Seventh Part of Weekly–Bridge–Ancient Past
Title of the Song– I can see you- Taylor Swift

Oh you can see me huh,
So what?
I can see you
So what?

Oh Things aren't what they seem,
The world is evil
I can see you
but the world is evil

Oh the green wood in spring,
The yellow wood in Autumn,
I can see you,
But the yellow wood in Autumn is what which makes a difference.

bee's writing comp. entry - “the sky itself will weep”
word count: 995
shoutout to some irl friends for giving feedback <3

“What they do here is evil,” Haru said, slamming his fist down on the small stone table. “We can’t allow it to go on any longer.”
“And what are we to do, sir?” Asked his advisor, a short, pale man with thinning brown hair. “The King’s tried negotiating with the Cult, giving them warnings, undermining their leadership. It all failed.”
“Of course that failed! What did you expect them to do, listen to reason? I think we need to take a different approach–one much more drastic.”

The light was sudden and blinding, and Haru squinted as the cover on the wagon was lifted. Hesitantly, he stood up and looked around to find himself in an unfamiliar city. Tall, dark buildings rose up on either side of a narrow, dirty street, where his wagon had stopped and was being unloaded. And somehow, he knew that this place was very wrong, that he should not be there, and then there were people all around him and hands shoving him out of the wagon and–

Seven thousand.
That was the number of people Haru had gathered to fight against the Cult of the Rains, and the number of people who stood behind him today, ready to conquer a dark, evil city atop a hill.
“Sir, are you sure this is a good idea?” As always, his advisor sat beside him, atop a short brown horse–a stark contrast to Haru’s tall white.
“We both know it is the only way. The Kingdom will thank me when this is over.”
“But does it have to be like this? Surely not everyone in the city is–”
“I said it was the only way. Now get back to the camp–you’re too valuable to be endangered in battle.”

“Accept it! The Rains have dictated that you will stay here.”
“You can’t do this. We have lives out there.”
“This is a good place, once you grow familiar with it.”
Pressing his face against the cold limestone wall of his holding cell, Haru strained to hear more of the conversation–to hear his mother, who had been growing more and more frantic under her predicament.
“Mama? Hello? Can you hear me?” He yelled out, hoping his words would pass through the wall and find their way to his mother, to his father, to someone in this bleak city.
“…anyone?”

As he rode through the now-burning city, Haru remembered how terrifying its streets had once seemed, and laughed quietly at the thought. The fire extended in every direction, the wooden walls that had once given protection now trapping the town’s evil inhabitants. He looked to one side and saw one of the Cult’s churches–now crumbling into ashes–and felt a small burst of joy and fulfillment, as if a weight had been lifted. And to the other side–

Outside, the first raindrops began to fall. Haru huddled into the corner of the cell as water began to leak through the ceiling, churning up the dirt and grime that covered the floor.
The voices soon grew louder, and he could hear them once again. “…well, if you refuse to comply…”
“Help! Somebody, help!” He cried, but of course nobody would answer. Everybody here was evil, all like that man outside, whose reprimands of his mother grew louder and louder–
And then the cell opened. Standing in the doorway was a man wearing a blue uniform, much like the people who had taken Haru here, and he held a rusty key in his hand.
“Who are you?” Haru asked, not moving out of his corner.
“It doesn’t matter–you need to leave this place, now. I can hear the sky itself weeping for what is being done here; it is not right.”
Haru stood in the cell for another few seconds, confused, but as the strange man left he immediately ran out the open door and back into the city streets. All the while, the rain continued falling down.

A house, with its front door engulfed in flames.
A woman, barely visible through the crumbling walls, clutching a child in her arms.
“You’re the one who did all this, aren’t you?” She yelled up to Haru, who rode up on his pristine white horse. “You…”
He simply sat there, her words cascading off of him with no impact, looking down at the house with unwavering eyes.
“…why…?”

Crouching at the end of a back alley, he could now see his mother clearly; she was standing on one side of a square, trying in vain to hold her ground against a black-coated soldier–whom Haru guessed was the one he had heard arguing with her earlier.
“…why…?”

Haru pulled out his sword…

The soldier pulled out his sword…

And, with trembling hands, slid it back into its scabbard.
Still shaking, he grabbed a small canteen of water, opened it up, and threw it onto the burning door, leaving a safe exit for the woman and her child inside the house.
“You need to leave this place, now,” he said. “What is happening here… it is not right.”
“No, it is not,” agreed the woman as she pushed aside the broken door, “and the sky itself will weep for what you have done.”

And Haru ran.
He ran through the evil streets of this evil city, not once looking back. Even once he passed through the gates, he ran until the walls were far, far behind him. He ran from the soldier, from his own grief, and from the rain itself.
Only once he had stopped did he finally let his tears flow, dropping onto the grass and mixing with the ever-falling rain.
“…Mama?”

“Well, I suppose you were right,” said Haru’s advisor, “the Kingdom will thank you for what you have done today. You will be remembered as a hero.”
“Yes, I… I suppose I will,” he responded, clutching his sword with hands that would not stop trembling as he looked out towards the ruined city on the hill.
It was raining.

CONTENT WARNING: This entry features a side plot where alcoholism and drug abuse are mentioned. Please be mindful of this before reading this fan-fiction.

July 2023 SWC Writing Competition Entry (Fan Fiction)


TW: addiction, depression, loss, societal issues

When London Burns ~ 2000 words

I strayed about the deck, an hour, to-night under a cloudy moonless sky.

The streets of London are surprisingly warm tonight. Perhaps midnights have always been like this, but it’s Henry’s first time sneaking out, and he doesn’t know what to expect.

He pulls the drawstrings of his hoodie so that the dark fabric covers enough of his face to be unrecognisable. His hands are quivering, so he heats them in his pockets. Though he’s shivering not from the cold, he doesn’t want to label his actions as “scared” or “panicked” or any of those words associated with doubt.

Because he knows too well that labels come with expectations, and the wrong ones can lead to disappointment. Some are best kept closeted.

Everyone already attaches labels to him. Prince Henry— the charismatic exemplar. Prince Henry— the confident role model. Prince Henry— the man who’s loyal to his family.

Prince Henry— the most collected out of everyone affected by his dad’s death.

But deep in some chamber of his heart, a storm gathers and twists his veins into knots.

Bea didn’t give him an address. For all he knows, she’s wasting her life away in some pub she found after escaping rehab. When the Royal Family decided to send his sister there for help, they thought the facility could fix her. That somehow, the aftermath of their dad’s death could be solved by some people at a rehab centre.

Eighteen years have taught Henry that people don’t fix people. People break people— they break their hearts before breaking their lives. And he knows that shattered hearts don’t mend themselves without seams of regret, and broken lives don’t re-emerge without the wounds of memories.

Or, when people bury other people, they turn these wounds into repressed scars nested deep beneath layers of thick skin.

But Henry still remembers the funeral. He recalls how the phone call from the family doctor rang like church bell tolls, how the words “cancer” and “time of death” asphyxiated the room like cigarette smoke. And how he wanted to be there with his dad, but he was too late.

But tonight, he doesn’t want to use the words “too late” again. He doesn’t have a plan, but he can make this work. He has to.

London is warm against his skin, but his turbulent thoughts are a frigid gust of distress.

He knows his sister. He knows London. And he hopes that’s enough to know where to look.

And peeped in at the windows, watched my friends at table, or playing cards, or standing in the doorway—

In this part of town, the roads are vicious from decades of neglect. Cobblestones jut out, hoping to grab any unsuspecting passersby. The streetlights flicker like fire, so he knows this is the right place. He lowers his hood.

His suspicions are confirmed when a woman in a drenched gown stumbles out the door of a nearby pub.

—or coming out into the darkness.

“Hey, it’s my little brother! Got my phone call? How’d you find me?” Bea trips, and she lets go of a glass container in her hand. It fractures into a thousand orange shards. White powder puffs up into the air like cold breath, and just like that, it’s gone.

“Bea, tell me… that powder— you’re not— Bea? No. Don’t give me that look; tell me it’s not what I think it is.” Henry rushes to grab Bea as she tries to stand again, her hands flailing as if trying to seize the vanished dust. “Beatrice, sit down. Here, on the kerb. Please.”

“You bonkers? H, I’m good. I’m so good right now. I’m alive.”

Words rush into Henry’s head, but he can’t use them. Not when they’re all about “pain” or “loss” or any of those words he’s tried so hard to bury— to forget. So he says,

“No.”

Bea cackles a serrated laugh as if it had clawed out her throat. “One more hour in that glorified shed, and I’d jump out the window. I don’t belong there. Say, we go back into the pub to get a drink?”

“I can’t let you do this. You’ll die. You know that, right? Please.”

“Eh, it’s not so bad anymore; can’t bother to care so much about death. I’m telling you, I feel alive.”

Still, no one could see me.

“Why? Bea, I can’t deal with this. Please, just— sober up for once! And come home! And stop, with this, with everything— you know it’s hurting me too. It’s hurting everyone.” Henry looks into Bea’s eyes for the first time and sees the bloodshot veins wrapping their fingers around her yellowed eyes. Her crazed pupils have a glint of mischief that he recognises.

I would have thought of them— heedless, within a week of battle— in pity.

He has that same glint. Everyone thinks they inherited it from their movie star dad, but, in truth, it came from their mum. That glint reminds Henry of her. He must’ve been showing the same glint because Beatrice says,

“Least I’m not like mum; didn’t turn to stone like her. I use stones instead— ironic, right? She lies in bed all day, can’t be bothered to do anything.” A voice from the pub doorway calls out to Bea.

“Hey, forgot your guitar?”

“Nah, Dan. It’s not mine.”

“Ah. You gon’ keep playing tonight?”

“Nah, think I’m good— broke my container with my stash, though. Got another one?”

“Yeah, come on in. We’ve got plenty.”

Bea steadies herself to stand up from the kerb, but Henry pushes her down. She resists but soon realises she can’t overpower her brother.

Pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness and link’d beauty of bodies and pity that…

“I’m plastered, H. Help me out and get my stash back.”

“You can’t die. You can’t do this.”

“Why not, H? This makes me feel, and I love it. I love it.”

There’s only so much he can do. Nothing he says fazes his sister.

“I can’t let you do this. Dad’s already gone, and I can’t watch you OD and expect myself to be fine. You can’t leave me. I can’t handle being…” The opportunity to reveal his predicament surfaces in his sea of thoughts, but he forces it back into the depths. “…misunderstood. I need you.”

Bea sluggishly shoves Henry. “Really, H? Funny you say that, ‘cause where were you when I needed you? That’s right. You weren’t there. I started drinking, which wasn’t enough, so I found other ways to deal with it. Where were you, H? Where?”

Studying literature should’ve given Henry the proper words to phrase his answer, but his thoughts come up short. He labels the city as “quiet” tonight. He labels the streetlights as suddenly being a bit “too bright” because he just wants to disappear into the shadows. He labels the neon sign on the pub door as “OPEN” even though it’s always open 24/7.

“I’m sorry, Bea. You weren’t the only one going through something. I was hurting before he died. Hurting bad, and when Dad died, I didn’t know I could hurt more. I didn’t know. I still don’t know.” Looking around, Henry grabs an empty foil case near a dustbin. He points at the bottom of the foil. “This is my pain. The lowest point you can imagine.”

“Really? A pie foil case?” Bea waves dismissively.

This gay machine of splendour ’ld soon be broken, thought little of, pashed, scattered. …

“And when dad died…” Henry clenches his fist and starts punching. Hard. Over and over until finally, he breaks through the aluminium. “This is my pain. It’s fallen deeper, and I don’t know if I can…” The words refuse to come out. “Bea, I just don’t know anymore.”

He can smell that Bea’s gown is drenched not in sweat but in alcohol. He’s shaking for one reason, and she’s shaking for another, and neither is cold because the streets of London are warm at night. He refuses to label the reason as “fear” or “worry,” but no matter how much he denies it… he knows. He’s always known.

Bea starts to respond, but Henry won’t let her devise another excuse.

“You don’t understand, Beatrice. You don’t understand how much I need you here. Nobody understands me. I can’t let you go because I don’t think I can keep pretending to everyone, and I think you could understand if I told you.”

Bea is silent, and for a moment, Henry thinks he’s finally made his point, but she says,

“We weren’t meant to understand. So you can look for answers and go crazy or make it all disappear. You can forget, H. That’s what we all want. So let’s forget, and we can feel alive tonight.”

Only, always, I could but see them—against the lamplight—pass like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy glass.

Not this time. Henry isn’t going to let his words pass again. Not another “too late.”

Henry thinks, and he tries.

“No, Beatrice, we have to—“

Inside, his mind is an ocean.

“Why not, H? One high isn’t—“

He’s been on a stranded ship for years. Decades.

“You know why I’m saying no—“

A storm sinks its teeth into the vessel.

“I don’t because—“

He’s always let this ship be a follower of the waves.

“Then let me tell you, Beatrice! I’m hurt—“

This time is different. Henry climbs up to the deck.

“And you think nobody else is? There’s nothing you can say—“

He finds the captain’s room. He pinpoints the helm.

“I’m gay. Beatrice, I’m gay.”

And he turns the light on.

Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave’s faint light, that broke to phosphorus out in the night.

The storm is gone. In silence, Henry navigates. In silence, he searches and finds the words.

Bea holds him quietly, and for once, they tremble for the same reason. London is warm tonight. To them, London burns with revelations tonight.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until the sidewalk blurs into a single shade of grey. He squeaks out the word “stay” and hopes it’s enough— and not too late.

Perishing things and strange ghosts— soon to die.

They both know they’ll have to get going soon; daylight comes with the threats of questions and paparazzi.

Bea chooses her words carefully. “I’m sorry.” Attempting to stand, she grabs the nearby lamppost to stabilise herself. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Go back to rehab. Do it for me, please. I can’t have this on my conscience. Go.” Henry lifts his hood back up. Looking in both directions, he doesn’t know which way to go.

“I… I will. Does anyone else know? Phillip? Gran?”

“No. You know our family won’t understand.”

With one shoe, Bea nudges the orange shards littering the streets. She rummages through the pockets in her soaked dress. “Phillip gave this to me before they sent me to rehab.” Retrieving a turquoise coin, she holds it up into the light. “Sobriety chip.”

“Bea, you’ll go through recovery, right?”

She stalls, eyeing her brother and the coin in her hand. “I swear.” Clutching the chip, she staggers away from the pub. “Don’t do anything stupid, H.”

The words “I won’t” don’t appear as an option. So instead, Henry chooses “I’m trying.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Bea nods slightly before hobbling back down the street.

“Bea, you need help?”

“No. Go back to the palace. The morning’s approaching.”

Pulling on his drawstrings, Henry chooses Bea’s opposite direction and lumbers off. He starts with a light walk before switching to a brisk jog, gaining momentum until he’s finally running.

Running— Henry knows London. He hopes that’s enough to get back to Kensington.

Running— this time, he’s not running away anymore. This time, he’s moving forward.

Henry finds the streets of London warm tonight. He finds the familiar cobblestone path leading back home. He finds everything that was always his.

To other ghosts—this one, or that, or I.

And he finally finds his words.



———

(Author’s Note)

Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) was an English poet known for his sentimental writings about patriotism, love, and war. Deployed as a soldier in WWI, he wrote his final poem, “Fragment,” a week before dying of dysentery and infection. Throughout this fan fiction, the italicised lines are direct excerpts from this poem, purposefully taken out of context to be placed in a new context. (Excerpted lines are verbatim, so all archaic grammatical and spelling mistakes in those lines were left untouched).

In Red, White, and Royal Blue, Prince Henry is known for his love of the classics, especially during his studies of English Literature at Oxford. Thus, I wanted to incorporate this sentiment by using excerpts from a classic poem, but not just any poem.

I chose a poem of Rupert Brooke’s because he was: 1. British and 2. a closeted gay (or bisexual) man who wrote letters about his homosexuality. And, wouldn’t you know, Henry was: 1. British and 2. a closeted gay man who wrote letters about his homosexuality.

The novel focuses on Prince Henry’s romance with Alex. But there’s this one mention of how Princess Beatrice was the first person Henry came out to, and I wanted to write that backstory. Most of the details match with what the novel briefly describes (Beatrice’s rehab and addiction, her phone call to Henry, their grief over dad’s death, and her escape out of rehab to a nearby club), but the majority of this fan-fiction is my head-canon xD.

As this story has British characters in a British setting, I tried hard to write in British English, especially for the dialogue. That’s why, if you’re American, things are spelt weird, and that’s also why I use words like “bonkers,” “dustbin,” and “pub.” Unfortunately, my knowledge of British phrases is limited, so apologies if I used some American sayings in this piece.

If you’ve read the novel, you might notice some parallels, such as the pie foil case metaphor, which is the metaphor Bea uses to explain Henry’s pain to Alex, or the description of the “glint” in Bea’s and Henry’s eyes, which Alex notices in the novel and draws the connection to their mum. Additionally, Henry was supposed to serve in the army before people discovered his romance with Alex, and that may be another reason I chose a poem from Rupert Brooke to quote from. :>

In this session, I wanted both my entries to be pure prose. There’s no funny business with quirky poetry (if you discount the poetry quotes) or framing devices. I wanted to explore how my writing has grown, so I hope that shone through in my entries.

Special thanks to @Wavecolor, @tranquility–, @smalltoe, @Sandy-Dunes, and @TheBibliophile7 for critiquing my fan fiction; it would not be in the place it is without their words of wisdom. <33 An additional thanks to @-Alocasia for coaching me on how to speak British. xD

July 2023 SWC Writing Competition Entry (Regular)

TW: trauma, loss, poverty

all the lives we can’t afford ~ 2000 words

Cecilia was out of place in the sea of adults. A flood of parents marched past storefronts, impatiently lining up in front of some abandoned park. The school bus staggered to a halt, and children stumbled down steps and into their mothers' arms.

When Edith stumbled down the steps, nobody caught her. Instead, she sprawled on the abrasive concrete, hoping the sun’s warmth would heal her scarred arms.

Cecilia was difficult to spot. She had tried forcing her way through the crowd, but it was too easy for little girls like her to be jostled backward by elbow jabs and boot stomps. Instead, she stood back until the adults dissipated into nearby homes after claiming their children.

“Edith, how was your first day of school?” Cecilia helped her younger sister to her feet, brushing the grit off her dress.

“It was okay.”

“Just okay? Did you meet anyone? Learn anything? How are your teachers?” Sliding Edith’s backpack off her shoulder, Cecilia retrieved a lollipop from her pocket.

Edith waved the candy away and nodded toward the general direction of their apartment complex. “I want to go home.”

Besides the occasional bird chirp and rustling of leaves, the walk was quiet. After many school years, these streets had become familiar to Cecilia. She knew the red-lighted alleyways littered with half-dressed women who asked for more than just conversation, the street vendors who sold more than just seared food, and the run-down avenues hiding more than just graffitied messages.

Passersby would say she knew more than a little girl like her should. Around these parts, little girls like her aged like dogs, learning to bare their teeth before learning how to carry mace in one pocket and burdens in the other.

Cecilia almost didn’t notice when Edith stopped following her. Edith stared at a gate tucked neatly between a laundromat and a bicycle repair shop. Behind the entrance, an elegant building curved around a center fountain. She pointed to the decorations sprinkled across the yard and displayed on the walls.

“Cecilia, can we have a house like this?” Edith’s eyes pleaded for all they couldn’t have.

“When you’re older, it could be yours.” Cecilia tugged at Edith’s arm, careful not to scratch her sister’s leathery scars. She refused to budge.

“Cecilia, do you know what’s inside? Are there children in there? I’m sure they get toys and meals and…”

Cecilia bit her lip; did her sister not remember this building? Gazing at the familiar entrance, she decided this memory was one her sister could forget.

“Inside are all the lives we can’t afford.” Cecilia smiled somberly as her sister shook the gate rods. “Come on now. Let’s keep moving.”

“Can we come back someday?” The shimmer in Edith’s eyes dissipated as Cecilia ushered her down the street. “Cecilia, what if we could live there?”

“You’ve got quite the imagination, Edith. Think about it. What do you truly want?”

Relaxing her pace, a glimmer returned to Edith’s eyes. She stared up at the polluted clouds of the city as if searching for the perfect answer. “Cecilia, I want… to belong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know being different isn’t bad, but— you know what, I change my mind. I think I want forgiveness. Do you think we could get that?”

“Edith, I— yes. But why?”

“I want a miracle, but that’s too much to ask for. We haven’t gotten one, so I think we’ve done something wrong. Can we go inside and ask? It’ll be quick!”

Little girls like her shouldn’t ask too many questions— especially ones about desires. Cecilia knew that little girls who chased after their wants were playing with fire. And if she had learned anything, fires could reveal sinister truths lurking in the darkness.

“Father will be worried sick if we don’t come home soon. Maybe a different time.”

“Could we bring Father here with us then? And then they’d give us everything we’d ever need.” A revelation dawned on Edith. “Do you think we could find Mother?”

Cecilia paused. “If we waited long enough, I’m sure they’d give us that too.”




“Cecilia, where’s your sister?”

The weather outside masks Father’s voice beneath layers of thundering and splashing. A spark of lightning snakes its way through the darkening clouds before burrowing deep into the skyline. Hanging his jacket on the coat rack, Father unfastens his bowtie and counts the dollars in his back pocket.

“Last table didn’t tip.” Sighing as he fetches his pocket notebook, he writes down today’s total. “Going to have to cut down on eating. Could skip breakfast a few days.”

Cecilia’s used to people assuming little girls like her can’t hear anything, but she understands everything. Even under the quietest breaths, Father’s troubles never get past her. But right now, finances are the least of their worries.

“Cecilia, I asked you where your sister is?”

"I– I don’t know.” Cecilia gulps. How could she have been irresponsible enough to trust her younger sister?

Father stops untying his other shoe. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

Cecilia gestures to the window. “Thunder scares her. She told me she’d wait for you on the stairs.”

“She wasn’t there.” Father freezes momentarily, hands trembling. “I didn’t see her.”

By now, Cecilia is ready. Lacing her boots, she doesn’t wait for permission. Thunder shakes the fragile apartment as she grabs an umbrella and brushes past Father at the doorway. “It’s okay. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I’ll go look for her.”

He seizes the sleeve of her shirt. “No! It’s not safe to go out. I’ll get her back. Stay here.” Shooting up, he hastily slips his shoes back on.

People always say little girls like her can’t handle the dangerous world outside. But what do they know of danger? Cecilia hears everything. She sees everything. She knows everything.

And she knows better than anyone where her sister is.

So she shakes his hand off, and she runs.




Little girls like her learn to run before they can stop to admire the life around them. Cecilia concentrates on the rhythm of her splashes, ignoring blaring car horns and hazy red-hand signals. The wind’s harsh breath snatches her umbrella away, and her now-drenched hair flies into her face.

The mist is nearly impossible to see through, but these streets are familiar to Cecilia. She knows these alleyways, these storefronts, and these avenues. She roams these streets every day, and there’s only one place her sister could have gone.

She still remembered the sound of Edith’s discolored hands clattering against the gate’s iron bars.

Cecilia passes a bicycle repair shop and spots a laundromat ahead. Hesitating briefly, she thinks she has made the wrong decision in coming here.

But when she pushes the gate, it welcomes her in. For the first time in a long while, she is back.




“Daisy? You look terrible. Where’s your father? Oh my, you girls have gotten yourselves in such a mess.” A nun hurries to Cecilia’s side, wrapping her in a warm blanket. “Do you want something to eat? Drink?”

Cecilia tries to find the words to respond, but confusion paralyzes her voice. Nobody has called her that name in years. Daisy. The name tastes bittersweet on the tip of her tongue.

“When your sister wandered in, I was shocked! I didn’t recognize her, so I had to look up your father’s name in the register. How you two have grown!” The nun waves a caregiver over. “Jonesy, this is Florence’s older sister, Daisy. Remember her? It’s been, how long? Four-something years? Please watch her; I need to try calling their father again.”

Jonesy motions Cecilia over to a couch. To her right, Cecilia sees Edith curled up in an armchair. Cecilia should be relieved, but the familiarity of this waiting room strangles her with dread.

“We thought you were newcomers at first! Since the massive recession, we’ve been getting more and more. Too many innocent lives others can’t afford to keep anymore.”

Behind the desk, the nun calls out. “Girls, your father isn’t answering. Perhaps you know a number different from the one in our records?”

Ignoring the question, Cecilia stares blankly at a painting above the reception desk. She notices Edith’s trembling posture in the glass reflection.

Jonsey seems to read Cecilia’s mind. “It’s been a long night; she’s a bit shaken up, that’s all. Daisy, could you help us find your father?”

Hearing her name again snaps something rooted deep into her soul. Something not quite unnerved— but carnal. “That’s not my name. Not my name anymore.”

Covering her mouth, the caregiver gawks in realization. “Oh, I’m so sorry about that. It’s common to give new names. I should’ve asked. Sweetie, what’s your name?”

Before she can answer, a reverberant dinging interrupts her. The door chimes jingle as a figure shoves himself through the entrance.

The nun waves at the man. “Hello! Visitors aren’t allowed on Sundays, but—”

“Are they here? Ma’am, I’m looking for two girls, one’s six, the other’s about fourteen—“

“Oh, you must be Daisy and Florence’s father! We’ve been trying to—” Without hesitation, the man bolts past the reception desk and beelines to Edith’s armchair.

“Edith, Father’s here! I’m here, I’ve been—” The cheerful expression on Father’s face plummets as Edith gapes in terror.

An unimaginable thought crosses Cecilia’s mind. She bats the idea away; her sister couldn’t have possibly remembered anything. After all, little girls like her don’t remember events like those. Even then, the possibility lingers as permanent as the scars on Edith’s hands.

“You’re not my father.” Edith’s voice is faint. But the words are loud and clear and, most importantly, unmistakable.

She knows.

The caregiver rubs Edith’s shoulder. “I know you were shocked by the news; we didn’t know you forgot about that night. But he’s your father now. He loves you. He loved you ever since the day he took you home. Don’t be scared.”

Father’s dress shirt drips onto the rug. With one knee on the floor, he maintains eye level with Edith. “Edith, you know I love you. I loved you before—”

“That’s not my name. It never was, was it? They call me Florence.” Edith points at Cecilia. “And she’s Daisy.”

Father’s voice trembles. His face is wet with rainwater, tears, and sweat. Desperate, he reaches for Edith. “Edith. Cecilia. I can’t afford to lose you again.”

The memories Cecilia keeps imprisoned behind iron bars make their escape at last. Cecilia weakly hobbles off the couch and crawls to Father’s side. With Edith’s confession, there’s no point in Cecilia keeping her skeletons buried any longer. “Our father’s dead.” Exhaustion smothers her voice, so she mouths the rest of her testimony.

We aren’t your little girls.

Little girls like her shouldn’t know the truth.

But Cecilia isn’t a little girl. She never could be.




She still remembered the night of the fire four years ago. She remembered how the children cried as their delicate skin burned into ash. She remembered how parents screamed or rushed back inside in vain. She remembered the firefighters dragging her sister onto a stretcher, the scent of scorched flesh enveloping the air. She had stared at the entrance, begging her parents to stagger out.

They never did.

And she remembered the police officers holding back mobs of desperate parents, knowing full well they’d sacrifice their lives to die with their children. She knew, somewhere in that crowd, someone else’s father would watch his daughters transported away in body bags. Perhaps he would visit their gravestones a week later. Somewhere inscribed would be the names:

Cecilia and Edith.




Rain crashes harder on the roofs and into puddles outside on a night like this. But inside, the orphanage is silent. Father reaches for his daughters. Two daughters grasp for their parents.

And for a frozen moment, if he imagines and pretends hard enough, his little girls are not gone anymore. And if they play along, they have a father who embraces them.

Promising never to let go.



———

(Author’s Note)

I wanted to include this somewhere, but the names have special meanings! Daisy means “day’s eye.” She becomes Cecilia, meaning “blinded.” Florence means “prosperous.” She becomes Edith, which means “fighting to be rich.” These name changes represent the desires of the two characters; Cecilia wishes for people to see her as not the little girl people want from her. Edith fantasizes about a life where she can have everything she doesn’t have.

The title is a bit multifaceted. “all the lives we can’t afford” refers to the fact that the building Edith sees is an orphanage, and inside are literally the lives of children that adults can’t afford. Alternatively, in the context of their poverty, they fantasize that the building is a mansion where children get everything they want (everything they can’t afford). Another interpretation is that Father can’t move on from the loss of his daughters, so he adopts two girls and renames them because he can’t afford to lose the lives of his daughters. Plenty of other interpretations exist; these were just the ones that stood out the most to me.

This entry is the closest to pure prose I have ever written for the writing competition. I wanted to ensure that any chance of me placing in this writing competition was through my writing ability and not through the “freshness” of innovative framing devices or literary forms.

Thanks to @MoonlitSeas, @Elvin_Wonders, @Wavecolor, @–tranquility, and @-NightGlow- for providing feedback! They helped shape this story to where it is now <33 An additional thanks to @cb2jkl, @Willow_wonderful, @mossflower29, @honeybreeze, @Firetender, @smalltoe, @puffyfish, and @Violet– for participating in the grammar debate concerning the first two paragraphs of this entry. Ultimately, I rewrote those paragraphs to remove any ambiguity.

Thanks for reading! Feed me lasagna if you’d like

Paint
Writing Comp entry
413 words

Alizarin Crimson. Cadmium Yellow. Prussian Blue.
Dab. Swish.
The first stroke.
It shone bright on the blank canvas.
With paint, there were no mistakes. Everything was just … final.
Prussian Blue stood alone against a backdrop of white.
Brush. Brush.
It carefully spread out and filled the empty space.
Dab. Swish.
Something new approached.
Cadmium Yellow crept up the corners.
A masterpiece was made from every stroke. Every brush of paint was a part of it.
Pause.
Solitary colors rested against a vast blankness.
Dab.
They waited for the next stroke.
Swish.
Alizarin Crimson brazenly made its way into the unknown.
They were together again in a single moment.
If something went wrong, it could be absorbed into the symphony of paint on the canvas.
Cadmium Yellow sang as it met Alizarin Crimson.
Not too much!
A new note played, and the thrum of Orange vibrated across the canvas.
Crimson rushed to meet Blue, Blue turned to Yellow, and the space felt a little less empty.
Colors joined hands and danced to a new song.
The sound of the paint on the canvas rang out in perfect harmony.
Each detail of a painting stood out together to form a feeling. The experience of something never seen before.
Color defeated the barrenness, the heartbreak, the loneliness.
Brush. Dab. Swish.
Colors sang their song and swirled into something recognizable.
The patter of paint sounded like the hum of rain.
Crimson, Yellow, and Blue led Orange, Purple, and Green to their places.
Details sharpened into focus.
Color held its breath for the last note.
The paintbrush shook.
Every painting had this moment. Each aspect suddenly came together and something new was born. Art was added to the world.
Dab.
Alizarin Crimson was called one last time.
Swish.
It sang its solo for the earth to hear.
Letters on a portrait.
Paint on paint.
A name.
The song ended.
The work was complete.

…

Drip. Drip. Drip.
Rain pattered against the sidewalk in an untamed symphony.
Click. Click. Click.
She walked along the pavement.
Click. … Click.
Stop.
She looked through the gallery’s foggy glass.
A painting.
It shone bright through the lonely day.
The rain danced faster on the sidewalk, its steady drum growing louder.
Automobiles rushed past, their tires sending swells of water rolling over the curb.
But the noises of the city gave out in a single moment.
Her crimson umbrella stood alone against a sea of black.
Dab. Swish.
She brushed a tear away.

July 25-26, 2023

The world seemed to move in slow motion for a moment.

Then, with a snap of some fingers, it was all whisked away. Just as quickly as it had come.

In a way life seemed to always approach me this way. Giving me tastes of happiness and content before mashing it into the ground just as my fingers touch it. The taste of it still lingers in my mouth.

My hand is still outstretched. I’m still on my knees. I’m still alone.

The alleyway is illuminated from the moonlight, casting a glow on my face and hands. Water droplets trickle down the bridge of my nose and drip out of my hair, disguising the tears falling down my face.

Sometimes you don’t realize the situation until you’re on your knees with nothing.

You were the best thing that came into my life for a few weeks. Sun kissed hair that glowed brassy under the sun, with a cheesy smile accompanied by dimples and a splash of freckles. When you frowned in concentration or rolled your eyes. Every small action, every glimpse of you. I grasped onto it with more intensity than I ever intended. Perhaps that was the beginning of my downfall.

The window seems to be cast with an all familiar gray. The air is calm. Desolate. Biting at me with every step I take.

A week ago, I wished the world would move slowly all the time. Now, it isn’t going fast enough.

I busy myself with new hobbies that I have little interest in. I gave up knitting in a few minutes. My art was extremely confusing at best and nightmare fuel at worst. Running yielded few results, as I was unmotivated to actively work out every day. As the days went by, the couch became more and more my friend.

Even now, I’m still on my knees. And it haunts me.

When I was a teen I never imagined myself at this state. So affected by one person. From the outside eye it looked pathetic. To me it looked just as pathetic. But I wasn’t going to do anything to fix that.

When the doorbell rang, I was very much surprised. I had not ordered any packages. For a moment, my brain concocted this narrative. He was coming back. He was coming back to tell me he changed his mind and he was wrong. He was going to tell me that he wanted me again, and missed me so much.

A cardboard box filled to the brim with random clutter sat on my doormat. A small slip of paper lay on the top.

Here’s everything. Like I promised.

Once again, the narrative vanished as quickly as it came.

452 words

a metaphor

writing comp entry : 758 words

A tangerine orange, an arsenic green,
Both too far out to have ever been seen.
Their child's the middle, their child's the mother,
Created with primary sister and brother.

Brighter than both with a luminous glow,
One of the three, the balance of yellow.
But yellow was taken and thrown out to two,
And poisonous green took its place in the crew.

Outcast and replaced in the mind of our eye,
Despite being there for the first child's cry.
The balance was taken by green, blue and red,
And yellow stayed where? On an absent deathbed.

But it never left, for it knew it was still,
A swirl of emotions on the windowsill.
It waited to fly, it was to behold,
The numerous stories this colour had told.

And oh, when it flew! The light that it brought!
From then its great presence was constantly sought.
It brought out the sun in a glorious feat,
The sun brought out light and comfort, as with heat.

The sun brought out touch and taste, vision with sheen,
Yellow was the one which let others be seen.
Without golden rays, the green would have departed.
The blue and the red would have been left quite smarted.

But yellow just wasn't the type to sneer back,
Instead it fell down, through the world, through a crack.
Yellow left the white of the sunlight and air,
It joined with the grey, the slate shade of despair.

It left all the joy of its bright, pastel shades,
Collapsed under all of the world's wholesome praise.
It still remained used as a symbol for joy,
But it only thought that the peace was a ploy,

Another attempt to remove it from others,
And so it just hid under layers of covers.
It fused with the grey and became oh so dark,
And anywhere touched was then sodden and stark.

The yellow was damp, it was dripping with grief,
The brightness it held was now hidden beneath,
The colour was nothing but memories past,
A reminiscence of times it held fast.

Of the times of the sun, and the times of bright gold,
They were left unfinished, a story untold.
Meanwhile, the world was left missing a piece,
All yellow had vanished, appearing deceased.

And the world, now aware of its beauty and grace,
Missed the yellow, its light and its warm, soft embrace.
They called to the sun to shine just as bright,
But yellow was gone, left only was white.

And though white was strong, it needed its friend.
Would yellow's departure mean the sun's final end?
White could not bear this, and so they left too,
But not for the reasons that yellow was through.

They left to find yellow and bring them right back,
To reset the world and to get it on track.
And it wasn't long before white found the shade
Drowning in darkness that was all self-made.

White found the yellow and showed it itself,
It showed it the happiness left on the shelf,
It showed it the things that the yellow could be,
It showed it the world, wanting it to be free.

And for a long time, yellow didn't believe.
Abandoning sunlight for their constant eve,
But white came back, offering yellow the sun,
Just one day of light, and then you can be done!

And finally, finally, yellow said yes.
White led down the path to the cavern's egress.
And up to the earth, where there was no more sun.
Only a weak whisper- its race had been run.

White and yellow mixed in a powerful force,
Then the world slowly started to re-write its course.
The light, it came back, and the colours came out,
Changing the world from whispers to shouts.

The world was wiped clean of its dark, dreary days,
And at last, the sun gave off its wonderful rays.
What else was wiped clean? The darkness of mind,
That for oh so long yellow had hid behind.

It could see once again, there was no misty haze,
So it looked at the world with a happy, fond gaze.
No thoughts how unfair its past treatment had been,
There was always more in others to be seen.

So it blessed the colours with light once again,
This time for an age, no foreseeable end.
The yellow was yellow in its truest form,
No grey and no orange, it was newly reborn.

It was pure, it was yellow, it was loved and on high,
But it was not yellow, as you are not I.

Writing Comp. Entry - “What's Good For You”

TW: blood, implied past death, self-hate, self-harm, mild su1c1dal thoughts

The bushes rustled and a woman stepped out. Her face was faintly illuminated by the light of the dying fire. She wore a thick coat and gloves, with a beanie on top. I wore none of that. I was cold.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked, stepping into the clearing and closer to the fire.
“Go away,” I said. “G-go away.” I huddled closer to myself, unable to stop the stammer in my voice from breaking through and letting all around know how cold I was - although the one person in front of me probably knew that already. I was sitting alone in a wintry forest next to a puny fire wearing only a dirty t-shirt and shorts, after all.
“Are you…cold?”
I didn’t answer.
“Do you…do you want me to take you someplace warm?”
“No, go away.”
“Should I call someone?”
“No, go away.’
“Drive you somewhere?”
“No, no, and no! Go away!” I shouted, standing up. The action made me dizzy, and I staggered. My stomach had long stopped growling, but it reminded me it had been empty for months sometimes in ways like this.
Two concerned hands reached for my shoulders to steady me. Food, my incorrigible brain thought. I growled, slapping the hands off with newfound strength from panic. I stumbled again, but managed to avoid collapsing. Why wasn’t I eating? Food…
“I - let me help you. Something’s definitely up.”
“It’s fine! Just go away!” I cried. “I'm dangerous.”
“Well I can’t now,” the woman argued. “I have to get you someplace. I don’t know where, but someplace. You’re obviously suffering. Why don’t you want help?”
She wasn’t going to give up, was she? I had to get out of here. Hide again. I stepped backwards, stepped backwards again. I turned around and tried to pick up speed, but a flash of dizziness swept over me. My foot caught on a stray piece of wood and I tumbled forwards, fading into unconsciousness.

I woke up on a couch. I was…comfortable, and it felt strange. I sat up quickly, throwing the warm, fuzzy blanket covering me off. I had to get out of here before something bad happened. Before I messed up.
I was in a living room of some kind, a coffee table to my right. Even farther to the right, was a TV with two bookshelves off to either side. The carpet was old and worn, and the paint on the walls was peeling. It was obviously a very old house, but that didn’t mean it had an old inhabitant. This was probably the woman’s house - she must have taken me here after I fainted.
I had to get out of here. I stood up quickly, only swaying a little. I looked around, and spotted a door to what used to be my left. An escape! Yes, yes, I needed to get out…
I made my way to the door, about to rip it off the hinges. However, I took pity on my well-meaning kidnapper, and tried the doorknob first. It worked.
The next room was a small kitchen and dining room with a cold, tiled floor I could feel because my shoes had long since fallen apart. I looked for another door to continue my escape saga, but instead saw my captor. She was standing next to a boiling pot over a stove, but now was looking - staring - at me. I wondered how much blood was in her eyes - wait, no, I couldn’t think things like that. Wrong wrong wrong. “You look very pale,” she said.
“Let me go,” I demanded.
“I want to help you.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“But why?”
“Let me go,” I said again, slowly and threateningly moving closer to her. “I'm dangerous.”
“Listen, I’m not keeping you here,“ she said defensively. ”You can leave any time. But I don’t think you want to.”
I thought about the cold, and the forest, and being alone, and going slowly insane with nothing but the howling of distant wolves to comfort me. The hunger deep inside me eating away at my mind, and the question of why don't I just fade away? ricocheting through my consciousness and subconsciousness as I stared into the stars.
She was right, I didn’t want to go back. But I had to, for everyone else, no matter how hungry or cold or desperate.
I huffed, furious at a lot of things. I shoved my way past the woman to the next door. I opened it, and this one led outside.
I stood there for a moment, staring over the dirt driveway and into the dark forest. Dawn was just breaking, so I either hadn’t been out for very long or I’d been out way longer than I thought.
The forest was so cold and unwelcoming…I thought of the comfortable couch, the kind woman, and the warm stove. I thought about how willing she was to help me; how much she cared for me. I knew she wouldn’t, though, if she knew what I was.
Why was she so kind? My will was wearing down, she was messing everything up.
I clenched my fists and stalked back over to the woman. “Alright, you want to help me, huh? You want to help me?” I grabbed her arm, raising it to my lips. I bared my fangs.“Here’s how to help me.”
I bit down began to drink. It tasted so good, it was my first meal after so long. It’d been months, the last time - and the first time - had been when I’d first transformed, when…
All of a sudden I stopped, pulling away. The woman was pale, and seemed about to faint for a moment. I was worried I would have to catch her, but she soon steadied herself. Her eyes were wild with panic. “You’re…you’re a vampire,” she whispered.
I wiped the blood off my lips. “What do you think? I told you, I'm dangerous.”
“That’s why you were in the woods? Hiding away in conditions that would have killed you if you were mortal?”
“It was for the good of everyone.“
”What about you? Was it good for you?“
”Of course not. But I don't deserve what's good for me.“
”What did you do that’s so bad?“
”I lost control and killed someone! What do you think?“
“…Who?” the woman said, moving to sit down at the table. I followed her.
“A friend of mine. We were hiking a few months ago, down to a cave. I got bitten by a bat, and as we were walking back, I transformed. I lost control entirely. I…I'm dangerous.”
“That couldn't have been your fault. Besides, you stopped yourself just now,” the woman pointed out. “You didn’t kill me. Maybe you can get what you need without killing anyone.”
“But, I…”
“I want to help you. I told you that. And I don't think you're actually dangerous - you just made a mistake.“
“But…”
“I’ll help you steal blood bags from a hospital or something. I’m not afraid to commit a crime - and besides, you need the blood just as much as everyone else does. We just can’t get it through ethical means without it being a whole thing.”
“…
Alright.”

What's cooking, good looking?

A chill, wintry breeze frolicked in the passing air. From afar, small yet jovial chitters of young friends ablaze with excitement and laughter was almost inconsolable, uplifting the mood of the steadily drifting snowflakes as they scattered towards the ground in swift motions, just like the children that continued to run around the enthralled field.

A young girl- much like the rest- was also immersed in the passing bliss. She was a girl of four-and-ten, who- from the crack of the morning- had been eager to make wholly joyous, peaceful, and exciting; she was always keen on expressing her undying love to every scenario.

However, misfortune struck. After engaging in a heated snowball fight with her younger friends that exhausted her entirely, and having pivoted an exertion on her bad knee, she had to sit out. Irritating, but necessary.

Therefore, sage-black hair followed her as she skipped into the house, sighing.

Mari hung her coat on the hangers. However, the rack wasn’t completely empty. A deep blue was latched somewhere in the middle, tufted with a white, fluffy hood, lacking creases, discrepancies, and err in any fold; the coat’s owner had adhered to leaving its placement perfect in every way, much like themselves.

It caused Mari to titter when she realised who the owner was. That boy had stolen away from all the fun outside when it seemed his brother and their friends were convulsed in energy and bickering, and it seemed as though he had given up trying to meditate and had slipped inside without anyone looking. Oh, Hero.

She knew very well that he never liked fighting, always preferring mellowed situations such as those where he could catch light of the rhythm of his own breathing, in comparison to heated arguments…

It was funny to see him all worked up, though. Hero’s face would go red while his cheeks would puff up and then his eyebrows would narrow- he looked like an angry parent!

Giggling to herself, Mari immediately listened to the passing air, eager to hear a small yet effortlessly melodic hum amidst the tranquil silence, which- to her- was a guideline to finding Hero in the constantly taciturn house.

Then, attracted by a sudden whiff which reached her nose, she found herself sauntering into the kitchen at once.

The symphony of how orchestrated the utensils in the kitchen were as they cooked their respective meal made Hero’s location almost undeniable. The boy himself shuddered in the centre of it all, whisking away as he frowned in concentration at this terrified bowl which trembled at the clamour of the spoon mixing away at the batter. He was also pulling that silly face with his tongue stuck out.

Swiftly, slowly, succinctly, Mari approached her target by tip-toeing in a pitter patter as quiet as rain’s drizzle, or snowfall, with the aim to incite his bashful state by surprise.

Then- she gasped, enamoured.

“Ooo…”

“G-Gah!”

Hero immediately jumped, hugging the bowl to himself as Mari started to corner up on his attitude and expression. He was trembling in seconds, his voice warbling as he fumbled upon his thoughts while trying to string a concurrent sentence after being white, asphyxiated.

“Mari!” he scolded, frowning, “Don’t scare me like that…”

Yet, Mari squished his cheeks, laughing to herself as she drawled, “I can’t help it, silly! You’re so cute when you get all flustered…”

Hero groaned, grumpily, causing Mari to tilt her head to the side in curiosity.

As a matter of fact, Hero was in a bad mood. After breaking fights for hours unending, he had- exhaustedly- stolen away to the comforting warmth of the kitchen where the utensils danced in the grip of his hands. He wanted to be left in a constant state where the only sounds he could hear were the machinery, and his breathing.

Mari- however- was always welcome. He loved her presence more than silence itself, and was eager to converse at once.

“Anyway, hi…” he slurred, tiredly, “I’m glad you came. Being left in a room with my thoughts was really starting to drive me nuts.”

This remark made Mari laugh to the side, lightly, before ruffling Hero’s hair.

“Your thoughts can’t be that terrible…” she laughed, entertaining the idea, “The only thoughts that can go through your head would all be about sandwiches, anyway…”

This remark was a tether to Hero's name: his real name was Henry, but since he loved sandwiches (arguably) more than his own brother, he was given the name out of the sheer hilarity of the fact. Mari therefore thought his thoughts seemed to be only of sandwiches, too.

“Yes, and I hate it,” Hero snapped back, sighing. This caused Mari to narrow down, giggling once again.

“So…” she warbled, slowly, a smug smile escaping into her lips as she focussed on the boy’s concoction.

“What’s cooking, good looking?”

“C-Cake! It’s cake,” Hero interjected, before the weight of the comment evolved to a guillotine which plummeted into his thoughts with a passion, “I’m baking a cake. For you.”

“Aww…” she gushed, instantly, an unpredicted fluster simmering into her expression, “Thanks, handsome!”

Hero only nodded in response. He was too flustered to even want to say anything back. He was silent.

However, his words had struck a chord with her curiosity.

“So… Cake, huh?”

“Yep,” Hero smiled, nodding as he pondered on the events which cycled before, “I dished this up while you guys were all playing… ‘cause I wanted to cook up something you could eat to help you calm down… instead of, you know, snowball fights, tag games, bickering, yelling-”

Hero huffed. To this, Mari shook her head with her joyful, chuckling smile entirely unaltered, left to trace circles in the boy’s discordant locks of hair, frustration evident in both this and the groans in his voice.

Mari’s presence was always able to keep his spirits high when he couldn’t revive them himself, fatigue embellishing his skull. Therefore, he bounced back rather quickly, invigorated by joy.

“Say, d’you wanna help out? I’ve got eggs in the back that need stirring…”

“Sure, Hero! Be my boss!” she laughed, clapping her hands as she sauntered to do as requested. Her swift walking was so co-ordinated, just as swift as her fingers as they frolicked around the piano every time her hands got arrested by the cuffs in the language of the music she loved so much.

As Mari wandered to the egg batter, and collected a whisk in her hands, Hero stopped to admire the view. Her soft, sage-black locks pranced down her back like a breaking river dancing from its confluences and meandering into an open plain as rivulets with no end. The catch of the sun left her locks coruscated, illuminated, and aglow with streaks of pride. Before this, there was a snarky young face, flustered by his own presence and sheepish due to her own words.

His Mari. She was so beautiful; Hero was the luckiest man alive.

He sighed, smiling to himself as he whisked away at his bowl again, energy surging from the shackled heart he had kept to himself for a minute too long, now unleashed at the sight of the one he loved. It was so easy to lose himself in the view. He was in bliss…

Mari was now glaring at him. Oh dear.

“I’m waiting for another task, Henry!” she snapped, adamantly.

Now, Hero did love her, but he never wanted to get on her scary side. He knew what to expect: he’d seen her in trances of invigorated aggression and coalesced spite first-hand for when someone would try to insult her little brother for not being as outspoken as all the other kids his age, because he was bespoken from being shy. When someone she loved so much- like her brother- was threatened or hurt or bullied, she became a powerful force to be reckoned with.

…Mari was still glaring at him. Her patience was ticking.

“Right, right…” Hero hummed, timidly, “Come and add that to the batter, then.”

In a second, Mari had done just that. She sighed to herself and shook her head whilst handing the whisked eggs (with a hint of sugar… and a hint of love…) into Hero’s palms, delighted with her efforts and confident that he would approve, to which Hero reciprocated with a charming wink, definitely approving her valiant effort.

“Man, that was easy!” she cackled, “C’mon, Hero! You got any harder jobs around here?”

“I suppose…” he drawled, before smirking, raising his eyebrows with half-hearted misery, “I gotta satisfy the likes of you with the product of it all after. That’s the hardest job on the table.”

“Oh, Hero- you know I like everything…” she smiled, before her eyebrows narrowed from the smugness influx once again. She loved teasing him. Like she said: he was so cute when he got all flustered.

Yet, that didn’t mean he had no game when compared to her…

“Go on, then,” he chuckled, “Get a spoon from that drawer and be my taste-tester. Let’s see if you're satisfied then, huh?”

“Of course I’d be satisfied! That cake’s got love baked into it…”

Immediately, Mari dipped her pointer finger straight into the batter and tasted the small portion, all done with a spring in her step. Immediately, she was incandescently aglow with gleams of excitement.

“Mm!” she grinned, “This is- so so good! The gang’s gonna love this when it’s done! You outdid yourself, Henry!”

Mari’s gaze shifted to the side as the vibrant colours decorating the meal pummelled into her mind and flooded her thoughts in rainbows. Wow!

Then, she swerved her gaze with joy to the chef himself, who- in her opinion- deserved a standing ovation. God- she could kiss him right now.

“When you’re older, you’re going to be cooking me lots of yummy food, okay?” she confronted, passionately. Then, she sighed, “I could eat this forever…”

Hero chuckled, “Anything for you, Mari.”

—

“Cake’s ready!” Mari called, melodiously as she ushered the kids forward.

Kel ran into the room first, a wide, toothy grin spread onto his face as he burst in with so much energy it was almost contagious. Behind him, an angered girl with a little pink bow was huffing in frustration for him having blocked her view, so he could see the cake first. Following closely, a blonde boy with a camera was frowning uneasily, unable to work out the perfect angle to land his shot (to his misfortune).

Yet, behind all of them, came Mari’s proud yet shy little brother, Sunny. He was in awe as he observed the large cake, and then leant over the table to give Hero a thumbs-up from his satisfaction. Then, he glanced upon the cake, filled with wonder once again.

Mari laughed. Hero scratched his neck in humility.

Then, Sunny took the first slice, and his thumb was up once again when he took the first bite. Mm… yummy…

The rest tucked in soon after. Delicious…

Finally, Mari tucked in, and the taste that packed a punch was so wonderful once she finally felt it.

Mm… chocolate…

Therefore, it took everything in her to restrain from giving Hero a quick kiss on the cheek. She loved him so much.

style swap bidaily, 500 words exactly
i posted this as my style piece ( https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/post/7385722/ )
aaand i used @unhinged_musings's style ( https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/694457/?page=30#post-7402873 )
i kind of meshed a deleted scene from my writing comp entry with kora's story :>

It was half past midnight when a woman stepped out of the darkness and into the hangar. I wouldn’t have known she was there if she hadn’t walked straight into the beam of my torch. I didn’t recognise her. I didn’t care.
“Are you… meant to be here?” she asked, approaching me slowly.
“Does it matter?” my voice was quiet in the cold air.
“It’s just that I’m sure I locked this place, I-”
I didn’t answer. She trailed off.
“Look, if you’ve broken in, I’m going to call the police,” she said firmly, trying a different tactic. If it was meant to scare me, it didn’t work.
“I didn’t break in. I’m waiting for someone.” I figured that I had to give her an answer at some point.
“And is that someone… authorised?” she wielded her phone at me as if it was a weapon. “I’ll have you know, I can call security and have you forcibly removed!”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“And why is that?”
“My friend works here. She has security clearance.”
“So this friend of yours, she’s a head space captain, then?”
“Head space captain in training. Apprenticed to… what was his name? The one with the moustache that runs this whole place.”
The woman didn’t have a reply to that. “I- I-” she blustered, continuing to wave her phone around. Was she filming me?
“I can assure you. I am not lying.”
I was beginning to get frustrated with this woman. No-one would object if it was in the best interests of the Plan to dispose of her. I’d be able to do anything I wanted to her without consequence– no, I couldn’t even think that. I couldn’t afford to get off-track. I promised myself there would be no fatalities tonight.
I turned away. “Go away. This is your last chance to leave.”
I paused. “I can forcibly remove you, too. Myself.”
It was threatening enough for her to back off, but not enough for her to raise the alarm, I hoped. It wouldn’t matter soon anyway. I could hear another set of footsteps, coming closer, and they were my friend’s, I was sure of it.
I was sure of it, until a thick, beefy hand came down over my mouth, and a sudden blow to the side of my head rendered me unconscious.

I woke up on a cold, hard floor. At first, I didn’t know where I was.
Then the memories came flooding back to me.
I had gotten caught. I had messed up the Plan, and the others would leave without me - unless they weren’t leaving at all. Unless I had ruined everything, and this world would collapse and it would be all my fault.
I had to escape. I had to find a way out.
I swallowed my fear and stood up, ignoring the dizziness and the nausea sweeping over me.
It was time to revise the Plan. It was time to get out - of this prison, and of this world.

7/26/23
459 words
Daily:
Ever wanted to write like the showstopping and starstrucking @Stariqe? Jealous of @Alocasia's unbeleafable writing skills? Or maybe you want to learn how to cook up sweet creamy stories like @caramelize. Well, this bidaily is the one just for you! Everybody's got a distinct style, and we'll be playing a style swap. In the comments, post a writing piece that best represents your style (if you don't have a distinct style, pick your best or more recent piece). Then, claim somebody else's piece and try mimicking their style by writing a different 400 word piece. Pay close attention to sentence structures, perspectives, imagery, and characterization. Completing this bidaily will earn you 600 points! Sharing your writing is required.
—
Author's Note:
I tried to mimic @Ilishaqueen in this piece, following their first-person rule with shorter writing and present tense. I also noticed that they wrote in a poetic tine occasionally, so I tried to go through transitions by using haikus. This is a bit rushed because I need to go out soon, but I'm still happy with how it came out.
—
I stare into dark
Grasping my sword in my hands
I know what to do

“Sylar.” Hydra moves slowly. It raises its head. Hydra stares in my eyes. “You have come. You've come to fight me at last.”

I do nothing but look in his eyes. They are red. They are teary, as if he's been weeping for ages. They are venomous and vengeful. They want blood.

“It's been long enough.” Hydra raises his tail. His moves are steady and vicious. He swings and I jump back. My palms bl33d. My grasp on the sword has grown.

I run towards him. I try to get his tail. That is where he has the most power. I fail. Hydra grabs me and shakes me tightly. I drop my sword into the ocean.

He hisses. “Sylar,” He repeats himself. “I remember when you were a small child.”

“Don't go there.” I raise a fist. I am ready to aim for his eyes. His red, teary eyes.

“I took care of you.” He growled. “I raised you. Your parents didn't care. No one did.”

I shook my head. “You,” I stammered. “You were there for me. Once.”

“I was there.” Hydra drops me down. I hit the ground hard. I feel my skull splitting open. “I was there. Before you betrayed the kingdom.”

“I did not.” That is all I can manage to say. My words slur. The lost bl00d begins to take effect.

“You murdered the king. You disabled the queen. The princess-” He stopped. “I can't bear the thought.”

“The kingdom was under a dictatorship.” I sputter out. My head is throbbing. Hydra doesn't care. He circles around me. He is like a bird, intimidating his prey.

“The princess. You killed her.” Hydra's tail lands on my abdomen. I can feel the bl00d.

“I-” I cough out. A white, slimy phlegm appears. “I sent her.. away.”

“Knights found her body.” Hydra sneers He is still moving around. “She was merely three.”

“It-” The world is becoming black and blue. “It was for the best.”

Hydra pauses. He stares into my eyes. His fangs pop out. I am too weak to respond. “And this is for the best as well.”

The last thing I see is his white fangs. They come directly at me.

It is only white
I open my eyes and see
It is a small girl

She extends her arms
She years for a mother's love
She has no one there

I move towards her
I embrace her as she cries
And then I realize


The princess is like me.
No one to love her. No one to care.
Not even her parents.
I was lucky. She was not.

It was for the best.
She was not betrayed.

Bi-daily July 25th-26th
423 words

I’d never been afraid of the dark. It had always seemed so…welcoming, like a peaceful hug, dying to wrap its arms around me and comfort me. I, too, wanted to slip into its cool embrace and sink under, never wanting to emerge again. This feeling had haunted me since I was little. My parents had always thought I was strange for it, but it was never a point of much discussion.
This was only because they never understood how deep the desire ran.
So you can guess that, when I found a pool of seemingly infinite black liquid deep in the woods behind my house whilst going on my nightly walk, my first instinct was to jump in. I crouched down, attempting to stare into its depths.
The only thing that stopped me was the presence of another person, right across from me, staring into the pool too. “Do you want to jump in?” he asked, in a gentle voice.
I looked up, understandably startled, from where I was gazing into the pool. I didn’t quite know what to answer for a moment. My thoughts scrambled for a moment, trying to think of a normal way to answer such an abnormal question. Then a feeling overcame me, a feeling that perhaps I didn’t have to.
“Yes,” I whispered, my finger hovering just above the pool’s surface. My eyes were quickly drawn back to it.
“Do you think you should?” the person asked.
“Yes,” I whispered again. My eyes seemed to already be centered on the pool again.
“I don’t think you should. It’s not a very good idea.”
“Why?”
“It wouldn’t end well for you. Especially if you went head first.”
“But the dark…it feels so welcoming. It wants me.”
“Does it really? Or are you just imagining things?”
“Does it matter? That doesn’t change how it feels.”
“But you seem to be treating it as something otherworldly. If it’s just a feeling inside of you, you should be able to resist.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Will I have to stop you, then?”
“Please don’t. I really want to go.”
“Alright, fine. But first, let me show you something.” The stranger pulled a match box out of his pocket. In the blink of an eye, he lit a match, and dropped it into the pool. I watched as it went up into flames.
The stranger smiled. “See? It was just oil all along.” He stood up, walking off into the dark. I sat alone, left staring at a divot in the ground.

July 25th/26th Bidaily
434 words
Notes: Gives characters names right off the bat. Past tense, third person omniscient. Summarizes at the end. Dialog is like, so and so did something, then words. If it’s a verb, it's followed by another action or an adverb. Lots of appositives. Paragraph spacing. Start sentences with a short thing then commas and there’s the actual sentence. (Finally, dadadada) Slightly posh?

This is a style swap, so technically I can write whatever I want. Hehe don’t get mad if it's not something you’d tend to write

I have no idea what to write.
Let's write about that
A kid who doesn't know what to write
Hm, lets call her Amelia
Okay okay let's go

Amelia sagged at her desk, twiddling her sharpened pencil. She was trying to write a short story, though the topic continued to evade her. As time passed by, she grew more flustered with her inability to write.

Amelia, an aspiring author, groaned. “How will I ever write the next great novel if I can’t come up with an idea for a simple short story?”

She pulled out her laptop, covered with stickers, and powered it on. She searched for writing prompts to no avail. Again and again, she failed to find any inspiration. Her laptop didn’t hold any answers. Discouraged, she shut it.

The quiet of Amelia’s room was only accented by the ticking of her clock, though she wished it could be filled with the scratching of her pencil instead. Her paper remained blank, which frustrated her.

“Maybe I have writer's block,” she pondered, tapping her pencil on her notebook. “That would explain why I can’t find an idea.”

After sitting and doing nothing for a while, Amelia decided to go outside for some fresh air. She hoped the change of scenery would give her something to write about. She walked around her backyard, a small, sunny space filled with overgrown grass. When she went back inside, her house felt cold and dark. Amanda, her sister, happened to pass by Amelia as she glumly trudged back inside.

Amanda paused. “What’s wrong, Amelia?”

Amelia turned back to her older sister and sighed. “I can't seem to find anything to write about. It’s aggravating.”

“That's upsetting,” Amanda started, putting her hand on Amelia’s shoulder. “Perhaps I could help? I happen to know a good place to find lots of inspiring writing prompts.”

Amanda followed Amelia to her room and opened her laptop. Quickly, she found what she was looking for.

Amanda glanced at Amelia. “You might not have known this, but I’m part of an online writing camp called SWC. Every day campers get a daily, or a writing prompt, they can do. For example, today the daily is a style swap. Campers try to write in someone else’s writing style. These prompts may be silly at times, but they can also be quite inspirational.”

Amanda set the laptop in front of Amelia. “Here is a list of all the dailies we’ve had so far this session. If you want, you can pick one to write about.”

Looking through the prompts, Amelia finally formed an idea for a story. She was glad her sister had shown her this writing camp, and thought about joining it next session. At long last, she settled down to write.

July 26th - bi daily (writing style swap)
554 words

original author's style — introduces characters right away, present tense, third person omniscient, thoughts of characters are shown, single paragraph story

writing prompt used — “I was the daughter of a King who forgot I existed,” and “the package finally came,” (thank you @jalapeno9 and @legocookie6)

…

Irene was the daughter of a King who forgot she existed.

…

She lived in a forbidden kingdom, full of wealth and magic, ruled by a powerful and respected King. Of all the magical creatures and subjects in the kingdom, she was a special one; the daughter of the King himself. Growing up, Irene heard from palace servants of her parents' lavish and extravagant lifestyles. These stories filled her with hope, and her heart soared with the possibilities of one day meeting her father and being able to share in his grandeur—if only he remembered her. Irene remained weak and alone, no mother to guide her and no father to support her.

…

The young princess rushes out of bed and to the main kingdom, where she is acknowledged with incredible news; she is to receive a package, sent directly by her father. Irene knows it isn't right of him, but of course, can barely contain her own excitement. Her very first package! For weeks, she can't take an eye off the double-doored entrance, waiting for the package to arrive. Finally, one night, there's a knock on her door again. This time, Irene knows what it is. Her father's package has finally come! Her excitement bubbles and the anticipation grows. Even though there still remains an air of uncertainty, there is a deep sense of joy in knowing that the very King sent her a gift. She can barely breathe as she opens the package and pulls out its contents. Inside, the princess finds a smaller wrapped box, containing a miniature kingdom, made of various precious metals and gems. Another astonishing, golden crown lay at the top, a barrier for the palace. It holds petite flowers of gold, rivers of diamonds, and mountains of silver. She reaches in some more and pulls out a scroll of parchment, said to be sent with utmost love and care. He explains Irene's destiny to discover and conquer the kingdom. It also reveals a declaration from the King that demonstrates her power to command the elements and secrets to becoming Queen. “I see you, my princess, and I haven’t forgotten about you. Please accept my last wish; be our Queen,” Irene sighs as the weight of the decision presses heavily on her shoulders. How can she plunge herself into such a rigorous lifestyle? She desires nothing more than to serve her people, to bring dignity and pride to the kingdom, but was she ready? She remembers the moment she watched her father ascend the throne, the pride in his eyes, the way he carried himself with such grace and elegance. She realizes she could be the same kind of leader if she just had the courage to take the plunge. With a deep breath, she straightens her posture and assumes the regal air of royalty. Irene accepts her destiny with courage. It is her time to claim the loyalty of the elementals, forge alliances with the mystics, and take on royal responsibilities.

…

In time, Irene restored the kingdom to its prior glory, bringing peace and prosperity to the realm. Though she was once the daughter of a King who had forgotten her existence, she was now a Queen, remembered by everyone. It was a reminder that no one can predict what an individual is capable of achieving.

Daily #26
7/26/2023
409 words

Style Swap @Smalltoe

Leyani grasped her damp shirt as she sat up with a start, meeting the darkness of the room. Not again… It was another nightmare, another wretched reminder of her past.
The silent room was disturbed only by her heavy breathing and thumping heart, accompanied by subtle ticks and tocks.
Why had she had that dream again? Around this time of the year… Not this time of year. Not again. Not again!

She tugged the thin blanket off of her - the night air instantly cooling her body. She was more… exhausted. Exhausted? She'd been sleeping- Leyani glanced at the alarm clock on her desk -for nearly 8 hours. She had lasted longer than usual. Why was she feeling so exhausted? So… drained?
The memories in the room loomed over her. She couldn't stay here; Leyani had to get out.

She has to-
Leave-
Can't stay in this room-
Can't stay, can't stay, CAN'T STAY-
She has to go, she has to flee-
Go-

Her body wouldn't obey. She tried, tried, TRIED. She was a moment in time. Looping over and over again. Breathing, thumping, wide eyes glaring at a singular spot on the wall. The constant nagging of the tick-tocking of the clock. Adrenaline stung her body, keeping her awake.

Sometime, somehow, Leyani lost track of time.
Gold rays flooded in through the blinds. Someone was here. They were saying… something.
Long locks stuck to her skin, sticky and damp. Fingernails that had stopped digging into the bedsheets. Blurred vision and a spinning world, no longer clear.
I'm just escaping into my own head for now, Leyani thought, numbing out her senses and closing her eyes.

Her body jolted out of its dormant state - a faint brushing of a hand grounding her into the world once again.
“-long have you been sitting up? Geez. Get up, Ley! Breakfast has come and gone already.”

Silence…

More silence.

“Leyani, are you okay?”

Her mind was at peace. The quiet world in her head. Even breathing, steady heartbeat.

“Snap out of it, Ley! You're scaring me!”

If the world could just be like this. All the time. It could be so much better.

Another touch, rougher this time. A shake.
“Leyani Delacourt!”

No.
It couldn't-

She knew. Leyani knew now. It was her. It was her, this whole time.
It always was.
And she didn't
even know.

How foolish.
But she knew now.

A smile crept across her face.

“Hello sister.”

July 26th - word war
472 words

The wind howled outside her window, the sound of trees snapping, almost as if they were made of rubber, and I shivered, remembering the winter of the year before when the Headmistress had sent Mathew outside for the night as a punishment for not finishing his supper. He had suffered from pneumonia for the night and had had to be rushed to the hospital. I was surprised that the Headmistress hadn’t gotten in any trouble whatsoever because of it. “Jenna!” a voice called from outside of my room, and I groaned inwardly. Speak of the devil.
“Yes?” I tried my best to make sure that my voice didn’t sound rude or impatient, even in the slightest. If it did, the Headmistress would get very upset, and who knew what the punishment would be. I didn’t want to havee to spend the night outside, because lord knew that the Headmistress wouldn’t hesitate so send me on my way out the front door of the orphanage.
“Open your door!” The Headmistress shouted as a way of letting me know she was coming in. The door swung open, giving me only a second to stuff my work into my desk drawer.
I shared a room with three other girls my age. The orphanage was divided into different rooms based on your age and gender. I was in bunk F15—Females aged 15. There were two halls to be exact, girls on one side and boys on the other.
Headmistress made her way towards me with thundering footsteps. “What are you doing? You’re late for dinner again.” She pointed at my desk drawer and I gulped.
“Um, sorry.” I avoided the Headmistress’s question. If she found out that I was making art again, she’d steal it from me and burn it. It was a distraction from my studies, and no one would want to adopt an uneducated child. At least, that was according to the Headmistress.
“Do you even want to be adopted? In your shape, no one will ever want you as their child… unless you start trying! Now get downstairs and get eating!”
I nodded, getting up from my seat. Slowly, I left the room, avoiding eye contact with the Headmistress. I hoped that she woudln’t go through my things again and leave my desk drawers empty. My drawings were my way of escpaping, and I needed them. It had taken me almost a year to save up money to buy myself a new sketchbook after she had thrown out my last one. I just wanted to leave this place, but I knew that I couldn’t. Who needed parents when you had art?
The dining room was a mess, with screaming children everywhere. “Have they ever heard of discipline? Who even taught them any” I thought as I entered the room. “Oh right, the headmistiress-"

Weekly 4
~~~~~
Code: | Path 1: ANCIENT, Prompt 2 | Path 2: PAST, Prompt 3 | Path 3: DAY, Prompt 1 | Path 4: FUTURE, Prompt 1 |
Certificate:
~~~~~
Part 1: Ancient Times

I used the nursery rhyme: Hey Diddle Diddle

Hey little boy
Why don’t you slow down?
See what it’s like with your feet on the ground
Hey little boy
I know times are hard
Can’t you see we love you
Just the way you are
So take a deep breath, if you jump you won’t make it
Let me help you find an appropriate orbit

57 words
~~~
Prompt: Worldbuilding

So for the story I’m currently working on, Midnight Stars, the world consists of sorcerers who perform magical acts from moonlight. Every sorcerer is gifted a wand when they turn five and the wand contains a small amount of moonstone. This allows the bearer to connect the moonstone to the moonlight, drawing out a thin and sparkly thread of moonlight. This moonlight is typically collected in jars so that sorcerers can use magic whenever they want. The sorcerer must have an open jar of moonlight, as it cannot travel through solid objects. It also doesn’t disappear for a few hours, but unless combined with honey, dissipates into the atmosphere after a while. Sorcerers don’t need to use pre-captured moonlight when they are outside and the moon is out, as they can just draw the source directly from the moon. This caught moonlight contains magical properties that can perform simple magical feats such as telekinesis, hydrokinesis, etc. The limit of what moonlight can do is very vague. As a general rule, it can’t allow you to kill someone, mind control someone, torture someone, fly, track someone, poison someone, etc. I think of the magic system as the magic system from My Little Pony. I haven’t watched the show in a while, so I might get some details wrong, but unicorns can levitate things, send blasts of power, teleport (this is a super advanced spell), grow mustaches on each other, etc. Most of the sorcerers’ power is used for levitating objects and such.

As for the actual world, I imagine it’s quite similar to the world we have right now. The world has cell phones, computers, and other similar technology, as well as cars. It doesn’t suffer from climate change as much as us because fossil fuels and carbon emissions are filtered out due to the lingering moonlight in the air. Moonlight’s essence purifies things. It’s just that humans have adapted the moonlight to do things they want, essentially “purifying” or “making it better”. This is how the sorcerer society came to be. Hundreds of years ago humanity was in crisis, but after discovering moonlight, things went back to normal and the climate improved. Now invention is a lot slower though because everyone relies on moonlight. There is actually a potential moonlight shortage that the government is hiding from its citizens. The government of sorcerers is also a representative democracy like the US. The circle of authorities is a lot more tight knit though due to the small amount of people in the world.

422 words
479 words total
~~~~~
Part 2: Distant Past

Can’t you just
Keep your feet on the ground, on the ground, on the ground
Don’t stress or you’ll be bound, you’ll be bound, you’ll be bound
Entering new territory but don’t go chasing sweet victory
I know what’s best in the end, you see

46 words
~~~
Prompt: Main character trait that might get them into trouble later

“Hualin,” Onyerak began, grabbing a hold of my wrist. “Look, you need to think things through. If you walk headfirst into everything it’s not going to end well.” His green eyes pleaded with me slightly.

“Yer, I know you mean well, but you can’t just expect me to stand idly by while Skita gets screwed over,” I argued.

“I’m confused,” the short boy said. “You complain to me about Skita so much, and now you want to go out of your way to help her?”

His words made me pause, because I knew he was right. Skita was never particularly nice to me, and it would be good to have an upper hand on her for once. Giving her a taste of failure could be good for her in the end. But a part of my brain was screaming at me to not be a bystander and not subject her to whatever Lluvia’s group was up to. The Skita I knew would never skip class. I had to at least try to save her from making a mistake she would end up regretting.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know how I stand with her right now. Okay– that’s a little lie. I know I’m not that fond of her. But I’m also not fond of people using her. Skita’s not exactly the most socially aware person.”

Onyerak shook his head in confusion and let go of my wrist. “I care about you though. And I don’t want you making mistakes you’re going to regret later.”

“It’s just a little bit of confronting,” I replied, shrugging. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Onyerak raised an eyebrow. “We both know that Lluvia is a force to be reckoned with. Just let it go this once. Please? For me.”

I felt my mind pause, but my gut was still telling me to go. “I’m sorry.” I looked apologetically at Onyerak’s disappointed face before hurrying back from where we came.

As I reached the corner of the hallway, I heard Onyerak tell me, “good luck.”

Yeah, I was probably at least going to need a little bit of that.

“Skita?” I called as I entered an empty hallway. Turning another corner, I spotted one of Skita’s friends outside the girl’s bathroom. The sight caught me by surprise, and I quickly tucked myself behind the wall. Peeking into the hallway, I was relieved to see that her friend showed no signs of noticing me.

Unfortunately, from my current situation, there was no way I could find out what Skita was doing or what was going on. I was out of earshot and nothing interesting was happening anyway.

If I wanted answers, I would have to ask some questions. This was definitely the least ideal situation. Something me and Skita had in common was our reluctance to engage in social interaction, much less a slightly aggressive interaction.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to walk as calmly as I could towards the bathroom. But I could feel my heart quickening and my hands beginning to sweat.

“Uh– hey.”

That was not the introduction I had originally planned, but it wasn’t too bad. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

The girl eyed me under her thick brown hair and rolled her eyes, as if she was annoyed that someone as lowly as me would talk to her. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” she countered snarkily.

“Well, I have to go to the bathroom,” I said, gesturing to the men’s bathroom adjacent to where we were.

“Well, I also happen to go to the bathroom,” she replied.

“Look,” I sighed, getting tired of useless banter. “Is Skita there? I want to talk to her. And don’t lie to me; I saw your group walking here. Also I can hear soft voices in the bathroom.” I could feel my cheeks reddening but I continued. “Regardless, I know you guys are up to no good and you can stop regarding me like some pleb because no one finds it cool.”

675 words
721 words total
~~~~~
Part 3: Current Day

Idiom: Cutting corners

Come’on let’s fly through the trees
Feel the spray of the seven seas
I know it’s intimidating but cutting corners won’t get you dreams
Eat big dinners and sing in cars
Chase the sunrise into the stars
You might think you’re slowing down but cutting corners won’t get you out

53 words
~~~
Prompt: SWC Fanfiction

Lizzy glanced outside the carriage at the dark blooming skies above. It looked as if rain was going to fall soon. She wasn’t used to the chilly weather and rainy days of the Tragedy Orphanage. The Hi-Fi Town had its fair share of rainy days, but it was almost always quickly accompanied by a shining sun. The Tragedy Orphanage bore with it a mysterious allure which, quite frankly, creeped Lizzy out.

The familiar clopping sound of the horse’s hooves came to a stop as the carriage arrived at the front gates. “Miss,” the coachman said in his velvety voice, “we have arrived.” He pulled open the carriage door and offered me his hand as I stepped out. The blue button down shirt of my outfit fluttered in the wind, which seemed to whistle and howl at random moments.

Lizzy gingerly stepped up to the orphanage’s front gates. The place itself was quite simple. A large stone building encased in a tall stone wall, with large pines circling around it. The gate creaked loudly as Lizzy opened it, causing shivers to run down her spine. She could definitely see why the Hi-Fi Town was not very friendly with this place.

It wasn’t until recently that the residents of the Tragedy Orphanage and Hi-Fi Revolutionaries became rivals, always competing for the most literary points. But this newly found rivalry cut a deep ridge between the two. We were already sworn enemies, and being rivals was just the icing on the cake. Lizzy was certain her presence would cause lots of hostile interactions, but she had specific instructions from Alia and Inky to take note of the place and its residents, and most of all, be friendly. It was important that the revolutionaries be the bigger person in the situation.

Lizzy knocked on the large wooden door and didn’t have to wait long for an answer. A blonde haired girl opened it with a short smile. She seemed nice enough, but Lizzy knew looks could be deceiving.

“Hi,” Lizzy greeted with a short bow. “I’m here to interview the residents of the orphanage.”

“Alia and Inky sent you?” the girl inquired with a raised eyebrow.

“Uh– yes,” Lizzy began. “But it’s orders from the Memory Book Committee. They want quotes and most-likely-to votes from your residents. I’m simply a messenger.”

Of course, the Memory Book Committee did actually want quotes of funny moments, but that was not the main reason why Lizzy was here. It was merely a guise in order to collect more information on the orphanage and its residents. Though some quotes would most certainly not be turned down.

There was a short pause, causing Lizzy’s nerves to take over. What if she was denied entry? Then all of the travel would be for naught. Eventually, the girl nodded in understanding. “Of course,” she quipped. Opening the door wider, she let me into the main lobby of the orphanage. “Please come in.”

I rubbed my shoes on the mat and took in the orphanage, which looked a lot bigger from the outside. Immediately forward was a large dining hall, with living quarters to the right and common rooms to the left. There were also numerous other doors that led to ambiguous places. The girl directed me to a chair in the main area and noted my visit on a clipboard. “Welcome to the Tragedy Orphanage,” she said. “I hope you enjoy your time here.”

573 words
626 words total
~~~~~
Part 4: Distant Future

Popular song: I chose the song “I Will Survive” because I thought the name was cool

Put your mind to anything
Hike through mountains, swim through springs
You’ll reach all you want and more
The sun can burn you at first touch
But trying your best is enough
Surviving’s a complex task you see
Just be all you want to, start a fresh with redos
The world is your canvas and design
Hey little boy
It’ll be fine

62 words
~~~
Prompt: Food in the future of the Galaxswc

In the incredibly distant future of the Galaxswc, the food mainly revolves around extravagant concoctions that seem very out of place and almost ethereal, with vibrant colors and a whole array of spices and flavors. This shift in food choice is due to the rich people of the future wanting to show off that they could buy a spice or food from anywhere in the world and eat it, often resulting in peculiar combinations of all sorts of food. In the distant future, all the different cultures of food combine into one melting pot of surprises.

As for the flavor of the foods themselves, I would imagine that they contain lots of flavor, likely more so than the flavors we experience today. One thing my family relates to a lot when eating American food is the amount of oil and salt put into food. I imagine since this futuristic world blends even more cultures than America, the food would be more “Americanized” but with a twist. There is certainly an overdose of salt, oil and other additives, but a lot of other spices and garnish have integrated their way into being essential for most foods. Not many people would think that soy sauce is necessary in every single cooked dish. But in the future of the Galaxswc, people use soy sauce in their eggs, rice, chicken, etc., just as they would use oil or salt. This makes for a whole bomb of flavors in your mouth. And as humanity has evolved over the years, our taste buds have learned to tone these flavors down so that we get used to them.

Of course, the future of the Galaxswc is not safe from problems of economy and class systems. Those in the higher class with more money often purchase dishes with special gems or minerals in them, kind of like the gold foil that is often seen in really expensive dishes. These gems and minerals can vary from granite, rubies, amethysts, basically anything that is pretty and shiny. Similar to gold foil, these rocks and minerals don’t taste particularly interesting, but those who are rich often integrate them into their dishes just to show their status. Those who are poorer cannot afford as many spices, making people distinguish between “poorer” dishes and “richer” dishes easier. This can often lead to discrimination as society slowly shifts to the idea that food needs to have a bunch of different flavors.

As for what would be served at a diner, basically anything. The future includes a mix of all sorts of cultures, making the menu incredibly diverse but strangely good as well. The diners would likely have futuristic technology, with food being lifted through tubes to the people eating and drinks being delivered via a robot or something. Of course, these things exist in the modern day (I think), but the technology would be a lot more common, with nearly all of the diners and restaurants implementing these.

While I don’t imagine the food to be that different, I imagine there would be a lot of changes with flavor and technology specifically. I think the food itself will not change that much, simply because I feel like we’ve explored plenty in the food department.

540 words
602 words total
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Part 5: The End

Come’on let’s build new regimes
Weave in flowers, let off steam
I know it’s intimidating but cutting corners won’t get you dreams
Race each other through moonlit fields
Incorporate some new ideals
You might think you’re slowing down but cutting corners won’t get you out
Cutting corners won’t get you out
No, cutting corners can’t get you out

58 words
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Prompt: It was all a dream

My eyes flew open and I was met with the tranquility of my room. I could just barely make out the figure of a ceiling fan. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound I could hear.

My blankets had jumbled up in my dream. I rolled over and closed my eyes, trying to lull myself back to sleep. Now that I was awake, everything began to make sense. The pieces seemed to fit into place perfectly. Of course Skita would never do such a thing. It was as if my imaginary speeding heartbeat was slowing down. There was no confrontation. There was no awkward socialization. It was just my room. Just my room. As the seconds ticked by lying awake in my bed, I could feel the memory of my dream slipping.

What had happened exactly? I knew that Onyerak was involved in some way. Skita was also a main part of the dream, along with Lluvia and her friends. Recalling it now, all the events seemed a little bit blurry.

A large part of me was relieved by this revelation, but slightly unnerved as well. Why would I have a dream like this? I wasn’t too knowledgeable on dreams and how they occur, but I figured they had to form in your mind for a reason. Why would my head draw up such a narrative? Half of my brain was really curious in determining why this was the case, while the other half was groggily dragging its feet through the mud and itching to go back to sleep.

But that’s the thing about dreams. Once you wake up, it’s hard to fall back into slumber again.

A thought flashed through my mind, causing me to sit up suddenly and scramble out of bed. I had a history essay that was due tomorrow.

It seems dreams come to you for the purpose of waking you up.

319 words
353 words total
2781 words overall

Part Eight of Weekly–Ancient Times Era
So this Writing piece is again going to be a bonus chapter in the novel I am Working on–The Mist-The Eternal Fog so a short overview of it before we dive into the story:
The mist was made up of 4 members, Carmi-The leader and a super stealth spy, Davian- The Hacker, Rose- The Doctor, Hawk- A Robotics engineer and a weirdo who wanted to be a spy and so spy in training.
The mist Had their Meeting point–The Shop. It was actually like the head quarters of the Mist, It consisted of a main place to discuss, A lab for Rose, A workshop for Hawk, A Techy room for Davian and a Training room for Carmi.

An Unforgettable Faith.
The Mist were sitting in the Shop and were in their respective places and were inventing and practicing for the day when the Unknown might given an another appearance especially their before encounter didn't go to their plan and the unknown had the upper hand.

Carmi was really worried and depressed about it so she Called on a meeting and they all met at the Shop's Main place. Carmi started the discussion. She said, “ We should hatch a plan before the Unknown does another appearance.” The other three member seem to agree with this. So they all sat and began hatching a plan.

After an hour of serious planning session, Here was their plan:

Carmi would stealthily sneak into the Unknown's Cabin and then grab the vase( It is just a code name and actually inside the vase there is a cure for a deadly disease which no one knows as no one had it for long to crack the secret code to open it) from there.

Davian's job was to disable the cameras and security things because they didn't want he Unknown to find about it.

Rose's job was to make a special type of gas so that when it is released she can spot the vase and this is because only the vase can react with that vase and for a red signal thingy.

Hawk's job was to prepare a special type of glove that can spot if anyone is talking and make sure that everyone can communicate with each other during the mission.

When the mission started, Their plan started to going downhill. First the device that Hawk prepared wasn't working as if something was blocking it, Rose's gas container was out of gas as if it has already been released, Carmi was caught and Davian though he disabled all security things but still he was caught hacking.

Now when they all were taken to the prison's cell in the Unknown's place. they all didn't know what to do and lost all hope and just left it to their fate. now the question is, “ Can their Fate Save them and well it depends on God's Grace.”

Chorus–The End–Ninth Part of Weekly Four:

The Silent Nature
The Nature is Silent,
Doing the best for its children,
Doing the best for its children,
I have no wish but to,
Meet nature one day
one day.

If only I realized,
Nature is with us
In our journey
Nature is with us.

Part Ten Of the Fourth Weekly:
I had a good night sleep and when I woke up in the morning, I saw the doom. Well, not doom doom but I saw blue bedsheet instead of a pink bedsheet. Wait what so you saw a change in your bedsheet color so that doesn't mean that it is the doom. Well, To begin with it wasn't the bedsheet that changed its color but the entire world itself. I walked out of my room called out to my mum and dad but no one responded. So curios I went outside and saw Tall building like skyscrapers all around instead of my regular building and all the plants withered and the most shocking thing of these all changes was that the Sky's color was Red and not the Sky blue color and well I think there is no Sky Blue Color anymore and Sky Red color is going to be the new trend. I was still in a state of amazement when I saw my mum and dad who appeared to look like aliens with another planet and I think it would have been mars as Earth looked a lot like mars now in my opinion. My mum approached me and asked why I haven't wore my Formals. What formals? And everyone where wearing these Formals That were a bit weird. And then I heard a voice and it belonged to my little sister and she said, “ Wake up you lazy pants..” And then I woke and realized it was all a dream.