a green and pretty space for fun:
I hear the shouts of everyone
and move across the field to them.
my feet are prickled by a stem
of chaff and I look down to see
it's pale and dry and pokes at me.
inhale the scent of fresh-cut grass
and watch as double-deckers pass.
they're red and white and blue and green,
their windows dark, insides unseen.
I catch the ball and throw it far
it soars across to where a car
is sitting watching us all play.
the driver laughs and throws it back;
he's Laura's dad and he's called Jack.

The deer races ahead of you, illuminating the dark trees with its glowing white light. You have been ordered to catch it and bring it back to your king, and you hold a golden, magical noose tight as you follow it.

As you sprint after it, barely dodging between tree trunks, your feet catching in the undergrowth and the air so heavy you can hardly breathe, you wonder if the forest is against you. It seems a stupid thought: the king has long said that the rumours of the forest being possessed are nothing but myth. Even so, the last hunter to find the deer never came back…

Ahead of you, the deer springs into a clearing, illuminating buildings. Three huge figures move

The forest is encroaching upon the wreck of the old hotel. Saplings have broken away from its main body and are growing in ever closer clumps to the doors; grass and moss have allied in a slow but sure union to take back what used to be a gravel road; and ivy straggles up the once-white facade, curling around the columns and hanging off the windows.

An old sign, its cracked black paint peeling off, now reads Law rather than Lawn —>, as fireweed has sprung up around it and obscures the lettering. Following in the direction it points does not lead anywhere less wild: a tangled meadow lies in wait, full of long grass, thorny bushes, and a few once-tended flowers choking for air amid them.

What used to be the pool has now turned into a pond: one side of it is half-collapsed, making a muddy slope down into the water which is easily traversed. Rotten deckchairs, half-collapsed and leering like drunken old men, encircle it in order to look down at the pool: water weeds have grown throughout it, bulrushes and reeds and flowers, and tiny fish dart away if any shadows falls upon them. A frog hops sideways into the water, swimming underneath the surface.

Inside, the hotel creaks and groans at the slightest footfall. Ivy and various small plants have crawled in on the ground floor, and wild creatures scurry away. Pressing a button to summon an elevator does not work for most of the doors; the doors that do open reveal broken chains swinging, rusty and snapped. Pointing a torch down reveals the smeared, lichen-grown top of a glass elevator. Underneath it, cracked glass from its base sends up strange dancing reflections on the walls.

The stairs are broken between the second and third floors, but looking up, pigeons swirl across the spacious, water-damaged roof; this is their home now.

Begin a story, any way you like, but keep it close to 100 words. 121 words

I'm cold.

Pebbles dig into my skin. They have been chilled all day — the freezing wind has whipped at them just as much as it has at me — and they will just get colder as night creeps in.

And already, the daylight is fading. There is no sunset, just endless grey clouds stretching out overhead with barely a change in texture or shade. If I was tall enough to touch them, they should be hard and smooth, like cold dull marble.

Of course, I know that if I actually could, they would just be wet and disappointing. They would leave me with icy, dripping hands — and say what you might, being cold and dry is far better than cold and wet.

bulletin boards — rankings — opposite cabin prompt for 10 min (Thriller is #3 and Real-Fi is #13) X words

text

tell a Scratch Team member 5 reasons why you appreciate them:
I appreciate @ceebee for
1. being friendly and approachable
2. making really nice art
3. making cute projects
4. introducing me to a number of songs which I still really like
5. helping remove inappropriate content from Scratch.

battlegrounds — 200+ words of a character revealing their main motive is revenge, with focus on how other characters react and what changes X words

text

sabotage

prompt X words

text

sabotage

Science Fiction, commonly known as Sci-Fi, is the best cabin for a multitude of reasons.

First, it has a double-barrelled name (i.e., a name with two parts joined together by a hyphen), and, as anyone knows, those names are quite satisfying to write and say. You could argue that many other cabins, namely Realistic Fiction or Real-Fi, Fanfiction or Fan-Fi, Non-Fiction or Non-Fi, and Historical-Fiction or Hi-Fi, share this property. However, Sci-Fi has a great advantage over three-quarters of these other, inferior cabins:

It rhymes, unlike Real-Fi, Fan-Fi, or Non-Fi. Therefore, it is more fun to say than any of those.

You could argue, then, than Hi-Fi is at least Sci-Fi's equal. “They both rhyme! What's the difference?”

Well, the difference is in the fact that Sci-Fi is more fun to write. Sci-Fi looks like it should be pronounced Sky-Fi, but is said Si-Fi. This represents the inner depth and complexity of Sci-Fi; nothing is quite as it seems. By contrast, Hi-Fi is absurdly simple to pronounce correctly, revealing its hidden shallowness.

“But what about the other cabins?”

Have I not already reasoned that Sci-Fi is double-barrelled and they are not? If that is not enough for you, I'll go through them one by one:

Mythology sounds like moths. Moths are boring. Moths suck.

Adventure Cabin sounds like a scam. If someone came up to you on the street and started talking about an “Adventure Cabin” which you could join for a month for free, would you trust them?

Thriller is my cabin, and so obviously has insane people running around in it.

Script sounds terrifying. Memorising lines is way too hard.

Fairy Tales are the reason that I was traumatised as a child. Whoever decided buying me the Blue Book of Fairy Tales by Andrew Lang has a lot to pay for.

Horror is horrifying.

Fantasy sounds too good to be true.

Mystery — everyone has too much of that in real life.

Dystopian? Who wants to live in a dystopia?

“we'll cross that bridge when we come to it” = “let's not talk about that problem right now”

“Alicia,” I yell, struggling back through the stream of people who are sadly and slowly but determinedly heading out of the Vale. We all knew it would come to this; we've already said our goodbyes. We're resigned to it and hopeful with the prospect of a brighter future shining ahead of us.

At least, that seemed to be what my Gift gave up last night. When they asked questions — “Will we get out of the Vale safely? Will any people die getting out of the Vale? Will the road ahead be clear?” — the answers were yes, no, and yes respectively, followed by cheers and smiles on people's faces.

But I'm worried that they didn't ask the right questions: barely any questions focused on the Mirrorbridge, the shining steel structure that spans across the narrowest point of Lake Mirror. Once we get past Lake Mirror, the Hunters won't find us. They barely ever venture as far as the road that leads us there: it's usually considered safe territory. (Apparently, the Hunters believe that the bridge is cursed against them, a myth that we've always perpetuated in order to keep one safe place to travel.)

But tonight is different. We're meant to be escaping, leaving once and for all to join our relatives in the North. And we think they might have wind of our plans.

Suppose they're waiting for us there?

But when I push through to Alicia, she laughs at me. “You do know they think it's cursed, right?” She rolls her eyes. “Stop worrying. We don't have time for this. We need to get everyone moving before the Hunters start tracking us.”

I shake my head. “Please just listen. This is their last chance to capture us and wipe us out. Who says that they won't overcome their superstitions for that chance?”

“We haven't seen a Hunter round here for days,” she says dismissively. “They're celebrating their winter festival—”

“Or busy laying a trap!” But it's too late; Alicia's moved on, going up to her father to ask him if she should organise the weaving looms into a more orderly line.

I sigh and push my hands into my pockets. I suppose she's right: we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Main Cabin, Non-Fi Cabin, and In-Cabin Word Count Group

Wordcounter

Total Word Count | Goals

Main Cabin Dailies: 1st Nov (no points) || 2nd Nov || 3rd Nov || 4th Nov || 5th Nov || 6th Nov || 7th Nov || 8th Nov || 9th Nov || 10th Nov || 11th Nov || 12th Nov || 13th Nov || 14th Nov || 15th Nov || 16th Nov || 17th Nov || 18th Nov|| 19th Nov || 20th Nov || 21st Nov || 22nd Nov || 23rd Nov || 24th Nov || 25th Nov || 26th Nov || 27th Nov || 28th Nov || 29th Nov || 30th Nov ||

In-Cabin Prompts:

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

Word Wars Won:
Word Wars Lost:

Cabin Wars:

Writing Competition Entry || Fanfic Entry

stuff I may want to find later:

Cabin wars are an essential part of SWC. Equally anticipated and dreaded by many campers, they create new core memories during each session, as anyone who has been the sole camper active in their cabin with their shield down can testify.

But how do they work, exactly? Let's jump right in.

Firstly, the leaders change the main cabin description to notify campers that today the long-awaited cabin wars are finally here. (If we're lucky, they may give us some advance warning the day before; time for mental preparation is always appreciated.) A list of appropriate wars to copy and paste in enemy cabins is provided.

These may range from gems such as writing 4000 words as a cabin (and losing 800 points otherwise), to as many campers as possible writing 3000 words together, with 50 points given to the cabin for each camper participating — but losing 1000 points otherwise. The format is basically “Write this much. You may be even be able to win a few points! You really don't want to find out what happens if you don't complete the task, however…”

Shields are provided: after a cabin receives a war, they have perhaps 3 hours where they can focus on just that war before other cabins can add another.

To start the session off, we’re focusing on epistolary writing. We challenge you to pose as a personified version of your cabin and write letters to the other 14 genred cabins. The letter recipients could be the other personified cabins, or perhaps you could address it to a (made-up) friend, making the cabin theme their location. Or you could invent your own premise - be as creative as you like! However, the 14 letters should somehow be related to the 14 other cabins.

You should end up with 14 letters, each letter being a minimum of 100 words (total of 1400 words). You must post proof of all parts to gain points.

106 + 123 + 118 + 139 + 166 + 120 + 105 + 123 + 109 + 100 + 118 + 107 + 133 + 105 = 1672

Some of these are letters to personifications of the cabins. Others are letters written in the same genre as the cabin name.

106/100 words. Dear Adventure,

I think I was in your cabin for my first SWC ever. July 2020. I was 13 and trying to cope with getting back to reality and socialising with other people after so long in lockdown when I hadn't, as well as going through a lot of self-introspection and not enjoying the results. SWC was a huge creative outlet and helped give me a purpose and structure to my days. I don't think I ever got up enough courage to chat to the other campers in the cabin, but Adventure 2020 helped me discover a love of SWC which has never abandoned me since.

123/100 words. Dear Evie (Dystopian),

I miss you. I'm glad you got out while you could, though. I'd hate for you to be here. Even this letter, tiny and insignificant as it is, has to be smuggled out by some official for a hefty price and I have no clue if it'll ever reach you. If it does, don't try to send a reply. It won't get through.

We're cut off from the outside world. Guards patrol the city wall borders, guns turned on anyone who tries to get out. We don't know what they plan to do with us… but we know they plan something, and what it is isn't going to be pretty.

I think I just wanted to say I love you.

118/100 words. Dear Julia (Fantasy),

How goes court life in my absence? I hope you find it as scintillating as ever but nevertheless feel my absence as keenly as I do yours.

I find I have nothing to say except that here, the sun sparkles too bright and the wind is too gentle and the endless ever-stretching meadows full of heavy-scented flowers do nothing but make me feel as though I overdosed on some sweet-tasting, sick-making drug. It is still beautiful, though. My exile is not a punishment too great for me to bear. If anything, it is too soft.

I miss you and the rugged sweep of stone walls and harsh grey skies and wind racing through your hair.

139/100 words. Dear Alexandra (Mystery),

You will not know who is writing this letter. Suffice to say that I knew your grandfather. More to the point, I knew him enough to hear about the resentment he held towards your side of the family. While I believe it was partially justified, I do not believe the measures he has taken against you are.

You will know by now he left you his house in the will. Your father may think this was a posthumous attempt at reconciliation, a last reaching out. It is not.

If you accept the house, you must accept all that comes with it. Even your grandfather, tough and tenacious man that he was, was nearly overcome by it — and indeed, eventually, he was. If you wish to live a long and carefree life, refuse it.

Sincerely,
A well-wisher

166/100 words. Dear Ms Daphne Smith (Thriller),

I am writing to you because I believe that you are the only one who can help me.

I am the sole heir to my grandfather's mansion in the west of Yorkshire. It was promised to me as soon as I turned twenty-one, but until two days ago, my parents occupied it against my will. This was the source of much debate and disagreement and eventually a legal battle which is still not resolved.

There is no sign that it will ever be, because two days ago my parents disappeared. The postman arrived to find the windows smashed and trails of blood leading out into the grounds.

Despite our issues, I do not wish my parents dead. However, the local police have been most unhelpful and I have reason to believe that they are either hiding something or suspect me.

Your renown as a detective is acknowledged all over the world. Please consider taking this new case on.

Sincerely,

Alexandra Carter-Grey

120/100 words. Dear Fanfiction,

You'll never guess what happened to me today. It started this morning. You know how I always tie my hair up in a messy bun because I think the light brown colour contrasts nicely with my green orbs? (I know you don't like me calling my eyes orbs, but I just can't help it. It sounds so chic.) Well, I'd just finished doing that when my mother came in. (Her alcohol issues aren't getting any better, by the way… I don't think she ever got over my dad leaving her.) Anyway, she yelled at me to come to the door. And when I went into the front room, I couldn't believe who was standing there. One Direction!

105/100 words. Dear Folklore,

I can't look at your name without thinking of the Taylor Swift album. It contains a couple of my favourite songs. august is probably the one I like best (and I relate to it a little as this August was one of the nicest months of my life and I feel like I'll never get the people from it back as close again). cardigan is amazing as well. It feels so warm. I've used both of those songs for writing as well as crying before, but when I want to smile I always turn to the last great american dynasty.

123/100 words. Dear Lydia (Historical Fiction)

I was delighted to receive your letter of last week. I meant to pen a response immediately, but unfortunately the cat got into the dairy and spoilt several pails of milk. Cleaning the resultant mess made it slip my mind. Currently I am not at leisure to write a longer response, but I wish to reply before this gets lost in the mists of time.

As to your enquiry: I could travel down and stay with you for a month this March. If I take the post-chaise on the first, then I should be with you by that evening. I hope this would accommodate you, as well? I await your response with eagerness.

Give my regards to George,
Maria

109 words. Dear Realistic Fiction,

I'm sitting here in bed, typing away at the laptop, one lamp illuminating the room. Its light doesn't quite reach the opposite wall, and I can't pick out the exact colours or shapes of the clothes draped over the chair. The curtains are shut, but a tiny gap at the top reveals a glint from the streetlight.

Folds of warm white duvet are draped over my feet, encasing my legs as if in a sudden thick snowfall. Taylor Swift's folklore album is playing; this is me trying is possibly one of my favourite songs, but I think that with every new song that plays.

100/100 words. Dear Horror,

If you're reading this, don't turn round.

I mean it. Don't turn round. That empty space just behind your head? It might not be as empty as you're thinking. Of course, it could be perfectly empty. It might just be air. There might not be any long, sharp black claws outstretched, spanning the base of your scalp, ready to rip as soon as you move. There might not be anything watching you, waiting for the moment when you've let your guard down. There might be nothing there. But I think it's better not to risk it, don't you?

118/100 words. Poetry.

when I think of writing you a letter
it seems such a strange and vulnerable thing to do
to touch the paper, to give it words to hold for you.
is it a bond between us or yet another fetter
that will take all too long to break?

(it's only paper and ink, I'm sure we'll cope)

but still I find myself tracing my pen over the sheet
as gently as if it were my finger over your face,
then pause, staring blank into space,
before I sign myself as yours, leave the letter complete.
I drop it in the box and wonder how long it will take.

(will you recognise my handwriting before you tear the envelope?)

107/100 words. Science Fiction. Dr. Torreston:

Your proposal shocked me. Even laying aside the complex ethics of creating such a creature (surely a sentient organism with all the appearance of a human and similar thought patterns, but with the ability to kill far more easily, has to be considered very carefully indeed before proposing it as a solution?), the potential expense alone horrifies me. You know as well as I do that the Intergalactic Committee for Experimentation Oversight refuses to give out anywhere near the budget we would need unless it is for “humane” work. Perhaps if we could represent your proposal differently, it might be more possible.

Sincerely,
Dr. Charles

133 words. Dear Bizarro Fiction,

I have absolutely no clue what the conventions of your genre are, but I'd like to tell you that although the thoughts haven't grown any lighter I think them less frequently and I don't care as much anymore. Also, this morning I went to go and buy a baguette so that I could eat it because I was starving, but actually I lied. It was this afternoon and I wasn't all that starving I just wanted to go somewhere for a purpose. The cashier didn't seem surprised to see that I was just buying that. She didn't react at all and that made me wonder what the strangest purchase she's processed has been. Would she make a good SWC camper? I wonder what she'd say if I asked her that.

105/100 words. Script.

Character A is sitting on a chair in one corner. Character B enters from stage left, holding a sheet of paper in their hands.

Character B, joyfully: Character A! I just got a letter back from the SWC theatre and they accepted me for an audition!

Character A: That's amazing! What does it say?

Character B, in a clear voice: Dear Character B, We have received and read your application for the role of Script Cabin in the SWC play. We enjoyed your previous acting. Please turn up for an audition as soon as possible.

From sprinkler splashes to fireplace ashes
I gave my blood, sweat and tears for this
I hosted parties and starved my body
Like I'd be saved by a perfect kiss

note: “you're on your own, kid” is my favourite song from midnights. those last two lines from that stanza?? they hit so hard I haven't seen anything but stars for days

From lights to ashes
I gave blood, skin and tears
a feast of hunger

Firelight is flickering, still stubbornly washing the stone walls in a feeble orange glow despite the fact that soon all it will leave is a pale smear of ash. Losing the fight against time, as everything does. As I am, despite all I can do.

The potion failed again. My hands shake and I stir it.

I look around at the ruins of what used to be my city. How many years since voices of other people were heard here? How many since the owners of the voices lived here? How many since they lived here with no plans to run at the first sight of danger? The answer grows older and older. As do I, despite all I can do.

Blood, skin and tears. Easy enough; a natural sequence which is easily dropped into the cauldron.

I trace a finger over the deeply cut carvings on the wall as if I could push the dancing shadows away from them. They depict the first time the ground opened, swallowed part of the city all at once like some ravenous beast devouring itself. A feast of hunger. It will never be satisfied. And neither will I, despite all I will do.

object was a pencil case

“The black zipper may not originally appear to be the most appetising part,” I say diplomatically. My customer service smile stretches wider. My lips are cracking. “But customers say that actually, it turned out to be far better than expected. A nice sharp little crunch with a hint of a metallic taste.”

Silence greets me. The face of the camper in front of me looks horrified; another looks disapproving; another is trying not to laugh.

“Perhaps what's putting you off is the slight dust visible inside the clear plastic?” I tilt my head, aiming to portray sympathy. Judging by the horrified camper's face, which deepens into further horror, I think the effect is more broken doll. I put my head back upright. Realising I paused, I hastily get back into my speech. “In my experience, it adds a sort of soft pleasant texture that contrasts nicely with the plastic, as well as the gentle crunch of the wooden pencils inside. It soften the lead flavour of the pencils, too, making it more palatable for those who prefer a milder taste.”

The disapproving camper crosses their arms firmly and judgementally across their chest.

I try not to lick at my cracked lips as I continue. "As for the eraser… well, some have described it as chewy. But if you unscrew the pen and tip the ink over it, as the dish is actually meant to be served, then this improves the general texture, as well as enhancing the intense white rubber flavour with notes of ink. The colour contrast, as well, is very pleasing to the eye. You can choose a number of different colours: I recommend black or deep blue. Some customers have complained that the red reminds them of blood a little too much. But that's a positive aspect for some people."

I used ferns = concealed love, osmunda = dreams, yarrow = cure for love, zinnia = thoughts of absent friends, and juniper = I confide in you

juniper (the things I can't tell you)

the ferns in your garden are swaying around us
as you lean back on your elbows, looking me in the eyes
as intensely as you do with everyone who talks to you.
your friendship should be enough. I should consider anything else superfluous
but every time your fingers brush mine I get butterflies.
when you joke that we're in love it's all too true

(at least for one of us why does it always have to be just one just one who falls harder and why will it always be me)

you tell me the ferns aren't just any; they're osmunda, the kind you like best
I search them up on my phone, then I can't explain when you ask why I laugh.
because how could I tell you that you're in my dreams all the time?
when you grabbed my phone I wondered for a second if you guessed
but instead you just pulled up the camera and snapped a photograph.
now I'm staring at it like it's evidence of a crime

(that's what everything I do around you feels like and I hate it I hate it I hate it I don't want to be yet another person who wants you)

when I next see you we sprawl by the yarrow in the park
but it doesn't change anything. I still feel the same way about you.
I can't stop staring at your face and your hands and your smile
as if I think somehow I'll be able to leave a mark,
make you remember me forever if only I do that too.
you won't but looking at you is still worthwhile

(do you ever think about my face when I'm not there do you ever see me when you close your eyes do you ever feel guilty)

and now I'm standing by the zinnia flowers all alone
you're with someone else; your voice went different, softer when you said their name.
I think you might have finally fallen for someone; you didn't tell me
but I've never seen you smile like that at a message on your phone
that you wouldn't show me. I have my theories about who to blame.
the only thing I know for certain is that it isn't me

(and there's no reason it should be we were never more than friends but you don't know how much I wish we had been)

when I think of writing you a letter
it seems such a strange and vulnerable thing to do
to touch the paper, to give it words to hold for you.
is it a bond between us or yet another fetter
that will take all too long to break?

(it's only paper and ink, I'm sure we'll cope)

but still I find myself tracing my pen over the sheet
as gently as if it were my finger over your face,
then pause, staring blank into space,
before I sign myself as yours, leave the letter complete.
I drop it in the box and wonder how long it will take.

(will you recognise my handwriting before you tear the envelope?)

I’m thinking of you all again today
spreading out the patchwork rainbows of our childhood
pushing anything ugly away
focusing on the funny or the good

I remember the precise shade of yellow of her sweater
the green of the grass contrasting against it
the way it all blended into gold in my head, so much better
than overanalysing everything bit by bit

you were rich dark purple, that time you told me you’d fight for me;
I’d never felt so loved by anyone before
or so thoroughly happy and so grateful to be
(I hadn’t yet had to stop myself from asking for more)

all our laughter singing bright pink in a field
as we sat around, held hands in our circle, and smiled at each other.
even then I’d learnt to keep things concealed
but that day they stayed quiet enough to not be a bother

(I don’t like thinking about the navy blue of your tears
cried into her shoulder half-silent in the night
how many more have you let out in the years
since you let someone hold you tight?)

I tried to keep the dark colours out of this
but light only temporarily drives back the shadow —
as first we loved, now all we do is miss
(I don’t want to be the first to go)

The classroom has fallen back down to near silence again. Pens scratch out problems and solutions, barely audible. Occasionally, a sheet of paper rustles as its owner turns it over and one of the many small draughts leaking from the old wooden window-frames catches it. Mr Matthews surveys us all, face implacable, eyes moving restlessly over us.

Sofia would say he doesn’t like the silence. An obvious thought, but then she would go on to say it’s not because he’s worried that if he lets his guard down — as the lull invites him to — we’ll misbehave. He wants us to. He wants something to distract himself from the boredom of his own thoughts, from all the emptiness that comes from looking over a room of sixteen-year-olds who are scribbling away in order to temporarily memorise the key points of a subject that they hate learning. They will ace the exam in it, as he has taught them to do, and then promptly forget all his lessons as quickly as they can. Him as well. Then next year, he will have another bunch of sixteen year olds born a year later who will do exactly the same thing. Two years, and three years, and four years — five, six, seven, eight (you get the point we’re in maths class) — will just bring the same: a fresh tide of students who want good marks and have the money to pay for it but absolutely no enthusiasm. What sort of life is that for anyone? No wonder he looks bloody miserable all the time, she would say, and then laugh and shrug and lean back and add, Not that we’ll do any better.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about her now when I should be getting my problems down. Back to the paper to solve for x, and then, as inevitable as the shiver in my shoulders when the wind blows extra hard through the cracks, I turn my head sideways to glance at her.

Her side profile is the same as ever. Dark curls spilling over the tops of her shoulders, regal hawk’s nose, lips pursed in concentration. I don’t know if I expected it to change after our fight yesterday. I don’t think so.

She looks up, catches my gaze. I stare back at her, trying to parse her expression; is she trying to fight back tears at my glance as well? Perhaps. She looks away again, reaching for something in her bag. I should stop watching, but instead I watch as she pulls out a pencil.

Its green and purple stripes stand out to me like a snowman strolling down the street in summer. It’s The Pencil: the one we fought about. My favourite one, that I won as a prize in primary school for runner-up in the Year 5 writing competition.

It’d been missing all day yesterday, after I lent it to her for diagrams in Biology. She claimed she didn’t have it, but wouldn’t look through her bag (“too tired right now”) or let me look through it (“you don’t want to see all the terrible love letters I wrote you”). The joke fell flat. I wanted that pencil and I threw a strop about it and the result was we didn’t speak to each other all yesterday evening or this morning at breakfast.

I turn away, ashamed of myself. But she jabs it under my nose, then scrawls on the edge of my textbook I’m sorry for being a lazy prat. You were right I did have it and a long looping heart.

Incredulous, I look back at her. I can’t believe my luck.

“Friends?” she mouths, all sideways grin.

“Friends,” I whisper back, smiling for the first time since our fight.

Part 1
Pareto Analysis and Pomodoro technique

Part 2
I chose Brainstorming

Part 3 294/250 words
sleep
sunlight
listening to music
writing thoughts down

Sleep is very important for people to function. (I should know. I’m writing this at 5:30am.) This week, I intend to try to fix my sleeping schedule — I will make sure that I go to bed while it’s still pm, and get up before 11am. Hopefully, this will make me more excited for the day and I will be able to focus better, as well as enjoy crisp cool mornings.

Sunlight is essential for human beings to feel happy. (I should know. I’m living in the UK in the winter.) I will try to get outside when it’s sunny for at least half an hour a day. This will hopefully make me feel happier. However, as it is not sunny very often, I will also supplement my diet with Vitamin D tablets. These will help to replace the essential nutrients that I’m not getting because I’m not getting enough sunlight to function.

Listening to music helps people process emotions they find hard to put into words. (I should know. I’m listening to Francis Forever by Mitski on repeat.) I will try to listen both to music that helps let out sad emotions and cheerful, upbeat music, in order to make myself feel happy. I will not just listen to Mitski.

Writing thoughts down is important and an outlet when you can’t talk to other people. (I should know. I write down all the gossip that I’m not meant to know in my diary.) I will try to write about my emotions, things that interest or frustrate me about other people then analyse these, and things that I’m happy about. On top of helping my mental health, it will be very interesting to look back on.

when i look back over us i think of gold;
a dreamlike, sunlit, warmth-filled haze.
but we were too bright, we burned too fast,
spent ourselves out on one sputtering blaze.
two months was all we managed to last
before we flickered out and grew cold

(and so night fell on our short day)

i can’t decide if i regret not keeping on guard
against you and what you made me feel:
you made me so happy i loved waking up
— because it meant, however briefly, that we were real —
but i didn’t know just how soon we’d be breaking up
although i knew when it came, the crash would be hard

(your name still hurts to say)

thinking about anything from back then
— the way you smiled after we kissed,
your eyes, your laugh, your voice —
feels like choking on a half-gone mist.
for once i was someone’s choice;
i’d do anything to be yours again

(i know i can’t be but i’m not resigned)

even in the midst of it when i was dizzy from you,
i understood we wouldn’t last.
the moments we shared would gather creases
as time crumpled them into the past
and, eventually, they’d be torn to pieces
because you’d move on in search of something new

(while i’d be left discarded behind)

and it happened just as i said,
though knowing how it’d go didn’t help the ache
when i realised you didn’t look at me the same way
anymore and we were confirmed as a mistake.
i wished you would tell me we’d talk it through, we’d be okay,
but you only sighed and turned away, so i fled

(at least i didn’t cry in front of you)

i wonder sometimes if you ever felt as bad.
our ending was a landslide; at least, i crumbled completely
a cliff crashing hard into the winter sea.
perhaps you did the same, just out of my sight, discreetly.
but honestly, i don’t think you ever cared as much as me
and though i don’t want to admit it, that made me — makes me — sad

(what did you feel when we said we were through?)

Main Cabin, Dystopian Cabin, and The Slat (Dystopian Word Counts)

Wordcounter

Total Word Count

Main Cabin Dailies: 3rd Mar || 5th March || 8th-9th March || 10th March (comment version)
In-Cabin Prompts:

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

Word Wars Won:
Word Wars Lost:

Cabin Wars:

Writing Competition Entry || Fanfic Entry

stuff I may want to find later: