Why hello there, internet surfer.

I apologize for the bluntness, I have been a bit weary these days. The name's Sun (or Cosmos, if for whatever reason you think that's weird), my pronouns are they/them, and this thread will serve as an internet collection of the writing I do for this session of SWC. I don't really roleplay anymore, but homework and paper writing (which I most certainly do have, thanks super tiring science course) will not be included here.

If you have any questions or comments, please direct them to my chat studio ( — https://scratch.mit.edu/studios/5274416/comments/ ) or the Hi-Fi Ren. Faire. ( https://scratch.mit.edu/studios/31623507/comments )

I understand if this may be confusing (but honestly everyone in the Things I'm Making and Creating Forums are used to the swc flood by now). The writing here is for Scratch's triannual Scratch Writing Camp, where I am leading the Historical Fiction Cabin with @GraceOBrien13 and @StarFox74. Any further questions will most likely be answered here: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/534559459/

And with that, I'll get on to writing. Have a nice day, and may the soft waves of the world wide web guide your every step.

(+203 words, written July 1st 2022)

(Written July 1st— Daily, introduce yourself. 1k challenge, cause I'm an idiot.)

Hark, is that a stranger I do see over there? Hail and well met, good fellow! It seems we have not yet become acquainted! *bows flamboyantly* My internet moniker is Sun, though you can also call me Cosmos if you prefer. I have the privilege to lead the great Hi-Fi cabin this session, and I am so excited to meet you all :D Be sure to pop by the Renaissance Faire if you ever want to chat :] I am a teenager and non-binary among many other things but those are the main takeways from whatever the heck this long ramble is going to become.

This is the line, stranger. If you continue reading now, you may never be able to look back.

Are you certain, stranger? Have you made your choice?

Good. Then proceed with caution.

Things that pertain to my image on the internet:
I am not particularly good at keeping up with the things that are popular on Scratch; my taste tends to be all over the place :’)
When it comes to books I enjoy burying my head in high fantasy, philosophy, and the classics. My favourites include The Count of Monte Cristo and something else I forgot and Ranger's Apprentice (nostaaaaalgiaaaaa)
I don’t watch that much TV anymore but when I do it’s all anime hA (favourite so far Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood), movies are the same except I indulge myself in a bit of Marvel time to time because Doctor Strange is the only character I care about, whoops— (favourite right now Howl’s Moving Castle but rotates between Ghibli movies)
Music! I listen to lots of music. My general listening cycle is hear a good song somewhere, like it, listen to it on repeat extensively for a few days and then return to my good old rotation of songs :] that rotation consists if my favourite artists: The Oh Hellos, Sleeping at Last, Yorushika, Radical Face (and more…)
I also play video games a lot! Hollow Knight was my first and it will forever be close to my heart (Silksong… :’]), though I enjoy Hades, The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles, Gris, and Breath of the Wild as well.
Other media I consume: Critical Role heavily, though that’s not Scratch appropriate;
Lots of video essays (less during the summer), the channel I prefer being Jacob Geller;
and fanfiction of course :] I have very specific tastes I will not air, I know better than to give them out in the internet pft

Real life things—
I hail from the far-off mystical realm of Canada, where Tim Hortons and milk sold in bags and snow all coexist in relative harmony. I drink milk unironically (but no I am not a psychopath), am practicing how to roll coins over my knuckles, and have become very adept at going doing internet rabbit holes. I’m very good at memorizing cool info and stuff short-term, but at some point it goes flying out the window, unfortunately :’( I used to know the whole biography of Pushkin and the crazy story behind how scientists argued about the age of the Earth, but that’s gone. The only cool things I know currently are how PCR + Western Blot work and everything about the Higgs Boson ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I am a jack of all trades as in when it comes to my future I am pulled in every direction :’) I enjoy science, math, poetry/writing, social studies/history, music, and film, and I had no idea what I want to do (or rather, I do, and my parents don’t quite like it).
I can speak Russian, but not well even though my Ukrainian grandparents keep telling me I do? My younger brother is worse though hA—

But yeah, I have a lot of musical experience! I sing alto in my choir, play classical guitar (though I fiddle around on my own), and I played violin for seven years before I did either of those things. I try my hand at arranging/transcribing every now and then, and I also am trying to compose a choral work (though that isn’t going well…)

Wow there’s so many words left and not much more to talk about alkdsjfhlkjdsafh uh…

I do draw a bit sometimes, but not enough to be good at it :’)))))) I was and still am obsessed with everything Sherlock Holmes, though I hate the BBC show with a passion. (Fight me.)

Oh! I am currently out of the country doing a scientific pre-college course at a university! It’s very tiring and there’s a lot of homework but it’s so fun asdsfkjhfd I’ve been learning so much and the library is SO COOL o.0 there are 5 underground floors and they all specialize in different areas, each floor has a different librarian for each major and there’re so many books!! There’s even a rare book collection in another area that I really wanna go to but you need a reservation.

There’s still more than a 100 words * I’m just rambling about my life now uuuuuuuuh…

(Can you tell that I’m losing my mind? Usually I’m cohesive, but too much of my focus and energy is gone to the course,,,)

Cheez-its. Cheez-its are good…

Man, i wish notes counted for words. I have so many goddxmn notes from this course.

Hm. Writing I’m currently working on, maybe? I’ve already started my writing comp entry lmao, I have a meta/analysis piece I just began because I noticed some weird parallels, a poem in progress, and I also wasted way too much of my time yesterday looking up youth writing and poetry competitions, seeing how crazy some of them are, and deciding that I could never do that before bookmarking the tabs and hoping I’d forget them :’)

33 WORDS OKAY SO CLOSE

UH YEAH HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR TIME IN SWC I’M SO SORRY FOR THIS

OH YEAH PERSONALITY THING I TALK IN CAPS LOCK A LOT BECAUSE I’M EASILY AGITATED/STRESSED/PANICKED

SEE YA AROUND I GUESS?? ENJOY SWC I’M SO SORRY—

(+1004 words)

(Written July 2nd 2022— mcd. Using this project, ask the magic 8 ball a plot-related question.
https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/710721692/ The outcome will then influence what happens in the story. Write at least 400 words with this prompt.

“Do you get there in time?”
“Ask again later”

Look! It’s more experimental stuff! Mildly inspired by Prophets in the Graveyard by FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls and ExU Calamity)


The all too familiar feeling of the air thickening begins to set in.
You close your eyes and inhale one last time before everything begins to move in slow motion, your body alone retaining any sense of movement. Even with your precise control you are still a bit more sluggish than normal; it makes you want to scream.
Even though you’ve done this (so many) times, you’re still not quite used to just how wrong it feels, your breath mechanical, foreign, like it belongs to someone else. Your muscles straining against a barrier they could never pass, the blood slick and heavy against your hands—

No, no, not that, never that, you will not have it happen again even though it already has (over and over and over again) and you cannot stand to see this whole scene play out again. You inhale slowly and plunge your hands into the web of time, determined to see them washed clean this time—

The threads of light spool around your hands, your eyes flickering as you stitch and unstitch the fabric of time. You know that if you do this too much the holes in the timeline will get too large, but it doesn’t stop you from pushing your limits, from rewinding it
(again and again and again).
Because you can.
Because you have to—

It’s not working it’s not working IT’S NOT WORKING—

Sometimes you get there in time. Sometimes you don’t.
(What meaning is there to “in time” now anyway, when it’s all blurring before your eyes—)
It’s always the same, the whining static of power being lost forevermore and fire crackling as it reaches for an overcast firmament you know she will never see again and the blood, always the blood, pouring from places you never knew it could come from as you struggle and heave and try everything—

You can’t afford to waste any time, even as drawn out as it is. (Even though you’ve wasted so much of the fabric already, stitching and tying again and again—)

Again.
Until it works.
Until one little change means this doesn’t happen, means there is no power taken and thrown back to the heavens, means there is no rain and lightning beating down upon the earth—
(“You must remember, little one, that even though you hold a power few could ever dream of having, you are still mortal. You cannot claim to control every part of the timeline or be able to do it forever. You can break. You can bleed. And you can pay the price for trying.”)
She will never have the strength to say such things again.

No, no, she will, if you try again she will—

You feel something snap inside of you, a thin needle finally reaching its breaking point, fabric unravelling as each of its threads separate and dissipate—

No, NO, you need more time—
And you keep thinking that, over and over again, until there is no more left.

(+496 words)

(Written July 3rd 2022— mcd. Write at least 300 words about a time you helped someone!

Bit insecure about my ability to help salkdjflkjsadf. I’m not very good at knowing the difference between what counts as helping and what are things I’m obligated to do so here have something small and miniscule i guess lkasjdfahfkjsf)


I wouldn’t call myself someone who knows a lot about manga.
I do know quite a few, sure, and I try to keep myself up to date with all of the news and the anime connections, but I’ve barely read any, not least all the way through.

(Manga is so expensive lkasjdhflkjasaf?? A full box set of a series is almost always upwards of 215 dollars and even just one volume is around $10, which isn’t a lot but what you’re getting per volume isn’t even a full arc of story. You want a full arc, that can be anywhere from $40-$150 o.0)

My knowledge pretty much extends to “people say this is good” and “people say this is bad”. My friends know far more than I do and I never thought the information I have would ever be useful?
Apparently not, I guess.

So I’m in a bookstore looking for some books before I leave for a trip. It’s pretty small (and kid-centric) so the teen section is right by the manga. I’m just looking through the graphic novels and I hear “there’s not that much social realist manga that I can think of, but I’m sure there’s something… Hold on, let me think.”

Now this is an interesting thing to overhear in a bookstore, but I don’t know any social realist manga either, and from the sound of the voices these are two employees and I definitely don’t know more than them (and also social anxiety). I probably wouldn’t add anything to the conversation even if I did join in…

“That’s alright, do you have any other recommendations, then?”

(I still shouldn’t say anything this isn’t my conversation they know more than I do I shouldn’t—)

“Oh! Haikyu’s really good.”

(Dxmn it, Sun.)

I don’t even know how I managed to keep it up, but the conversation just sort of went on from there. I made some recommendations, had a discussion… It turned out alright, I guess?

(+331 words)

(Written July 4th 2022— mcd. Write two dialogues: one where a character is being vague, and the other where a character is being ambiguous. Each dialogue must be at least 250 words long.

Aaaaaand we’re back to the dynamic duo!)

Ambiguity - 313 words

Though they head for opposite ends of the archive, the two planeporters smile at each other as their minds connect. They are plenty capable enough to multitask, logging their day’s activities and recording new information without missing a beat of mental banter.

So, what did you do today? {redacted} queries first, a lighthearted tone prodding gently at {Redacted}’s mind.

Oh, not really much, grins {Redacted} as they continue to mess around with the computer. I was in London, Reality 883-1. Just some surveillance, but I saw a suspicious guy with magic. Turned out to be pretty interesting, in the end.

Oh really? {redacted} replies after just a beat (in the mind, that is telling enough), bemused.

{Redacted} does not laugh out loud. They do not need to. Yep.

Pray tell, whatever did you do? {redacted}, however, does, loud and bright and far too loud for an archive. (… Whoops.)

Why, I followed him of course! {Redacted} doesn’t turn around to look at their partner, but their grin widens. All the way to his home. I thought he was going to do something crazy and I’d have to fight him or something, but it turns out he was just the victim of some other porter in the city, and what I saw was the lingering signature. He didn’t even know he’d been manipulated, poor chap. I’m going to go back tomorrow and see if I can track down the actual porter who did it, since it seems like they weren’t up to much good.

It is less than one millisecond of silence, but it is enough for {Redacted} to finally turn their head away from their work. {redacted.}…?

… It’s been a while since I’ve heard you use wordplay, {Redacted}. {redacted} turns as well, a much more fond smile clear on his face.

What can I say? I’m in the mood. {Redacted} grins back.

Vagueness - 257 words

So anyway, what did you do? {Redacted} asks, turning back to their work of cataloguing what they found in London.

Oh, little old me? I stopped a summoning. And with that blunt statement, {redacted} too returns to his work.

{Redacted} frowns. That’s it? Where? How? Who? What were they summoning?

Stopped a summoning, The porter repeats, tugging at his hat.

Come on, there has to be more than that, prods {Redacted} with lighthearted exasperation.

Nope.

Oh come on! {Redacted} mentally sighs (it is hard to forget the habits of your physical body, after all). They take a deep breath and prepare themselves.

Knowing what’s coming, {redacted} smiles and puts up a barrier.

{Redacted} sharpens their mind to (an admittedly blunt) point and shoves it into {redacted}’s, trying to worm their way through the barrier and deeper into his mind. You know more than that!

Well of course, but you can find out the details once I put them into the archive, along with the rest of the group.

Neither of their minds give way; they are plenty capable enough to multitask, logging their day’s activities and recording new information without missing a beat of mental banter or letting their wills slack.

You usually let me know before… Whines {Redacted}, grating their mind against the walls of {redacted}’s impenetrable fortress. (If they try harder then perhaps they could… but no, they will not hurt their friend.) Contrary to the tone of their voice, they’re grinning.

What can I say? I’m in the mood. {redacted} grins back.

(+570 words)

(Written July 5th 2022— mcd. Write at least 300 words of a story that takes inspiration from a proverb.

I really need to find a way to differentiate between their old names and their chosen names, oop—
Edit same day, wording change but no change to word count)


Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

{Redacted} clings to that in the quiet moments when they are alone, when all they have left to occupy themselves are memories not thrown out fast enough and demons in the dark.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

And when they were absent for the first and only time, it all immediately went downhill.

When they were absent for the first and only time, they lost what could have been, what should have been.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Right?

Even when what’s absent is the past,

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Even when what’s absent is a future that could never be.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

If that truly makes the heart grow fonder, if this “fondness” is inexplicable yearning and breaking over broken promises and rage into the silence, then perhaps if it had not been absent then it wouldn’t be as fond?

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

{Redacted} clings to that in the quiet moments when they are alone, when all they have left to occupy themselves are memories not thrown out fast enough and demons in the dark. Because if they have nothing else to comfort themselves with, nothing would stop them from tearing themselves apart over what they could’ve done better.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

It’s what {redacted} whispers when he finds {Redacted} alone in the quiet moments, what their mother whispered knowingly when they were a child (It was so much better then IT WAS SO MUCH BETTER THEN—)

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

When they are not alone and the thrum of adrenaline is pounding in their ears, {Redacted} tries their best to forget it. They try their best to keep themselves awake, to be alive in the moment they are in. There is no time for fondness when there are better things to do, no time for fondness when they are trying to make amends—

Absence
makes
the heart
grow
fonder.

It hounds {Redacted} even in the quiet moments, when they have clung too tightly to it and it has turned its fangs on the world the porter has so precariously built around themselves. Its bitterness whispers to him, Which do you prefer? Now or then? Choosechoosechoosechoose—

And its fangs prepare to bite when they are standing there alone on the battlefield, the fire and the smoke and the ash deafening them as a caped figure wreathed in black approaches. The nearer he comes, the easier it is to see his eyes glow red.

“It’s been a long time, {Redacted’s old name}.”

And the snake strikes.

(+438 words)

(Written July 6th 2022— Mcd. Find your sign’s horoscope at https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/711163750 and use it as a writing prompt! Write at least 500 words.

Random sign: Libra
“Someone has turned on the fan and papers are flying everywhere, Libra. The pace of things is picking up and you’re scrambling to pick up the pieces. Stay in close communication with others today. This will be your saving grace. You may require others’ help to fetch the stack of important documents that has blown across the room. Keep a close eye on things so you don’t lose your place in the game.”

Okay but why is this so accurate asdfjhsadflkjsa??
Too tired today and don’t have the time to write something good, so yes this is just going to be a 500 word story that’s basically just a thinly veiled rant about my life rn, whoops :’)
Wow writing in first person is so weird now, how does one do this)


I keep setting the alarm, and it never works.

I might have become numb to it, I think? I’ve set it so many times for school and now this course that it barely registers now; I just hit upon an idea yesterday to put a book under it so it vibrates more, and even so this morning I heard the first one at 6:30 (the fact that I heard it is an improvement, at least) and immediately turned it off and went back to bed.

I have learned enough to set my alarms as many in quick succession, so today’s progression was 6:30 - 7 - 7:30 - 7:45 - 8.

I still got up at 8:30.

This numbness has at least taught me speed: I managed to finish the daily by 9:05, run to the cafeteria, and grab enough cereal to last the morning lecture. My schedule is still out of wack, but I am making it work.

(Making it work just enough, at least.)

And I do still have a schedule, too; better than nothing. I know exactly how much time I have before, in between, and after each class— how much time that means I have for writing, and how much for homework. I’ve allocated my work accordingly to my time, and it's doable—

(if I don’t stop working, if I keep my mind going until it can’t think anymore—)

A final paper and a presentation, three more labs to go and a quiz and the weekly and a workshop and this daily at 9 pm in a common room with people I barely know and most likely will never see again—

(I am trying to contain my thoughts in a room with too many—)

One more week.

I can keep this up for one more week.

(One more week.)

There’s a Korean restaurant within the area we’re allowed to stay in; I’m planning to go there for lunch tomorrow instead of the cafeteria. It’s probably not exactly the taste of home, but close enough that I can reminisce for a few minutes and then keep going.

(So much socialization, resorting to one style of writing because I cannot muster up the creativity to think of any way else—)

Yes, keep going, with the Lord of the Rings movies spread out over the evenings so I have a small something to look forward to if I finish my homework faster

(Too late, too late, go to bed earlier even though you won’t have the motivation to—)

And snacks from CVS at 10 pm scarfed down as I’m glued to my computer, chocolate and cheez-its and sometimes popsicles because it gets way too hot on the east coast.

(How does anyone do this—)

My mom would get mad at me if she were here, but she’s not so I can continue to cling to SWC as work that heals and go to bed late—

(She never really understood, did she—)

And I can go by a different name and different pronouns and no one will care, they’ve only known a me with short hair

(after all, this won’t last—)

I am so tired

(Of what life is now or what it will have to become later, who can say?)

So many questions I don’t have the energy to answer.
Ranting through the keyboard into the void is an ill substitute, but I can try.

(+568 words)

(Written July 7th 2022— Mcd. Copy and paste a song into Google Translate, translate it into a few different languages, and then translate it back to English and use the messed-up lyrics as a writing prompt. Write at least 400 words.

Förklaring, technically a poem by Karin Boye but also a choral piece by Ola Gjeilo (in Swedish)

“I din skönhet sänkt
ser jag livet förklarat
och den mörka gåtans svar
uppenbarat.

I din skönhet sänkt
bedja jag vill.
Världen är helig,
ty du är till.

Andlös av klarhet,
ljusfördränkt,
ville jag dö hos dig,
i din skönhet sänkt.”

So, Swedish → Japanese → Estonian → Urdu → Latin → Russian → English

“lack of beauty
I see life unfold.
The answer to the dark secret
clearly

lack of beauty
I am praying for you.
The world is sacred;
you.

Exhale and cleanse
lightly impregnated
I wanted to die with you
your form is broken.”)


{Redacted} has encountered this enough times to know what it is now.

They recognize the slow dread creeping into their heart, the void filling their eyes and the familiar-unfamiliar feeling of deja vu sinking its way into their stomach.

They know, now, the exact cadence of the magic-weighted steps as they rewrite the gravity of a world and how exactly to prepare so they can counter with light.

They know the deep red irises and a voice muddled by swamp.

(If they didn’t know any better, the porter would compare the inky magic to that of a squid and say that the person hidden within the darkness is afraid.)

But they do, so instead {Redacted} fights, each and every time, and tries not to let their (past) life flash before their eyes.

(They had tried to make it flash in front of red-black eyes, once. “{Яedacted}, please, you said that you would fight for reality why are you fighting me—”)

{Redacted} has stopped hoping for any change, but whenever they start to feel the dread and the void and the deja vu they try to hope anyway, because they know that’s what {redacted} would want them to do.

So they breathe in, breathe out, pull in the magic and try to light up what darkness they can. They try not to place another person’s eyes in front of the red, try not to see a body that isn’t there.

There is only brokenness swimming in onyx and hope that doesn’t belong to them.

{Redacted} tries anyway, because they will not abandon anything else to its fate. Not a world, not a person, not a past.

If {Яedacted} has chosen to destroy worlds as much as he has destroyed himself, then so be it.

(Whenever it is dark enough to sneak out alone, they head to the beach. It’s close enough, after all, and there is nothing quite like cold, soft sand grating between toes and the breeze cutting sharp beneath hoodies and the stars somehow seem close enough to touch, just for a little while. The dark is more present than ever, and yet oxymoronically it is held at bay by the slow degradation of time. The beauty is visible even when their backs are turned away from the earth and their roots, staring up into twilight fixed in place— it hasn’t had enough time to swallow everything quite yet.

“You promise?”

“Yes, of course I promise.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“… I know.”)

(+416 words)

(Completed July 8th 2022— weekly on fanfiction!
Edit July 27th 2022— no word count change, just fixing a name ;>)

Part 1 - Character Consistency: 782 words
For part 1 of the weekly, you’ll be learning how to keep a character’s personality and mannerism consistent to its fandom. The awesome Aleia has created a workshop on how to keep your characters consistent. After you complete the workshop, you’ll be creating a character sheet for a character from a fandom and then putting them in a scenario to see how they’d react. The writing of the character in a scenario should be at least 400 words long.

Keeping myself sane by watching LoTR, so yeah Gandalf :>

Character Sheet: 154 words
Gandalf the Grey - (so the Hobbit and the Fellowship of the Ring, I personally consider Gandalf the White a separate character)
Series continuing or ended?: Ended, teeeechnically continuing if you count all of the extra stuff Tolkien wrote that is still slowly getting released

Pronouns - he/him
Sexuality - ???? (personal headcanon that he’s aro because of course I do pft)
Species - Maiar

Strengths: Immense magical power, incredibly wise due to his many years in Middle-Earth, has many connections, always seems to be aware of what’s going on
Weaknesses: Rarely speaks forthright, and keeps all of his feelings and motivations close to his chest.
General view on life (free, not hateful, hateful): Free

Tendencies - Gandalf tends to disappear and reappear whenever he wants, seemingly abandoning his team with no explanation. It is only after coming back when it is understood he was doing something useful.
Improving or staying the same?: Improving, he got better during LoTR

Scenario: 628 words
Your character has just been framed for something they didn't do and is being interrogated by the police.
Ohoho this is going to be so fun

Now this is most inconvenient.

Few people could be so flippant when they are handcuffed to a table in a police station, but honestly, Gandalf has gone through far worse. Bureaucracy? Pah. The Grey Wizard is currently far more concerned with the Middle-Earth artifact that has ended up in a museum, of all places.

How did a Ring end up here, when the time of Middle-Earth has passed? All of the Elves have long ago passed into the West, the Dwarves lost, the Kings of Men defeated, and the One Ring destroyed. How did a Ring end up here, so many Ages later?

* it, Gandalf had been hoping to finally get some rest.

But noooo, Men just had to have unearthed a Ring centuries later and the Wizard had to be sent back to make sure it didn’t end up in the wrong hands.

And lo and behold! Gandalf sneaks into the museum, and it’s already gone. Instead there are sirens and flashing lights and broken glass.

And now the Grey Wizard is here in this small dingy room, and all he can think about is the Ring and the poor people here who have no idea what they’re dealing with and the irrepressible, unshakable feeling of being out of time, in a world he doesn’t belong to anymore.

Gandalf doesn’t belong here, and he knows it.
As do the police apparently, because when an officer enters the room, even though Gandalf is dressed in period-typical clothes and has tried to take on a period-typical accent, she still eyes the Wizard up and down. “Your name?” She asks bluntly.

“Oh!” exclaims Gandalf, startling. “… Gary, Gary… Greyson.”

“Gary… Greyson…” The officer scribbles in her notebook. “And why were you in the museum in the middle of the night, Gary Greyson?”

“Well, the sound of tinkling glass reached my ears and I considered it most suspicious, so I followed the sound.” Gandalf intoned. He had thought about making up some cover story, but he just wanted to get to the point. Get this over with.

“Uh… huh.” The office didn’t look up, still scribbling in her notebook. “You heard some noise while you were out walking in the middle of the night and somehow got into a building with an incredible amount of security: bypassing the locked doors, the alarm system, the lasers and the unbreakable glass.”

“Oh, no!”

“No?”

“No, the front doors were very much unlocked, the alarm system and lasers disabled, and the glass broken. I did say I heard the sound of breaking glass, did I not, everything had already been done after I arrived.” Gandalf listed off all of the security system knowingly.

“The question still stands. Why were you out walking in the middle of the night?” The police officer finally looked up from her notebook, eyebrows furrowed as she stared at the disguised Wizard.

“If you are implying that I was somehow involved in the crime, then I do believe you would be mistaken.” Gandalf huffed impatiently. “If I were involved, why would I go back into the museum after the crime had already happened and police were swarming the area?”

“There could be plenty of reasons,” the officer began, tilting her head. “For one, maybe—”

Gandalf slipped out of the handcuffs and stood, wishing he had the solid weight of his staff to lean on. He settled with towering over the still unnamed officer instead, the lights flickering for just a moment.

“I would advise that you search the Underground.” Gandalf said quietly. “I am sure you will find something of interest there.”

Gandalf swept out of the room while the officer was still spluttering, a slight click in the door handle the only sign that it was no longer locked.

Part 2 - Character Voice: 1064 words
In this part, we will be diving into character voices, and how to keep them consistent. The fabulous Fae has created a workshop about character voices here. After reading this workshop, you will work with two characters. First, you will write at least 100 words each, identifying their character voices. Then, you will write 2 passages, each at least 300 words, of the characters recounting a past event.

Sherlock Holmes: 144 words
Sherlock Holmes is logical to a point. He dismisses all emotion, preferring to focus only on the facts; however, when writing of his own adventures, the detective sometimes finds himself falling back on story structures he so abhors in order to build enough suspense to tell a compelling story. He cannot simply explain all of his actions in the beginning, as much as he may like to. Holmes does still streamline his stories, however— he keeps his details scarce, and all information he mentions is important to a deduction or a plan in some way. Sherlock Holmes believes his profession is a science, and so when telling his story he writes of it in the same way a scientific journalist might: with tension, with suspense, but with a goal in mind to get to the point and with little beyond the needed base information.

Dr. John H. Watson: 127 words
According to his partner, Dr. Watson writes with just a bit too much romanticism for what are supposed to be rigorous recordings of detective science. And perhaps on occasion he overdescribes a “womanly figure” or stops the momentum in the middle of a novel to tell an entire mini-story for the backstory, but that does not mean the Doctor does not treat topics seriously when he needs to. As an army surgeon, however embellished his stories may be, Watson writes with an exactness and precision, noting down all necessary details and observing all events in a clear and understandable manner. And when it comes to the detection itself— Holmes’ deductions— Watson is not afraid to cut away everything else, even his own voice, and let it shine.

Holmes’ retrospective: 376 words
The slight creaking of the stairs alerted me to the presence of a possible client. Ms. Hudson’s footsteps have a distinct unevenness to them that was not present; I would have bolted up in my chair if Watson were not in the room or I were not afraid of scaring the client away with my eagerness. Finally, finally, something to do.

There was a confident air about her as she strode in, one that she was clearly putting on. I was already searching for data when I realized just a little too much awkward silence had passed, so I said, “Pray tell what the issue is, Madam,”

“Yes, do sit down.” Watson glanced over at me, clearly concerned, but I ignored him in favour of understanding our new client. Moderately wealthy, American, insomniac, no job… Hm, what else—

My thoughts were interrupted by my client, who cleared her throat before beginning.

“Very well. My name is Marigold Smith, and my husband and I lived relatively comfortably together in a home he bought for us after he got a job as a bank teller. It has been five years since then and we had set into a content routine. Nothing changed, we were stable, and then…” She trailed off, voice catching in her throat. “… And then he said that he needed to go away on a work trip and disappeared…”

Despite the noticeable lack of details in Mrs. Smith’s account, a myriad of possibilities were already swimming about in my head. Investigation was needed in order to find out more, and that was something I could not wait to get to.

“I’ll take your case. I will be sure to let you know if I discover anything. Your address, please…?”

“Oh! 6740 Maple Street.”

“I see, thank you.” And I hurriedly shooed her out the door so I could return to my thoughts.

“Holmes! What was that?” Alas, my dear Watson had some questions, as the man always does.

“Whatever do you mean?” I replied.

“Surely we’ll need more information than that?” Though he does always hit the problem right on the head, he does.

I turned to the window, looking at Mrs. Marigold as she crossed the street. “Perhaps, but I do have my suspicions, Watson.”

Watson’s retrospective: 417 words
She was quite striking, really, our new client— deep brown eyes and beautiful auburn hair that accented her features wonderfully. Her stride through the door conveyed a carefully chosen confidence, a demeanor not many of our clients are capable of when they find themselves at their wit’s end. And yet, I could tell that’s where she was: for her hands were fidgeting terribly, and the deep shadows under her eyes conveyed some grievance.

“Pray tell what the issue is, Madam,” Holmes drawled from his place sprawled across his armchair. We had not had a case in several days, and I could see the hunger in his eyes for something exciting. Already his gaze was darting about his newfound quarry, no doubt taking in some dark secret.

“Yes, do sit down,” I added, trying to make up for my partner’s noted lack of hospitality.

Our client did so hesitantly, tugging at the light lace gloves on her hands. “Very well,” she began after clearing her throat, her voice reedy but stable. “My name is Marigold Smith, and my husband and I lived relatively comfortably together in a home he bought for us after he got a job as a bank teller. It has been five years since then and we had set into a content routine. Nothing changed, we were stable, and then…”

Mrs. Smith choked up unexpectedly, holding her hands to her mouth and curling around herself. “… And then he said that he needed to go away on a work trip and disappeared…”

There was silence in the room as Mrs. Smith succumbed to sobs, Holmes lost in thought and I curious as to the lack of detail. Surely there was more to the situation than this? What bank did Mr. Smith work for? Did he tell his wife anything at all beyond “I need to go on a business trip”? Why would a bank teller need to travel for business?

“I’ll take your case,” announced Holmes abruptly, rousing from his thoughts. “I will be sure to let you know if I discover anything. Your address, please…?”

“Oh! 6740 Maple Street.”

“I see, thank you.” And with that, Holmes ushered the still-distraught Marigold out the door.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed once she was gone, “what was that?”

“Whatever do you mean?” He lilted lightly in reply.

“Surely we’ll need more information than that?” I tilted my head, confused.

My partner idly tapped his finger against his lips, eyes glazed over. “Perhaps, but I do have my suspicions, Watson.”

Part 3 - Fanfic Tropes: 799 words
(In this part, we will be exploring fanfic tropes. The marvelous Mayhem has created a wonderful workshop that you can find here! For this activity, you will be choosing three of the tropes that Mayhem covered to include in a fanfiction. Your fanfiction must be at least 700 words.

Songfic, canon compliant, angst (lots of angst)

An excerpt of songfic version of an amv I've had in my head since ExU Calamity ended.)


There is a boy, sitting on the brim of a tear in reality. He fishes from the stars, his hair burning as red as the skin of the gigantic demon holding a tree and a knight in the palm of his hand.

There is a city, burning underneath the foot of the Sun itself, and time moves in slow motion as it falls.

There is a ghost, and a knight, and the ground approaching as the knight looks up.

There's an eerie quiet

Sir Zerxus Ilerez First Knight of Avalir, wakes up sweating in a city that he hates and watches the sun that held down that city rise. He watches the sun rise on the city that killed his husband and now owns him, eyes squinting into the light.

On the southern levees

Loquacious Seelie, Herald of Avalir projects himself out to the flying city of Avalir and watches its citizens hang on to his every word. He morphs and he changes his skin and he lets them pretend it’s fake, like the Loquacious Seelie they see and know really is the true one.

Laerryn Coramar-Seelie, Architect Arcane stands in the Heart of the city, the machinery buzzing and sparking with the magical life she gave it, and ignores her ex-husband until she can't. She works and works and works, and lets the miracle that is the city floating speak instead of any fame Loquacious would say she should have.

With a halcyon sky and

Patia Por'co, Keeper of the Scrolls, stands in the hall of her grandfather, a city's legacy on her shoulders, and records everything she possibly can so that she has the strength to shoulder it. She stands in a hall speaking to those who act as her superiors and wonders at how much they truly care about the city that is hers.

Nydas Okiro, Dragon of Avalir wrangles a sphinx, deals with money and children and corrupt magisters, and still he stands tall with a smile plastered across his face and gold glinting in his eyes. His dream is realized, and he will give as much as he can back to the city that helped him realize it.

Atmosphere gone heavy

Cerrit Agrupnin, Sightwarden of Avalir stands in the Hall of Eyes, his home away from home for many years, and stares at the strange imports his Eyes of Avalir picked up in a city they just passed. He stares at the invisible remnants of a ritual no one else knows of yet, and wonders just what happened that was so successful.

Because

It is the last night before the Replenishment.

there's a wind arising

The world is about to set itself right again.

with the ire of Venus

The Por'cos have always been able to throw the party of a lifetime (having lived several of them), and when the Ring of Brass gathers at an ivy-shaded table nobody notices.

Who would notice or appreciate the only group of people who get anything done in the city, after all?

Tugging at the surface

Collaboration is what the Ring does best; discussion shoots back and forth, discoveries and dreams and plans bouncing through a table full of friends.

“They mentioned a Ghor Dranas.”

“The Betrayer Gods.”

“… What did Chloras do?”

of the seas between us

“Do you still have that relic of the ritual, Cerrit?”

Cerrit nods. “I still don't fully know what it is.”

Laerryn looks for an instant and knows exactly what it is.

And it's catalyzing

“This is the last thing I need.”

with a breath of calefaction

And she darts off.

“Hey—!” Nydas gets up and runs after her, the others follow through the crowd, and—

“May I present to you Purvon Suul! The Champion of the Raven Queen!”

A thunderous disturbance,

“Such disrespect…”
A paladin knows another when he sees one.
He knows the scorn placed upon those who bow to gods.
Zerxus follows the Champion as he and his wolf storm out of a gathering of mages who have never known a world without their magic.

Patia detects the thoughts of everyone around and directs Cerrit to a hobmedod that isn’t right, just before it topples into the floor. The eisfuura picks up the rags and drags it into a side room, inspecting it.

and for every action,

Two pinpricks in a mirror, barely visible. Eyeholes through bending light.

Cerrit knows exactly where the neck is, and swings. A disfigured figure crumples, growths riddling a body with runes carved in where they should never be.

“Ghor Dranas…”

Eyes glow in the mirror behind the Sightwarden, full pupils and whites this time in glass that has suddenly grown dark.

“You will never reach the Wildmother’s embrace.”

Vespin Chloras screams as he rushes toward the world.

a reaction

The mirror cracks.

Part 4 - SWC Fanfic: 401 words
(For the final part of this weekly, we’ll be taking on an SWC favorite—writing fanfiction about Scratch Writing Camp itself! Your piece should be at least 400 words.

Ohoho, I wonder whatever this could be? :eyes


Shogun Sun stands by the entrance of the Hi-Fi International Renaissance Faire, sipping on a cold drink from the Food Hub to keep themselves cool. They’re supposed to greet newcomers who pass by the gates, but nobody has come through in the past few days so they’re just fanning themselves in the intense heat and trying to make sure no dust gets in their only coolant.

“Heya Sun!”

The Guild Leader grins as they turn around, the swishing of their robes turning up more dust. (Ah, shoot.) There is only one person in the Faire who greets them so informally, and even so they’d recognize the distinctive voice anyway. “Vagrant!”

The resident Faire Vagrant strides up to Sun, grinning just as widely and seemingly unfazed by the heat. “How’s guarding the entrance from evildoers?” There’s a twinkle in her eye as she says that, a joke hidden in her words.

“As productive as ever,” the Shogun jibes back.

“Glad to hear it,” as if Elfie doesn’t know exactly what Sun means. “Perhaps you’ve been productive enough to take a break and walk with me?”

The Shogun hesitates. “I’m not sure… The Merchant Caravan is coming soon, and I need to be here for their arrival so I can ask—”

They stop when they see the look on Elfie’s face.

“… Alright, sure.”
Elfie takes the lead as she always does, ducking between the Tents as she navigates the place she’s come to know so well.

She ushers Sun into a small corner behind a food stall, where the din of the Hub will cover their whispers.

As always, Elfie leads the conversation. “Have you managed to get anywhere, Sun?”

Once again, the Shogun hesitates, gripping the hilt of their katana. “… Not since that ship never returned, no. I’ve enlisted my Samurai to investigate as well and I’m sure they’ll do well, but even so I think there’s a limit to what we can find out just from hearsay… Have you managed to find anything skulking around England?”

For once, the Vagrant looks slightly uncomfortable. “I haven’t, no… It’s been nearly impossible to reach any of you since you all closed off.”

“Then all we can do is wait,” sighs the Japanese leader, “but I can’t help but feel like there’s more to this I can’t quite see…”

“Perhaps,” allows the Vagrant, “but I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it eventually.”

(+3046 words)

(Written July 10th 2022— mcd. Have you completed today’s Wordle? After you complete the game, incorporate all the words that you guessed into a writing piece. Write 400 words.

Peaks, steal, stear, stead.

Stear: can’t find an exact definition but like stearic acid, apparently. Greek word for tallow.)


The man inhales and exhales the cold mountain air, his legs crossed before him. It is cold, bracingly cold on this peak, but he has lived here for so long he is used to it. His family has occupied this little cabin for far too many generations for anyone to abandon it. Even if the man is alone in this mountain, he knows the next generation will come someday; the next will come, and he will not have to know them to know that this old log stead on the top of a bitter mountain will continue to live on.

His family, even if not truly his.

It is how he came to the mountain, after all. Lost on a skiing trip, wandering the mountain range lost and broken and alone.

Someone will come.

The candle by his side oscillates slowly, its tallow marked with the hours that pass as it drips away.

The man inhales and exhales the cold mountain air, feeling the tingling in his fingertips as he meditates, as he waits. He has been in this small cabin for so long, he is getting tired.

Time is running out.

The door slams open and the man opens his eyes slowly, eyes in the dark slowly adjusting to the pure white of the snowstorm outside. Somehow, even with the sudden torrent of snow blowing into his home, he does not feel any colder than before.

To the contrary, in his limbs flow a warmth that has been there for a long, long time.

“The scroll.” The stranger is barely visible, clad in layers of white the same shade as the ice. They hiss out through grit teeth, “Give it to me,” barely audible in the storm.

The man lets his pupils adjust and smiles.

Someone will come.

In the chill of the gale and the moisture of the snow, the candle flame flickers.

“… The scroll?” he lilts, eyes wide open and burning.

The stranger falters, knee-deep in snow.

“… The scroll.”

“Why yes, of course!” The old man chuckles, sitting perfectly stock-straight.

“… Yes?” They were surely expecting a fight, or a riddle, or some sort of trick.

“Well of course—”

“Oh, well thanks—”

“—if you bind yourself to this place, of course.”

"What?“

”It's right there in the contract,“ The man smiles sadly, pulling an old piece of paper from his pocket. ”You sign the terms, stay and defend it until your time is over, and then pass it on. The fabled powers are a byproduct, a tool to help you. You want them, you stay.“

”But…“

”No buts, the contract was created long ago. You gain the power to defend the scroll's knowledge, and to ensure you do not use it incorrectly you stay here, far away from where it could be of any use.“

The tallow drips in the silence, counting the dots in the stranger's ellipsis.

”Good luck,“ the man whispers. His eyes burn. ”Welcome home."

The candle burns out the same time the man's eyes do.

(+501 words)

(Written July 11th 2022— MCD! Write at least 500 words of an emotional narrative with neither dialogue nor inner thoughts.)


The sun is setting.

The flocks of birds that have, up until now, been perching on the tips of the trees are taking flight, squawking and gliding in the cool evening wind. The breeze is just strong enough that the leaves rustle and the branches shake, adding to the symphony of a forest going to sleep.

{Redacted} stands above it all, watching time move on, and clenches their fists. They rock back and forth on the soles of feet, their toes hanging precariously over the precipice.

Before them is a drop, the bottom obscured by the low-hanging mist of the forest floor.

It is a long way down.

{Redacted} hasn't looked down yet though, determined not to let their nerve fail them now. Deep breaths in and out ground them, matching the pace of their rocking in an attempt to find some trance-like state.

{Redacted} hasn't learned how to ignore the fear yet.

So they rock back and forth, letting themselves sway in the wind.

Their fists tighten further, {Redacted}'s nails biting into their palms; thin, barely noticeable threads of radiant gold curl around the back of their hands and start twining up their arms.

Perhaps if they were stronger, they could do more— but they are not, not yet.

In and out, in and out. Feel the wind moving in and out of their lungs, let the air feel taught against their skin.

The magic is still crawling up their arms. It is hungry. It is waiting.

The breeze picks up; whether naturally or from the magic's reaction to their unconscious stress {Redacted} does not know, but they sway a little further and—

their eyes widen. It is a long way down it is a long way down—

{Redacted} topples over the edge, the wind whistling jubilance in their ears.

They start off screaming, as one does when they're falling through empty air, ignorant of the magic now weaving even more urgently between their fingertips.

The air is rushing through into their lungs; their chest expands as the wind whips past them, and they heave in a deep breath of fresh air:

{Redacted} exhales right as the twining magic makes its way to their chest.

Breath and wind and magic shoot out as the porter nears the ground, the dirt rushing ever closer—

The exhale hits the ground and expands, pillowing out in a ripple of invisible force.

{Redacted}'s eyes widen again, except this time they faintly glow with a hint of gold.

They're almost there, and there is little time. {Redacted} inhales once more, curls in around themselves, and lets the threads wind all around them just before they hit the ground. They exhale, pull the breath behind them, and shoot off into the forest.

This time it is {Redacted} who shouts the jubilation; their voice less human in favour of copying the wind's howling joy. The flora and fauna slowly become as a blur as the porter speeds up, winding in between the maze of trees, rising up, up, up, through the canopy—

{Redacted} crests above the treetops, the purple and gold of the clouds framing them as their arms spread like wings.

(+528 words)

(Written July 14th 2022— mcd. Write 1200 words about your various characters’ sleep habits and the effects they have on them. For every hour that you slept last night, you can write 100 less.

Slept 8 hours (1-9), so 400 words.)


The thing about magic is that if you use it enough, the residue stays behind and it starts to permeate through everything you do, whether you like it or not. Some people are fine with this. Some are not.

Some have been living with it for so long that they can barely remember what it’s like without it.

If they try, {Redacted} can still faintly recall being a child in elementary school; their parents telling them to sleep at 8 and staying up reading in secret, being absolutely exhausted at the end of a long day and waking up late on the weekends.

{Redacted} could remember if they wanted to, but they don’t. They plunge themselves into their work, breathe the magic, and forget there was ever anything else. Trying to sleep means the shadows creeping in with grasping hands, just like back then, but now the hands are holding knives made of memories that are a little bit harder to forget. {Redacted} doesn’t try to sleep, because shadows are so much harder to fight than demons.

And it’s not like they need to now, anyway— the magic has stuck to {Redacted} after all these years. It is energy in and of itself, enough to replenish what their body would otherwise during the night. It is enough for them to keep running.

{Redacted} will not sleep for months on end, and maybe if they cared to pay a little more attention to themselves they would notice their body’s strength slowly waning under the strain of relying on dregs for vigor.

But fighting yourself is so much harder than fighting others.

It’s kind of like a car battery— the more you drive it, the more juice is left. {Redacted} fights, and fights, and fights, and afterwards there is enough residue for them to keep going for a little bit more.

{redacted} tries to remind his partner that they are not a machine. That their frame is not made of steel, that it can’t keep being pushed to the brink over and over again. It will break, at some point.

(It did.)

It’s not like {redacted} sleeps all that much either. The thing about magic is that if you use it enough, the residue stays behind and it starts to permeate through everything you do, whether you like it or not. Sometimes it happens so slowly you don’t notice it, until you one day find you have the strength to go for a week without sleeping or eating.

And if you can, why would you do otherwise? You have work to do, after all.

Sometimes you have lived for so long that you can barely remember what it’s like without it.

(+449 words)

(Written July 15th 2022— mcd. Comment the description of a strange object in your home that you would like to “give away” for someone else to use in a story. Choose someone else’s object and write a short story where it is given some significance. Your story must be 500 words.

My object: a tall tea tin that has been intricately painted to resemble a japanese geisha

Claimed: a long dark grey electric keyboard, covered in dust and untouched for a long time. It has a piano book and sheets of music sitting there. Waiting to be played.)


It is beautiful, somehow, lit how it is. Half in light, half in darkness, the sharp angle of the raised window pane means that the outside light cuts just as sharply against the keys.

(In the back of {Redacted}'s mind, the part of them that still barely remembers reading about art procures a word: chiaroscuro.)

They still stand back in the shadows, though, by the stairwell, because this scene still seems too sacred to disturb— like a monument to something.

(If they squint, they can see {Яedacted} hunched over the black and white, silhouetted by the sunlight as his hands arc up.)

The porter has no idea how this one place has been preserved for so long; time has moved on around it, this little basement somehow left alone in a house that has moved on.

(If they squint, {Redacted} can see themselves standing tall by his side, shoulders broad and violin tucked under their chin.)

It hurts to look at, but they can’t tear their eyes away. Unconsciously, their fingers already trace the patterns of the strings under their fingers and before they can stop themselves {Redacted} is striding out to the bench, the motes in the air shifting around them as if they had gravity.

(They could now, if they wanted to.)

And just as suddenly the planeporter stops, right behind the bench where they had once stood— this time they stare down at the dark grey keyboard, their breath hitching in their throat.

({Яedacted}’s eyes continually switch back and forth between his friend and the sheet music, focused on keeping the two paths of their music twined together. {Redacted} does the same, and for just a moment, their eyes meet. Something clicks, and then it’s gone again.}

{Redacted} stares at the same sheet music and traces the notes with their fingers, reaching out for the delicate paper. Their hand comes away covered in the dust that has cluttered the air.

(It wasn’t there before, if all had been well it would never have been there—)

In one smooth motion they move aside their cloak and sit down, hands already reaching out for the keys. In their soul the porter knows that the piano has been unplugged and nothing will come of it; but regardless, they slam their hands down and begin.

Somehow, their muscle memory is still faintly there— {Redacted} feels the slick of the plastic against their fingers and their arms lock into place. They didn’t play the piano part for this particular piece, but they still know how it goes. The porter simply glances at the music for the next few bars and sets off.

Though the piano does not make them, they can still hear every note. They hear the mistakes, the awkward dynamics, the ways {Яedacted} played it so much better. They keep going anyway, hands moving across the board to trace the path of their friend’s.

{Redacted} gets lost in the music, the clacking of the keys echoing in the empty basement.

(+502 words)

(Written July 16th 2022— mcd: Today, think of how a character of yours would tell someone about themselves using only a story about a brief, two-and-a-half-minute experience. Write a story about their vital two-and-a-half minutes in at least 300 words.
Switching things up a bit, going with {redacted} this time :>)


Usually, people tell you about themselves via a moment that defined them, some challenge that they faced. This is all well and good, but the thing is that these moments are important specifically because they were in control of their own destiny. They defined themselves. They overcame the challenge.

In reflecting on this now, here for you, I find it funny— even fitting, perhaps— that the event that changed my life the most was never in my hands at all. And ever since then, I have never been the only one to have a hand in my fate. It has become intrinsically tied to {Redacted} and {Яedacted}.

The actual moment did not last long: I was out one day, hunting and minding my own business, when what I can only describe as a portal opened in front of me. On the other side was a world that seemed similar but different from my own. Some sort of home stretched out behind a small field full of grass, in a style unrecognizable with all of its glass and stone. Two children far too young to be alone stared back out at me.

“It worked,” the shorter one breathed.

And I stepped through to a whole new life and never looked back.

I do not know words they said, what they asked for when they opened that portal; but I know now that, for at least one of them, it has been fulfilled. I took hold of what magic I had found at the time and grew it with them. I stayed until things fell apart and I stayed after because by that time, I cared. I am still here, and I fight with them and for them because that is enough for me now. My world is big enough to be fulfilled.

Thus has been {redacted}’s recounting of my first Porting for the Digital Porter Archives.

(+316 words)

(Completed July 16th, 2022— weekly, write your own newspaper! Based off of Gamechanger's The Official Cast Recording because that's been sitting in my head aslkdjf)

Part 1 - Reporting: 835 words
(Fake crime.)

The citizens of Mountport today woke up to an absolute shock in the fish market. Chaos reigned as customers and fishermen chittered back and forth, arguing in disbelief.

“I got a whole batch of nothing!” one fisherman could be heard shouting above the din. Indeed, his baskets were empty, with no sign of Mountport's signature tuna in sight.

According to many eyewitness reports, it appears that Mountainport Cove has been entirely emptied of any fish. There is no sign of them swimming among the Cove's rocks, and the ecosystem of the Cove has already begun to deteriorate due to the lack of its main organism.

The Mountport Times interviewed two citizens who work closely with the tuna to learn more about the story.

“Well you see, I went out in my boat this morning as I always do, bright and early at 4 am to make sure I get the good fish. I set up the rig, got my nets out, turned the silencer on and everything— then I start fishing and wouldn't you know it, no tuna! Nothing at all showed up in my nets for hours, and when the sun started rising I got desperate and pulled out my fishing pole. Even with my best bait, fishing in the deepest part of the Cove didn't give me a single bite! It's strange work, I tell you. There's something real fishy going on here, I can smell it. And I can smell the lack of fish better then anyone.”

Thus was the account of Mr. Feesh Ehrmahn, a fisherman who is renowned in Mountport for being the newest in a long line of esteemed Mountport fishermen.

When asked if he saw anything strange out on the water, being the earliest fisherman out, he replied:
“Well I wouldn't say anything strange, really. The moon was still shining, crickets were chirping, and it was all around a pretty normal 4 am. The only thing strange was the absence of my fish and the fact that my son Pinocchio wasn't in his bed when I woke up. Good riddance. He was just freeloading because he couldn't find a job—”

(We cut Mr. Ehrmahn off before he continued on his irrelevant tangent.)

Next we spoke to Dr. Mary N. Buyolojist, who has studied the tuna in Mountainport Cove all her life.

“Yes, the tuna of Mountport are, indeed, gone,” she said. “I got out of bed at 6 as I always do to check on the fish, and while I did see a few fishing boats out on the water, I paid more heed to my own studies. I went out to the center of the cive and tried to reel in a few of the fish I had tagged, but to no avail! In fact, I didn't get any tuna at all. I thought that something might have caused the tuna to avoid that spot, so I went and did a full scan of the Cove water for marine life and the only results I got were for a few fish smaller than tuna. That was when I realized I had something much larger and much more worrying on my hands.”

When asked about the potential side effects of the loss of tuna, the Doctor answered:
“As the tuna are so prominent in the Cove's ecosystem, their sudden disappearance will certainly heavily impact the Cove. Many small fish in the Cove have populations that, until now, have been regulated by the large number of predators. With the disappearance of the tuna their populations will skyrocket. As well as that, the many aquatic plants in our Cove will suffer from these shifts in the marine populations.

Being one of the predators at the top of the chain, losing tuna will impact the chain the entire way down; even if we manage to find them again, this brief anomaly may still permanently affect the wellbeing of our beloved Mountainport Cove ecosystem.”

As for the cause, Dr. Buyolojist cautiously noted:
“As of yet I am not entirely sure what has caused the fish to disappear; however, I do know that whatever it was, it was man-made. Anything natural would have caused the fish numbers to wane slowly, which is something I would have noticed. An oil spill, a drop in water temperature, or an increase in the amount of people would all have been changes someone else would have noticed as well. No, this was sudden— the fish had been just fine the night before. Someone has come and done something with our fish, and it is imperative that we do everything we can to get back the tuna that has so defined our town.”

With that note Dr. Buyolojist excused herself, saying she needed to get back to researching the possible ways the fish could have been taken or tampered with.

Though this is all that is currently known, this is still an updating story and the Mountport Times will continue to report on this story as it develops.

Part 2 - Opinion: 803 words
(Sports Opinion.)

The Mountport Baseball team has had an interesting last few seasons. We’ve had our ups and downs, our wins and our losses. We are not the best team in the league. Far from it, some would even say; but we enjoy our baseball, and watching our team through it all.

Our new coach appears to disagree, however. It has been rumoured that they have been trying out and recruiting new players. Mountport already has a full roster! Are they just going to kick out old players? Sideline them and relegate them to the bench? We have a full team and it is nice that way, thank you very much.

In bringing in more players to make our team more “successful”, the new coach is stifling the vibrant community around Mountport’s baseball team. Yes, our players may not be as fully dedicated or capable as others, but that is okay— we of Mountport like it that way.

Imagine if our team did, say, gain a star player and become wildly successful or something like that. Imagine the chaos that would bring! Our small mountain and ocean town, renowned for something other than our tuna? Unfathomable! And yet, our new baseball coach has aspirations to create a “stellar baseball team”.

It is not as though our coach has any pools of “stellar players” to choose from, either; what players would want to join the Mountport Baseball Team anyway? If the players the coach brings in are just as bad as the ones we already have, we’ll just be losing old favourites for the sake of it. What about Bunting Bobby? Spinning Sammy? Are we to lose the players we have so grown to love just because they are old and obsolete? No! Keep the Mountport Baseball Team the way it is and look elsewhere for towns that want to grow their baseball teams. Palm Springs, maybe?

One of this newspaper’s newsies even met one of the spunky young kids who’ve come looking to join the Mountport Baseball Team:
“Oh yeah, she was really something,” he said. “Said her name was Alexa. Had a whole lot of spunk, too. Had the gall to call Mountport Mounttown, then immediately apologized and asked me for advice on how to succeed in Mountport! I told her about how we hi-ho here and about how to be careful about the tuna and the crazy Woman in the Tree… Oh yeah! And she said she was pretty good at baseball, too.”

When asked whether or not he thought that this “Alexa” would be good for the team, the newsie looked uncomfortable.
“Well, I mean… It’s nice to have someone younger on the team, and we have been doing pretty badly lately… It would be nice to have a sports team to be proud of, you know?”

When threatened with being fired if he didn’t think more about his answer, the newsie simply huffed.
“If you really care about Mountport’s baseball so much, you should worry more about that skyscraper that just started construction in downtown Mountport. It looks like it might end up casting an eternal shadow on the baseball field. Our next game isn’t for a few weeks or so, and if it continues to be built up at the rate it’s going, who knows if that game will be able to continue! Then you won’t even be able to see Alexa in action and judge if you like her or not.”

We ended the interview there.

It appears there is another concern when it comes to Mountport Baseball: the massive skyscraper that is being built up over our Baseball field. Even with the little use it sees, we cannot have our field rendered unplayable! And yet, the skyscraper is so large it would take a lot of work to bring it down…

We interviewed a “Pinocchio”, who claims to be familiar with the tower, about possibly bringing it down.

“There is absolutely nothing you can do to stop its rise,” he said.

Ah.

“This tower is the property of Tina Johnson, and she will see it done. In fact, she is creating many ev— expert plans as we speak to make sure that all goes well and nothing will bring it down. As her hench— assistant, I am helping her in this endeavour to build the tallest skyscraper in the world here in Mountport. Our town will be known for its greatness! Its height! Who cares about the baseball field? A small sacrifice to pay when such a skyscraper as Tina’s is rising.”

Well folks, there you have it. Regardless of the state of our team or our successes, it appears that our beloved Mountport Baseball is now doomed in the face of this gian tower. Farewell baseball, we’ll miss you… We’re sad that there’s nothing we can do.

Part 3 - Column: 541 words
(Gossip.)

Hello dear readers, and once again welcome to Granny's Gossip Column: the best place in Mountport to find all of the juiciest rumours running through town! We've got some very interesting tidbits today, brought to you by your standard anonymous sources.

First of all: I'm sure you've heard about the tuna that has gone missing from Mountainport Cove. Though we don't know how it happened, it was definitely caused by someone and I have heard from a certain source that they believe they know who it is: Gladys, on 3rd Ave.

For those of us in the know, Gladys certainly seems suspicious enough. She stays holed up in her little cottage all day, and she has few contacts with Mountport as a whole. I even have word that she has a boat hidden in the back of her yard! Now I haven't seen this for myself, but I'm sure Gladys would be the kind of woman to hide a boat in the back of her yard. This only makes it more likely that she is the one that kidnapped the fish.

Yes dear readers, I said kidnapped the fish. I have heard from yet another source that the fish meddler's end goal is to ransom the tuna back to the entire town!

Now, if this plan is to be believed the culprit does seem more likely to be Ethyl on 1st Ave, who is notorious in our little town for constantly complaining about her money situation. However, it is also possible that both Ethyl and Gladys are in on the scheme! With Gladys' boat and Ethyl's money cunning I'm sure there is no tuna wrangling they couldn't do.

(Now, granted I have also heard that neither could stay up late to save their lives, but still… I'm sure they still did it.)

Moving on to other news, it has been observed by one of my many credible sources that the Woman in the Tree is no longer there! Apparently no silhouette has been spotted through the windows of the tree house, and though I am grateful to no longer hear cackles of “Higher! HIGHER!” through my window when I sleep at night, I must admit that I am curious and worried about where the Woman in the Tree could have possibly gone next. Some reports tell me that she has headed into downtown Mountport to the sole skyscraper, while others say that it was in fact she that meddled with our beloved tuna… While I am not sure what exactly is at play here, I am certain the Woman in the Tree has something to do with it. The locals of Mountport know that she is NOT OKAY, after all.

To end off with some slightly lighter news, word has reached me that the Mountport baseball coach has decided to completely rework the team and has recruited some new players! I do think we have exhausted all of our baseball player choices here in our town of Mountport, so I am excited to see what out-of-town players our coach will bring in to beat our rivals on the field.

Well that’s all for today, folks! Have a good day, and be sure to keep your ears out for that juicy gossip!

Part 4 - Other: 204 words
(Advertisements.)

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(+2383 words)

(Written July 17th 2022— Mcd! The meaning of a phrase can be immensely impacted by the experiences of the person saying it, the relation of the person they’re speaking to, and the situation in which it’s said. Write a story in which the first and last lines are the same. How do your characters’ and the reader’s interpretations of the sentence change? Your story must be at least 700 words.)


“You won’t leave me?”

“Of course not. I promise.”

{Redacted} flips the words between their teeth when nobody's looking, weighs the sentence against the heaviness in their heart. They made a promise nobody could be expected to keep and now they are paying the price; and yet, even now the porter still would not take it back.



Trekking the distance between classes is boring, for eight year olds. Lining up one by one to march single-file is all well and good for those who are savvy enough to socialize with the teacher, but others have less initiative. Yes, classes are not necessarily a respite for everyone else either, perhaps some would prefer the chaos and joy of recess outside; but to the two kids who always sit at the back, classes are everything that their homes aren't: peaceful and straightforward and safe. An actual place to learn, to grow up.

{Redacted} and {Яedacted} sit next to each other in the back of the classrooms. They don't quite know each other yet, but they know the way the other shrinks around people and the way they hide in the corners. They know each other, so they start whispering about how different the world is.



{Яedacted} lies awake in the middle of the night, eyes wide and ears open. His bedroom is above it, but he can still feel the vibrations from the stomps on the lower floor. He can still hear the raised voices through the closed door.

It is a small house, after all.

In the middle of the night {Яedacted} can feel his mother stomp up the stairs with that uneven gait of hers, can hear the wind howling outside his window.

Against his better judgement, the third grader slides out of bed, slips on some socks so that his feet aren’t audible against the floor, and sneaks down to the main floor. He stumbles around in the dark where the lights had just been on a moment before, and gets to the front door just in time to hear the screeching of tires just behind it.

The child considers opening the door, but this time they listen to the voice in their head and go back upstairs. {Яedacted} lies awake and stays awake for the rest of night, wondering what he could have done better. There has to have been something. Anything.



They lean into each other as they have learned to over the last year, cautious and mindful of personal space but needing the warmth. They lean into each other as they lean into the grass, letting the wind brush over them like they’re just another blade. The stars are so much brighter here than by either of their houses, where the light pollution is a little stronger— their little eyes can see them clearly when they are at the top of this hill.

{Redacted} sighs into the night and digs their toes into the grass, their socks long discarded together with their shoes. They are too young for this, for sneaking out at night with a friend. But it is close by, and it is not yet late, and it is just to watch the stars. They clench their friend’s hand tight to try to imprint their flesh into his; they need to remind him that no matter what, they won’t let go.

It really seems like he needs it right now.

For his part, {Яedacted} is trying his best not to cry. Instead he tries staring determinedly up at the motes in the sky that are so stubbornly eyeing him back. It has only been a few days but he is already ruminating on memories, on the moments between where he caught side glances and muttered words. He takes heart in the contact with his friend that reminds him that they are real, and he wonders if, had he touched his dad more, perhaps then he wouldn’t have left.

They have both grown up so quickly, and yet they both still think like children.

They still hope like children, dream like children, are incapable of dealing with grief like children.

{Яedacted} whispers into the wind, intending for it to carry the words away. They are quiet, and hidden, but only because he doesn’t like how desperate they sound. How lonely. How afraid.

{Redacted} picks up on it anyway (as attentive as they are), and even though they know it’s a vow impossible to keep over how many more years they’ll know each other, the only thing they can think about is how cold their friend is against them and how lonely the two of two of them are sitting together on a hill in the middle of the night. They answer because they have to, because not answering would mean dooming them both.

“You won’t leave me?”

“Of course not. I promise.”

(+816 words)

(Written July 18th, 2022— mcd. Today, we’re putting a twist on SWC fanfiction: rewriting a classic fairy tale or children’s story as if it takes place at SWC. Your story must be 500 words.

Based off of Ivan Tsarevich, the Firebird, and the Grey Wolf)


Once upon a time, in the far off land of SWC, a queen despaired at the sight of her golden mango tree— which had only one fruit. It usually bore two, but her guards had told her that a Firebird kept coming in the middle of the night to steal one.

Now, Queen Candy dearly loved her mango tree, and so she implored her children to find this Firebird and capture it for herself. Now, she only spoke to her two eldest children, for her youngest, Birdi, was naive and inexperienced.

“Go, and whoever finds this Firebird for me, you shall have half my kingdom and become my heir.”

So Alba and Kat drew lots to see who would go first. Alba won and so she stood by the tree, waiting for the bird. However, soon she grew tired, and she fell asleep. In the morning, her mother asked: “Did you catch the bird?”

“I’m sorry mother, but it didn’t come,” Alba replied.

“Then why is one of my mangoes gone?” Candy raged, and sent Alba away.

Kat went next, once again standing by the tree to wait. The hour grew late, and the sky darkened— and the princess felt her eyes drooping and fell asleep.

In the morning, the queen once again asked: “Did you catch the bird?”

“It didn’t come, mother,” Kat huffed.

“But one of my mangoes is gone!” The queen once again sent her daughter away.

“Can I try?” Birdi asked one day.

Without any other options, the queen allowed her youngest to try. Birdi stood by the tree into the night, tired but determined; and hark, when Birdi thought she was about to fall asleep, a glimpse of bright flame in the night sky! The Firebird was beautiful beyond compare, glimmering in the starlight— so much so that Birdi almost forgot she had to catch it. She lay in wait among the bushes for the moment the bird would approach the tree, and just when it came… Birdi struck. She leapt out, grasping at the bird’s tail, and the Firebird flapped out of the princess’ reach. Frustrated, Birdi opened her hand to find a single feather, translucent and sparkling and bright.

In the morning, the queen asked: “Did you catch the bird?”

Birdi bowed and said, “I’m sorry mother, I could not catch the bird; only prevent it from stealing your mangoes. All I have is this singular feather from its tail.”

The queen was in awe of the lustre and rippling beauty of the feather, and immediately commanded: “Whosoever catches the Firebird and brings it to me will have half of my kingdom and become my heir.”

Alba and Kat immediately set out to find the bird, riding hard. After a while, they came upon a divergence in the road and a stone that said “Whosoever takes the first road, you shall know cold and hunger; the second, you shall live even as your horse shall die; and the third, you shall die even as your horse shall live.”

Dismayed at this news, Alba and Kat argued back and forth about which path they should take. Alba kept worrying about the horse, while Kat kept pointing out that the horse didn’t matter if they weren’t around to feed it.

Eventually, the pair argued for so long that they realized they would never actually take a path. In the end the duo decided to not take any path at all and simply live idly, wandering around and making a living for themselves.

(+587 words. Unfinished, because it was over the wc and i had no motivation, sorry ^^')

(Written July 19th 2022— mcd. Write a story without establishing any setting. You must write a minimum of 400 words!
Edit Sept 12th 2022— missed some italics.)


They slam their foot onto the ground, and the light ripples behind.

In. Out. Breathe the magic in and don’t let it go. Pull it in and then keep pushing it. Don’t stop thinking. Control. Imagine the Will and then lock it place, split your mind, allocate the piece; keep going keep going keep going.

{Redacted} steps, feels the magic follow them, and locks themselves into the rhythm.

See things in bullet time. Feel the movement of the air molecules around the duelers as they move, the vibrations through the ground as they rush around on magic-blazen heels. Listen to the electric signals shooting through the nerves of {redacted} and react as quickly as their own signals will move.

{redacted} and {Redacted} twirl around each other, blue and gold intertwining as they push each other harder. In the short moment they clash before pulling away again, their luminescent blue irises meet and they grin, feeling the magic in their veins pulsing together to the beat they’ve set.

The duo dance, pulling ice from the air and fire from their breath and mountains from the ground, and race each other to the breaking point.

It’s been such a long time since we’ve done this. {Redacted} somehow still has the mental room to push some thoughts into {redacted}’s mind, completely blasé with the resources they have to spare.

Not that {redacted} is particularly rigorous, either. Perhaps. You're slacking, old man.

You're older than I am! {Redacted} somehow huffs in their head, trying to smack their friend with the back of their hand. {Redacted} deftly ducks, going for a sweep of the legs; {Redacted} jumps and they pass over each other again, switching sides the who-knows-how-manyith time.

And also more spryy~~~ {redacted} teases, springing out of their crouch just for the sake of it.

Shut up. {Redacted} grumbles, pivoting on their landing foot and immediately shooting back around. You don’t have collapsed lungs supported only by magic.

I do have arthritis, though… {redacted} continues the spring into a backflip to drive the point home, because of course he does.

ahfsjlfskhrajlgdgljskhfsisfricking— {Redacted}'s thoughts are reduced to a static of lighthearted frustration as they plow into {redacted}, hitting with a satisfying OOMF— just as the caped porter sticks the landing.

A HAH— emerges from the torrent of {Redacted}'s thoughts as they flip over on top of their partner and slam him into the ground. I win.

(+401 words)

(Written July 20th 2022— Comment a piece of your own writing, an excerpt or short story no more than 800 words that you want critique on. Respond to someone else’s writing with at least 200 words.

Critiqued Moonlit's writing here: https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/612345/?page=20#post-6437141)


Hiya! A critique daily today, I’m very excited :>

Okay so first off, general takeaways! Looking at the piece as a story, it’s very good; your integration of the “cats are liquid, right?” proverb into the story was very funny, and your use of tone to establish the mood of the piece + your protagonist’s character voice was very well done. The pacing feels right and the description is very nice as well!

Just one thing— the connection between the first half and second half of the story was not very clear. Why is the city outside burning? What is this about an arsonist? Why is the protagonist having such dark thoughts in the beginning? If I’ve read it correctly, the protagonist is an arsonist who’s lit the city’s forest on fire— they are trying to control their thoughts/nature and are using their cat to cope. If I have read the story incorrectly and none of these things are relevant to the second half (the plot, where the narrator looks for their cat), why did you bring them up? (oh that sounds so aggressive sorry aslkdjfhksaljfd ;-; not in an accusatory way, just something to think about!) Either way, I would recommend making it more clear exactly what you are trying to imply: the reader can see the pieces, but there are not enough hints for them to be able to make the connections needed to get the whole picture you’re trying to paint.

Moving on to grammar, there’s not really much to nitpick either. Once again, just one point: there’s a lot of run-on sentences :’) Using a lot of commas will not a run-on sentence unmake! There is punctuation other than commas, use them! (Insert standard English teacher stuff here about clauses, how to identify them, and the need to separate them.)

“I look up to the sky, only to see a thick cloud of smoke obscuring the stars, as if humanity no longer deserved to see their beauty.” - A run-on sentence :’> the comma between “sky” and “only” isn’t necessary, since that’s still one clause.

“Perhaps the havoc humanity had wrecked upon its neighbors, the occupants that shared this world, was finally to be paid back in turn, so the world’s natural ecosystem might rise from the ashes of this broken world.” - Another one alksjfdhlksa!

“As I stepped back inside, making sure to shut the door quickly to keep the air clean, or as clean as it could while the forest burned around the city, I sighed, wondering where Echo, my cat, had wandered off to.” - Wow okay this sentence has a lot of commas. “or as clean as it could while the forest burned around the city” should be in brackets/parentheses, since the sentence would still be totally fine if you took it out and leaving it in as it is makes the sentence really full.

“Cats are cunning creatures, sly as a fox, and mischievous at that, and perhaps intelligent in such a way that Echo might be sympathetic to my struggle with the arsonist’s mind.” - COMMAS aksdjfhlkjdsa. “Cats are cunning creatures: sly as a fox and mischievous at that, perhaps intelligent in such a way that Echo might be sympathetic to my struggle with the arsonist’s mind.” Still a single sentence, but now the pauses make more sense!

Okay so no good conclusion but yeah that’s basically it! Hope it helped alkjdshfk.

(+429 words)

(Completed July 21st 2022— Writing comp entry! This is an edited version of July 17th's daily, which means no words added unfortunately ;-;)

Author's Note: (Yes this is part of the wordcount, please don't skip it alskdhlkjdsaf)
Hello there, and welcome to my contest entry :D This isn't actually what I originally planned to enter— before camp started I had half of a different, more complicated piece I wanted to finish, but when I actually sat down to write it I realized I didn't actually have any clue as to what to do with it. I was thinking about what to do and the next moment Elfie messaged me saying “Sun your daily yesterday was such a joy to read” and then I went “backup comp entry??” and Elfie went “BACKUP COMP ENTRY!”

So yeah, now I have this instead! Thank you so much to Goose, and Bakie for their feedback, and as always my most heartfelt gratitude to Elfie for her undying support and amazing suggestions <3

On to the explanation!

This is basically a prequel to Untainted, my Nov. 2021 comp entry, and I would highly suggest reading that and its Author's Note first for a better understanding of the world and characters. I haven't really had the chance to explore their origins, so this was really fun! Whereas Untainted was very theme-centric, I wanted to focus more on the characters for this one, especially Ravencope since he basically just showed up at the end of Untainted and went “mwuahuahua”.

There is a very large gap between the events of Untainted and FTSOYHWIM; though I did explore the incident that caused everything below to fall apart in some weekly somewhere you're free to dig up, here I simply wanted to write something short, sweet, and atmospheric :> No need to think about how everything goes downhill from here. Enjoy!

(Oh and just in case:
Sam → Stormhand
Rowan → Ravencope
Robin has not entered the picture yet…)






“You won’t leave me?”

“Of course not. I promise.”

Ravencope flips the words between his teeth when nobody's looking, weighs the sentence against the heaviness in his heart. He shouldn’t have asked for that promise. No one could be expected to keep it— he held on to it too much, asked for more than could be given.

He should have learned to let go.



Trekking the distance between classes is boring, for eight year olds. Lining up to march single-file is all well and good for those savvy enough to socialize with the teachers, but others have less initiative. Yes, classes are not necessarily a respite for everyone else either; perhaps some would prefer the chaos and joy of recess outside. However, to the two kids who always sit at the back, classes are everything that their homes aren't: peaceful and straightforward and safe. An actual place to learn, to grow up.

Sam and Rowan sit next to each other in the back of the classrooms. They don't quite know each other yet, but they know the way the other shrinks around people, the way they hide in the corners. They know each other, so they start whispering about how different their world is.



Rowan lies awake in the middle of the night, eyes wide and ears open. His bedroom is above it, but he can still feel the vibrations from the slammed fists on the lower floor. He can still hear the raised voices through the closed door.

It is a small house, after all.

In the middle of the night Rowan can feel his mother stomp up the stairs with that uneven gait of hers, can hear the wind howling outside his window.

Against his better judgement, the third grader slides out of bed, slips on some socks so that his feet aren’t audible against the floor, and sneaks down to the main floor. He stumbles around in the dark where the lights had been on a moment before and gets to the front door just in time to hear the screeching of tires beyond it.

The child considers opening the door, but this time they listen to the voice in their head and go back upstairs. Rowan lies awake and stays awake for the rest of night, wondering what he could have done better. There has to have been something. Anything.



They lean into each other as they have learned to over the last year, cautious and mindful of personal space but needing the warmth. They lean into each other as they lean into the grass, letting the wind brush over them like they’re just another blade. The stars are so much brighter here than by either of their houses, where the light pollution is a little stronger— their little eyes can see them clearly when they are at the top of this hill.

Sam sighs into the night and digs their toes into the grass, their socks long discarded together with their shoes. They are too young for this, for sneaking out at night with a friend. But it is close by, and it is not yet late, and it is just to watch the stars. They clench their friend’s hand tight to try to imprint their flesh into his; they need to remind him that no matter what, they won’t let go.

It really seems like he needs it right now.

For his part, Rowan is trying his best not to cry. Instead he tries staring determinedly up at the motes in the sky that are so stubbornly eyeing him back. It has only been a few days but he is already ruminating on memories, on the moments between where he caught side glances and muttered words. He takes heart in the contact with his friend that reminds him that they are real, and he wonders if, had he touched his dad more, then perhaps he would never have left.

They have both grown up so quickly, and yet they both still think like children.

They still hope like children, dream like children, are incapable of dealing with grief like children.

Rowan whispers into the wind, intending for it to carry the words away. They are quiet, and hidden, but only because he doesn’t like how desperate they sound. How lonely. How afraid.

Sam picks up on it anyway, and even though they know it’s a vow impossible to keep over how many more years they’ll know each other, the only thing they can think about is how cold their friend is against them and how lonely the two of them are lying together on a hill in the middle of the night. They answer because they have to, because not answering would mean dooming them both.

“You won’t leave me?”

“Of course not. I promise.”

(1112 words, +292 from the note)