⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ • poetry • descriptive writing • short stories •
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀• book excerpts • swc • fanfic • miscellaneous •

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Main Cabin, My Cabin, and In-Cabin Group (add links)

Wordcounter

Total Word Count (link forum post with word counts listed)

Main Cabin Dailies:

In-Cabin Dailies:

Weeklies: 1st || 2nd || 3rd || 4th ||

Writing Competion Entry (add link)

Stuff I may want to find later:

Daily, (date) (month), (amount written)/(word minimum) for (number of) points:

Main Cabin, Fantasy Cabin, and In-Cabin Group

Wordcounter

Word Count: 5939 (last updated at 15:45 on 9th March)
Stone Count: 20 + 2 from 9/3 daily + 1 from winning a word war (last updated at 15:45 on 9th March)

Main Cabin Dailies: 1st Mar (no daily) || 2nd Mar || 3rd Mar || 4th Mar (character aesthetics) || 5th Mar || 6th Mar || 7th Mar (char questions, no proof needed) || 8th Mar || 9th Mar (taking a quiz as OC) || 10th Mar || no points for 11 Mar || 12 Mar (cabin wars) || 13-14 Mar (no points and skipped) || 15 Mar || 16 Mar || 17 Mar (no points) || 18 Mar || 19 Mar (no points) || 20 Mar || 21 Mar || 22 Mar ||

In-Cabin Prompts: 1 (did not complete) || 2nd Mar ||

Weeklies: 1st || 2nd || 3rd || 4th ||

Word Wars Won: 9th Mar ||

Cabin Wars: 12 March ||

Writing Competition Entry || Fanfic Entry

stuff I may want to find later:

Though I do not shiver, I am cold. Chilled, as always, from a night of rest. When I see the human grabbing the chair and sitting down in front of me, I know she will pull her hands back sharply after she first touches me.

It won't stop her from using me, though. It never does.

She winces slightly, pulling the sleeves of her sweater over the base of her palms. Soft material is pressed against my smooth metal surface; I can feel the weave of the cloth, thousands of tiny blue threads pulled together, such a different texture to any part of myself. Her fingertips, light and slightly pen-stained, tap over my keys. When she uses my touchpad, she swirls her warm finger around in a circle before clicking down. Her habit. Swirl, click. Swirl, click.

She navigates through her emails, the fresh bunch she gets at the start of each day. My human has many interests, many activities, and all the companies she uses seem intent on keeping her as a customer. I could tell them that it is no use, that their constant flow of emails annoys her. She has already adjusted the settings so that they arrive in her spam folder, and as she looks over them, her face — pale in the early morning light coming through my webcam — is indifferent.

When she has to click delete on a junk email that somehow made it through my detectors into her main inbox, it feels like a reproach. I determine to be more careful in future, to sort more painstakingly.

The tedious business of emails over, she opens up a webpage. For the first time since she touched my cold frame — which is now warmer from both a burst of activity and the heat leaking from her hands — she smiles.

The metal is tarnished now. Once polished to a bright, smooth gold, it used to cast a dim golden shine onto the wall when the sun came through the window. I'd drag my fingers across the heated metal, momentarily disrupting the reflection, before lying back on the sun-warmed floorboards.

Now, spotted with rust — disfigured — it barely stands out from the dark wood of the door. And even if the sun could still make its way through the grimy window, even if the tarnish disappeared, the bloodstains would still remain. They start on the floor, spatter across the base of the door, then claw halfway up the wood before they reach the circle of the doorknob, their highest point. At first hardly noticeable in the dim hallway, just another blackened blotch on the metal, they begin to stand out the longer you look at them.

When I touch the doorknob, it is cold.

I run my fingers across it. I notice the strange contrast between what my fingers and my eyes tell me; the dulled receptors embedded in my skin cannot sense a difference between the tarnished metal, still smooth despite everything, and the blood staining it, whereas my eyes pick at the blotches, trying to peel them apart. Of course, it is useless. They are the same thing now, melded into each other, as hopelessly intertwined as my memories of this place are now with my new-found knowledge.

I try to scrape a little of the long-dried blood off the wood of the door instead, picking at it with my fingernails. It comes off slightly, but only enough to stick underneath my nail-beds without even making a visible difference. I stop.

I hold onto the doorknob for one last time. It is colder and dirtier than I remember. The memories are disappearing and instead the shadows are rushing in.

When I wake up, I have cold, wet dirt smudged on my cheek from where I rolled over during the night. Some sort of insect is buzzing above my head. I knew camping in the Marshes was a bad idea, but my legs were shaking with exhaustion and even though I tried to force myself further on, I had to stop here. Now, as I push myself up onto my side, the ground squelching, pain hits me sharply. I grit my teeth and stand up, attempting to ignore the overworked and very sore muscles in my legs.

It's almost enough to make me forget where I am. Not quite.

The Marshes are generally avoided for good reason — and on my previous travels, I made sure to plot my routes well away from them. This time, I didn't have so much choice. I need to get back to the Quadrata with my news before full moon, bog-shifters and faeries be *, as my informant from Ostrum put it.

So as I adjust my cloak, I make sure my knives are still secure in all their positions and strap my sword back on. They say faeries are tricky with words, but I've never met one yet that couldn't be… persuaded… by a sharp blade held at the right angle. I keep alert, eating a slim breakfast on the move as I track in between reeds. If it wasn't for my path-finding affinity, I'd probably have drowned in five minutes; there are many false paths that look perfect, firm and true, leading straight into a bog. So many, in fact, that they look designed.

I've been on the move for an hour, deep into the heart of the marshes, when the thin pipe of a flute ahead of me breaks over the quiet slosh of my steps. I stop still, crouching in the reeds, hand going to the hilt of my sword. Nothing good lives in the marshes.

The sound of the flute moves away. I know it could be some sort of trick, a distraction, so I keep an eye on my immediate surroundings as I cautiously start moving again. Following the sound is the last thing I want to do, but I have a sinking suspicion that it is moving along the only safe path for miles. I just hope the melody isn't some sort of spell designed to entrap me.

After ten minutes or so, I realise that the player is heading for a hill, the tip of which I can only see above the reeds after we have drawn near it. A hill in the marshes? It is likely to be the home of someone or something living here. I must not disturb them–

The playing abruptly stops.

My heart jumps in my chest as I slowly, quietly part the reeds ahead of me. A ragged bright red curtain, covering the mouth of an opening into the hill, flaps as though someone has just gone through. I curse internally as my senses tell me that if I want to get through the marshes, I must follow.

Part One: Poetry

54 + 76 + 14 + 89 + 92 = 325 words total.

1. Limerick, 54 words.

there was once a dog that could talk
and when he went on a walk
he shouted so loud
a humongous crowd
gathered around him to gawk

“be still” the dog quickly said
as he was hit with a sudden dread
suppose someone well-meaning
did something demeaning —
in short, patted him on the head?

2. Acrostic (anger), 76 words.

and it comes over me, a sweeping rush.
niceties disappear and a silent hush
grows over the room as they turn in the crush;
everyone stares at me, but without a blush,
rage leaps from my tongue in an angry slush.

all of their shocked and fearful stares
needle me more. I return their glares
giddy with fury. can they sustain such airs
even when sitting in those gaudy chairs,
running from reality up their stairs?

3. Haiku, 14 words.

sizzling rain pours down
white steam rises from concrete
ground heat and sky heat

4. Etheree, 89 words:

TW FOR THEMES OF SA

when I was younger I thought it happened
to other people who weren't careful,
who stayed out late wearing tight clothes,
and didn't listen to warnings.
but then I realised that
I was wrong, so wrong.
it could happen
even to
myself.
me.

I
become
afraid, start
to walk faster
when boys shout at me
from across the dark street.
it would never be my fault.
(don't really think it will happen,
but I am still so afraid.) keeping
my head down is all I can do. please don't—

TW FOR THEMES OF SA ENDS

5. Free verse, 92 words:

speeding along a grey belt through green and blue land
“gosh look how flooded those fields are”
empty takeaway packets and white plastic decorate the bushes like oversized christmas ornaments
a crow flaps slowly overhead, black against grey
“should i take my bag in or just my bible”
foot tapping restlessly
“stop it”
a tyre lies listless against the edge of the barrier
horses, bundled up and standing next to a tree, ignore us
graffiti scrawls along the sides of the bridge as it arches over us
“it’s this road isn’t it”

Part Two: Essays

Why is Ron Weasley hated on so disproportionately? 770 words.

With millions of fans from all over the world, it's not surprising that there are many strange ideas and theories about the Harry Potter series and its characters. Wherever large groups of people congregate to discuss a certain topic, there will be many different opinions and views shared — often at polar extremes to each other. But unlike in a mainstream or scientific debate, where obviously flawed theories can be quickly debunked and left to die, many weird, wacky and quite frankly canon-contradicting assumptions are largely unquestioned by portions of the fandom. One of the most egregious examples of this phenomenon is the characterisation of Ron Weasley.

In canon, Ron Weasley is Harry's best friend for multiple reasons. They share similar values and ideas, such as a love of Quidditch. Harry finds Ron fun to “hang out” with (and vice versa), in fact, more so than with Hermione (as stated in the Goblet of Fire when Harry isn't speaking to Ron: “Harry liked Hermione very much, but she just wasn't the same as Ron. There was much less laughter… when Hermione was your best friend.”). Ron treats Harry well when they first meet and helps to explain various different aspects of the Wizarding World to him. In fanon, however, Ron is often portrayed quite differently: as a clumsy, stupid buffoon whose only personality traits are being obsessed with food and jealous of Harry. When characters are given bad traits that they don't have in the book — or their bad traits are distorted until the character themselves can be described as bad — by fanfic authors and readers, this is usually called bashing. However, many members of the fandom who treat Ron's character in this way refuse to admit that they are bashing him. Some even go so far as to claim that he is like this canonically, and Harry should have cut him off because he is ‘toxic’.

My question is: why is one of the most realistic characters in Harry Potter demonised in this way? One answer lies with the films. Many of Ron's best lines are cut out or even given to other characters, especially Hermione. For example, in Prisoner of Azkaban the book, Ron tells Sirius that, “You'll have to kill all three of us!” when it appears that he is attempting to kill Harry. In the film, this line is given to Hermione (“If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us too!”). This makes Hermione seem brave and defensive of Harry, whereas Ron just cowers in the corner throughout the entire scene. Later in the film, he is given extra lines which make him seem stupid and incoherent when the trio try to explain the Sirius-Pettigrew mystery to Dumbledore. In another instance in the Chamber of Secrets, Hermione is called the anti-Muggleborn slur ‘Mudblood’. In the book, it is Ron who explains what it means to the trio — something which makes sense, as Ron grew up in the wizarding world and is familiar with both its lighter and darker aspects. Hermione is given the job of clarifying it in the films, taking away a moment when Ron's magical upbringing and general knowledge could have had time to shine. To add to this, quite a few Ron-Hermione moments were cut in favour of Harry-Hermione, giving the impression that Harry and Hermione had a much closer relationship and should have ended up together.

Another answer could potentially be that many fans refuse to acknowledge that Ron is a teenage boy and, as such, is portrayed quite accurately. Instead, they hold him to the standards of an adult. They cite Ron's sulky behaviour around the Triwizard Tournament and at the Yule Ball as evidence of him being ‘selfish’ and ‘jealous’ of Harry, ‘entitled’ and ‘possessive’ of Hermione. As such, they say, he is a bad friend. In labelling his behaviour as such, they overlook the fact that he is fourteen and immature, as many fourteen-year-olds are. He later overcomes these flaws; he apologises for disbelieving Harry and although he doesn't outright do so to Hermione, he drops his sulky behaviour — suggesting that he has realised there is something wrong with it, although he is too juvenile to apologise — and later in the books, treats Hermione far more respectfully (for example in the Deathly Hallows). Although Ron's conduct is far from perfect in many respects, it is far from irredeemable.

In conclusion, Ron Weasley is a needlessly maligned character and fans who continue to pile hate on him are usually confusing canon Ron with film Ron or holding a teenager to adult standards.

Part Three: Script Writing

link to original writing. 743 words

GINNY and LUNA stand in front of a shop doorway.

GINNY (sniffing)
Wait, what is this?

LUNA (twirling hair around finger)
Lush.

GINNY
Excuse me?

LUNA
It's a Muggle shop. (She moves towards the doorway.) They sell soap — the fun kind. And bath bombs.

GINNY (grinning)
Bath bombs? Sounds like something my brothers would invent. (She moves towards Luna) It smells very… strong.

LUNA
Yeah. They don't explode. Your brothers only like things that explode, don't they? You put these in the bath and they fizz. They make the water smell nice. There are loads of different… is flavours the word?

LUNA takes GINNY'S hand and pulls her through the shop doorway.

LUNA
They're also really good for keeping Nargles away.

Two MUGGLES give GINNY and LUNA an odd look.

GINNY
Hmm. Maybe I could gift one to Fred or George. It might give them interesting ideas.

LUNA
As in actually exploding bath bombs? (She picks up a soap) I tried to make those once back at home. It went wrong. If you look closely, you can still see the purple patches.

GINNY
The Anti-Nargle charm? I still remember that time you accidentally exploded a potion… (She looks through the racks and holds up a dragon-shaped soap) What do you think of this?

LUNA
Is that for Harry? It looks a bit more like a Ridgeback than a Horntail to me.

GINNY
I think he'll like it anyway.

LUNA (seriously)
You should get him a matching bath bomb, then. I wonder if there's one in Gryffindor colours? He might want to soak after the match.

GINNY (giggling)
I think he's more into showers, really.

LUNA (dismayed)
Showers? That's not really a good idea, considering how prevalent Showerbogies are.

GINNY (grinning slightly and changing the subject)
Do you think the Malfoys have these at home? (She holds up a green snake soap) I'm nearly completely sure that Draco still sleeps in green and silver pyjamas.

LUNA
I think that's a bit bright for their aesthetic. When I was in their cellar, everything was dark and ancient. It did mean that there were a lot of Nargles everywhere, which explains why Draco turned out the way he did.

LUNA turns to look at the other side of the shop.

LUNA (excited)
Oooh, look, they're demonstrating bath bombs! Do you want to have a look?

LUNA and GINNY walk over to where SHOP ASSISTANT stands holding a tub of water with a bath bomb inside.

SHOP ASSISTANT (addressing the customers)
Would anyone like to dip their hands in? It's very soothing. Makes your skin feel really really soft.

LUNA
Ooh, yes please! Ginny would too as well, don't you, Ginny?

GINNY (smiling at SHOP ASSISTANT)
If that's okay.

GINNY and LUNA dip their hands into the bowl containing their bath bombs.

GINNY
You're right, it is really soft. I've never had a bath bomb before.

LUNA
You can get the same effect with this soap-multiplying potion I invented recently! I can give you the recipe later, if you want?

GINNY looks anxiously at SHOP ASSISTANT.

SHOP ASSISTANT (mishearing)
Oh, do you make soap?

LUNA (realising what she said)
Uh. Yes. (She looks at GINNY for help.)

GINNY
She got a kit for last Christmas. It's been lots of fun so far.

GINNY and LUNA dry their hands on a towel.

SHOP ASSISTANT
Would you like to buy one of these bath bombs now you've tried it?

GINNY
Yes please. (She holds out the dragon.) This too?

SHOP ASSISTANT (looking slightly confused)
The counter is over there.

GINNY (slightly embarrassed)
Oh yes, of course.

LUNA (whispering)
Do you have Muggle money on you? I have some, so I can pay if you want.

GINNY
I do have some, actually. Thanks. (She moves over towards the racks.) I might just look for something for Ron as well, if that's okay?

LUNA
Of course.

GINNY and LUNA browse for bath bombs.

LUNA (holding up bath bombs and sniffing them)
Lemon-scented bath bombs really help with Blibbering Humdingers. Do you think Ronald would like one?

GINNY (smirking)
Actually, I think he'd really like this lavender one.

LUNA and GINNY laugh before moving towards the counter and paying for their purchases.

LUNA (looking at the packet with the lavender bath bomb)
Ronald isn't going to be very happy when you give that to him. And neither is Hermione.

GINNY
Ronald is going to have to be happy with what he gets.

Part Four: Non-Fiction

1. memoir, narrative. 430 words

This morning when I wake up, I know something is wrong. I can hear it in my mother's tone, wafting into my room from the doorway of the bathroom just outside.

“…she's really dead, then? They're going to be so upset.”

My father's response from inside the bathroom is inaudible. Paralysed, the humming sound of his electric razor fills my head.

Then it's like a flash of lightning hits my brain. Who is she talking about? Who is she talking about? Who is dead?. And then, suddenly, I know. If it was a human who had died, my mother wouldn't be standing there talking to my father without sobbing.

My cat. Cinnamon.

I jump out of bed and run for the door, not even caring that I'm in my pyjamas, too tight and small, and my hair is unbrushed and itchy and uncomfortable. “Mummy!”

My mother turns. I can see it on her face before she says it. “Anna… I'm so sorry. Cinnamon's dead.”

I've never cried so quickly before. There is only a second of two of the numbness before tears, surprisingly warm, uncomfortably wet, are rolling down my face. Out of habit, I lick one from the side of my mouth.

“How did she die?” I'm not sure how I manage to say it.

My mother leads me back towards the edge of my bed, sits me down on it. She wraps her arms around me. I inhale the familiar scent of her worn blue dressing gown. “We got a call this morning from the vet.”

The whole story is confusing at first: I don't really understand the specifics. What I eventually manage to gather is that Cinnamon was hit by a car. She was out late last night, as she liked to be; September nights are usually warm enough for her to stay outside until at least twelve, if not the whole way through. Someone — we're not sure whether or not it was the person who hit her — picked her up and took her to the animal hospital, who said she was dead. Probably instantly. I have that comfort at least.

I'm recovering from my tears slightly, but my chest still feels empty. Then my sister comes running in. She looks scared, her face young in the pale daylight seeping through the window. “What happened?”

She also breaks into tears. I join her. It is a while before we can eat breakfast, and when we do so, both of us are hampered by the burning question: how can we hide our sadness from everyone at fitness later?

2. journalism, persuasive, 443 words

More than 500 million copies of Harry Potter have been sold worldwide over the years. It's an incredibly well known fandom, boasting many popular writers of its own such as Stephen King. And although published writers don't tend to write stories in other writers' worlds, many amateur writers have written fanfiction or stories based on the magical world originally invented by JK Rowling. They're a huge part of what keeps the fandom going; there are over six hundred thousand Harry Potter fanfics on fanfiction.net alone, with hundreds more being posted both there and on other writing sites daily. The question is, is this fanfiction worth reading?

Obviously, in such a huge fandom, there are many unskilled young writers who are just beginning their writing journey. Many badly-written fanfics are all too easy to find; in fact, it is sometimes hard to filter out the better fics from the worse, as the sheer volume of fics is overwhelming. However, the huge amount of stories can also be a positive thing: there is certain to be something for everyone. And in such a huge group of writers, it is indisputable that there must also be mature and skilled ones as well as new callow ones.

Some people dismiss fanfiction as just being a means to “ship” (romantically pair) characters. It's true that there are huge amounts of strange ships to be found; Harry/Hermione, quickly dismissed in canon, is one of the tamest to be found, with Harry/Draco being the most popular Harry Potter ship on fanfiction.net, seconded by Hermione/Draco. Although a huge amount of these ships are only shipped because the author found both characters attractive, many of these pairings are used as ways to explore growth, change and second chances (for example, Harry/Cho) and can be written beautifully.

And there are many other genres of fanfiction other than romance fics. One of the most popular categories is “AU” (alternate universe), where something fundamental is changed about the protagonist or setting, such as Ginny being put in Slytherin (e.g. The Changeling fic) or Harry's parents surviving. Humor fics are popular as well — for example, Seventh Horcrux has an adult Voldemort possess Harry when he is a young child and documents the shenanigans that naturally occur afterwards. Other fics simply tell canon (anything that happened in the books) through the perspective of another character, for example Remus Lupin or Luna Lovegood. Fanfiction is used as a way for writers to tell stories in a familiar setting with characters that we all know and loves — and it can be beautiful, heart-wrenchingly sad, or achingly funny. It is well worth taking a look at.

Painted in flaking white, the frame is slightly rusted at one side. Slight crack in the upper right pane. The sill is grey stone, some kind of slate. Hanging deceptively still, the curtains are a pale green flowery pattern.

It should look perfectly normal. But somehow, it doesn't.

“There's something not quite right about the window.” I try out the words, half-expecting the curtain to suddenly billow, for smoke to materialise from under the sill, for the glass panes to shatter in a violent explosion. None of this happens. Everything is as quiet as before.

My imagination is getting the better of me again. I sigh at myself and turn towards the door. But before I can reach it, I turn around and look back at the window.

Bloodstains spatter the sill, shining thick and wet, the brightest thing in the dusty room.

Bloodstains, where there were none two seconds before. Bloodstains, in an empty room that was locked for three years before I ventured in.

I blink and they're gone. No blood.

I have only a second to wonder if my tired brain is creating illusions again — it has been known to happen after I didn't sleep for two days, although doing it after a solid seven hours of sleep is something new — and then I blink and the bloodstains are back.

Blink. No blood.

Blink. Blood.

Blink. No blood.

Blink. Blood.

This time I strain to keep my eyes open and hurtle towards the bloody windowsill. Stretching them as wide as I can, resisting the temptation to close them to relieve the agonising itch, I stumble to my knees. I grab out and catch hold of the windowsill.

My hands come away red.

This time it doesn't disappear when I blink, not even when I shut my eyes for an entire ten seconds and open them again. Neither do the pools on the windowsill. I stand there, frozen, my hands covered in blood, for what seems like an eternity. Until I hear footsteps. They come closer and closer to the door.

When it is pushed open, the owner starts to scream.

“Nothing can keep us apart. Not even d3ath.“ That's what she'd promised, but she'd broken it. D3ath had been keeping them apart, and right now she needed her more than ever. Tears formed and slowly trickled down her eyes like rain.
”You promised me!” she yelled into nothingness. Absolute nothingness. It wasn't fair that she had been ripped apart from her, taken from her. It wasn't fair, life wasn't fair, people weren't fair. “You promised me.” Her voice faltered, trying to pull herself together.
Life had never been “normal” after that tragic day. She couldn’t shake the pain, that it was HER fault that she had d!ed. It felt like the earth wouldn’t spin anymore; like all the oxygen in the world was suddenly gone. She’d do anything just to get her back, anything. “Nothing can keep us apart. Not even d3ath.” Those words kept replaying in her head on a constant loop, especially one word: d3ath.

How could she live when the person she'd cared most for in the entire world — the person who she'd shared everything with, the only person who had ever listened to her that intensely, as if she'd really enjoyed it, the person that she'd laughed with and danced with and kissed, the person she'd loved — was gone? How could she bear this pain when the one person who might have alleviated it, been able to console her, was dead?

She knelt on the floor, covering her face with her hands as tears, wet and warm, trickled over it. Trying to muffle her sobs, she rocked back and forth. She knew she could cry for hours without anyone ever hearing her: the only person who'd had a room near her had been her. And she was gone. She wouldn't step in the doorway, asking, “What's wrong?”, running to fill a glass of water from the tap and grab tissues. She wouldn't wrap her in a warm embrace, smelling vaguely of the peppermint drops she insisted on taking everywhere with her. She was gone. What was left of her was cold and dead, the mints crumbling in her pockets. She would never return.

As she knelt there, her sobs echoing slightly off the high ceiling, she wondered drearily if anyone would mourn her this much. If she died now, would anyone sit on their bedroom floor and cry? Would anyone miss her any more deeply than they would any miss any other acquaintance who suddenly disappeared? Was there even any point in staying here?

She didn’t know how long she had been crying when she realised that something in the pocket of her skirt was digging into her thigh. Shifting position, she pulled it out without looking properly at it, the movement automatic. She wouldn’t have really seen it if it hadn’t gleamed, brightness catching in her blurred vision. Rubbing her eyes, she focused on it.

It was a hairpin.

Her hairpin. The painted flower on the end was instantly recognisable.

Her face crumpled, her sobs growing louder, as she clutched it to her. She had thought she didn’t have anything to remember her by — nothing. This, however small it was, was something. It was all she had, and all the more precious for that.

It was so small to be all she had. So tiny. It couldn’t ever represent what an amazing person she had been. Her laughter, her kindness, her joy.

She didn’t know how she could ever cope with her loss. But as she knelt on the floor, hands cradled around the pin, she told herself that she’d never forget her.

Bedtime Story by Jeffery Whitmore

“Careful, honey, it's loaded,” he said, re-entering the bedroom.
Her back rested against the headboard. “This for your wife?”
“No. Too chancy. I'm hiring a professional.”
“How about me?”
He smirked. “Cute. But who'd be dumb enough to hire a female hit man?”
She wet her lips, sighting along the barrel. “Your wife.”

my version

He didn't know when he'd first started to be scared of her.

Maybe it was the first time he'd caught her quietly smiling at herself in the mirror when she thought he wasn't looking, her lips curving back just too perfectly over her teeth and something lurking in the shadow of her eyes.

Maybe it was during their first argument, when he got angry and shouted and raged and cursed at her, and she just stood there, a pale figure in the moonlight, and softly said, “You're going to regret this,” before turning away and refusing to speak to him for the rest of the night.

Maybe it was the morning after, when she'd laughed and flirted with him as usual and he'd thought everything was back to normal, but he'd looked over his shoulder as he left the breakfast table and she was staring after him, her mouth screwed into an angry line and her fingers clenched so tightly on the fork that she looked like she was holding a weapon.

Whenever it was, it didn't matter. He'd been wrong about her and so he was leaving her. Or so he thought.

It wasn't that easy.

She turned up outside his offices, sitting on the green bonnet of her car and swinging her legs. He told her to go away and she just gave him that dark stare, silent as ever, before her perfect lips curved up to the side and she said, “You're not getting away from me that easily.”

He got her banned from the premises.

She was poised upright in one of the filigree metal chairs in the café he liked to go to during lunch when he entered the doorway, smiling at him with an easy grin. “The trick with your company was nice.”

He had lunch in his office.

She was sitting in his car when he went back outside. It only took one look at the chauffeur's blush to tell him who had let her in. She told him, voice smooth and hands folded perfectly in her lap, “This is your last chance to take me back, darling.”

He sacked the chauffeur on the spot and got security to remove her. He determined not to give her words another thought.

Of course, he did.

He tried to distract himself. Other women came and went. Her scent remained, lingering in his bedroom like she was still perched on the counter in the bathroom, dabbing her wrists. He told the staff to spray air freshener all over everything, but he could still smell it underneath, mingling with the other scents to create a kind of sleep-wrecking poison.

None of the women opened the drawer until the last one. He came back through the bathroom door to find her sitting on the bed, running her fingers over the gun. He knew, suddenly, without a doubt.

“Careful, honey, it's loaded.” He looked around for his watch. There was a button he could press that would summon security. They'd be here within fifteen seconds, probably thirteen too late.

“This for your wife?” Her voice was nonchalant. It didn't deceive him.

He tried to make a joke of it. His last. “No, too chancy. I'm hiring a professional.”

“How about me?” Her eyes met his in a mutual surge of understanding. She smiled.

She was holding his watch. His eyes followed the motion as she swung it back and forth. His voice came out strangely raspy as he said, “Cute, but who'd be dumb enough to hire a female hit man?”

She didn't need to say it, but she did anyway as she held up the gun, sighting along the barrel. “Your wife.”

Part 1: Short Collaboration Story

I did this with @H1ImVict0ria on their profile. 353 words from me, 303 words from them.

H1ImVict0ria
“You had time to call the police. Why didn't you?” The officer grilled me. I fibbed, “I didn’t mean any harm, I was panicked.”

AnnaHannah
@H1ImVict0ria The officer raised his eyebrows but moved on to the next question without much ado. “You found them lying there at around 4:30, correct?”

H1ImVict0ria
@AnnaHannah “Yeah,” I fibbed again. “They were just…there.” I swayed my body, side to side.

AnnaHannah
@H1ImVict0ria The officer nodded. “It must have been a traumatic experience.” He didn't sound nearly as sympathetic as one be should to someone who has just witnessed a murder; if I hadn't known better, I'd almost think he was being sarcastic. “You went up and touched the body, yes?”

H1ImVict0ria
@AnnaHannah I was trembling. I could not sit still. “Yeah, I thought the body was still alive.” I internally facepalmed. Who would mistake that dead body for a live one?

AnnaHannah
@H1ImVict0ria The officer didn't give an outward sign of noticing my slip, but I couldn't help thinking that he knew. My palms started to sweat as he rustled the papers on his clipboard. “Can you describe the body and the — ah — surroundings to me? Or would that be too emotionally distressing, considering he was your twin?”

H1ImVict0ria
@AnnaHannah “That—it would be too distressing, sorry Officer,” I couldn’t risk slipping up again. He was onto me already. “He was… a great brother.” Crocodile tears ran down my face.

AnnaHannah
@H1ImVict0ria The officer coughed awkwardly. “Would you like a tissue?” I quickly accepted, grateful for anything to momentarily distract him. I hid my face behind it and let out a choked sob, trying to think fast. I still wasn't ready for his next question. “How was your relationship with your brother? Your neighbour seemed to think that there was… something of a dispute… between you recently.”

H1ImVict0ria
@AnnaHannah My heart skipped a beat. “My neighbor thinks there’s a dispute? You should really check out the neighbor. She’s acting kind of creepy,” I paused. “What was the question again?” I turned my head down to the officer’s clipboard.

AnnaHannah
@H1ImVict0ria “What do you mean, the neighbour has been acting creepily?” The officer leaned forwards, his body language changing up, turning from disengagement to paying close attention. “Have you noticed anything in particular, or is it just… what would you call it… vibes?” Maybe I was on to something. Hesitating, I wondered. Should I try to pin it on the neighbour?

H1ImVict0ria
@AnnaHannah “Well, she’s… she just…” My eyes darted around the empty room. The officer seemed to be leaning closer every second that I wasn’t talking.

AnnaHannah
@H1ImVict0ria “Yes?” The officer pressed. I couldn't think. I scrambled desperately for words. “She's never liked us. I don't know why. She especially didn't like him. I don't think she's, uh… a person who tolerates teenagers. Especially not teenage boys.” This was partially. She'd always hated our guts. But she'd hated mine more. “He used to kick footballs over there a lot. She'd always scream at him and threaten him when he went over to get them back.”

H1ImVict0ria
@AnnaHannah The officer wrote something down on his clipboard, then looked me dead in the eye. “What kind of threats?” I was digging myself into a deep rabbit hole, and I knew it. “Well… uh, she would say things like… like, ‘get off my lawn or else you won’t have legs to run on it!’ and stuff like that.” She did say that. Once. And we all knew that she didn’t mean it. She’s really very nice, but who else am I to blame? I would be the first suspect of my brother’s murder. Everyone knew that we were not -

AnnaHannah
@H1ImVict0ria “Did she mean these threats seriously?” the officer asked. “Did you ever feel like she would try to escalate them to violence?”

H1ImVict0ria
@AnnaHannah “I, uh… I don't know,” I had to keep my cool. “She might be able to tell you. I think… I don't know—” I had started to panic and my voice was shaking. The officer was watching me intently. I couldn't stop myself. “I did it! I killed him. I was trying to blame it on her instead of him. I don't know what I was thinking, Officer.”

1/4 of the word war @creatiivity gave us, due 12:02 pm and submitted at 1:13 am UTC. 1009 words.

I lie back on the covers of my bed, feeling bone-numbingly exhausted. Too tired to go through the effort of pulling the heavy duvets over me, arranging the pink quilt on top. Being cold is an easy price to pay for finally being able to rest, or so I think. But as the minutes tick by, my clock’s hands moving slowly around its face, I start to reconsider my decision. The rain is pattering sparsely on the window, gusts of wind increasing and dropping to nothing. It is a bitter grey November day, and I, still wearing my all too thin school uniform, am freezing. I feel too much of a wreck to even take my shoes off, though. At least I’m home from school now. Even with my coat on, it was far too cold in the classrooms; our budget seems to largely be spent on computers rather than fixing the broken radiators that seem to chill the long corridors rather than warming them. I often wonder why. There seems little chance of us winning a nationwide prize for coding — is there even prize money, or do you just get prestige and a decent OFSTED report? — and surely a pupil getting frostbite, which has a fairly high chance of happening one day, will look bad in the local news. It might even make it to national news, depending on how much is happening. At least the school would finally be shamed into fixing them. The unlucky pupil who suffered would be suffering to relieve the pain of many. A modern-day martyr. I wonder, trying to feel my toes by wiggling them and having no success, whether I will be that student.

I lie on the bed, eyes closed and exhausted, for maybe twenty minutes before the cold forced me up again. I kick off my shoes wearily, yank off my too-small socks (which I think may be cutting off the already poor circulation in my feet) and briefly wonder if I can make the journey downstairs to the microwave in the kitchen in order to heat up this beanbag thing I was given for Christmas. Honestly, why aren’t microwaves installed in bedrooms? It would save so much time. (Maybe the radiation could be a problem, though. I can just see myself in a sleep-blurred haze, trying to get warmer and leaving the door open while I put it on. I’d be fried in my sleep. No doubt my cat would be distraught.)

Almost as soon as I think about her, she comes in. I only hear a tiny pad of feet before she jumps on the bed, paws heavy spots of pressure on my legs. She meows, a deep chirpy sound in her throat, and moves up to my face. I’ve just buried myself under the blankets by this point, and it’s an effort to wiggle one arm out to stroke her. She starts to purr. I read somewhere once that the sound of a cat’s purr is the most comforting sound that humans can hear, and Lovegood is no exception. She snuggles up to me, into the blankets — she must be pretty cold as well — and soon she falls asleep, warm and furry, against my chest. It’s nice to be able to reach down and kiss the top of her head, and the feel of her vibrating thrum as she snores slightly is indescribably adorable. She smells nice, in a cat way. A little bit like biscuits. Slowly, I start to relax and warm up. The tension in my shoulders gradually melts away, and for the first time since I got out of bed earlier, my legs feel warm. (My school has a completely ridiculous uniform. It’s meant to be able to be worn all-year round. It’s not. It’s okay for some days in autumn and spring, sure — a skirt with tights, a shirt, and the uniform blazer is perfect for a mildly breezy day. But in summer, I boil, even if I remove the blazer — which we’re not technically meant to — as you’re not supposed to wear the skirt without tights. I have no clue why. In winter, however, you freeze to death, even if you can squeeze an extra shirt or two underneath the regulation white school shirt. Wearing fleece tights helps, but they’re not technically allowed by the school regulations and they always look weird on my legs — wrong skin tone, maybe? — and I get caught out whenever anyone pays attention. At any rate, it’s completely ridiculous and I hope they change it someday. Maybe I should try to gather a petition or something.)

I think all of these thoughts while getting sleepier and sleepier. I want to move my arm, which is starting to cramp slightly, but Lovegood is lying against it and disturbing a cat’s rest is a crime. Oh well. At least I’m enduring this for a good cause.

I wake up some time later. An hour, two hours? I can’t tell. My curtains are open, and I can see that it’s dark outside, the street lamp outside shining yellow and streaky in the rain. Lovegood has shifted. She is stretching her paws up until they touch the underside of my chin, which is perhaps what woke me. I say hi to her and she chirrups back, before getting out of the duvet and stretching out with a big yawn. (I love it when cats yawn. All the whiskers and pink tongue and sharp little teeth sticking up. It fills me with joy, and Lovegood’s yawns are so perfect.) At her bequest, I clamber out of bed. I find my pyjamas (an owl pattern), yank on my dressing gown over them, and look around for my slippers before remembering I left them downstairs. I grab the heatable beanbag thing and head down, ready to change out Lovegood’s food. I still feel bleary and tired, but the rest has done me good: homework now feels like a possibility instead of an insurmountable challenge.

700 words towards the war @majesticMiddleschool gave us, due 10:32 EST and submitted at 6:28 EST.

There’s a haze towards the east, creeping over the land towards the walls of this castle. Mist, some might say. I know better.

I turn to my companion, who is staring out over the land. “I think it’s time for us to leave.”

“Do you?” His eyes meet mine. “Everyone in this castle will die or be captured when that arrives.”

“We tried to warn them,” I remind him. The memory of them scoffing at us, of us being forcibly removed from the great hall, a knight’s cold hand bruising my arm, is still making me burn with distant rage. “We did all we could. All we were meant to. More than we were meant to. If we fled now, we could bring tidings to the next place, and perhaps they’d become prepared—”

“As these did?”

It’s true. We brought them tidings of what had happened to Carlin. They ignored us. Worse than ignored us, mocked us.

“We have no duty to them,” I say instead. “This is not our fight. We can stay out of it. We’ve done what we can. If the next castle does not believe us, we can travel straight to the High King.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’d go back there after… the incident?”

“If you are going to be as stubborn as to stay here and die otherwise, then yes,” I say defiantly. “We have little time left. Let us leave now.”

I cannot tell what he is thinking as he stares out towards the haze; his eyes are clouded. Then he sighs. “Fine. Have it your way. We should go.”

We slip down through the marketplace, the stone warmed to a dusty yellow by the sun. A stray cat comes up to me, begging for a piece of meat. I stroke her fur and buy some from the nearby shopkeeper, who waits until after the cat has eaten the meat to say, “She’s in no danger of starving while my stall’s around, never fear.” I glare at her but she just chuckles and waves me on.

Ahead of us, boys and girls are kicking a ball around. One of them accidentally lets it fall over to us, and when my friend passes it back over, we get cheerful grins and a chorus of “thank you!”

I see why my companion doesn’t want this place to fall. But us two, strong as we are, against many? It wouldn’t change anything in the long run, except to make the invasion bloodier than it yet might be. In Carlin, they only slaughtered the knight and those directly attempting to defend him, even sparing his family. Hopefully here the same will happen, and the children and the cat will live on unaffected.

“Having second thoughts?” queries my companion. “It’s not a place you’d want the haze to happen to, is it?”

I shake my head. “We can’t change anything. They didn’t listen to us. We have to go.”

He shrugs. “I suppose you can’t begrudge me a last attempt to convince you. Very well. We will abandon them to their death.” And with that, he breaks into a sprint.

I follow him. We reach the walls easily. Instead of waiting for someone to open the gate, as we politely did on our way in, we use the tree leaning up against them to climb over. The townspeople around us stare at us, openmouthed. I wave at them as I crouch on the top, readying myself for the drop down. I can’t stop myself from calling, “If you want to fight off what’s coming, gather your weapons, salt, and rowan leaves!” Even if they laugh now, maybe some of them will remember it when the time comes.

Then I drop down next to my friend. He stares at me for a second.

“What?”

“Nothing. I was surprised to hear that you were still trying after how furious you were.” He shakes his head. “We’d better get moving, then.”

We break into the steady run that will take us, stride by stride, away from the danger that creeps across the plains towards the castle. We’ll try to warn the next. And then… we’re going back to the High Court.

1248 words written in second person towards the war given to us by @Flowerelf371

You stare down the hill, wishing desperately that something would happen. Yes, the day is beautiful. The sunlight stretches lazily out over the grass, lighting the white globes of dandelion clocks and highlighting the shining buttercups poking up from the pollen-dusted hedgerows. Butterflies are fluttering over the buddleia in one corner of your garden, the colours of their wings ranging from white to yellow to blue to black, contrasting against the purple. Rosemary grows next to it, and you rub your fingers against it for the scent before swinging yourself up onto the garden wall.

There isn't much to do other than sit here and think. You've already eaten, it's too warm to go for a run, and the river is already filled with too many people shrieking and splashing; if you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of a brass band down there, no doubt taking advantage of the sun. You think to yourself that you would never want to play a metal instrument on such a hot day. Surely it'd start to burn under your fingers. Of course, if you're in the bandstand, it might be shaded enough to be tolerable, and sparkling cold lemonade is sold right next to it. The thought of the lemonade momentarily tempts you, but although it's delicious, it's not worth being around so many loud, sun-emboldened people. You'll just end up with a headache and an irritated feeling.

Maybe you should try reading a book. But the sun is too bright sitting on the garden wall, and if you swing your legs into the bricks, you'll scuff them again. You could lie on the crackly, yellow-toned lawn, you suppose, but you don't want to get bitten by the insects and small flies that inevitably make an appearance as it gets later — and anyway, you ache slightly, probably from playing a long and arduous game of tennis yesterday. Getting out a deckchair is a better idea, but you don't want to bother getting up and grabbing one. And anyway, the garage in which it is kept has spiders in it. Not that you've encountered one in recent years to prove it, but you would rather keep it that way. Sunbathing on the patio seems to be the option with the least effort involved, and so obviously you choose it. It's very hard not to be lazy when the day is so long and warm.

You cross over to where the grey flags of the patio sprawl out next to the house. They are warm, slightly gritty with small specks of dirt, but you lie down on them anyway, not bothering to keep your clothes clean; the faded blue shorts you're wearing are already due for a wash, and your shirt is old. You pillow your head on your arms, after pulling your hair to cover the back of your neck. Although you're wearing sunscreen, your neck is still rather sensitive, and it's better not to take risks. Sunburns are so annoying and you don't want to have to deal with one. You sigh as warmth surrounds you, making you feel almost like you're lying underneath heavy blankets in the middle of winter. It's such a pleasant sensation that you nearly fall asleep, but stop yourself and roll over onto your back. The sky is purely blue, no clouds breaking up the colour in the centre, although a few pale white ones at the edges cluster together like marshmallows in a packet. On days like this, flight seems a distant possibility.

You pull yourself up after about ten minutes, heading indoors for a drink of water. You're glad someone left the filter jug cloaked by the shade by the knife rack instead of in the sun coming through the window; it makes the temperature much more bearable for drinking. As you refill it in the sink, you wonder whether or not going around to the ice cream shop is a good idea. It may be crowded, but you can get out quite quickly and their ice cream is some of the most delicious you've ever had. Eventually deciding in favour of the ice cream, you locate some money — which is strangely cool to the touch. Shoving it into your shorts pocket, you wonder what shoes to wear. Getting a pair of socks and putting on trainers seems like too much effort. You refuse to wear crocs outdoors, designating them as a strictly indoor pair of shoes. Flip-flops seem to be the logical choice. Even though they're not your favourite type of shoes (the strap always feels uncomfortable in between your toes), it's just a minute's walk or so.

The pavement is warm as you walk out. You could quite easily feel it if you wiggled your foot out of the flip-flop and touched it to the rough concrete, and the idea seems weirdly attractive as you make your way along. You firmly quash the urge, wondering what exactly is the matter with you. You're not three anymore. Behaving like an adult should be possible by this stage, and usually it is. Days like this, long, sun-filled and lazy, are always your downfall; somehow, they make you feel like a young child. You think to yourself that perhaps being a young child would be more enjoyable, before you remember that at that age, you had no money and no permission to go and buy yourself ice cream. Perhaps growing older does have its own set of joys after all.

You realise as soon as you enter the cool, dark shop that you have forgotten a hair tie. You tuck your hair behind your ears, thankful that it isn't windy outside. On holidays, this was always your bugbear: you would buy an ice cream while walking along the seafront, only to have your hair whipped into your ice cream and your mouth, getting sticky in the process. It was part of the experience, of course. It almost made it better. But here, where you live, hair in your ice cream is an irritation. There is no sea to jump into, no salt to scrub away the ice cream. (Although other locals swim or paddle in the river, you are still distrustful of this idea: it may be unpolluted and fairly clean, but you feel it is unfair to the ducks. Also, surfing is practically impossible on the river, and that used to be one of the main attractions when you were on holiday.)

The shopkeeper distracts you from your thoughts by asking what you want, and you realise you haven't chosen a flavour. You look to see if they have cookies and cream, your absolute favourite, before remembering that you had that lat time and you'd rather have something else. You choose mint ice cream, in a chocolate cone and with a flake. It tastes incredibly good. You don't remember exactly when you first had mint ice cream, but you remember your small-child excitement at discovering that green ice cream existed, you having previously thought that pink, white and brown were the only colours on offer. Thank goodness your parents prevented you from finding out about bubblegum ice cream until you were older, you think. You were doubtless saved from ingesting an untold number of potentially stomach-upsetting chemicals.

Walking back, the shadows are getting longer, the day's warmth still there but turned down. A golden glow lies over everything, making even the chipped and faded plastic signpost for the town centre look appealing.

1005 words for the war that @Godslamb gave us. No adjectives reused, so it took forever.

I bend my shoulders over the books, hunching closer to the deeply scratched surface of the table as a group of my classmates, laughing and chattering far too loudly for the library, pass by. I don't want to be noticed today. I want to study. I really hope they're coming here to do schoolwork too. If they decide to disturb another bookmonster, they've picked the wrong day for me. (Not that they'd ever bother to pick the right one.)

I'm working on an extremely time-consuming assignment. It was meant to be a group project, but that was before the other three students in the group decided to run off and leave me to deal with it by myself. I sometimes wonder if I'm the only person who actually cares about their grade in the entire school. At any rate, if I want to keep it up, I've got to do this before next week and tomorrow, our dance teacher will probably give out homework, which always takes me at least an hour or more to memorise. It used to be worse when I first arrived and had literally no balance, grace, or concept of rhythm, but practice solved both of those things and now I'm top in that as well. Nearly. A select few of my classmates, who both happen to a) enjoy it and b) are naturally gifted are ahead of me. I suppose that's logical. But it still irks me that even if I spent the whole evening learning the steps of a dance and perfecting it, they'd get ahead of me. It happens from time to time in my other classes, like maths or potions, with certain people, but the thing is no one seriously likes maths or potions and they don't practice outside of the homework they're given. With dance, however, people do it constantly.

What kind of school grades you on dancing, anyway? The answer is an overly posh one. This place may be pretentious and over-refined in parts, but it does get you places with the rest. That's the reason I swotted for months to get a scholarship here — and continue to do the same. Unfortunately, my hard work doesn't leave much… well, any… time for friends, which is why I tend to avoid my classmates when possible. But if everything goes to plan, I'll graduate with perfect grades, which will be the first time in several hundred years. The exams are notorious for being difficult. Anyone who manages to get through them without making a single mistake will have job offers opening up everywhere. I intend to be that person. I know I can do it — people have done it in the past, so it's doable — but I need to keep my nose firmly to the grindstone until graduation is over. Then I can finally relax. (Just joking. If I'm getting into the job I want, it'll be several more years of tough going before I can take a proper break. But the money I'll make will be worth it. So will the prestige and the security.)

Even after finishing thinking through this for the thousandth time, I'm busy working on the transfiguration project that my classmates should be helping me with. It's not so much strenuous in terms of mental labour as it is in its quantity — there's way too much for less than at least three people. I've drawn so many diagrams in the past hour that my fingers are starting to cramp. I've just put down my pen to stretch my hand when I hear this awful howl from the centre of the library.

A bookmonster.

I feel so furious that I have to force myself to concentrate on packing the stuff up as fast as I can instead of hurtling off to find my idiotic classmates and hexing them with the most disgusting spell I can think of. I grab the library book I've been using — thank goodness I checked it out earlier, despite not needing to take it out of the library; maybe my psychic skills are improving — and sprint out as fast as I can. I hope the bookmonster eats whoever was fool enough to disturb it and then goes back to sleep for another five centuries, but I have a sinking feeling that this will not be the case. Instead, the idiot who prodded it awake will come running out along with their equally stupid friends, and the teachers will be called in to deal with it. They'll patrol the library, cast detection spells, and find the package I hid in there last week.

Oh no. Is there any chance they can trace it back to me? I think over the accompanying letters, my indiscretion over the contents. Yes. There is.

Great. I feel seething, rushing anger as I summon my locker (a useful design feature) and hastily stuff my work on the transfiguration assignment in there and grab a staff before banishing it back to the void. I'm going to have to go in and save these idiots' lives, get the bookmonster back to sleep, and use part of the package — all without my teachers finding out. Absolutely amazing.

I only pause for a second, taking a deep breath, before I charge back in, staff at the ready.

By the time I reach the bookmonster, it's paralysed four out of the five of the group who decided to disturb it in the first place. The fifth, a thin-faced boy with long brown hair who I recognise from my advanced potions class, is trying to distract it by throwing minor spells around it while getting started on an ice one to freeze it. Not the worst idea I've ever come across, but the trouble is he's already injured and struggling against the sleepiness that bookmonsters induce.

Oh well. Nothing the contents of my parcel can't solve. I hesitate briefly, hoping against hope this will work, before I scream at the boy to move and scatter a handful over the bookworm's face.