(Completed July 23rd 2022— weekly, fantasy subgenres!
Edited July 25th 2022— put in formatting.)

Part 1 - High Fantasy Worldbuilding: 1162
For the first part of this weekly, we’ll be looking at the subgenre of high fantasy and completing an expertise in worldbuilding. Before beginning, read this workshop about high fantasy worldbuilding.

Brainstorm at least 20 possible facets for a high fantasy setting. Try to include a variety of types of aspects, from literal terrain to magical expectations to societal norms.
Next, in 200 words or more, explain the connections between at least 10 of your brainstormed ideas in one fantasy world. Add detail to your ideas and flesh out the setting, but don’t add any characters or plot.
Finally, write 400 words of a narrative taking place in this setting. Incorporate various details of the world you have created into the story.

Look at me writing your standard children's book setting lmao, yes my brainstorming is incredibly messy what about it

Brainstorming: 416 words
- World that is incredibly hot, big desert
- Water is sacred
- Elemental magic
- Water Elementals are considered most important due to their abilities, usually holding respected positions in court managing infrastructure.
- Day/light = heat = bad, night = cool = good.
- Darkness is still not great, but stars also important due to bringing light to darkness without making it hotter. So Light bad! Dark bad! Stars good!
- Fire is loathed cause of the above
- City states, no one big country. They are few and far between, but large due to people banding together to deal with the heat.
- City states were all part of a country before it fell apart, so they all hate each other but have very similar traditions/beliefs.
- Cuisine differs between cities, but all revolve around the fruit of the cacti native to those areas.
- Earth elementals mainly help with agriculture and make it easier to grow stuff in sand.
- Air elementals make breezes so nobody gets heatstroke.
- Basically everyone is important in some way except Fire lmao
- Few are Elementals, and within those some have little aptitude for it and can't do very much.
- There is no official Elemental school or anything, if one has a relative/friend who is of the same element most ask them to teach them.
- Elements manifest at some point in the next year after someone turns 14, and if you manage to manifest one it basically sets your job for life.
- Every year there is a ceremony for all of the people who have turned 15 and manifested an Element.
- Most city states are monarchies (though some are not), and even in the short time frame they've been that way there is a precedent of disinheriting or rioting against heirs who manifest Fire or don't manifest at all.
- Oh let's add some gods into this :> a god for each of the elements, and Fire is angry about how he and his Gifted are treated a lot of the time so they send *Firestorms* to mess things up every now and then
- Or at least that's what people believe, there are no gods only nightmares lmao. People see the Firestorms and go “oh no! the Fire god is punishing us!” and then do absurdly nothing to change their behavior because those are the type of people who inhabit this world oop. Firestorms are caused by the way Elementals mess with the environment in order to get the resources they need, the amount of which went up when the monarchy fell.

Connections: 327 words
A few decades ago, the desert cities were united under the name of Benkis, with a widespread kingdom ruled by the monarchy seated in the capital Pantooine. Their rule was already unstable leading up to the separation: each city was acting more and more independent due to the Governors being from their own cities, and the capital was also losing its grip on the economy and infrastructure across such a spread out country in a desert.

The final straw was when the king’s oldest daughter manifested Fire the moment she turned 14. Now it seemed to run in the family, manifesting their Element immediately and having an incredibly strong affinity with it; however, the monarchy had not had a Fire Elemental in a long, long time. They tried to hide it for a year, they really did, but when her Ceremony rolled around, they couldn’t do much— monarch Ceremonies had been publicized for centuries, after all.

And the people had been given enough reasons to leave already, regardless of whatever prodigy the princess turned out to be.

It went a lot more smoothly than it could have— there were no messy coups, no wars, no wild attacks or barbed words. The cities went “your heir is a Fire Elemental my liege, we don’t really want to be ruled by one,” and the monarchy replied, “mhm fair enough.”

(What the daughter thought of this, few can say…)

As the cities split, however, a series of vicious Firestorms brewed around Benkin and continue to torment it even to this day. The Elder Elementals of the city whispered around that this was the wrath of Toamun, given for slighting his so extraordinarily Gifted kin. The whispers in the Elemental circles claim that they will continue to impede travel between the cities until the king’s daughter is given back her throne. The whispers continue to circulate, even amongst the Fire.

But the cities are still split, and the monarchy still broken.

Narrative: 419 words
A year ago, I woke up breathing Fire.

Now this was a problem, for several reasons: one, my kingdom loathes Fire and all that it represents, light and heat; two, I was the heir to the throne of my father, one of the most important people in Benkin; three, I was actually good at it, being able to pull full fireballs and jetstreams and blue and white from my fingers by the time I realized what was happening. It wasn’t just a little puff of flame when I exhaled, or thin curls of light around my fingers— no, it was talent. I was a prodigy.

And no one is a Fire prodigy in Benkin.

I was smart enough to show my family in private, demonstrate my skill and control and let the gravity we all felt slowly sink in. “We can hide this,” my father said quickly, as he always did.

“But the Ceremony,” my mother whispered faintly, water twisting around her shoulders. We all would have shivered, but it was too hot. It is always too hot.

There is no hiding from the Ceremony, from standing out at dusk and feeling the stars call at the art in your fingertips. And there is no hiding in closets or refusing to go for a future monarch.

“We can control this,” the King muttered. “We can control the damage, make sure that they all have the tools to become independent, give them time to prepare and we can control it—”

“Maijin, what are you talking about—” the Queen interjected, quiet and a little bit panicked—

“They have been drifting away from us already Kriya, with a Fire heir we can only hope to control the damage at this point, make it as easy as possible—”

I was not included in this conversation. I have never been included in these conversations.

I did not say anything when I turned 15 and walked out into the sunset, fire burning in my palms, I did not say anything as my kingdom fell apart, and I did not say anything when the desert began to burn more than it already did.

I have stood and watched in the last few years, waiting for someone to say something, anything loud enough to be heard; but nobody has ever been as loud as my parents were.

There are only whispers, small and bitter and fragile.

I do not have the patience for this anymore.

I am Briyen K’yamoren, Fire Elementalist, and I will reclaim my throne.

Part 2 - Magical Realism: 1233 words
In this section, you will be learning about Magic Realism. Check out this workshop created by the brilliant Lily! After that, you will complete a questionnaire. You only need to answer ten of the questions, and each of the questions will be answered with 80 words, which is a minimum of 800 words total.

Using my planeporter world oop

What kind of magic is used in your world? (205)
The magic suffused throughout the planes is kinda similar to the Force in that it is simply energy, everywhere, all the time. Unlike the Force, however, you do not need to be born with some inherent ability in order to use it, and there aren’t specific ways to use it or anything. In fact, when it comes to the magic itself there aren’t really any rules at all— if you have access to it you can simply use it however you want. The restrictions around magic come from what plane you’re on. Each plane has its own set of “Terms” that describe how it works. Some apply to the world’s natural mechanics such as “gravity is a thing” or “the world is 3d”. Others could apply to, say, the rate of technological development or the amount of life allowed per galaxy. Every plane has a Term that describes how the magic can be accessed and used there: not at all, by people who are born with the ability and then develop that skill, there are only certain ways the magic can be wielded, etc. Now, when someone manages to break the Terms and gain unlimited access to the magic is where it gets really interesting…
(Just to be clear, the rest of these questions will specifically address this scenario.)

How is the magic in the world used in the character’s everyday lives? What are the different abilities? (85)
As mentioned above, the use of magic in any particular plane will depend on its Terms and how the society has evolved. For those who have broken the Terms and realized it, they can draw upon magic whenever they’d like and use it however they’d like, and it thus becomes an integral part of their lives. As there is no specific society of these people, no rules or ways of using magic have really taken hold and everybody just kind of does their own thing.

How can your world’s magic aid character development? (84)
As discovering magic and developing skill with it takes a lot of time, dedication, and practice, magic provides a character with plenty of opportunities to make mistakes and learn from them. As well as that, magic provides a character with a natural progression to follow; as they grow in magical ability, they can also grow as a person. And as the body wears down from all the strain constant magic use will cause, older more developed characters can grapple with their body failing slowly.

How common is magic, and are all characters aware they possess it? (103)
Magic is everywhere, and technically without any Terms anyone can use it. With the Terms, however, things become more complicated. Magic is common, of course, in the planes where it is allowed; in the planes where it is not, accessing magic becomes a matter of breaking a Term (and thus figuring out how to break them all), which is very difficult. Oftentimes, people don’t even know they’ve broken a Term— and even if they do realize that they can use magic, it is still a task in and of itself to figure out how it works and what you can do with it.

What are the limitations of your world’s magic? (92)
Termless magic is so alluring specifically because there are barely any limitations. You imagine something, pull the magic into your body, imprint your will on it, release and bada bing bada boom something is going to happen. If your body can handle the strain of pulling pure energy in, then you can do whatever you can imagine. The only constraint is that some actions are going to take more magic than others, based on what the magic will affect and displace— and then it gets harder to pull off what you want.

What are some slang terms or other words used in your world that are related to magic? (284)
Planeporter/porter - Someone who has broken a Term and is therefore able to access magic and teleport across planes. This applies to everyone who has broken a Term, even if they are not aware of their capabilities or are stuck at the base level unaware of how to pursue magic.
Breaking - The moment when someone breaks a Term (usually under extreme stress) and becomes a planeporter.
Will - An act of/using magic, so called because applying magic requires imprinting your will on it. Both a noun (“this Will is spectacular”) and a verb (“I’m Willing a shield as we speak”).
Signature - The residue left behind by Willing magic. Left both in the user’s body (usually covered up or hidden in some way to avoid notice) and the general area where it occurred. The more magic was used in the Will the larger the Signature, and it usually contains traces of who the Willer was, what the Will did, when it was Willed, etc.
Darkporter - A colloquialism for a planeporter who doesn’t directly Will. A porter with enough experience can sometimes pull magic in instinctively, without even realizing. In this case instead of imprinting specific directions into the magic it receives raw emotions instead, which causes the magic to gather in black pools, condensed and waiting to be used without having to worry about straining the body. Though much more volatile and harder to direct, Darkporters take advantage of this phenomenon to pull off much greater Wills than most could at the cost of wallowing in their emotions.
Multimultiverse - The planes/realities that make up the worlds. Named because the size of planes can vary from one island to an entire multiverse— hence, multiple multiverses.

How is magic viewed in your world? (95)
Many are not even aware that magic exists, but for those who do, it can be taken a lot of ways— those who know of planeporters’ existence often fear it, and those who don’t tend to have an incomplete understanding of magic and are restricted to opinions about their own magic system. Overall, most recognize that magic is more a tool than anything else— it is not alive, it is not something to be worshipped or feared— it bends to the will of the user, and that is who many tend to be wary of.

Compared to our modern society, what do the characters do differently in your world, now that magic is incorporated? (88)
With free access to magic, many planeporters choose not to participate in their world’s modern society anyway— why would they need to? Most active planeporters choose to flit across planes, blending into one world and then the next. Some occasionally do choose to settle down if they find a reality they love more than most, but the majority of porters lead a nomadic lifestyle, observing but never taking part in any world’s “modern life”. Magic is used mainly to hide, blend in, and protect one's self if needed.

Are there any sensations the characters feel when they are using magic? Describe these sensations using their five senses. (108)
When pulling in the magic it's invorigating, pure energy sparking through blood and nerves. It takes effort to keep that sensation pinned in place, however, before the magic releases, and so that energy gives way to concentrated effort. If the porter has practiced enough their sight will not narrow while imprinting their Will, and they will still be able to observe the world around them instead of solely focusing on Willing their magic. Besides the general buzz of using magic, there are plenty of ways to enhance your senses via magic, which create a buzz in that specific are as well. Sight - eyes, smell - nose, taste - tongue, etc.

How is the education system in your world? What would your characters hypothetically learn? (89)
Active planeporters with a good grasp on magic use are so few and far between that pretty much no one is around to notice or teach someone if they break a Term. When people are left to their own devices a lot of accidents tend to happen even with the small number of people who try to experiment. Recently planeporters have begun to gather in small communities in order to prevent this from happening and to take fledgling porters under their wing, but these groups are still quite small.

Part 3 - Joint Workshop: 1020 words
In this section, you will be reading this joint workshop made by the amazing Sun, Cae, Gee, Willow, and Moss on fantasy genres. Once you have read the workshop, pick three of the genres and write three different 300 word pieces for each one, so 900 words in total.

Okay so I didn’t know what characters to use so I just put Sherlock Holmes in all of them and warped his personality to fit the stereotypical detective guy of each world Sir Doyle I am so sorry asldjfasld

Urban Fantasy: 307 words
Sherlock Holmes stood by the corner, wrapped in shadows. The only way one could pick him out was by the faintly glowing cigarette in his hand, small and dully orange against the backdrop of the city. The detective waited, shifting ever so slightly, until the sun began to rise and the orange rays through the streets hid his cigarette and illuminated him, instead.

Holmes sighed and snuffed the cigarette against the bottom of his shoe. He had been hoping that this night would be the one, what with the moon and all, but instead he had simply stood in the cold again, alone and tired and without his friend.

Watson was still in London, with his wife and a happy home and no Sherlock Holmes in his life to bring danger.

When he let his mind get the better of him, the detective sometimes wondered if his friend grieved him or not.

With a brusque shake of his head, Holmes turned and prepared to leave down the alley— he had other business to see to in San Francisco instead, after all.

What stopped him was the faintest hint of a snarl, sounding as though it was quietly made five blocks away. Holmes froze, magic coursing in his ears, and tried to see if he could extend his senses any further without having to resort to making a scene this early. Yep, it was muddled but there it was— fur and claws and all, skulking along a back alley five blocks away.

The detective pulled a small stick of wood from one of his coat pockets and began to twirl it between his fingers. Perhaps today the chase had finally come to an end.

Sherlock Holmes held his wand tight in his fingers and rushed off into the early air of San Francisco.

“I’m coming for you, Moriarty.”

Steampunk: 412 words
London was beautiful, from the sky.

This was Dr. John H. Watson’s first thought when he floated back into his hometown from the sky, body and heart aching. He had not seen it in such a long time, and it was good to be back. He still recognized the bleary fog from the factories and the grating groan of gears everywhere grinding against each other, but it was home and he could never hate it even if he tried.

Dr. John H. Watson told himself this as he flit from hotel to hotel, trying to find any place he could make his while his pockets emptied. He told himself this when he began to wallow in loneliness from the sights of mechanical horses and automatons on the streets instead of people. There was death in London, just as much as where he came from where he came from except that it was the death of the city and not soldiers. Nobody went out and met anybody anymore, it seemed. All of the scientists and inventors who seemed bent on adding something of their own to the world were perfectly satisfied to stay cooped up in their rooms; the society men had their connections and their grand, technologically advanced houses, and the workers had a factory where they could meet others and make some money, at the very least.

And there was Dr. Watson, stuck in between.

It took a lot of effort that day, to get out of bed and decide to go anywhere. But the Doctor was still a little bit curious about the living machines that had sprung up in the city while he had been gone, and he thought that he might as well go and see a few. He limped out of his hotel room and walked out into the streets, pausing for a second to think about which way to go. He had remembered passing by an automaton shop a few days ago.

Watson felt the weird glances through windows and cab doors while he was walking. A real person? Actually out and about on the streets on foot? He tried to ignore them, as tired as he was. His skin didn’t really need any more barbs to be hardened.

He reached the store pretty quickly, for a man with a limp— only eight minutes. “HOLMES AUTOMATONS”, it said in bold brass letters on the front. Without much thought, the Doctor opened the door and walked inside.

Science Fantasy: 301 words
It is another sleepless night. This month’s chemistry experiment is too close to completion to be abandoned now, Holmes has to finish. The detective sits hunched in his chair as the sun goes down and his companion heads upstairs to bed, fiddling with all of his apparatus and compounds in glass jars. Sometimes Holmes hums quietly to himself, a little spark lights between his fingertips, and he moves just a little faster than normal. Maybe he is just trying to go to bed faster, though no one who knew him would accuse the detective of such a thing— either way, the magic is there and it is waiting for a genius to give it the word.

“I think this is it,” Sherlock Holmes whispers, and he lets the threads between his work do what he could not, heating and mixing and pouring at inhuman speeds. The magic lights up the room in the middle of the night, all of its imperfections and mess and chaos.

Sherlock Holmes pours his heart and soul and his magic into this experiment because he needs it to work.

“Come on,” he murmurs at irregular intervals interspersed with spell words, flicking with his fingers. His apparatus bubbles as the liquids pass through, all the way until the very end, where the retort releases one small droplet of something liquid and gold.

“This is it,” Holmes breathes, except this time it is done. “Mycroft, I've found the cure. I promise.”

The detective-alchemist ever so carefully tips the drop into a small glass vial and puts it carefully in a stand that he promptly hides under a sea of paper. He will make sure this works.

Sherlock Holmes hides a droplet of pure alchemic gold in his flat and falls asleep with his mouth open on his desk.

(+3415 words)

(Written July 24th 2022— Mcd. Write a descriptive poem that incorporates at least four of the senses in a minimum of 100 words.)

The hotel room is cold
The air conditioning is on too high, and the sofa bed’s blanket is too thin
It is hard not to lie awake every night and stare at the ceiling,
silently freezing

There are cars outside at ungodly hours
zooming by so fast they’re audible on the 10th floor
It is easy to wonder whether or not they’re racing some invisible enemy,
time or the darkness or ghosts

The kitchen is on the other side of the room,
so if I look left there is just a patch of darkness
My nightlight doesn’t reach that far
only the faint alien green of the microwave timer

It doesn’t smell like anything in here,
which I suppose is good
The conditioner in my hair is too strong,
coconut wreathing my head

My brother tosses and turns too much,
pulls the already meager blanket with him
Its rough fiber rough against eczema
Left only with a soft orca stuffy, small and not enough when he would keep stealing it earlier

I should stop complaining
but it would be nice to
be
home

(+183 words)

(Written July 25th 2022— Come up with a theme for any SWC cabin and write an intro for it. Your intro should be at least 100 words but fewer than 200 words.

Mystery, but cyberpunk noir :>
An underground organization of independent detectives who work together on big cases!
There is a “board” of three leaders who oversee group-wide decisions, membership, and enforcement of the detective code.)


You are careful as you skulk through the back alley; you regulate your footsteps, you keep your ears perked, you watch the shadows for any movement. You cannot afford to have been followed— this requires absolute secrecy.

When you find the ladder you ascend carefully, wincing at the slight creaking. It is a marvel that in this age no one has modernized the fire escapes, but then again, who would ever care about them? Certainly not the government.

With a sigh you heave yourself onto the top of the roof, taking a second to catch your breath before you gaze out on the city below: bright neon lights and roaring cars and dark skies. It’s raining as it almost always is, and the drops are annoyingly soaking into your coat.

You would complain, but you can sense the three figures behind you slowly approaching. You take a deep breath, in and out, and do not turn around.

“In truth, we find what the chiaroscuro has wrought,” you whisper. You have passed the tests. You know the code.

“Very well,” the board members murmur in unison. “Welcome to the Neowren Order of Detectives. Are you ready for initiation?”

(+197 words)

(Written July 26th 2022— In as much detail as possible, describe a setting and post it in the comments. Then choose someone else’s setting and write at least 300 words describing what it’s become after 100 years or any long period of time.

My own setting:
https://scratch.mit.edu/studios/31668456/comments/#comments-191262416 which I wrote last session—

From @rocksalmon800:
Hidden behind the dense undergrowth of the rainforest, the small town of Tudorwink thrived. On the side of a volcano, this town was built as a scapegoat to tell when a eruption was coming. When it erupted, the neighboring towns would hear the screams they couldn’t see through the trees and know to run. But the residents didn’t know that. They thought they were the only ones in the area for miles. They used the land, collecting fruit from the trees, eating animals hidden in the branches, using the venom from the many harmful creatures to create weapons. The town was about 50 or so people, with tiny treehouses built into the rainforest canopy. The ground was always wet earth, and the biggest treehouse is where the sovereign lives. The town is peaceful, but the residents know better than to relax, due to the many hazards they face.)


The rock serves as a reminder.

Yes, green is beginning to sprout again and a few birds are courageous enough to circle around the caldera again, but the oppressive mottled grey still covers the mountainside.

The dirt is still buried in ash.

The people in the towns whisper about it sometimes, about the screams and the cinder clouds and the death. Few are old enough to remember it now, but the rock remains ever present in everyone’s minds. That is enough.

Some people feel guilty about it, sometimes. The little kids who never got to be around to know the full situation ask, sometimes, whether what they did was right.

The adults were there, of course, so they had justification for it. Tudorwink knew that they were living in a dangerous place. Their sacrifice was not in vain. The rest of the villages live.

(They didn’t know they could have moved, that they were being used.)

Someone at some point in the last two decades had the bright idea to host a festival in Tudorwink’s honour; a full week of celebration and remembrance and gratitude. It rings hollow to a few, standing in the corners, how everyone celebrates their life in the wake of death.

The people celebrate in their houses rebuilt over the rock, glad to be free of the dangerous animals in the area, travelling far to salvage food.

The volcano seems calmer now. There is less seismic activity, there are no rumbles in the middle of the night— those who are brave enough to hike up to the edge of the caldera can barely see any lava from above.

Because the trees are gone, Tudorwink can be seen on a clear day from any of the villages. It is still there, high on the mountainside, preserved under the layers of ash. Nobody walks there. For some reason it feels like a transgression, like they don’t deserve to walk there. It was never their land in the first place.

The people thrive as the land recovers. They remember who to thank for it, they remember why they lived,
and they never apologize for it.

(+356 words)

(Written July 27th 2022— mcd. Go do a word war!)

With @MythicScratcher101 from poetry, lost: 171 words


Alrighty, so the thing is I don’t really like doong word wars alkjdsf.

Like, I’, so bad at them???

I see everyone elses proof and I realize that they’re riddle with dtypos and whatnot and the things is I can’t actually find myself being able to do that sakldjfhlkjsahf. Like,,, not using backspace??? Not being able to go and rewrite sentences?? In the past, whenever I’ve done word bwars I always end yup writing some hardcore prose thing and making it dramamtic lkajs and it’s far under my usual wpm (which isn’t that high anyways) because I keep going back to fix grammar, and spelling and punctuation alks. Like right now I’m not looking at my screen, only the keyboard because I know that if I do O’ll want to go and fix everythin. And even just looking at the keyboard I can still see where I make mistakes and I want to fix them! So bad!! But nope, gonna keep wrambling about how I can’t actually do this while hoping I’ll actually win this time because I have forced myself to forego actually trying to write something good aksjfd.

With @Sandy-Dunes from Fairy Tales, won: 193 words

Oh boy another word war and I don’t know what to rant about this time aksjdhfkjsaf.
Oh! Elfie as almost certainly followed this forum! Okay aslkjfdhkjsaf. Message to Elfie. Very important. Things to say. Okay, rack brain, rack brain:

Elfie! Elfie is amazing. Elfie is a genius and also incredibly dedicated and also so smart??? An amazing friend and also just as sleep-deprived as I am > Elfie, go to bed it’s okay they’re mock exams and not the actual ones you can do this i ca do this i believe in you, even if you do not well you will be able to do great after it lkasjdfsaf. I have confidence in you, and it’s okay to not do well sometimes. Sleep is more important! Mental health is more important! Buuut, you know all that and I don’t want to force you either

Oh god aslkdjff I’m getting self-conscious now??? Oh no alksdhflkjsaf so you don’t have to do anything I tell you to elfie whatever you think you want to do is definitely the best decision and my canadianess is setting in aklsjdhfkjsaf. Right so

Other topic!! Askdjfh. Food wars! The anime—


(+364 words of typoing and rambling and not writing anything of value alkjdf)

(Written July 28th 2022— mcd. For the daily you must write 300 words of an argumentative piece about how one of your enemy or neutral cabins (not allies!) is the best cabin.)


Thriller. Thriller, Thriller, Thriller. The best cabin in all of SWC July 2022. Why, you may ask? Simple.

1 - Thriller is a very broad genre, spanning a wide range of subgenres with different moods and tones. Action thriller, psychological thriller, spy thriller, sci-fi thriller, horror thriller… Much of it has been explored before. But the Thriller cabin? They’ve got a whole new angle on the subject. Thriller’s setting is a Dreamscape, a place outside of reality— and the Thriller part? You’re trapped in it? Not quite fantasy, not quite sci-fi, not quite psychological; Thriller’s storyline is fresh, exciting, and a great way to immerse yourself in the SWC experience.

2 - Perhaps the news may not have reached your ears, but it truly is a marvel you have not heard: the leader of the Thriller Rift is the host of SWC! You heard that right, SWC’s beloved @Bellevue91 herself is spearheading the cabin. What better way to know that your leader is responsible, reliable, trustworthy, and a great writer?

3 - Harry the Capybara represents the Dreamscape! Thriller has a mascot, and a fuzzy, furry, and friendly one at that. He has been known to traipse every now and then into the cabin, giving encouragement. If you are ever at a want for writing motivation, Thriller has Harry to help you.

4 - Speaking of writing, did I mention Thriller is currently in third place out of 15 cabins? That’s right! The Thriller Rift has a large community of amiable and enthusiastic campers, many of whom are working hard doing dailies and weeklies. Being a part of the Thriller cabin means being able to get to know these wonderful individuals, including Birdi’s cos Kit and Moonlit, Daisy, and more!

Besides these main four, there are many other reasons behind Thriller’s greatness. Be sure to go and check out the cabin yourself! You may even want to stay awhile

(+315 words)

(Written July 29th 2022— mcd. Today, we will be combining layers of a story. Each person will comment one vague beginning, conflict, setting, climax and ending of a story, and then mix and match from other peoples’ parts to create their own unique story of at least 400 words.

Mine: https://scratch.mit.edu/studios/31668456/comments/#comments-191540392

@-Chocoloco- - Beginning: “Let it go!!”
@-redredrobin- - Conflict: someone goes missing
@Starthorn - Setting: A remote island with treehouses
@xXFierroOrFalafelXx - Climax: a sea monster attack
@coolgirl100- - Ending: A journey to the end of the world


“Let it go!”

The island is small. The cry rings out across the sand, into the trees. Somewhere further away, birds flap away from their perch in the branches and squawk in response.

Kiara grips a knife in one hand and the precious water gourd in the other; her fists are clenched tight, nails digging into her implements. Her feet shift deep into the sand, the grains pouring down on top of her skin.

Opposite her, panting hard in the water, Kieran sputters and thrashes about, struggling back onto his feet and rushing his sister once more. “Give it back!” He spits, lunging forward.

“Do you really think I’m going to let you just waste it?” Kiera replies venomously, darting back. “We have far too little to just be drinking it at will! We haven’t found a river yet, we can’t afford—”

“I need it!” The younger brother scrabbles in the sand to regain his footing and dashes forward again.

“For what?” Kiera is so tired of running— but she has to, for the water. For their survival.

Kieran is silent.

Eyes hard, frustration etched in her face, the older sister runs into the forest and doesn’t look back.



“Kieran! Kieran, where are you?” Kiera stands atop their treehouse, hand wrapped around the trunk. Her hand is shading her eyes from the sun as she leans away from the tree, trying to spot her brother among the island below. “Come on, pop up somewhere…”

With a sigh, she slides back in through the window of the treehouse and descends into the forest.



Back on the sand again, Kiera is the one rushing about this time as she slips against the granules, voice hoarse.

“Come on, pop up somewhere…” she breathes, eyes now wide in panic.

Something answers, deep from within the deep blue. The water begins to lap more wildly against the shore as a dark green shape rises from the blue, forcing ripples into the liquid as it begins to loom over Kiera.

She stands and stares, because what could she do with a small pocket knife anyway?

The Monster groans something she assumes she should understand, and before Kiera can say anything a long green tentacle is reaching out to her, grasping tight and pulling her—

“No, WAIT—” she manages to burst out, and then she is pulled under.



“The water.”

“… What?” A bubble comes out of her mouth, and it’s the first thing the sister registers with her eyes not yet adjusted to everything being in a deep shade of blue.

“The water,” her brother ejects more forcefully, bubbles coming out of his mouth too. Somehow he’s entirely audible, and he seems to be able to breathe, as well.

As can she…

“What?” Kiera sits up suddenly, staring at Kieran.

“You know, the freshwater! The gourd! Do you have it?” His eyes bore into her, the same panicked focus she had just a moment before.

“Y—Yes,” she fumbles with it by her side. She’s seen her brother like this before, with this fire in his eyes, but not since before they left. She hands it to him, without a word.

“Sam needs it…” Kieran swims over to the Monster, still looming above them both in the rippling water, and it happily clamps onto the gourd and pulls it up to its beak-like mouth.

“Kieran, what did you…” The eldest’s voice dies off when she sees a light go on in “Sam’s” eyes.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“What?”

“We’re going to leave.” Kieran grins, something his sister hasn’t seen him do in a while.

“But—”

“We got stuck on that island in the first place because we had set out to explore beyond the edge of the world, remember? We have to keep going, we can’t just stop. I’ve found our ride.”

Kiera nods, because she thinks she remembers that fire there too, before they left.

Her memory has always been worse than her brother’s after all. But she thinks she remembers, just a little bit.

“So we’re leaving, then? Now?” She grins just as wide. They look similar, in that moment. Sam groans, and the siblings turn to their new friend.

“Why of course, dear sister.”

(+707 words)

(Completed July 30th 2022— Weekly, SuSWC.
Edited July 31st 2022— added formatting

https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/716394528

Final Code+Certificate:
PATHS TAKEN: 6-3, 102-1, 1-5, 9-1, 7-7, 5-2, 2-2, 4-1, 82-2, 3-2 | SABOTAGE RESULTS: 2- S;4- F, 5- S;8- F, 6- F, 3- S;9- F, 1- F, 7- S | ENDING: neutral
https://ibb.co/Y3zQtZc )

Begin a story, any way you like, but keep it close to 100 words. (157)

Koramar walks by the shore, feels the sand shift beneath his feet, and watches the world go by.

He has done this for a very, very long time, to the point where it would feel wrong not to. The shore is the best place to observe the world from, after all, so what better way to see how it changes?

The town across the harbor has grown into a vibrant city, the fish in the sea continuously evolve and go through life cycles, the mountains behind the buildings spring up from the slow movement of the tectonic plates…

Koramar has seen a lot of things happen in his time.

He takes heart in that the sand that he walks on used to be the same rocks he tread upon so long ago, and when the day ends he heads back into the forest, to his little wooden cottage, and Koramar stays the same as the world doesn’t.

Broom Closet - Write for five minutes. Change how clean your setting is. (192)

It is difficult to notice things changing when they happen slowly.

Koramar knows this, and it is the excuse he tells himself when he has realized, too late, that the world he loved in the beginning is gone.

He stares out over the shore, his shore, as pristine and wild as it is, into the city on the other side and realizes even as he has watched it change that he doesn’t quite recognize it at all. Smog rises from smokestacks that went up over a night, the buildings race the mountains into the sky and Koramar can see the water has changed colour, even as far away as he is.

He doesn’t know why the people in the city are trying to race nature in height, in produce, in craftsmanship, but he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the grey and how dull it is in comparison to what was there before. He doesn’t like the smell that has replaced the cleaner scents, the snowy peaks that have been blocked out, the opposite beach covered in trash.

Koramar wonders since when the change he saw started to go in this direction.

{Sabotage - Stop working on the weekly and write at least five achievements you’re proud of.

1 - I got first in the Nov 2021 swc writing comp. That still blows my mind.
2 - I have somehow maintained a friendship with Elfie! It hasn’t been ruined! We have a good relationship! :O
3 - I managed to have a pretty decent social life when I was on my own for two weeks at my course ^^ I built a good relationship with my roommates, I talked to other people, I found a circle of friends in my class and was able to choose when I wanted to be alone and when I didn’t want to be :]
4 - My brother and I are somehow on good terms :00
5 - I think I’ve improved a lot with my art this year— music, acting, drawing, writing, all of it.}

Photo → Memory Book → Photography Room - In 250 words describe how your character has a burst of nostalgia, and this mood is carried out throughout the rest of the story. (277)

For how long he has lived, Koramar has an impeccable memory— and he can still remember the mountains where they were before, the sea as blue and lively as it used to be, and the two sides of the harbour mirroring each other.

They could not be more opposite now, and though perhaps someone else would have accepted the change Koramar can only think of what was.

He can remember walking over the sand, coarser than it is now, and thinking about how it was the same on the other end of the sea. He can remember walking over there on one particularly long day and recognizing the trees and the animals. He can remember how intimately he knew the place from far away, and now Koramar can only think of how separate he is from how it is now.

Koramar has been walking this beach for a long, long time, and yet it feels like this new world has sprung up in an instant.

He doesn’t like it.

For the first time in what could very likely be forever, he wonders if he could have done something to stop this— whispered something to the tree roots, murmured a word to the mountains, called to the sea. Koramar doesn’t exactly know why he misses the past so much in favour of what stands there now. He wasn’t angry when the town was built, or when the fishing boats went out, or the trees started to get cut down. Those were the natural growth patterns of a place learning how to thrive, even if that place was people.

But this, this somehow feels like it’s crossing a line.

{Sabotage - Stop working on the weekly and do something else creative for 15 minutes.
Did some digital art.}

Dining Hall → Fantasy/Fairy Tales/ Myth table - Incorporate features of any of the three genres into your story. Write for five minutes. (315)



The city of Eimenstrung has grown very quickly in the last few decades, Irina’s mother tells her. The people of the small town took the natural gifts of the land they were lucky enough to live on and used it to make something great.

Irina’s mother seems very proud of the city they live in. She tells a lot of stories like that.

Irina hears stories from other places as well, from whispered secrets behind buildings and angry shouts over telephones.

Irina listens a lot. She knows a lot of stories.

Of the few have been told to her directly, however, few have enthralled her like the tale of the Kor, heard from her grandfather.

(Irina’s mother and grandfather don’t seem to see eye to eye all the time. Another story Irina is still trying to listen to.)

Irina’s grandfather told her of an old wanderer in the woods, close by but also not very far, who watches over the harbour of Germenstrung. He told her how this wanderer, known only as Kor, has been watching for a very long time. He watches the land, the people, the sea, and he knows the land better than anyone else.

“How do you know about him, Grandpapa?” Irina had asked, and her grandfather had only smiled, murmured “because I listen, Irina,” and continued on.

He told her of how this Kor could raise waves as high as the tallest mountain peaks and convince the trees into moving and how he watched, and waited, and chose not to do those things.

And when Irina listened with eyes wide and wondered “… Who is he, Grandapapa?” her grandfather finally gave a straight answer.

“He is the one who watches the land, Irina. It is his, it has always belonged to him, and it would not do to mess with the Stewards the Gods have appointed to watch over their world.”

{Sabotage - Come up with five reasons you appreciate a Scratch Team member and send it to them.

For @codubee:

Hi there! So one of our activities for this month’s scratch writing camp is to go out and thank a Scratch Team member. A lot of others have gone to the more well-known member’s profiles, and I thought it was worth coming over here and giving my thanks since no one else has done it yet. So, thank you so much for all you’ve done for Scratch! Principal Software Engineer does not sound like an easy job, and I imagine that sometimes replying to many comments isn’t either ^^’ Keeping such a large site like Scratch up and running is probably a difficult task, and I’m grateful that this website has been here for us kids to meet others and explore. Not only that but your projects are astounding as well, and the community is better for your presence. A final thank you, and have a good day!}

Mango Trees - Write for 8 minutes; a character the main character thought was dead is actually alive. (352)
(I have established two main characters, so, uh— picking one :>)



Despite his anger, despite what his heart is whispering in the dark, Koramar keeps his cool; like he knows he should, like he was told to do.

“Watch the humans from afar,” he was told, “let our creations blossom freely. If they go astray, then it is the path they must take.”

Koramar clings to that, as he has clung to so many things over the years, and simply watches as he has always done. He is supposed to Steward the land, nothing more. He is doing that, and well. There is nothing to complain about.

But his heart whispers, and yet…

Another indeterminate amount of time passes, Koramar walking the shore and watching the sea as he always has. A voice in the back of his mind has started to chant together with his heart, but Koramar was not chosen as a Steward for nothing. He has rationality, enough to last for a long time. As he has already.

He will not falter, he tells himself this.

Not until he returns from his shorewalk one day, as weary but resolute as ever, and finds his Father sitting in his chair.

Silence reigns as Koramar’s Father drinks some tea. The Steward knows that the tea is not his. Father never really cared for tea that was not magiked up by their own self.

“Greetings~” Father hums above the steam rising from their tea, smiling faintly.

Koramar knows better than to answer. He stands, quiet and firm, and whispers, “Father, why have you returned?”

“Oh, come, Koramar :3” the God lilts, amused, “did you really think I had ever left?”

Neither speaks, but they both know what he is thinking. Yes.

“Come, come, I was going to come back at some point! It is not as though Gods can die :>” They spread their arms wide, tea still in one hand.

I saw otherwise, Koramar’s head, heart, and mind all think at the same time.

“What do you want,” he whispers again, voice hard. You had said you would not come back. You had said you would leave it to me. Leave it be.

{Sabotage - Thank at least three people in swc for everything they do.

1 - @-ChocoLoco- . BAKIE HELLO AKDSJFHKAJS I HAVE COME TO LET YOU KNOW YOU HAVE BEEN AN AWESOME CAMPER AND AN EVEN GREATER DAILY TEAM MEMBER AND AN EVEN GREATER SWC CO-HOST ASKJFDHALKSHFKJSADF THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR HELPING BUILD THIS CAMP THAT MEANS SO MUCH TO SO MANY PEOPLE, YOU ARE AN AMAZING PERSON AND I WISH YOU THE BEST <33

2 - @GraceOBrian13. HELLO GOOSE ALKSDJFHLKALKS IT IS PAST MIDNIGHT AND THAT'S HOW YOU KNOW YOU'RE GETTING THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH :> YOU HAVE BEEN ONE OF THE BESTEST COS I HAVE EVER WORKED WITH AND YOU HAVE DONE SO MUCH FOR SWC AND HI-FI THIS SESSION AND ALSO YOU'RE AN AMAZING WRITER ASDJHF?? A TRIPLE WHAMMY OH NO YOU ARE CREATIVE AND RESPONSIBLE AND INSPIRING AND I HAVE NO DOUBT YOU'LL GO ON TO DO GREAT THINGS <33

3 - @Starfox74. STAR HELLO ALKJSDFHKJSA :>>> HOW DARE YOU NOT LET ME KNOW ABOUT THE BELOW COMMENT CHAIN HMPH /j /lh I MUST GET IN ON THIS COMPLIMENT GIVING— *AHEM* STAR YOU ARE AMAZING AND AWESOME AND SUCH A GREAT, GREAT CO AND ALSO A GREAT WRITER AND PERSON AND WOW A HOME RUN HAS BEEN HIT HERE FOLKS ASKJDHF. (IT'S PAST MIDNIGHT!! CAN YOU TELL :DDD) YOUR IDEAS AND CONTRIBUTIONS TO SWC AND HI-FI WERE STELLAR AND OUT OF THIS WORLD AND I AM SURESURESURE THAT MOVING ON IN SWC YOU WILL DO GREAT THINGS :DD HUZZAH!!

3.5 - Elfie, don’t think I missed you ;>}

Daily Team Room → Zura’s Stand - Your character receives a premonition, and then the event actually happens. Write for 15 minutes. (426)



Irina did not think she was the kind of person who would be predisposed to magik.

Her grandfather has told her stories, sure, and she has listened. In the stories it is always the kids who do the magik things, the brave things. Adults are always strangely missing from Grandpapa’s stories.

(Mother’s made up for this, of course.)

Still, Irina did not consider herself wholly remarkable, notable enough to be capable of such a thing.

When she had woken up that night, she had tried to put it off as a dream.

Fire and burning and mountains swallowed by the sea, cinder and ash and trees marching through the ruins of a town—

It is hard to tell what is reality and what is dream, when you are a child.

Irina has always thought that she would be savvy enough to know the difference. Turns out she is right, just not in the way she thought she would be. She did know the difference when she could feel the smoke choking the air out of her lungs, hear the screams, smell the char.

Irina ran to her grandfather in the middle of the night and sobbed incoherent words about fire and ruin and the elements tearing Eimenstrung up from its roots.

“Oh, child,” he had whispered soothingly, “were you frightened by my story?”

“No,” huffed Irina, still retaining some of her will, “of course not!”

“Of course not,” he had mimicked quietly in response.

Irina stays quiet now. She goes to school and listens to her mother and listens to her grandfather, but other stories are less on her mind now.

She remembers blood and bone and bane, and though she doesn’t know what it means, every part of her is screaming at her to not find out.

So she doesn’t ask, not anymore.

Her Grandpapa does so instead, his voice one night just a hint more worried than it usually is.

“Irina dearest, you were not lying when you told me about your dream?” he asks.

“Of course not,” she whispers back. She does not know why they are talking quietly, but she can hear the beginning of a story to listen to. She follows.

“I… have heard rumblings,” he admits nervously, “seen bad omens, and they fit your dream better than I would like.”

She stays silent again, mouth sewed tight by ember and extinction.

Her Grandpapa points.

Out in the distance, from the high-up window in their high-up apartment, Irina and her grandfather see the trees across the harbour wave in the breeze.

{Sabotage - Listen to music for ten minutes!
Listened to Line without a Hook by Ricky Montgomery on repeat pfft}

Library - In 200 words, reveal that one of your characters’ ulterior motives is to gain something. (240)



“What do I want? Why, Koramar, there’s no need to be so blase,” Father leans further back into the chair, almost as if they’re claiming this space as theirs.

A voice in the back of the Steward’s head tells him that it’s because it is technically their space, that this land and all that is on it is theirs.

“… But you left,” he blurts out before he can catch himself, “you died, to this world at least, and you told me you were relinquishing your hold over it. The humans have claimed it now, I watch over what they do like you asked, and they continue to do what they will with it. What are you doing here so long after moving on—”

“I want it back.” Father cuts in tersely.

Koramar stops.

“… Back?”

His God looks to the side, sipping their tea. “I had left, yes. But this land is still something I created, and I have a connection to it still— I could feel it, still can feel it, how it’s crying out.”

They turn suddenly, and their gaze cuts into the Steward like a knife.

“You have not been listening to the trees, Koramar. You have not been answering the sea’s call—”

“You told me to simply watch! To simply do what I could, to not interfere with what the humans were doing—” he broke in nervously.

“Yes, and I am rescinding my orders,” Father murmured coldly.

{Sabotage - Stop working on the weekly and drink/eat something for five minutes.
Had a cookie and some water!}

Throne Room → Ghost Throne - Write 300 words of a character having a flashback. (430)



Koramar knows devastation when he sees it.

Sometimes, destruction is not really destruction. Yes, it can sometimes look like world-ending ruin has come to a place, but if the roots are still strong beneath the ground and the mountains still have a tight grip on the earth, then the place will rebuild eventually. That partial loss is just temporary.

True desolation is the world being razed to the ground and further, nothing left but dirt and bone. When there is no life left for there to be any chance of grabbing onto a foothold and climbing back up again.

Koramar watches from afar, eyes wide, as his Father stands in the middle of a completely ravaged land. Across from them is someone else’s Father, face grim. They both tower over the destruction below, voices echoing out for miles on end. Koramar knows that somewhere the other Father’s Steward is also watching. He doesn’t have the strength to try and search for them.

“Enough is enough, Sun-Touched,” his Father’s voice rings in his ears, and Koramar grits his teeth and hopes his ears don’t bleed. “You cannot expect us to keep doing this.”

“Perhaps not, Tree-Blessed,” the other replies, “but you neither can you expect me to stand by and do nothing at all.”

“Then leave,” Father hisses. “If you cannot stand by, then simply don’t pay attention at all. The land will flourish on its own if it has to. It can learn to live with them. Perhaps without us, the humans will learn to appreciate the land a little better.”

Silence, finally, as Sun-Touched considers the offer.

“I cannot promise I will not come back,” they huff.

“Easy. I can.” Tree-Blessed promptly turns around toward their Steward, towering over him with a faint smile as the other Father gapes.

“I suppose this is goodbye, then? Don’t worry, little Koramar. I know you’ll do well.”

The Steward simply nods and doesn’t say anything, because he already knows he’ll do well. He has to. He can’t afford not to.

Without any further ado his Father turns to Sun-Touched, tilts their head with a smirk, and disappears in a flash of light.

The other follows, because what else can they do with such a bold move?

In the wake of their disappearance, Koramar feels his heart unconsciously skip a beat, and his breath hitches in his throat. He can’t see it, not quite yet. Progress is slow, after all. But he can feel the grass starting to grow again, tectonic plates moving and tree roots spreading out once more.

One final gift.

{Sabotage - Stop working on the weekly and read a book/article for 10 minutes.
Read Ivanhoe ldkjh.}

Theatre - Describe the moment a character is revealed to be the ‘chosen one’ in at least 200 words. (276)



When Koramar had first been chosen as a Steward, he had had no idea what the task entailed.

He had just been another lowly human farmer, simple and constant and sufficient, and he had been careful to watch over what little land he had because he lived on it. He had to.

When Father showed up at the door and introduced themselves as Tree-Blessed, he hadn’t known what to expect. What could a God possibly want with someone like him?

“Become my Steward, little human.”

Koramar had heard about Stewards— men out of legend, who walked in the shadows of the Gifted Gods forevermore watching what sprung up in their footsteps.

It was easy to accept, because what else could he do?

Immortality, sight and hearing and smell stronger than they had ever been before, the language of the trees and the mountains and the earth. They were side effects, bonus benefits, because being a Steward was so much better than being a farmer— to Koramar, at least.

He could live without having to worry about how he did it.



It is only now that Koramar understands why he was chosen.

Yes, perhaps he didn’t think he cared about the land before, but now as he stands in front of his Father and he thinks about the humans on the other side, he realizes he doesn’t understand them at all.

How can they go on with their lives without thinking about the land at all? What they live on, what they cultivate, what they could never, never, live without?

“You are rescinding your orders,” the Steward echoes breathlessly. Tree-Blessed smiles.

Outside, the trees begin to move.

{Sabotage - Nap/Do nothing for 15 minutes!}

Workshops → Fantasy → Worldbuilding - Change an element of your character’s world into a fantastical element in 300 words. (309)



Irina has always thought that she would be savvy enough to know the difference between stories and reality. In her mind they have always been firmly separated, the two. She knows her mother sometimes tells stories that she believes are true, but in her mind they are just as separate from reality as the rest of them.

Irina listens to the stories, hears and digests them all, and she does not believe them.

Not until she looks out at where her grandfather is pointing, out at the trees. At first, it just looks as though their leaves are caught in the wind, rustling lazily in the breeze. Irina has looked out of this window so, so many times, and if she didn’t squint the trees would look the exact same as they have always looked.

She does squint though, so she manages to catch the faint movement of roots being uplifted, moved forward, and set down again. Her ears are young enough that she manages to catch the faint, faint rhythm of many more of these wooden limbs stepping forward together in unison.

Though his hearing is not as good, Irina knows her Grandpapa can catch it too. He has always been observant with these things.

As much as she wants to, Irina can’t look away— her mind is caught in dreams, in stories she heard, in things she had so firmly separated from her reality. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening—

A wave the height of a tsunami suddenly crests up from the water, the sea having been so still just a moment before. It is coming towards Eimenstrung. Towards the city. Towards her.

Her breath catches in her throat.

Fire and ruin and blood and bone.

Irina begins to cry.

Even as she does,
The Wood of Birnam marches on Dunsinane.

{Sabotage - Write a list of ten awesome things about who has impacted you significantly.

See Elfie? I told you I’d get to you eventually ;> Short and unexplained cause rushing AH

1 - Elfie is a genius. A literary genius. If you know her, enough said.
2 - Adding on to the above, Elfie is an amazing poet and writer??? Along with being an analytical genius? Unfair akljds
3 - Elfie is an amazing friend.
4 - Elfie taught me how to like debating! :]]
5 - Best clues/hints/pirate ever ;D
6 - Vocab so big :0
7 - Heart so big!! :00
8 - Resilient and persistent <3
9 - One of the few people I’ve managed to stay in touch with on Scratch outside of rp for more than a few months alkdsjf
10 - If I just go <3333 randomly to her one day she will go <333333 right back.}

Bulletin Board → Misc. posts - Get inspiration for a character from someone’s profile from your cabin and introduce the character in 10 minutes. (368 words)



It is slow coming, no matter how incensed the pair are. Trees have never been particularly fast marchers, after all.

Sitting among the branches of one of the taller trees, Tree-Blessed and their Steward Koramar march on the city of Eimenstrung in silence. The thrum of the tree roots against shifting soil is a backdrop to their silent contemplation. It is only the quiet before the storm. There is still much to do.

“If I may, Father…” Koramar blurts all of a sudden, something clearly on his mind.

“Yes? :0” they answer, amused.

“Why do we need to destroy the city first? Surely we could renew the land as it is, without having to resort to this?”

He knows exactly what destruction looks like.

“Would you wish to spare your countrymen, Koramar?” The Steward nods, because he holds no shame in that sentiment anymore. His Father sighs. “… I can build something from nothing, Koramar, but I cannot turn what is already there into something better. I only work with the land, I cannot fix what they’ve built that is wreaking so much damage.”

Koramar grits his teeth and looks away, because he really was hoping there would be another solution. “… So what is the plan then?” he asks instead.

“Well,” Father sighs again, “first, I am going to call a friend.”

Before their Steward can give an exclamation of surprise, Tree-Blessed lets out a strange, half word half warbling noise. Next to them appears another two figures looking very similar to the duo already sitting, though the Father has wings on their back and the Steward birds clawing into her shoulder.

Koramar nearly falls out of the tree.

“Koramar, this is my friend Goose-Given, and their Steward Marium. They have a hand in birds, and they’re going to be helping us.”

The discussion devolves into planning for the attack, quick questions about logistics and strategy.

It is only once they hear a splash from below that they realize it is time.

As they reach the shore that Koramar used to walk upon so often, the God and the Steward murmur a word in unison. The water begins to freeze,
and the trees begin their march across the sea.

Leave your story unresolved with a cliffhanger. 500 words. (539)



The humans can’t ignore it now.

The entire harbour has frozen. The fishing boats and patrol ships are stuck in place, people frantically radioing and shouting and trying anything, anything, desperately.
The old growth trees that have been untouched for centuries march among the evergreen across the sea.

They have been given little time to prepare, which Koramar supposes is good.

“Thank you,” heaves Tree-Blessed from their tree branch, “I would not have been able to do that on my own.”

“The water is not your domain, it is perfectly understandable.” Koramar is already looking out at the city they’re about to reach, focusing on what is to come.

“If that will be all, we are going to go finish our preparations,” Goose-Given’s Steward says roughly. She hasn’t talked much, but it hasn’t appeared as though she has needed two. The pair quickly take flight, the God flapping their wings and the Steward enveloped in a flock of screaming birds.

“… Here we go,” murmur the remaining two in unison.



Irina did not think she lived in an age where war could come so easily to her doorstep. Eimunstrung is isolated in its place among the mountains, bordered by a large body of water and a wall of stone.

However, as has been so effectively demonstrated, Irina has thought a lot of things over the course of her short ten year life, and not many of them have proven to be true.

She and her grandfather sit by that window for what feels like hours, watching the slow, slow march of the trees across the harbour. Irina has known this would come, but she didn’t know what to do.

She still doesn’t, sitting by the window, so she simply sits until it’s too late and she can hear the screams of the people who live by the shore. Then she can’t sit anymore either.

“Grandpapa, I’m going down,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

“Irina, wait—!” He shouts even as she runs out the door. “We live high enough to be safe, you CANNOT—”

Irina has heard enough stories in her meager ten year life to know exactly when she has been told one. And even though the line has been blurred and she doesn’t quite know anymore, she thinks she still is savvy enough to know when she is being told a story.

She runs down through the streets, dodging people and animals and fear. Nobody notices her in the chaos, a small ten year old slipping through cracks.

Irina zones in on where she needs to be, on her breathing and on run run run run—

She can’t hear when the birds start to attack the people running the opposite direction, as focused as she is.

Irina runs until she is as far down as she can go, until the only thing in front of her is a tall, tall tree with two figures sitting at the top, looking down on her.

From her ten year old vantage point, they look like giants.

“Give me my home back,” she whispers, looking up with tears in her eyes.

She doesn’t know how they hear her, but they do.

“No.”

“… Sure.”

A God and a Steward reply at the same time.

(+3881 words)

(Written July 30th 2022— mcd. Choose a common idiom and write at least 300 words about a story in which it is taken literally.

Oh my god what is this)


Once upon a time Sun was told to write a story about taking an idiom literally. They had literally like 8 or so minutes to write it because they had bad time management and they had just finished the swc weekly, so they were speedrunning it by doing their word war strategy and ignoring typoes and grammar errors and whatever. See Sun sdidn’;t actually know where the story was going so they just rambled as much as they could. I need to include the idiom was a thought that hit sun at some point, but they didn’t know how to do it. “I know!”

So Sun kept writing and writing and even though their words per minute weren’t very many, eventually sun was typing so fast that they suddenly felt a bit appear in their mouth.
“ADKSFJHJDSA?” they burst out, their mouth still filled with bit.
“Hold your horses!” Boomed a voice from nowhere, and suddenly Sun realized they were very much being held back from their writing, because their fingers couldn’t reach the keys.
“LKASSKJDF!!” They tried to shout to no avila.
“Nope, no can do horsey slow down” said the mysterious voice and sun resigned themselves to finishing their daily at a much slower rate—
NOPE THEY KEPT WRITING AT THAT SPEED BECAUSE THEY HAD TO FINISH ASLDKFJ.
An important story, ladies and gentlemen!! Sun doesn’t listen to idioms! SUn doesn’t care about them, understand them, or think they’re important in any way because they think it’s unfair that some people understand them and some don’t—
“HOLD YOUR HORSES!” boomed the same voice again, and the writer groaned.
“Alskjdfhkjsa,” The mumbled. “Whataslkjdfkjnooouw?”
“APPRECIATE IDIOMS” the voice commanded.
“Alksdfjhakjfdidioms????” sSun replied still struggling. “Nuh uh, no way, no—”
‘DO YOU WANT TO BE A HELD HORSE FOREVER??”
The writer just shook their head.
“THEN DO IT.”
The writer sighed and wrote a story about how you should listen to idioms.
The end.

(+324 words)