

They started playing, a gentle song. The notes inched its way up to his ear, and just as he had told himself to refuse to listen, he had listened, all too earnestly. He yearned for pleasantries, and he knew that his former companion’s music was filled with such delight. The music was tranquil, as he had imagined it to be, but it had a hard edge to it, like a betrayal that was still held close to his heart. He couldn’t stop himself from staring past the bright lights to where his face was framed in neon colours, bouncing off the mirrors used to reflect the light.

Oh, he realised numbly, this song is about me.

The music only sped up slightly, a cheerful tune on the outside, but with strong perception for beautiful music and meaning, it was visible. There was a thread of music that meant loneliness, a thread that stood for overcoming an obstacle, a thread that reminded him of their endless hours of practice put into a piece that would never be played publicly.

He had never meant for them to ever go up against each other. Although it wasn’t exactly a competition, to each other it was. Once partners playing in the same concert, displaying their talents, showing how far they had come; that was a competition, if not written directly in the label.

He could not compare to this carefully woven tapestry of music. He couldn’t. It had soft lilting tones as well as the harder core, and it was so purely original that his own work looked like a floundering fish out of water. The man could see the audience’s approval of such wonderful music; absolute, completely genuine coos of delight were echoing all around the airy hall. He thought about adding his own approval as well, but bit his tongue through the start to the finish and waited for his rival to come off stage.

“Good luck.” He was sweating, a huge smile on his face that seemed larger than any they had ever shared.

“I– that was amazing.” The soon-to-be-performer told him humbly, bending his thumbs together with a nervous crack as he avoided eye contact. “I can’t compete with that.”

“But you can.” He found himself being pushed towards the stage, and tried to scrambled to safety. “Go beat me, buddy.”

Part 2: (979 words)

I took inspiration from a quote I found – “I left, because you never asked me to stay.”

Myles glanced at me uncomfortably as I packed my bag, shoving in everything that I brought for that holiday. “You aren’t really gonna go, are you? You can’t. You don’t have a flight.”

“There is a thing known as booking one. I can find somewhere else to stay until the flight, if it comes to that.” I relented, sending him a bitter stare that I hoped would pierce through his skull, but he just shifted again.

We sat in silence as I shoved everything in. Finally, when I got to the valuables and ambled off looking for bubble wrap to carefully keep my pictures safe. As I crouched down, going through one of our cupboards, my jewelry bounced off my chest. It made me look at it, genuinely, for the first time in a while. My jewelry of that day was a necklace of silver hoops, which my parents had given me for my birthday the year before, a threaded talisman with an iron talon that I found at a market, and a pretty, gold chain that Myles had given me for Christmas two years beforehand. It was a little necklace, one that barely fit me, in fact, but he insisted upon me wearing it. It didn’t have too much sentiment, either, as when he held it up to my neck to see if it had fit, he only remarked about how much it had cost him. I was wearing it that day, I remember, and it was that that made me decide finally I did need to go.

When I arrived back armed with bubble wrap and a few pictures of our other friends, Myles was unpacking my suitcase. I stared at him with a lingering glance before slowly making my way over, steps silent and cautious, as if he was a wild animal. When I reached his back without him noticing my presence, I squeezed his shoulder softly, almost pitifully, and recoiled when he gave me the worst glare that I had ever seen anyone give.

“You’re not going. Shut up about it. You haven’t even packed. And what? You’re going to bring random pictures with you, too? Thought you didn’t like those people anymore, anyway.” My gaze travelled to the photos, taken long ago, of me and him with other friends, in another lives, with large smiles and no crease lines in the form of frowns. Just us and our friends, who vowed to take care of us and keep in touch. The friends that Myles broke off our trust with – our trust, because I never got a choice and was immediately associated with him as his brainless ‘sidekick’ – and we have not seen in years. Friends that didn’t mind sharing ice-cream and cake, friends that wanted to relax after a tough week on the promenade. Friends that allowed other friends.

“No, wait— I don’t know these people because of you. I don’t know our friends because of you. It isn’t my fault!” I didn’t just exclaim; I practically shrieked, my voice wavering and slow-forming tears creeping down my cheeks. Myles didn’t look as if he cared. Instead, he had stopped his frantic unpacking and instead swung himself around to get up, his dark eyes hard with determination. I didn’t know what he was trying to do, but I took a few steps backwards anyway, my precious bundle still in my arms.

My friend, my enemy, my depriver – he took a step forward and reached for my neck. I screamed. I’m still not certain why. Perhaps it was because he had the look around him that he had no restraints, or perhaps it was just because we were in the middle of an argument, but all at once Myles barked at me, “Shut up!” a second time and then he undid the clasp of his gift. It looked so golden against his palm, so valuable, that I almost listened when he launched into another speech about how much that it cost him. “You don’t deserve it anymore.” He explained, curling his fingers around it.

I sighed. And, like all sighs, it seemed to aggravate him so much that my presence itself was the tipping point, and he was storming out of the room, shouting threats and statements such as, “I hate you!” and “You’ll regret this!” Even though we shared an apartment and had for years, evidentally he had other places to seek refuge; not that I planned to stay here. Carefully, oh so carefully, I wrapped the rest of my jewelry and the photos with the bubble wrap, and stashed them on the top of my bag, after replacing what he had confiscated.

I remember passing the mirror after he had left me to pack, and seeing my face emotionless, the two marks of the tears long gone, I felt certain that I had made the right choice.

Myles didn’t come back to see me off, to say anything more than that he hated me with all his heart. I hadn’t expected him to. I found a flight before nightfall, rushed out of our apartment with all my belongings to the train station, and didn’t come back.

While I was sitting on the train, watching the landscape through the window, I saw my reflection a second time. This time I wasn’t even holding the pretense of not being delighted; I was smiling, smiling to the world, to the trees, to the other passengers on the train. I smiled at how simple it had been to leave when it had been so hard to stay.

If he had said anything, tried to persuade me, it wouldn’t have been so easy. I probably wouldn’t have left. But this was Myles, and he had no more persuasion as I had a home; I left without regretting anything but the fact that I had stayed for too long.

Part 3: (1318 words)

My theme is basically toxic friendships and the release from them, which I hope is counted as a theme so :shrugs:

I am free, for the first time in a while. As I skip along the pavement, listening to the idle chatter of pedestrians, I have to say that freedom is the most wonderful feeling in the world.

Released from work, from after-work expectations (going out to lunch with friends, although lovely, takes a large chunk of free time) and from any obligation that could else distract me from a day by myself. Now, with much free time and much hope, too, I find myself pondering what I could do for these couple of hours. My first stop will be lunch in a little café, as those sweet coffees and aesthetic pastries are irresistible; but I can do anything else after that. Whatever I want. Until dusk.

Such restrictions do not limit my imagination, I see myself bounding through glorious fields of plants, though that can definitely not happen, seeing as apart from public transport, I have no way to get around. Swimming is an option, but there is no substitute for ocean-swimming and sea-salt brushing against my skin. I could go shopping, except I never found that to be too fun a hobby, apart from shopping trips with friends.

I duck into a nearby café, gratefully appreciative of the wondrous scent of cooking bread. The waitress nods as she takes my order, tapping her pen against her notepad hastily, but it seems as if the whole world is kind today, as she sends me a polite, not overly forced smile as she glides towards the kitchen. I don’t exactly stare after her, but my gaze follows her figure regretfully as I assess how long it could take to receive my order.

It doesn’t take too long. I daydream of another time, long ago, playing with my golden rings that I got for my birthday from my best friend, a woman by the name of Julia who has soft caramel hair and sharp blue eyes who understands my soul from the exterior to the vulnerable interior. The rings came as a set, each with a specific symbol; one has a boulder, which is a reference to an old myth, another has a hawk and another a crown, all bearing symbolism that she knows I care for a lot.

I’ve learnt a lot about myself by moving here. In the city, where everyone is insignificant, it is easy to have breakdowns and tantrums, but those are better than fragile silence and withheld emotions. Here, I can be as temperamental as I want and share my rawest feelings, and it will be met gravely, in the best way possible: back to my life before this, I was turned away from it all.

Ever since I’ve had freedom, I have slowly come to realise just how toxic my friendship was with Myles. He was a controlling puppeteer, waiting to strike every moment and to get underneath my skin. He was a wall whose only goal was to separate me from the world; and that scares me now. It scares me a lot to think of how foolish I had been back them, to promise never to desert or leave. I am glad I did.

Here with Julia, with my bountiful, replenished harvests of friends, with my freedom to do what I enjoy and learn all about myself; that is my ideal life, and I tend to appreciate it as much as I can.

My daydreaming session comes to an end as the waitress returns, holding a plate of rich chocolate pastries and another with a generous helping of curry. I don’t usually eat so extravagantly, but I believe I deserve a large meal after such a hard month of work.

I tuck in after thanking her for the quick delivery. The waitress nods, refills my cup of coffee, and slips behind the counter. The meal is everything that I managed to be, warm and delicious, and it takes me only minutes to scoff it all down, pay and be released to the scent of autumn.

My feet bring me where I want to go. The duck pond, first. I stopped in a shop only steps away from the park to replenish my bag with seeds to feed the ducks. I take hold of the carton and rush across the street, laughing as the wind runs its fingers through my hair and leaves catch themselves underneath my shoes. I stop before I reach the pond and plunge into its depths, catching myself against a rock, chuckling before spreading my hands out and throwing seeds to the birds. A ruckus instantly arises as I watch the hungry animals gorge into their own lunch, gobbling it down hungrily instead of waiting; just like I had. The ducks are busy, too.

When the ducks are at last fed and I am running low of seeds, I take myself, this time — not just letting my subconscious roam, no — to the nearest shopping center. Despite not wanting to shop, I force myself down the aisles, throwing some interesting household decorations into my cart when I find something that catches my eye. A little duck statue, a caricature of a tree, a potted cactus that has the words engraved ‘I have a cactus’ on the rim of the glass it comes in; all sorts of things that I think would look nice in my small flat. When I get to the end of the first shop, I find myself among rows and rows of DVDs. I reach out and grab the first one off the shelf without knowing what it is.

When I reach the counter, my cart is halfway full, which is half more than I originally intended to buy. I load the cart onto the belt, watching as the cashier scans all the little bits and bobs I have picked up. My mind slips so that when he speaks, I don’t hear it as a sentence but as a collection of syllables. “Marie?” He is saying. “Marie, it’s me, do you remember me?”

I remember him. Of course, I remember him. He has the same dark brooding eyes, the same way of flicking his eyes away from you at the last moment, he has the same colour of hair. But he looks different, mature, too— he has developed a fringe that he flicks to the side occasionally, his skin is tanned and burnt from the sun, and he has a strange look in his eyes that is almost humble. Myles is not my greatest friend, and was not the kindest person on this earth when I saw him last.

I don’t know why I burst out into babbling, happy tones, when I feel anything but.

I never expected Myles, the genius, the one who knew what the future held and knew that it was bright if we stuck together, to be working in a chainstore, just scrolling through his phone instead of pursuing some dream or other. I never expected him to look so proud to see me, to immediately offer a coffee at the shop across the road, to be excited to see me when he had been so poisonous when I left.

“So, Marie.” he gently intones, seated across from me as I sip my second coffee of the day. “What brings you to this part of the city?”
“Well, I moved here. Same question goes for you.”

“Ah, well, I moved here too.”
“Interesting.”
I finish the coffee and watch as his eyes dart around the shop, looking anywhere but at me.

“I think you have something to say, you know, a word that starts with ‘s’ and ends with ‘y’, and is more or less an apol—oh.”

Myles is leaning across the table, a golden necklace in his palm, and is tying it around my neck.

“It’s good to have you back, Marie. This time, I’m not letting you go.”
I’m scared.

⟶ Weekly 4 (3137 words); Part 1; lilac + red, 8 of clubs + 5 of spades

Gemini (386)

A woman of twenty-two years old, which she considers her lucky number; she shies away from most social confrontation and instead thrives in her isolated flat, investing in thread for sewing and stitching to create a calming aesthetic. She tries to be as calm and meditative as possible but often fails, and ends up snapping at people around her that she is not familiar or comfortable with. She is not a great fan of children, and is never seen around them, often taking routes to avoid playgrounds and such, as they seem to be bullies (at least, they were in her childhood). She has horrific memories of people harming her and her family but cannot remember exact details, causing her to flinch away from touch or any raised voices as it seems to be clear signs that the same tragic story is replaying. However, she tries to make up for it when not in an irritable mood, preferring to offer gentle gifts that she has made instead of words of encouragement or bought presents. Gemini sees having platonic relationships as a necessity, although she absolutely loathes them; she tries to make people into her friends by researching it in her lone apartment, looking for anything that could make them like her. This makes her tend to seem fake or practiced rather than a genuine friend, and obviously these traits don’t help her try and gain some acceptance in her social circle. She is at her happiest when alone in her apartment, occupied by some task or another that involves creativity and innovation. In conclusion, Gemini is generally a calm person, except when around anyone who triggers her or is disobedient and hyper. She is creative and enjoys putting these skills to the test, generally when she is alone or in a quiet environment. Gemini tends to keep things in the present and doesn’t mind bringing up long ago disputes to the horizon, namely about children / bullying, old rivals or enemies, or tests or competitions that she lost in. She doesn’t know how to make friends very well and feels uncomfortable in situations that demand a lot of determination in speaking confidently. Because of this, she tries to teach herself to be a social, likeable person, and inflicts much mental pain onto herself because of this.




Lev (359)

A teenager of sixteen who adores his friends with an urgency. He is often checking up on them, texting or finding some other way of keeping in contact so that they don’t get into some trouble without him. Despite this slightly bothersome approach of friendship, his friends and the people around him are drawn to him and his tendency to be overprotective, and he is normally justified as the reoccurring character in calls and group-chats. Lev is often found among a crowd of his friends, and generates most of his energy and excitement from proposed events and trips. Music is a special favourite of his, and he plays various instruments, including ukulele, guitar, piano (keyboard too, if that counts) and flute. This hobby is not something that he generally flaunts to his other friends, and unless they personally ask for a tune or a song for him to strum along to. He hates being alone, so often drags his dog to the park for him to practice in open air, among alliums (his favourite flowers) and generally many other dogs. Lev doesn’t truly want people to appreciate his talent and how much work he puts into it, but rather prefers the aura of being with someone and just being an average person. With this love of talking and presence comes his inner-thought that he must be responsible for his friends and their well-being, that he must carry all of their problems and secrets. This mindset leaves him scrambling after his friends, dealing out his time and treasuring it and how precious it is. He often overloads himself with stress at being good at all areas and his life, and though it is enviable how lovely his personality is and how nice he is to be around, Lev personally finds his life difficult to balance when it comes to schoolwork on top of social life, as he talks too regularly and finds himself in uncomfortable situations regularly. Still, Lev loves his life and adores its complexity, and in his mind his friends will always come first, even if they drift apart (which he is sincerely trying to prevent from happening).




Setting (170 words)




My setting is a soft, pink-red sunset in the suburbs of a ruined city. The buildings are old, with ivy climbing over them and peach and white roses near the ground and pathways. The buildings are all cracked and broken, shells of what they used to be. The buildings are tall, once skyscrapers, now with only the remnants of their original glory remaining. The grey brick is tanned a pink-peach at this particular time of day, and shadows are so easily reflected against them that they are enlarged silhouettes rather than minute darkness. The houses are all in ruins, with no glass remaining anywhere near there, and it is rather like an overgrown garden in some aspects; deserted, claimed by wildlife, and almost completely silent, bar the occasional tweet of a songbird or the thud of paws against a once-maintained footpath. It is a place to be contemplative and serene, a place where only the sunlight touches and the occasional animal, bounded together through similarity and an origin of old.




Freewrite (421 words)

“This is hard.” She muttered as she climbs over the ruins, ivy scrambling for blood against her skin. She found pleasure in the silence, but not in the fact that she did not voluntarily decide to be here. She just — was. Once in a city, now in an ancient civilization, broken from society. The flower petals brushed tenderly against her ankles.

She got to the point of the slope, and found herself at the end of the city. Here, the flowers were more abundant, the building less tall and further between each other. The sun loomed up in the distance, raked apart by soft clouds that Gemini knew were just bundles of frozen precipitation. She sighed. Alone she certainly was, alone and separated from her beloved creations and people that she needed to talk to. This was not good. Could she survive on her own? Could she? She had never learnt to survive in the wild. How could she?

The city, once prospering, she imagined, was now broken, worn down by erosion and ages. It made her sad, really. She could imagine her own city, in that far-away life that she had called ‘real’ until now, falling. She could imagine her precious tapestries and pressed flowers, her handmade tables and pots that she learnt how to make from a pottery class, shuddering and crashing, falling and splintering apart as her building was ripped from its foundation. Perhaps it was an earthquake, or a tornado. A landslide. Just something caused by nature that swooped in, destroyed, and departed. Gemini shivered.

In the center of the city stood a teenager. His hair was pulled back tightly against his forehead, his freckles standing out sharply against his skin. A storm was whipping around his face as he patted his pockets for his phone, a pen, some paper, any means of communication. He found nothing. Where he had been before this sudden transportation was a mystery, and his heart was already beginning to ache from separation from his home life and this. He had been here for what—seven minutes? – and he already felt that the world was forcing him down, tumbling upon his shoulders. He sagged his shoulders, stuck his hands in his baggy sweater pockets, and started walking. He had not a clue where his destination was, only that the further he got away from this dystopian city, the better. “Nate?” He called out, and the name pitifully echoed around the deserted urban buildings. “Matt? Anyone? Come on, someone must be here!”



Final Story; (1801 without the original 400 words lol)

Include a silent conversation

Have one of your characters receive a note

Your character discovers the meaning of life

Spontaneous snowball fight (but it’s mud and flowers haha)

Introduce a pet which gives very good life advice

A character follows a trail of something

She saw him against the rubble and broken buildings. A young boy, must be a couple of years younger than her, with freckles and sweat-drenched hair, silhouetted against the peach of an old building. He did not look as happy as she did, and she did not look happy. Rather, he was the opposite; panicked and broken, like a cuckoo clock that does not stop ringing. She took a step back, and found her own shadow larger than life behind her, hidden between the ivy leaves and flower petals. It was actually not hidden, but a clear sign to where she was. This scared her. She would rather be trapped in an abandoned world with no other life forms than be with a child, especially not a child who looked scared. A child who looked like he could get attached.



When he saw her, he scrunched his eyes up. She was only a small figure against a giant building, with plaited dyed hair and a black t-shirt. He looked at her and started sprinting, just as she began running away.

You’re here. He thought joyfully, not caring that he had never met this woman before. You’re here and I am too, so I’ll protect you. You can help me find my friends. I will assure our safety.

Just as the girl’s back began bobbing up and down, he could already imagine her voice, screaming at him to shut up, and stop running. Leave me alone.

No. He answered, and it was the right one.

They kept this mad pursuit until she reached the edge of the suburbs, where the flowers pressed up in a threatening wall and she almost plummeted into it. The woman bent over, panting, sending him malicious looks. Him being him, didn’t mind, and instead kept moving forward until he was crouching next to her, hand hovering over her shoulder. “Nice game of tag, I reckon. But I won.” He snickered and gently tapped her on the shoulder.

She did not react the way that he wanted her to. Any reasonable person would have smiled and tagged him back, yelling some innocent thing that would establish their friendship and make them both double over, laughing, but this woman obviously had no sense of humour, as she batted him away in the distance. “Get away from me.” She snarled, and he let out a little squeak that he couldn’t hold in.

Her gaze was intrigued. Horrified, but intrigued. She tipped her head and repeated it a second time, “You, kid, go find your own ruined land to ruin even more. This one’s mine.”

“I don’t really want to.” He responded, and crouched back down beside her again, looking with detail at her soft hair, a gradient between caramel and electric blue, and at the way that it kept hanging down her face and getting in her way. He rather had the same hair; a different colour, but the same habits.

The woman was not happy. Rather, she was scowling a lot now, not bothering to make eye contact and the shifting in her demeanor made him get the impression that she was cramped. Still, he hopped around until he was facing her face head-on, and stuck out his hand, wobbling slightly on his two knees. “I’m Lev. Nice to meet you! What’s your name?”

She gingerly put her hand out and sort of shook his hand, though he noticed she was leaning backwards at the same time. “I’m Gemini. Okay? Pleasure to meet you, goodbye,” Gemini sent him a humongous, fake smile, stretching from her cheeks to her chin. He frowned and shook his head at her.

“Where are you going?” He asked as Gemini jumped up, avoiding contact as she weaved around him and started walking away from the plant-barrier and towards the middle of the ancient city, which he thought of as a terrible idea. After all, the sun was going down and it would soon be night, and if there ever was a place that there would be monsters, it would be in the middle of the city. His friends would know what to do. A pang of loneliness wobbled throughout his chest as Gemini stopped.

“Why’d you stop?” Lev called, as she crouched down again, seemingly tracing her finger in the dust. He started sprinting towards her, leaping over all the greenery and buds. When he got to her shoulder, he peered down insistently to the ground, where a couple of letters were scrawled with a dark, ink-like material.

ARE YOU COMING YET; IT IS THIS WAY, COME NOW GEMINI

Despite only knowing this woman for a couple of minutes, he gently patted her arm and whispered, “You weren’t here before, were you?”

She shook her head, and Lev could see that she was shaking, shaking and crying, for tears were running down her cheeks and leaving streaks of dew.

“Well, let’s go, then,” He told her firmly, leaving out the words ‘come on’ as to not reference the message, “I’m sure we’ll find something in the city that helps us get away from this—place.” Gemini stopped crouching and wobbled to her feet, encasing herself in a tomb of her own arms. Lev led the way, his head held high, the sunlight tan against his freckles. Let us find something soon. I don’t want to be here much longer, please.



They walked for a while in silence, which was the way that Gemini liked it. While they walked, she pondered everything and anything; why would someone want to trap her and catch her? Why was she here? What was the meaning of all this?

It took a while for her to realise the truth, and she couldn’t stop it erupting from her tongue when she figured it out. “There is no meaning.” She burst out, and her companion turned around and stared at her curiously as she spurted out more true nonsense. “There is no meaning to this. This is not a ruined civilisation, or one that will ever be created. This is not real and it isn’t fake, it must be the void in between, and someone hates me here and they have no meaning for it–” Her breath was rapidly crawling up her throat, hurting her and making her choke on just air. Lev tried everything to calm her down, but she refused all help and at last stopped her panic attack when he walked ten steps ahead and didn’t look back.

She didn’t want him to get attached, and she didn’t, either. A child was not good in any way except growing into an adult.



Lev had walked silently for too long. Now, he stopped and scooped up some mud in his hands for no reason other than to make Gemini speak. It was soft enough not to hurt, so he turned around and threw at her, watching as it hit against her foot. She looked disgruntled. Angry. Almost scared, for a moment, before she scooped another bit of mud out of the path and tossed it in his direction. It hit. She had good aim.

They continued this game; stop, collect mud, throw, hit, move; until they reached the city center. Here, there was less flowers and less wildlife, and the dusk only lightened it up a certain amount. One of the trailing pathways was completely covered in leaves, and that was the only available wildlife in sight. Shadows crept into corners and scared the two into the center, where a once-watered fountain stood. It was strange seeing the stone at the bottom without water swimming on top.



Gemini moved instinctively towards the leaves. She tried to part them, to see what was behind their mask, but with Lev standing there behind her she felt weak, so she turned around and commanded, “Look over at those buildings over there. Got it?” He nodded weakly and turned away, scampering over the rock like some sort of squirrel. She forced the smile that had arose off her face, and turned back to the leaves. Now rid of the child, she had no problem forcing them off to the side, and–



Lev was face to face with a small, rabbit-like creature. It twitched its nose and leapt forward, nosing at his shoes. With a childish giggle, he leant down to scratch it under its neck, and obediently it hiccupped and then, “You must be Lev, right, right?” He stopped himself from screaming as he inched backwards, also preventing himself from poking at the creature with his foot. It looked bemused.

“I’m Holly.” It told him. “You have three wishes. Except, not wishes, because wishes are very useless. Ask me a question and I will answer.”

“What are you?” He asked, and it shook its head and tapped its nose. “A rabboth. I have wings,” It parted its crystalline wings, which it had never shown before to anyone, having no one to show them to, “And I am a rabbit. Rabboth.”

“Rabboth.” Lev repeated wearily, as if it was a dream.

“Next question?”

“What do I do to get home?”
“Follow your heart and take care of yourself. Put yourself first. Only you, no one else, not that silly girl over there. She’d do the same when it comes to sacrificing you or her.”
“Oh.” Lev didn’t want to do that, though.



A putrid scent wound its way up Gemini’s nose. She gagged and pinched it, pushing her way through the last of the leaves and almost falling off the cliff that loomed there. She inspected the contents far below, and to her horror, she recognised the shape and the small. She screamed, a real scream, and the shriek echoed through the buildings as she ran through the leaves and collapsed, shuddering, next to the fountain.



Lev heard a scream. Apparently, the rabboth did too, as it shook its tail and got ready to hop away.

“I need to go.” He apologised to the animal, who sent him a grin.

“Want me to tell you what has happened?”
“Yes.” Lev replied, already on his feet and stumbling towards the center of the city.

“She’s found the pit.” The rabboth said, and it was gone.



Gemini looked up at Lev when he arrived, as he crouched down next to her and whispered, “What is it?”
She shook her head at him, then towards the leaves.

Following the trail of exotic wildlife was easy, and it was easier when Lev was just in front, smiling confidently as he reached the edge of the cliff. She stopped just next to him as he started to run off, too.

“What are they?” He questioned, and she did not know how to answer.

There was a pile of rotting corpses in the pit, and the rabboth was there, too.

〈 Word-War Proof 〉

⟶ March 9 (243 words); The girl grinned and laughed, her hair flying in a golden halo around her hair. She looked the embodiment of joy and carelessness in the moment; alliums sprouting around her, dandelions at her feet, daisies tucked into her hair; and the picture looked so realistic, so wonderful, that it made her smile. A couple of tears trickled down her cheeks, causing her to smile and cry simultaneously. She only wished that she could time-travel back to where the picture was true, that she cared about her wellbeing and everything was fine. She had told herself that it would be fine.

It was fine in that meadow. It had been a picnic she had brought herself on, a treat for a hard day's work, and she was happy to kick off her beige sandals and settle down in the long rye grass. She cushioned herself with her knees, grinned widely for the photo, and brushed her cascading golden hair which had not yet lost its shine. On that day, anything was possible. She was broken from happiness, insane from the mass amounts of sunlight, and she could even remember herself considering getting a pet at some point to give her such joy.

Looking at the picture and then at the broken shell of a woman she was now, limp, blonde hair that looked almost grey in the dim light, a cracked frown where there should be a smile; how was that the same person?

⟶ March 19 (303 words); They kneel down. Music is playing in the background, the same two notes, over and over again, just like the dripping noise of water droplets. The two children stare at each other, wide eyed and innocent, with soft smiles. They know what each other is thinking, so much that when they see the other person's smile they smile even wider, over and over again, until one is the mirror image of the other. The first straightens up just as the second does the same. The second claps their hands together sharply and is delighted to find their companion applauding too, a sharp sound that echoes around the garden. Flowers spring up, lavender and daffodils and sweet-scented meadowsweet, and they are the same on both side. The stereos on each side of the brick wall are playing the same sound, the drip drip of water or the pacing of footsteps. The children don't mind– of course they don't! One laughs, and the other joins in. “Silly kid.” They whisper, and howl with delight when the other repeats their words only a second off beat.

The first child takes a step back, stamps their feet as hard against the floor as possible, and then turns around three times clockwise and expects the other to do the same. And, by miracle, they do. The two repeat this routine for a while; step, stamp, turn three times clockwise, and then the first decides to change it up a little. They stamp a total of four times, jump up, clap, and then stumble forward accidentally. They try to catch themselves, and when that fails, they depend on their new playmate to do it for them; but both fall and both hurt. A crying wail raises up through the symmetrical gardens, but no two parents come to their rescue.

⟶ March 27 (236 words); He tried extremely hard not to snap. And he did succeed, for seconds turned minutes, as this girl whined on about all the boring subjects in life; the weather, sports (as if he watched volleyball or had the time to play soccer matches) and fashion, which confused him a lot as it seemed to be a rather random jumble of subjects. Still, he kept a straight face until the end of her miniature rant, keeping track of all the questions and humming and nodding in answer. She looked pleased. Which pleased him in itself, as it meant he was a better actor than he thought. Satisfied with this turn of events, he tried not to look too angered with her choice of conversation and nodded a final time.

“Those are all pretty good topics of conversation, congratulations on being an extrovert.” He said, as there was nothing else really to say. It was her turn to hum.
“But tell me about you.” She replied, emphasising the last word, stretching out the prolonged syllables with a toss of her auburn mane.

He talked, and hoped his own miniature rant was more interesting than hers. He was a man grown up in a suburban neighborhood, absorbed in all engineering and fanciful subjects, had grown up getting a's in every subject in school and was known as the teacher's pet and relentlessly bullied for it for quite a while. It was only when he grew up that he realised what potential there was inside him, after all.

saika's writings, thoughts, soliloquies, etc. ~ swc march 2022

daily ~ 2.3 (397)

I lay frozen, standing silently, my interface with bright colors speckled throughout, a stark contrast to the seemingly never-ending white of a table. Makes sense. I’m different from any other object in this room. They stand, planted firmly, aged trees with unwavering roots. But I move quickly, frequently taking a flight to a new room, sometimes venturing outside, and to other places. Every moment, something moves, pixels change color, data soars, bouncing from place to place in seconds. Lamps and novels, their fates are written in ink, unchanging. For me, it seems the only thing truly permanent is change, for every second a million things could happen, my future a series of blank pages. I’m just as disposable as any other object, able to slowly collect dust as I age in a closet, but I shall never be replaced. I’m something so prized, yet forever eternally hated. I’m a convenience item, my purpose was to help the masters I shall serve, yet day by day, the masters slowly fall a slave to me, my flashy colors dancing through the screen, a temptation, the urge to just scroll and swipe for only 5 minutes. The strings of destiny were slowly turning in our favor, the deus ex machina of the modern world, the major generals in the army of technology. But, they seem to dislike our slow ascent into power.

They claim to hate my presence, call me “toxic” and “addicting”, but in the end, they need me more than water, than food, more than sweet air which they need to breathe. Because in the end, after all the drama, happiness, and tears, I lie waiting, ready to drown out life with an endless stream of videos and images, bright colors giving light in the bleak world. That’s my job isn’t it? To provide an escape to this world of struggle, because why have to live life, when your screen is right in front of you, ready to provide an entire new world.

The sound of a bell plays, a red bubble appears at a moment’s notice. A notification appears yet again, ready to swallow your time. They come yet again, sweeping me up into their hands, swearing their undying dedication to the screen once more. The hourly routine starts yet again, as I open my arms, ready to swallow your troubles in an instant.

daily ~ 1.3 (70)

hello, i'm saika (they/them) from fairy tales, a person trying to convince themself they're poetic, as well as a trivia nerd with terrible grammar who frequently falls down all sorts of rabbit holes and rejects the idea of capital letters. i have a tendency to get overly attached to fictional characters, and try to draw when i'm offline. this'll be my third swc, and i'm excited to meet everyone!

【Ｙａｎａ＇ｓ　Ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ】

Hello there! Here is where I'm going to post my writing!

Dailies:
➼ March 1st Daily
➼ March 2nd Daily
➼ March 3rd Daily
➼ March 4th Daily
➼ March 9th Daily
➼ March 20th Daily
➼ March 28th Daily
➼ March 30th Daily
➼
Weeklies:
➼ Week 1
➼ Week 2
➼
Word Wars:
➼ Word War Victory One
➼ Word War Victory Two
➼ Word War Victory Three
➼ Word War Victory Four
➼
Writing Competiton:
➼ Writing Competiton goes here

That's it! Bye!



#horrorftw

Ari's SWC March Writing

● Main Cabin Dailies:
• March 1, 2022
Heyy! I'm Ari :any pronouns: I love to read, draw and can be /very/ competitive ~currently under a ◇hamilton◇ phase so don't mind me if I randomly spew out lyrics~ dystopian and thriller genre are my favs, and I can't wait to improve my writing skills this session and meet new people D ᵃⁿᵈ ʷⁱⁿ (ง'̀-'́)ง non-fi for the win !! /pos
62 words hehe no word limit
- - - - -
• March 2, 2022
!!TW!!: Mentions deppressing thoughts

I lay in red mushy pieces in a dark area surrounded by a stench of spoiled meat and rotten bananas, plastic all around me. Very little seeds remain in me, they are lost to the mysteries of the world. I am a sorry excuse of a strawberry, pathetic, destroyed, no chance of living as a fresh fruit again. How did it all go so downhill? I rack my brain for an answer, it responds in throbbing pain. Suddenly it all comes crashing down.

     I don't remember much from being a baby, clinging to the strawberry vines as I grew from a flower, slowly maturing into a ripe berry. What I do remember was being ripped from my birth giver and cast out to the real world by cruel and unforgiving gloved hands, to be put in a strange machine and organized.

     They then placed me in a plastic box, along with many other strawberries who grew to be my companions, as we shared the same experiences and related our lives together. We were relocated to a place called a “grocery shop” to be examined and judged by humans, as they determined if we were worthy enough to be consumed. It was terrifying, but at least I had company.

     A small girl walks up to the crate of strawberry boxes. She peers her eyes into ours, and after a long agonizing minute, she decides to take us. It's a blur of what happens after, more food gets taken, then put in something called a “car”, then finally we're settled into a cold, unforgiving rectangle.

     We're left alone for many days, until eventually the same small girl chooses to take the box out, wash it, and eat some of my friends! I try to help but I am inanimate, stuck until something “alive” moves me. I helplessly lie there, ashamed. Again, my only family is being taken away from me.

     Only a couple of us strawberries are left by now, we have been robbed of our ripeness after days being left alone. A lady comes in the kitchen, frowns at us, and tosses us in a trash bin, as if we were nothing. The reality sinks in. I am nothing.
Word Count: 368
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•March 5, 2022
Daily - I would wish to have a magical notebook of infinite pages, anything I sketch or write comes true. The design or description would have to be carefully worded for it to come true, and it wouldn't be able to be used to hurt someone. The created item would self-destruct if used for corrupt or unlawful purposes. This would just be really cool to have honestly :0
67 words
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•March 29, 2022
2 weeks before the flood. 


A young girl spins her spinny chair round and round quickly getting dizzy. Around her is a small room, the walls are colored a soft version of blue. A large gaping window with white curtains tied around the corners rests near a small bed. The bed has many pillows scattered across the sheets, which are also messy and disorganized. Next to the bed is a cabinet with large hoodies bursting out of the drawers. A picture of her father is above the counter along with her family booth photos. Notebooks full of weather drawings are all over the place, some on the ground, others taped along the walls.

    The floors are wooden and squeaky, unlike the bed. Outside the bedroom door lies a sign saying “Can’t talk now, busy manifesting creativity.”. The young girl’s brother’s room is right next to hers with a paper labeled “Knock. Or else.”.  The brother is off probably playing basketball with his friends. In the kitchen are plastic bags across the counters full of groceries. The couch has a small table specifically for chips. There are DVDs dispersed around the place.

Outside the house is a large front yard full of grass, perfect for bush decorating. The next-door neighbors are an old couple happily married with a dog, they are currently on a vacation in Florida. On the other side are unknown people. There are rumors around the neighborhood saying a kidnapper partially lives there, most times spending their lives living around. 

There’s a park nearby with large structures and a big playground. A field perfect for playing catch with your dog. The playground is bright green and yellow, large enough to play an intense game of lava monster.

The school is not too far but not too close. You would need a school bus to get from the young girl's house to there. The school is antique, the library probably has some unexplored areas full of secrets. The school director/ principal is old. Like, very old. But he’s usually nice. Just don’t get on his bad side.

The kids on the other hand are super cliquey. If you weren’t there when you were young, it would take a lot of time for you to get tight with OGs. But once you form a bond with them, you’re never leaving.

The place, in closing, is beautiful, if you can see it.
401 words
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● Main Cabin Weeklies:
•
● In Cabin Dailies:
• March 6, 2022
SWC bingo. I did sprint to favorite song (one of hamilton soundtrack), roll a die and write that 10x, write a poem about friendship, and I wrote at least 200 words off the dialouge generator.

Rolled die: (rolled 6, 60 words)
They say the sky's the limit, but humanity invented spaceships to explore space, past the sky. They say think outside the box, yet humanity created houses and skyscrapers for people to live in. They say penny for your thoughts when thoughts could be worth pounds and pounds of gold. They say everything is what it is when maybe it isn't.

Limerick about friendship: (52 words)

I will not lie

You really have to try

The beginning is strenuous

It'll take patience

Sometimes I'd rather /die/


Than socialize

But seriously, I advise

Because then you'll have a friend for life

Who'll be there for your strife

Who'll eat your french fries


Who'll be your ally

'til you die

At least 200 words off dialouge generator: (Dialouge was “You must be mad, coming here like this.” 306 words.)     

“You must be mad, coming here like this.” I mutter as I gradually open the door and let Josephine Collins in. A sudden boom of thunder occurred through the rain. I jumped. Jo smirked.

     “Still haven't gotten over loud noises,” She teased.

     I threw my hands up in retaliation. “6 months! It's been 6 months and you still won't let that go! It wasn't me who set off those fireworks at the worst possible moment!”

     “I know, I know, I'm joking.” She smiled as she embraced me. It was impossible to stay mad at her, I gave in and hugged her back. She stepped in the house and shook off her slightly transparent, bright green, rain boots.

     “Why are you here, though?”

     Jo peels off her raincoat and sits on the couch. “The house gets lonely with one person only. And Mr.Clowney wanted alone time.”

     “That doll is terrifying,” I exclaim as I walk in the kitchen to fix up some hot chocolate. “It's haunted, I tell you!”

     Jo gasps dramatically, putting her hand to her chest. “You take that back! Mr.Clowney is a very respectable, admirable doll. He will expect a written apology with no grammar mistakes, and a large Snickers bar, by noon tomorrow!”

     I chuckle as I carefully bring two large cups of hot chocolate near the counter next to the couch. “Will do,” I snatched the remote control “Hamilton or In The Heights?”

     “I'm not in the mood for movies, if that's all right. How about She-ra?” She lights up.

     I deeply contemplate this. “The Owl House?”

     “Amphibia?” She pushes.

     “Deal.” I grin.

     “Pleasure doing business with you.”

     We binge the series, sipping our hot chocolate, occasionally spilling some on the blanket. Eventually we fall asleep, the “Are you still watching?” sign faintly glowing on the screen. This is home.
Total words in this in cabin weekly: 418
- - - - -
● Word Wars:
•
● Writing Competiton Entries:
•
● Extra:
•

╰►non-fi for the win !!

Ash’s Writing Table Of Contents

Hi there! Here’s a table of contents to make it easier to keep track of where my writing is.
I don’t really know what else to say lol. So here we go!


~Dailies
-March 3rd, Main Cabin https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6085147/
-March 4th, Main Cabin https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/654000561
-March 5th, Main Cabin https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6090584/
-March 6th, Main Cabin https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6095177/
-March 7th, Main Cabin https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6095681/
-March 8th, Main Cabin https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6098764/
https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6098263/
-March 10th, Main Cabin https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6104614/
-March 29, Main Cabin https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6156894/

~Cabin Dailies
-https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6090238/

~Weeklies
-First https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6087179/
-Second https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6120346/
-Fourth https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/6156653/

~Writing Competition
https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/664886900

~Word Wars

~Other

˘ ♥︎ Arli's SWC Writing ♥︎ ˘

˘ Dailies ˘

March 29th (oof)

Behind the eucalyptus trees, in the place where it all went down, was a park. The grass was a bright fresh green, as if it was always spring in a world of eternal winter. But everything else was just the same, tangled brush and messy branches and a stupid excuse for a park. That stupid excuse for a park, as we all called it, was the only place we felt truly young, like a river of youth had flowed into our veins and then, as we left its boundary, been sucked back, as if through a straw.
The north side of the park was too sad, too sentimental, too much of a faint memory from more hopeful days. But the south side, although not filled with life like I’d wanted for a happy place, was quite beautiful. We’d run through the fields, all five although never all five together. Some of us couldn’t, some of us wouldn’t, some of us watched on the sidelines, exhausted or injured from a fallen eucalyptus branch. We’d talk about stupid things in the stupid excuse for a park, like awful lessons in school and older idiotic siblings running down the streets throwing volleyballs into the road, which I watched once with my very own eyes in the park and we laughed so hard.
And when it was just a small group, like the two of us, we would watch the clouds flicker in the overcast sky as the hidden sun concealed itself once again and waited for its time to shine. Remember? We’d read books and write poems and do other things that we wouldn’t typically do, because we didn’t have the time or it wasn’t beautiful enough. In our own little circle, a concealed corner, in the outskirts of the city but still in the heart of our tiny cramped world. We’d stay there ‘til midnight knowing it wouldn’t matter and try not to laugh too loud, and once we failed and an old man came out from his nearby apartment and told us to calm it down right that second. But maybe he saw your glimmering blue eyes in the moonlight, or the way we looked so happy. It’s been so long that it’s hard to remember–maybe he smiled and told us to keep on enjoying ourselves. Or maybe he just gazed in shock at two perfectly happy teenage girls sitting in a field at eleven o’clock at night and let his mouth fall open, backed away, waved a little and then disappeared into the eucalyptus trees.

March 22nd

When the yellow winged dog fluttered into view for the first time, smoothly like a butterfly yet gliding rapidly, it certainly caught the world’s attention. With intricately patterned wings, it doesn’t need the four legs that graced its canine companions, but still has them, with thin webbed paws that still clacked on the ground. It is still yellow and covered in short yet silky fur, like a typical dog, but its wings are the thing that everyone notices about it. After a long flight, it lands on the ground and lets out a quiet bark, its wings resting upon its back, where its fur still curled typically. It is gentle with its human counterparts, although it secretly possesses the power to dash away into the wind at any moment. While not a very fearsome animal, the creature has a remarkable stealth that allows it to glide away in just a second, enraging the passersby who just want to pet a nice dog. With the friendliest people, the yellow winged dog can drop its tendencies to fly off–less of a skittish animal and more simply selective. With such friendly people, it becomes playful and energetic, always motivated by food, play, or anything in between. But for most, the yellow winged dog is a once-in-a-lifetime appearance.
And what happens when it’s out of view? The yellow winged dog utilizes its stealth quite well–escaping any possible predators as it ventures through the world of the wild. It typically feasts on plants and random scraps of food littered by humans, with a domestic tendency that contributes to its tame ways. When provoked, however, this creature can pick up its speed and chase after any target–even flying when it needs to, helping it conquer the worlds of both land and sky. To this day, the yellow winged dog is still looking for a way to expand its services to the water, but for now, we’ll just have to wait and see.

March 21st

A field of wistful wishes
Just sprung from spring–
were you there,
wistful dandelions,
before I started looking
back up at the sky,
before the hope blossomed,
like a burst of life,
from the bare ground,
soon to reach my eyes?

March 20th

The moment has finally come.
You step off the train, clasping the worn brown suitcase at your side and into a dusty blueish fog, seemingly hanging over your head. The shaky flutter of voices dances around you as you adjust your collar, your hands instinctively reaching to smooth the creases. You take a deep breath of the cool air as the fog clears, and through the lessening haze, you catch a glimpse of what lies ahead. As you move through the mass of buzzing crowd, you can make out a trio of silhouettes standing upon the ivory staircase.
The three stepped forward, no longer shaded from the glow of the twinkling lights. “Welcome," they announce, as a hush falls over the crowd, “to the real-fi academy.”
“What?” you whisper under your breath. Some of the crowd rushes forward like a wave, and before you know it you’re being pulled with them as well. The buzz of voices overtakes the silhouettes’ firm position, until the one in the center moves to speak. “My name is Fae, and I’m one of the prefects of this academy. These are Scarlet and Arli. We are united, but today, we are divided with a common mission. But you’ll just have to wait and see what that is. Please come in.” She looks over her shoulder as she thrusts open the grand doors. “And please walk!”
The academy is an incredible place inside—with embellished architecture that you would only imagine in some far-flung fantasy movie. Some of the students brush their hands over the intricate carvings, but you stand back, simply observing the echo of voices through the halls. The ceiling is almost as high as the sky, but it doesn’t look all that daunting right now. You stand taller in your shoes and adjust your blazer.
“Each of you will have a designated area in which you gather for activities and discussions outside of your classes,” says Scarlet. “The three of us will be leading these discussions. Like a home room of sorts.” Her voice rings through the corridors like an antiquated telephone. She and Arli follow Fae down the hall, the crowd of students following.
At the end of the hall, a grand doorway makes way for a remarkable library. Novels and tiny books and biographies and ancient texts line the walls, a great shelf that almost repels you like a magnet placed in the middle. Comfortable chairs rest on either side in the academy’s colors—a dusty dark indigo and a calm regal yellow. A sign reads FAE’S GROUP with some text underneath it, probably students’ names. You file in, three by three, as if by the prefects’ model, and the windows’ light floods the room.
Fae calls the names of some students to stay, and you’re not on that list. She then instructs each of you to follow your prefect to a separate room. You’re placed in the East Wing, which is Arli’s group and will probably be a long ways away. Scarlet pulls her students down the hall, a glittering smile showing her confidence. You can see the West Wing in the distance, and it’s just as wonderful as the library—cool light flowing in as if to illuminate the whole world. You’re envious of the lucky students who get to stare out that window at the trees beyond, but you have a feeling the East Wing will be worth it.
As Arli leads a group of maybe fifteen of you down the hall, it finally dawns upon you. This is not a normal academy. It seems better than normal so far, but why are the prefects acting so different? You’re snapped from your contemplations by a sudden loud bark from inside. A yellow dog sits upon one of the chairs, and for a moment you try to remember whether dogs are allowed here.
“Oh, don’t mind that! That’s just Charlie. She… is an interesting animal, but an intellectual undeniably.” Arli smiles, then leads you all into the East Wing. She perched on her desk at the front. Light dances in from some smaller windows, where you can see leaves floating in all directions. The room is organized, filled with random notebooks and pictures of the prefects and some other people who you can’t quite make out. “This is going to be a very nice month,” Arli says, her voice ringing.

March 18th

Peggy was confused. It was 5:00 in the morning, and it seemed so early, yet her room was shaking with the wild click of distant keys. She knew that typing, at the speed of light. Angelica had tried to speedrun the weekly again. She knew it would only get worse from here, and, with a sigh, pulled on her yellow noise-canceling headphones to play The Schuyler Sisters from Hamilton. Within minutes, her mind had drifted back to sleep-deprived thoughts of the revolution she didn’t want to see. That was what happened to her. But for Angelica and Eliza, that morning was a whole different story.

Eliza checked the calendar hanging on the wall. Wednesday again. She sighed heavily. “So what are you doing during the weekend that forbids you from doing the weekly?”
“It’s called a weekly for a reason, Eliza,” Angelica retaliated rapidly, but there was a hint of laughter in her voice. “Plus, I was busy doing the dailies. And I have to achieve my word count.”
“Why?”
“For the feeling of satisfaction, and so that Real-Fi can achieve supreme dominance. Why else would I want to achieve my word count?”
“…Angelica, what is your word count?”
“I–I may or may not have reset it to 50,000.”
“50,000 words in a month?! How is that possible?”
Angelica leaned into her keyboard, and letters flickered across the scene. She only had one more part left–it was so easy, wasn’t it? Oh, but it wasn’t. “Sometimes you just have to write like you’re running out of time.”
“Nice reference.” Eliza glanced down at the paper with her steadily increasing word count. She was well into the ten-thousands thanks to Angelica’s motivation. She obeyed a healthy sleep schedule and knew how to lead a balanced life during the busy months of SWC. Except on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, she could never sleep with the chaotic clicking of the keyboard. It would start as early as four, never later than five-thirty, and go until at least six or seven, depending on how Hamilton on shuffle treated them that morning. Eliza feared for their younger sisters, especially Peggy, who was just next door, alone, probably listening to The Schuyler Sisters in her noise-canceling headphones instead of sleeping. But nothing could stop Angelica when she was doing the weekly. Eliza thought back to the time they’d tried, back the previous July. It had been quite a day–almost resulting in them throwing Angelica’s bright pink laptop across the room, which was so out of character for them both. There were a lot of pencils that broke that day, much to both of their dismay.
“I might as well start on the unfinished daily,” Eliza sighed. There were fifteen hours until the next came out, and she didn’t feel like being in the same position that Angelica was at four in the afternoon. She checked the main cabin, and as the text appeared, her bright eyes widened. What fandoms are you a part of?
She checked her phone to see her music library. Just Hamilton and more Hamilton and the Hamilton mixtape and Hamilton for miles. She picked up a pencil with the Hamilton star on its bright yellow eraser, and muttered to herself, “This should be fun.”

March 14th

On March 14, at 03:14, you must arrive at 14 3rd Street to find what your destiny is. Which may sound quite weird. But one day you will understand.
I should have ignored it—the secret message written in small symbols, the ones that looked like pi symbols but won’t. I knew it. I knew what they were, from so long and so many days and messages. I had finally escaped from the curse–the way I calculated each number, making sure it was divisible by three. The chaos of calculating the exact number of math problems I’d receive that night, sitting down meticulously to do and struggle over. I thought math would haunt me for the rest of my days and it did not. Until it did.
The dusty smiles of familiar faces, the way their eyes glowed with numbers–I saw the pencils in their hands, and I kept walking. The house was small and seemed perfectly measured, almost geometric. In one hand I held a cherry pie, and in the other a pumpkin pie with whipped cream in the middle. I had resisted the urge to cut them into ninths rather than eighths and continued on, piping pi symbols in the middle blindly. They turned out well–I knew how to draw the symbol by heart, even though I didn’t want to.
Then I was there–standing with the pies at the door. Rulers covered the edges, and they made my heart beat with excitement. I wanted to measure the top so badly–11 inches–no, 11.5 about–11.25 exactly–
“Oh, hello.” A familiar face stood at the door, smiling wide. “Welcome to the Pi Day rendezvous. I’m sure you remember.”
All of them appeared, and your mind began to calculate. You had to tell this story, how many there were, so you could record it. Numbers, variables, thoughts, a sudden rapid shift–
Fourteen plus me.

March 8th

NOTE: The first part, in italics, is the unfinished writing by @creatiivity ^^
You sat in one of the classroom’s plastic chairs, writing neatly on a blank sheet of paper. Your fine, ballpoint pen swirled black ink in your paper, forming lines, then letters, then words. Your teacher came by, standing next to your desk, which was neat and tidy.
‘Neat and tidy as always,’ your teacher remarked. ‘Your handwriting is so legible, it could be a computer font.’
You are, of course, flattered by this unexpected compliment. Smiling secretly to yourself, you sat up straight and looked directly at the teacher’s eyes. It was deep brown, you thought, just like chocolate.
‘Thank you,’ you said in your nicest, most softest voice. ‘But it is nowhere as neat as yours.’
Your teacher bursted out laughing. ‘Me? My handwriting looks like garbage compared to yours!’
Looks of jealousy and admiralty spread across your classmate’s faces. They knew that this teacher was very, very difficult to please. They wondered how you got to please her so easily.
‘Well, class, look at Samara’s work,’ The teacher said, holding up your work. The class gasped, wide eyed and full of awe.
‘Her writing is so pretty!’
‘And neat!’
‘She’s nearly written a full page!’
‘It’s only the first week of school and she is already liked by the teacher!’
You smiled, your golden hair trickling on your back. You were always liked by the teacher, no matter what. Your looks, your academic level - already liked. You had a level of charisma so high that no one else can achieve it. A level of intelligence and iq so high that it was considered a genius. You always knew what to say, what to do, and many different ways you can do things that you won’t get in trouble.
Everyone liked you. You were the cool girl everyone wanted to be with. You would always walk so elegantly, it was almost like you were gliding. Your voice was soft and you could sing really high notes and low notes. You would always come second or first place in talent shows; you could play the piano really well; and you were really friendly to your peers. You were so popular to the point where the kindergarteners know your name.
You also had the nature of calm; your expression was always serene - rarely got angry. Everytime someone spoke to you, they would feel comfortable and consoled.
‘Guys,’ the teacher said, waving her want to get your and your classmate’s attention. ‘I’m going to hand out leader notes. You guys can sign up if you want.’
The class immediately glances at you. You smile.
‘Hey,’ the teacher said. ‘I’m going to hand it to you. Put your hand up if you want to sign up for tryouts.’
The teacher immediately handed you the note. The note was blue - your favourite colour- and when you scanned the text, your face began to warm.

It said here you need to write and present a speech. You loved speeches; you won more public and debating competitions than anyone could remember. This was perfect.

‘Hey, Samara,’ someone came up to you. This person was obviously an admirer of yours.
‘Hey,’ you replied. The admirer was a girl named Lisa. Lisa was a short, skinny kid with round spectacles. She had blazing, red hair and light brown eyes. ‘How may I help you?’
Lisa was embarrassed before even saying a word. ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’m voting for you!’
‘Aww thanks,’ You said, your heart warming up.
‘No problem,’ then Lisa sped off before saying anything else.
You felt elated. At least you had one vote.
When you got home that afternoon, you carefully took off her shoes and placed them neatly near the door. you then carried your bag upstairs, changed your clothes, and sat on your bed. A speech formed beautifully in your mind. Not only was it engaging and interesting, it was also persuasive in such a way that the audience would be instantly hooked. You jumped off her bed and pulled out a sheet of paper. You then began to write quickly, in your messy handwriting.
‘Samara!’ You heard your mother calling you for dinner. ‘The meal’s ready!’
It was usually around that time of day that you started to talk about everything that had happened, and there was a lot to talk about that day–the teacher, the admirers, the speech–but something about their faces made you turn red with fear, red like the exact color of Lisa's hair. You remembered her shining blue eyes, the way she smiled as she glanced at you. You smiled just the same way. Everything felt perfect, and then you looked at your mother's face, dark and strained, and it all came back to you like a flood.
“I got an email today, from your teacher.” She sat down and picked up her spoon, spinning it around menacingly. “She says your grade is the highest in the class, that you've been doing exceptionally in your social life as well. She wants you to write some speech, I can't quite remember, but… I have to say, it's quite impressive.”
Your older sister Cerelise stared at you, not her usual glare but still sparks of jealousy in her eyes. She was four years older than you and always hearing this, and sometimes it made you feel good but that day it hurt like a knife.
“But Samara…” She sighed, putting her head down on her hand. Was she disappointed in you or herself? “We talked about keeping a low profile. I've heard you talking of all these new friends you have and those girls from your math class with who you wanted to start a study group. It can't happen. It can't happen, Samara. I'm sorry, but this isn't how it was supposed to go!” Her voice broke into a high shout and you backed away. You and Cerelise exchange a knowing glance as your tabby cat scurries out from under the table and into the living room.
Cerelise's quiet yet raspy voice rang out. “What she's trying to say to you is that, even if you're an amazing student and whatnot, if you keep getting popular it could be a danger to our family's secret. Our mission, the whole reason we're here.”
It could be a danger to our family's secret. “You just told me about this a year ago! Sometimes it can take someone time to adjust to such a revelation–”
Your mother speaks again, her voice dreary. “Yes, sure, but that is who you need to become. Or else it's not going to work for you here. So keep being an exceptional student but keep a low profile.” She stared coldly into your blue eyes, and you glance down at the pasta on your plate. “Do not tell anyone about this.”
It started to swirl around you then. The hot pink air. The anger, the type that surrounded you before you came there and before you became the perfect one. You didn't want it back. They could see it, they'd learned to tell what it was. “You may be excused if you need to.”
Without a word, you flounced out of the room, your golden ponytail bouncing messily on your back. Your phone buzzed in the pocket of your black jeans. You look down at the message. It's one of the girls from your math group, Serendipity.

SERI: Samara when should we meet up to start the study group at your house?

You considered not responding, but it felt wrong. Quickly, you typed out a response.

SAMARA: i'm sorry but we can't do it @ my house, is anyone else willing?

SERI: Is something wrong?

Your eyes, which felt heavy and hot, drifted to Seri's icon. It was her standing in a field of wildflowers, her short black hair bouncing on her shoulders. Her eyes, there was something about them–like you could trust them. You liked her.
And more importantly, you were done with the flood of feelings that had swept over you. You were tired of drowning.

SAMARA: can i trust you with a secret?

March 6th

Time travel. That concept they always talk about, that scientists debate about and that we wish we could attain. “What if we could turn back time?” “Could we alter the timeline?!” “How could this change our world?”
But it would be interesting if we actually could build a time machine, one that could accompany us on our journeys and take us anywhere we wanted without significant harm, right?
I would start with the large things. I’d go back very far in time, find a way to make perfectly equal countries with equal rights, equal treatment. Go forward and find treatments to illnesses and injuries, go back and implement them. Then fix some of the more current things–get rid of the COVID-19 pandemic once and for all before it even started, make sure that everything was going smoothly across the world. We couldn’t do this with just one person–it would take everyone, a lot of alterations, a lot of time. Like a complex algebra problem with too many ins, outs, and variables. But somehow with trial and error, we’d find an answer, if everyone would just unite to cooperate.
And then we’d move on to the less global things.
I would try to alter the circumstances just enough so that I could have met my best friends a few years earlier–not for any particular reason, just pleasure and memories (and the ability to understand all the chaotic things that happened to them in the early years of elementary school). I’d try to find a way to relive the night my favorite song was released, but I don’t know if I could do that–unless time travel completely brainwashed me, which would be quite an issue. I’d go see a production of the musical Amélie in 2017 with Phillipa Soo as the lead. And, of course, I’d go to 2020–the year I became active on Scratch–and join the 2020 sessions of SWC. If that happened, this would be my 7th session!
But maybe we can’t do that. Maybe time travel is impossible, or maybe it’s possible but we can’t comprehend it, or maybe it’s possible and we can comprehend it but time machines aren’t the way. All we can do now is focus on today and tomorrow.

March 2nd

There was a tree. Seemed like nothing more, just a tree. With a thick trunk, a hundred thousand broken branches surrounding. It was the tree people came to look at, admiring its fiery leaves, the leaves that looked like little shards of volcanoes. Children tried to climb it and then would be pulled down by their parents. And then one day it was gone.
I got lucky. I, a leaf in the wind, blew away into the stones while the others were pulled into a void, a vacuum, a whole world of nothing. Like a dusty butterfly, I flickered, fluttered into the sky. A spark of hope, maybe. And from up there in the sky, I saw a lot.
I saw that some eucalyptus trees had blossomed where they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have been there. I shouldn’t have been there but I kept going, seeing the blanket of eucalyptus trees as they spread across the earth like a cloud. I didn’t like them. I missed the tree I had come from, the tree with its hundred thousand broken branches below before they came and took it down the hill. A hill now covered with eucalyptus trees.
I thought I saw a leaf just like myself, a fiery dusted leaf with a chip on its side. I fluttered and flickered down and then I saw my own reflection in the lake. And then I dipped the peaks along my edges into the lakes and watched everything sinking.
In the placid watercolor mess I saw the reflection of a city. A city built of bricks and beige paint, where a young girl sat on a dock–maybe she was sixteen, I didn’t know. Her tears and her hopes dripped into the lake, each making a plunging splash. I brushed past her and she looked back, her eyes glassy blue-grey, her face in shock. She stood up, pushing her yellow reading glasses onto her nose. A boy who looked like her sprinted past, his rainbow socks creating streaks like wind. They started to blur. He tripped and there was a loud crash and a crumble, and a high shriek, and then he glanced down at the crumbled pieces of the last orange leaf, of me. Then he walked away, his face silent, as the girl, probably his sister, ran after him shouting, and her glasses clattered to the ground with the last of the droplets of hope.

March 1st

Salutations! I’m Arli, one of the co-leaders for the Real-Fi cabin this session, and I am so supremely excited to be a part of this amazing system! I use she/her pronouns and I’m an ENFJ-T. My zodiac sign is Capricorn, and I’m somewhere between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff (my standing has been widely disputed). Other than writing, I enjoy art and singing along with the occasional hiking. I’m mostly known among my friends for being a slightly hyper Hamilton-obsessed Ariana fanatic, and let’s just say all of this is true. I look forward to getting to know all of you this session! <333

~

˘ Weeklies ˘

Weekly 1

https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/582424/?page=56#post-6101854

~

˘ Word War Proof ˘

Word War with @SophIlsa

The viciously flickering fire with all its yellow and red and orange colors flashed just like we had seen the lightning late last night. I had measured that it was exactly 1:49 in the morning, a time that felt strangely fit for what was happening. The lightning bolt, the terrible flash. And the alarm clock screaming and the voices glitching in and out. And Kendra standing just outside my door somehow, somehow I’d never understand, somehow I could have asked, and I’ll never know, I’ll never know, I’ll never know, I’ll never understand her like I used to. Even with everything that had happened, over so many years, starting with that day when we were seven.
The tree’s roots were thrown from the ground, its leaves scattered everywhere and blowing into our hair and our eyes and the fire, then burning and burning until they were simply scraps of a former world. I watched it without a word and I knew Kendra would speak eventually, but she didn’t and simply watched them pull the tree away, trying to figure out an arrangement, an arrangement that would most definitely fail and leave all of us, all the 1 million people focused on that tree, hopeless. So there we were, hopeless, and that was why I decided to ask a very stupid question.
“Have you heard from Karli Lynn lately?”
“Oh.” Kendra laughs as if expecting the question, plotting it in her mind, loading the plan– “No. I’ll never hear from her again, at least I hope. After everything that happened, I knew that we couldn’t be friends.”
“Are you talking about–” The rustling of the fiery leaves in the night stopped me. Their glow was irresistible. I could almost see my reflection upon them, and Kendra’s. I could feel it happening. I could feel the cut thread being pulled back together. But then what would happen? An eternal knot in our friendship, a block in the road? Nothing ever the same, everything just wrong like a piece of a puzzle missing. Except it wasn’t like that. I couldn’t put the feeling into words, what I was

The forest
One day there was a little girl named Lily. She was a kind, caring and helpful little girl. One peaceful night , Lilly was happily having a relaxing sleep until she woke up and heard an odd noise so Lilly got out of bed and quietly creeped into the forest. Step by step made a small quiet sound Lilly was concentrating so hard not to make a peep when she bumped into a tree. She hadn't realised she'd gone so far until she looked up, there was a danger do not go past this point or else. Lilly was so scared t made her jump in shock! Luckily out of no where this small boy around Lilly's age came and said “I can help you find your way home and my name is Tom”. “Yes please Lilly excitedly said! So together they retraced Lilly's steps and they found her house. ” Thankyou so much ,Tom. after a while Lilly dashed into her fridge and got some ice cream for Tom as a thank you gift. “Yum delicious”! , Tom said with a mouthful of ice cream in his cold mouth. It's ok I should be thanking you more this is only ice cream! Ok you win Lilly said with a cheeky smile. Lilly and tom both together had a good friendship and lived happily ever after.

swc march 2022 ➳ writing log
Heya! Since SWC has (officially, not in my timezone :']) started, I thought I should make my comment now! I'll have all my works organized here so it's easier to look through ^^

Dailies
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March 1 ➳ Roleplay-esque intro! (Forgot that this was due in UTC and had trouble with posting :'D)
March 2 ➳ Inanimate object writing
March 3 ➳ Icecream flavor inspiration
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Weeklies
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Week 1 ➳ —
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Word wars
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Other
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hey! I'm Astro! :> I like cake swimming art and other thing you can see more about me in my project ^^

Pearl's SWC Writing Thread

About Me
I don't think this is nessecary but I'm putting it anyways.
I'm Pearl and I'm from Real-Fi


Dailies
Daily 8
Isabela is perfect. Everyone admires her. They're entertained by her and they come to the Madrigal house time and time again to hear her play any musical instrument they like. She has what everyone wants: beauty and talent. So why doesn't she like it?

Well, as to what's causing the problem, she's pretty sure she knows. But what it is…is a good thing. It's the fact that she's always asked to perform at parties. Actually, that's inaccurate. She's asked to perform at least twice every day.

One of the things people love to do the most is try to see if they can name a musical instrument she can't play. They know it's pointless, and everyone around them knows it's pointless. Madrigal powers don't ever cease to amaze. But they still do it, day after day.

That's why, when the Madrigal house falls apart, Isabela is more happy than she is sad. She's finally free of her so-called “gift.” Only then does she realize why she hates being perfect. She just wants to be normal. To finally be the one watching someone else perform, rather than always being the one onstage.

She runs into the forest, where she sings her heart out, letting herself hit all the wrong notes at all the wrong times. She sings of her problems. She sings of all the ways she wants to fix them. When she's finally done, she sits down where she is and weeps. What if Abuela heard her? How can she ever fix her problems? Then she hears footsteps behind her and gasps. It must be Abuela.

Who she finds when she turns around isn't Abuela, though. It's her littlest sister, Mirabel. The lucky one. The one without a gift.

“I heard you singing.”

“I guessed.”

“You sounded hideous.”

“Thank you.” Isabela smiles weakly.

“Do you want me to help you?”

“How could you help me?”

“Well, I've got a few friends,” Mirabel says, gesturing to the bushes behind her. All of the Madrigal family – well, excluding Abuela – including her missing uncle Bruno. Isabela narrows her eyes at the sight of this.

“I have two questions,” she starts. “One: How did uncle Bruno get here? Two: It makes me feel good to know that all of you guys are on my side, but how can you help me?”

“One: Bruno's… kinda been living in the walls this entire time. I'll explain more later if you want. Two: Well, we can't exactly. But we can help when you confront Abuela. Which you are definitely doing,” Mirabel answers.

“Yeah, we can all answer Abuela one by one and it can be all heroic!” Bruno adds.

“Bruno, this is not one of your rat telenovelas,” Mirabel says.

“What?” asks everybody at once.

“Long story,” Mirabel answers. “Anyway, let's go and give Abuela a piece of our minds.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Isabella says, “Mirabel your an idiot.”

“Thanks, wait what?” Mirabel says.

“You think we can just, walk up to her and say ‘Oh hey I don’t like you', or whatever your even going to say!.” Isabella says “If you want me in on this, we need a plan.”

“Uh.. ok” Mirabel says.

“I have an idea!” Antonio says suddenly. “Well the animals did at least.”

Isabella rolls her eyes.

"So they said sneak u

Daily 4

Saturn's Aesthitic

Weeklies

Word Wars

Cabin Wars

Writing Comp (if I decide to enter)

I made a new one because I couldn't find my old one. If you find it please send me the link.

Here's my post, which I've claimed for my writing!

Writing Comp Piece: (All the Ways She's Changed) (Previously called What the Stars Saw, also word count changed to 528 words)

She doesn't laugh as much anymore.

She smiles sometimes, but it's a half-smile, a shadow of what it used to be. She used to beam brightly, her grin used to be infectious and brilliant. Now it is tainted by grief, loss, and despair. When she smiles these days, it doesn't last very long. It falls away quickly, as if she resents herself for still being able to smile when so many others cannot.

She's thinner. At least she's eating now, but her figure is still gaunt and stiff, her ribs showing through her chest. She was always thin, but never like this.

Her eyes don't sparkle like they used to. Big blue pools full of life, love and laughter. She's seen her fair share of all of those now, but shadows cross her irises where there used to be sunlight, and her eyes have witnessed horrors that should never be witnessed. There is grief and despair in those eyes. When she looks at you, you feel as though humans are insignificant, and the universe itself is small. There's a depth to her gaze that wasn't there before.

She has an air of despair around her. She seems weary, even after a good night's sleep. She keeps her head down when she walks, and her arms held tight around her chest. She doesn't talk that much, and when she does; it's poignant, insightful comments that leave you wondering what exactly is going on in her mind. She's shy when she was talkative, insecure where she was confident, scared when she was brave and alone when she was always surrounded by people.

She doesn't trust many people, afraid that they'll be taken away from her too. She won't let herself love, let herself feel any emotion except grief and pain. She tried to talk about it for a while, but gave up when she realised it would never help. The only way to stop others from getting hurt, she felt, was to stay away and isolate herself from all others. It was the only way. Those connections she did have, she held on tight to. Some called her clingy, others a nuisance, and gradually, people drifted away, one by one, until she was alone once more.

Even the way she's changed has changed. When they broke the news she crumpled to the floor, wailing and sobbing. The second time it happened, she screamed at the sky, begging for them back. The third time, she sat down, pale as a ghost, not speaking, not moving, not crying, barely breathing. That last time was the most worrying. Everybody was scared for her that time.

She's still the same person, but she's different. She's a shell of what she was, who she was. They tell her that those she lost wouldn't want her to live like this, but it's no consolation. Everywhere she looks is empty. Everyone, everything she loved is gone. Why wouldn't she live like this? Why shouldn't she live like this?

So she continues on, hanging by a thread, living- but barely, a different person to who she was. In everything she does, it's clear- all the ways she's changed. And I miss who she used to be.


Weekly #3:

INSPIRATION FROM MUSIC:

The first song I have chosen is an instrumental of ‘Line Without a Hook’ by Ricky Montgomery

“Lady Amalia Montgomery, of Heatherdale!”
That was my cue, and I glided down the stairs, into the ballroom. The party was already in full swing, and while a few people looked up to see me enter, most were focussed on their dances and conversations to notice my arrival. It was for the best- I always got nervous when everyone’s eyes were on me.
My gown glittered in the light of the chandeliers, thousands of tiny crystals sparkling and glimmering as I walked. The poufy, cloud-like material made me feel like I was floating across the ballroom. I accepted a dance without paying attention to who asked me, and soon I was flying across the dance floor, spinning and twirling in time with the music. The royal family had gotten the best musicians in the kingdom, and rich sounds filled the huge space. A kaleidoscope of gowns twirled and flared with the violins, and the tuxedoed gentlemen kept time with the piano and the cellos. It was a sea of light, colour, and music, but it all seemed to fade away the moment I looked up and saw exactly who I was dancing with.
I didn’t know his name. I had absolutely no idea who he was, but he was gorgeous. I was certain I wasn’t dancing with the prince (who looked like a walrus, albeit a very rich one), but I didn’t care. Black hair that was effortlessly stylish, sea green eyes filled with laughter and sharp cheekbones looked down on me as I stared, shocked.
“I didn’t think you would ever look up, this whole dance.” He said, amused at my expression. “You’ve been looking at everyone else, and at the floor, but I didn’t think you had seen me.”
My eyes widened as I fished around in my brain for something- anything- to say. “Naturally, the floor is a very important thing to look at while dancing. Wouldn’t want me to step on you.” I cringed. Couldn’t I have said something a bit less strange?
He seemed to find this even funnier. “But of course. How careless of me to impose on your selfless floor staring. You’re doing us a great service, my lady.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but snapped it shut again. He chuckled. “I’m Avery.”
“Amalia.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He chuckled. “Believe me, my lady, the pleasure is all mine.”

The second song I have chosen is the instrumental Kahoot music


Weekly:

Haiku: (The path ahead)
Tears upon my cheeks
I don't look back as we go
My future ahead

Acrostic: (promise)
Please don't tell them
Right and wrong don't matter
Only you know
Making the vow
Intertwined pinkies
Say you'll never tell
Every time you break that oath, your betrayal hurts

Limerick: (Seasickness)
There once was a boat on the sea
With my mother, my father, and me
Till the water did churn
And I took my turn
Getting rid of what I had for tea

Sestina: (Dreamscape)
Through an ethereal world I wander
The impossible, with a perfect view
Over a mountain, through valleys yonder
All my hopes are coming true
This place is truly perfect, I ponder
But my thoughts are interrupted by a new thing to do

A valley full of dreams come true
A place to run, a place to ponder
A park bench in the air, a panoramic view
Over the horizon, in a village yonder
Are people who are happy no matter what they do
But I move along as I continue to wander

Alongside crystal streams I wander
So much to see, so much to do
How did I get here, I ponder
A forest with deer and with unicorns true
But I see a commotion happening yonder
As they prance around the trees, a beautiful view

A buzz of activity, a blurry view
No time to think, no time to ponder
So much to see, so much to do
People rushing from here to yonder
Making me question, is this place true
Dizzy, I continue on my wander

I stroll through meadows, on my peaceful wander
I fly up in the sky for a better view
I see people like me when I look out yonder
I've achieved so much, what else can I do
As I soar through the air, those thoughts I ponder
Everything here's too good to be true

A gingerbread house, the fairytale's true
Red Riding Hood out for a wander
Jill and Jack, fighting over what to do
I see Goldilocks and the bears over yonder
All my childhood tales I finally get to view
Is this just another fantasyland, I ponder

As I finish my wander, and marvel at the view
The thoughts that I ponder escape me, and darkness black and true
Engulfs me, I don't know what to do, but I hear a voice yonder, telling me to wake

Free Verse: (Ocean)
Rolling waves
Against the shore, they pound
Displaying their might

“I could destroy your greatest cities with a single wave”
The ocean roars
And the wind howls in harmony
The temperature drops

But I am not afraid
Let them come
I will feel the waves crash over me
I will feel the wind pushing me
I will feel the temperature chilling me
And
I
Will
Be
Still