Turn the lights on. It’s not much, but it’s enough to see in the dark.

Put the record on the gramophone and plug it in. Lean back as you wait for it to start as it spins slowly. Whisper the lyrics under your breath under the night sky. Book open.

Click.

You are reminding yourself of what peace looks like, because although it’s strange, it seems you’ve forgotten what it’s like. You sit on a crate and tap your foot along to the beat of the song playing. Something about this feels unnatural, but you try to ignore that. Whether or not you’ve done this in the past few months, you’ve got a mission tonight. You’re going to remember what it feels like when your heart isn’t fluttering, pounding against your ribs like the caged thing that it is. You’re going to remember what it’s like to breathe slowly. You’re going to remember what it’s like to enjoy the whole night, no schedules or deadlines.

Click.

You pull out the photo printed by the Poloroid camera and hold it to your jar of fairy lights. It’s hard to see in this dim light — the only sources being the brightness of the moon and stars and your own light — but it’s good enough, you think. It will remind you when you need it.

This is what peace looks like. What the nights should look like, when you’ve escaped from the day.

Click.

Leather-back book sitting on the wooden bench in front of you. The record screeching to a halt. You gently lift up the needle on the gramophone and take out the record. Put in another one. Lean back and let it play.

This one you don’t know the lyrics to as well, but you sing along anyway. You drum your fingers against the side of your leg. It’s counterintuitive, but the use of that energy somehow relaxes you.

Click.

You pick up the jar of lights and hold it up to your book. You tune out the music this time, and you read by starlight and wind. The breeze whispers to you, reciting the words as you read them as if it knows them by heart already, and perhaps it does. The breeze hears everything.

Click.

You pull out a journal from underneath the book. You’ve only filled out the first few pages, but no matter. Now is the time for you to pick up the long-lost habit once again. You hold a pen-tip to your lips, taking a moment to think before you write. Then you touch it to the book, and the ink flows onto the page as if it’s returning home.

The words come easily this time. They have not done so for months.

Click.

Pen on the book. Brush it aside and bookmark it. Close it.

Lift the needle. Remove the record. Unplug it.

Turn off the lights.

Click.

The stars still shine.
~
Word count: 487 words

She cleaned fireplaces to earn her keep at her own stepmother’s house, and for that, her stepsisters called her Cinderella, for the eternally caked-on ashes she wore on her face while they wore makeup. It wasn’t her fault; she couldn’t help her own misfortune. But nonetheless, the two of them, Anastasia and Drizella, and their mother, Lady Tremaine, craved the exhilaration of Cinderella’s torment.

As usual, the three of them left for their own party, claiming that she wasn’t invited. Of course, she already expected as much. Cinderella knew that she wasn’t to be seen with the rest of her stepfamily. But this time, it was different.

“It’s the prince’s!” Anastasia gushed. “I hear he is looking for a new bride.”

“Maybe he’ll choose me,” Drizella murmured, a dreamy look crossing her face.

“No, it’ll be me!”

And on and on they went. The party was to start at eight o’clock at night sharp, and it would last through the whole night until dawn. Oh, how Cinderella longed to go. If the prince was looking for a bride, perhaps she could be the one. Imagine that — from ashes to palaces. It would be everything.

At six o’clock, a plan began to form in her mind: She would escape the house. They might lock the doors to keep her in, but the windows were a different matter. They wouldn’t check them after they first turned the key, and there was plenty of time to steal that one back, given they didn’t take it with them, only hide it.

As they were all rushing about, getting their last things together and opening the door, Cinderella snuck upstairs to unlock the window of Lady Tremaine’s room on the second floor before replacing it, as if nothing had happened. Perfect.

When the clock struck seven, she had a sudden realization: I don’t have anything to wear.

That was when, all of a sudden, a woman who called herself Cinderella’s “Fairy Godmother” appeared right before her. “Bippity, boppity, boo!” she exclaimed. Cinderella tried very hard not to make a face — after all, what kind of strange person uses the words “bippity, boppity, boo!” and can say them without batting an eye? Certainly not her.

“I have come to help you,” her Fairy Godmother announced rather suddenly. “Let’s see, a dress, some shoes — oh, tell me, what is your size, dear?”


“Um,” Cinderella began, extremely confused. “A woman's nine, I think?”

“Perfect. That’s not hard to come by at all.” Fairy Godmother waved her wand once, twice, three times, and then Cinderella was all dressed, with a pumpkin-shaped carriage standing in front of her with awfully mouse-y looking horses attached to the reins. “Now, there’s everything you’ll need, yes? Just make sure you’re back before midnight. The spells all wear off by then.”

Cinderella, no longer skeptical after seeing what the magic could do, nodded enthusiastically. She thanked her Fairy Godmother and was soon on her way.

***

It didn’t take long for the prince to notice the beautiful (and now clean, her face free of all cinders) new girl at his party. “May I have this dance?” he asked.

Cinderella was giddy with excitement. “Why, of course. It’s my pleasure.”

Slowly, as they danced, the prince could feel himself falling in love as time fell away. Cinderella danced and laughed and talked, and they spent the whole night together. It was a shame, then, that the prince never learned her name.

The moon was high above, and Cinderella remembered the warning her Fairy Godmother gave her. “Oh! I really must be going,” she said, glancing at the clock. 11:58 p.m. She was far behind schedule. This simply wouldn’t do.

“Just one more dance?” the prince asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Cinderella said, having already turned around and rushing down the stairs, hoping to be out of sight. These glass heels, she quickly discovered, were most certainly not meant for running. One of them slipped right off her foot, and she was terrified it would break as it tumbled down the stairs. She was tempted to run back for it, but she couldn’t risk it. There was no time.

“Wait!” the prince called, running after her, but Cinderella was faster. He was left with only the shoe, and though it was already 12:01, by some miracle only happening to move the plot forward, he was left only with the slipper, which had not returned to its original form. “Find out who this belongs to,” he ordered the servants tailing him. “I must find her again. She is the one.”

***

It was such a shame, one might say, or a true act of stupidity, that he had not asked for her name, nor did he remember how she looked. All she had was this slipper.

He searched far and wide, but no one could be found. Finally, he decided that he would simply go door to door and see whose foot would fit inside the slipper as delicately as his first love’s had the night before.

The prince’s carriage took him to a house at the edge of the city, and he decided he would work inward from there. He knocked on the door, and as soon as it opened, there were numerous gasps of shock.

“Hi,” he said nervously. “I’m looking for the owner of this shoe. I’d like to marry her.”


More gasps of shock, and then one woman stepped to the front. “Yes, I believe that’s mine. Thank you for returning it.” She smiled at him, and he smiled back, though he couldn’t help but feel like there was something strange going on.

“May I ask that you try it on first?” he asked.

She nodded and presented her foot. It fit easily into the glass slipper. “See, I told you! I am to be your new wife.”


The prince felt a bit confused — after all, he didn’t remember what his first love had looked like, but he was fairly sure that she was younger than this woman — but he didn’t think much of it. The shoe fit. That was that.

“Well,” he said, “I guess we had better get going.”

She laughed, and they got into his carriage together. When she wasn’t listening, the prince murmured to himself, “What are the chances I found her in the first house whose door I knocked on?”

He neglected to check how common the shoe size was, because in fact, it was the average one. The marriage was a quick one. His bride wore the lone slipper and beamed the whole time.

***

While the woman the prince married was overjoyed, he wasn’t particularly happy. Still, he grew less upset after time. She was a perfectly mediocre candidate for a wife. And poor Cinderella was still cleaning fireplaces, none the wiser, as if fairy tales didn’t even exist. What were the chances indeed?
~
Word count: 1,147 words

→ Prompt/Title: “Tulips and Tired Eyes”

April showers bring May flowers, they used to say. It’s true.

The garden is a painting — filled with color smeared throughout the fields. Easter tulips adorn the graves of our beloveds like crowns. We keep their memories. They keep their peace.

When April came, it rained all month long. Without warning. Without ceasing.

We cut down tulips to show that we are still alive. We inhale their sweet scent one last time to prove that the beauty was within us, too, one last time before we drop them beside their headstones. The flowers do nothing to revive the dead, but we do it in hopes that they, too, may find grace in their passings. We had nothing more to offer to them.

Our May flowers grew beautifully. They lasted for the entirety of spring, and we were happy. We were so happy.

Ten years from now, how much of this will we remember? Firstly, you must ask yourself if you will still be here by then. Will your soul be enough? Or will your tired eyes win out?

But years pass quickly. May did not last, and soon enough, April came around again.

We write speeches we will never give and watch as our beloveds wave from the other side of the glass. We shatter just as quickly.

And tell me this: If you do not survive the April, will there be any flowers to speak of? But you already know the answer.

We stay awake through every night and lay tulips at gravestones of those we have remembered and forgotten. We don’t tell you what they are when you ask.

Burial sites. Yours, mine, ours. Someone save us from ourselves.
~
Word count: 281 words

Winter comes with gusty winds threatening to tear the roofs off our homes, frost on windows even at midday, and blizzards that cover the world in sheets of white. It comes with darkness lasting from mid afternoon to mid morning and questions waiting to be answered, saving their hopes until spring.

It takes days for the sun to come out, but eventually, after a long stretch of dark days, it does. I put on my jacket and stuff my hands in a pair of gloves, knowing full well that despite the sunshine, it’s still going to be well below freezing. I’ve lived through enough winters to know that much.

When I’m outside, I don’t think about the past. I don’t think about what happened in November. I don’t think about you.

Or I try not to, anyway.

Instead, I think about the snowdrop flower just peeking out of the hard-packed snow. I kneel down next to it and smile slightly. How do they survive this? I wonder. How do they always make it through the storms?

I try to believe that it’s a miracle. That they’re real after all.

I run back inside for my sketchbook and a pencil before going back out again. In these gloves, it’s hard to hold it, but I’ll make do anyway. A shiver wracks my body, and I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering as another breeze comes and flips the pages of my book. I lean down closer to the little flower, trying my best to capture all the tiniest details of it. The dreaminess of possibility, of having survived the worst. It’s not much, but it’s the best I can do.

When I’ve finished, I look through the rest of my book. Some of them are older, from a year or more ago. Those ones are like my very own history book. They aren’t anything particularly special, but they do more than enough to organize my past.

The more recent ones, the pens from three, four, months ago — those ones are the ones that scare me. Because they are so hopeless. Every stroke of my pencil on the page is like a held breath, a sentence whispered rather than shouted. So instead, I add new ones to them, to balance out the darkness, I suppose.

Rosemary. Lucerne. They intertwine with the worst memories, and I try to keep them as a reminder. After winter, there is spring. I have to remember that. I have to.
~
Word count: 416 words

Her world is made of shades of gray and blue, devoid of all color save for a few muted hues. She doesn’t know if she would call it empty, because after all this time, she’s gotten used to it, but it’s nothing much. Nothing exciting.

It’s just the same thing over and over again. Gray and blue, nothing more.

***

Smoke billows out from the chimneys from faraway buildings. It stains the sky gray, and walking past the factories is like walking through a thick cloud in a monochromatic world. She doesn’t mind it, though. The world is easier to read in these simplistic colors.

Rivers are made of blue. Blue for their silence, for their quiet, for their constancy. If gray is the color of all the things wrong, all the things in between and unknown, then blue is for the peace of the world. Blue is for the best things. Blue is for the memories and the questions.

Elevators are melancholy: gray. She pushes the button, and a little blue light turns on before it pulls her downward.

The trees are peaceful: blue. Shades of blue leaves, falling and littering the passageways with their featherlike signs of life. Wispy branches that barely look strong enough to support themselves rustle against the wind, and for a moment, she thinks that they will fall.

Footprints in the mud freshly dampened by last night’s rain are gray with a bluish tint, leaving a trace of where one has been before. They are a reminder of the past, like memories turned physical.

She follows the path of stones to the edge of the river, where gray meets blue and blue meets gray. Where every color in her lonely existence intertwines with each other to create something spectacular.

It’s only there for a moment, though. Her breath trembles as she steps forward, and she blinks slowly. Her heart: beating like it is desperately trying to keep something alive (is it?).

Gray for the smoke. Blue for the rivers. She knows this is true.

The world flickers. The smoke is blue. The rivers are gray. All that rushing water no longer means anything.

She thinks this is what emptiness at its essence feels like.
~
Word count: 369 words

→ Scene One (Overusing Writing Rules)

Note: For this part, I honestly really struggled to follow those writing rules, mainly because I tend to break them so often that I’ve forgotten what they originally were in the first place, ahaha. Pretty much the only ones I remember are “said is dead,” “show, don’t tell,” and “vary your sentence structure,” at least for the ones outside of grammar rules (which I probably break equally often).

“Hey!” she called out from the other side, her footsteps pounding against the tiles as everyone around her parted like she was a barrier to the sea.

I turned around sharply. “Hm?” I murmured. “What’s going on?”

At least twice a week, she would run down the halls calling my name, or some other form of greeting. I had gotten used to it by that point; her constant energy became something ever-present after a while of knowing her. She called herself quirky while we named her weird, though given the fact that she had wondered aloud her initial words in the strangest manner, little supported her case. Still, we had learned to love her anyway.

“One of my quirks,” she constantly reminded us. “Correction: one of my many quirks.” After that, she had smiled, the corners of her mouth quirking up just enough for it to reach her eyes.

Now, she came crashing into me, screeching to a halt barely before toppling the both of us over.

“What’s the rush?” I questioned her, doing my best to regain my balance. I took a step backward to recenter myself before listening to her.

“Isabella, you simply will not believe what I just heard!” she exclaimed.

I twirled a wisp of my hair around my pointer finger, then turned the lock of my locker until it opened. Is that so?” I asked. I pulled my books from my unzipped backpack before relocking my locker, only just realizing that she hadn’t stopped staring at me and that her mouth was still moving.

The words faded off into nothing as we walked, and her chatter became background noise.
~
Word count: 274 words

→ Scene Two (Breaking Common Rules)

Wind blowing. Waves crashing. The night on the horizon. So what if no one was there to see it? She was on top of the world.

(It was a long journey to get here, days and days of walking. Of uncertainty.)

She was one breath away from the sun she couldn’t see. One step away from the starlight she longed for.

(She’d long since learned that bridges were made of starlight. Now was her chance to experience the taste of that legend.)

“So what?” she asked to the night. Never mind that no one was listening. The words weren’t for them. They were for her and only her.

(One day they would listen to her, she would vow to herself. One day, they would call her name as she crossed over to the other side. One day.)

Taking a step forward was a matter of trust, a leap of faith: This close to losing all you have. This close to gaining the world. She’d gambled on less than that, and what was a game without a chance of losing?

(She’d danced on rooftops and teetered on the edge only for the thrill of something new. She’d sang at the top of her lungs, shoes delicately tapping broken ceilings from above. If she fell through, it was just another opportunity to climb to the top again.)

Questions weren’t made to be answered, she’d discovered. The girl took a deep breath. She breathed out.

(Breathing in. Breathing out. This was what she was made for.)

The bridge before her was made of dreams. She was home to many of them.

(Wind blowing. Waves crashing. The stars and dawn on the horizon.)

She stepped toward the glittering city and left behind the earth.

(A kind of quiet she never knew before up here — was this what it was like to be free?)
~
Word count: 309 words

who else but us could understand what it was like to live when the world around us was dying?

our time ran out long ago. when the world ended. when we exhaled our last breaths and finally let go of ourselves. who could tell us who to be anymore? who could define us but ourselves?

they ask you what your earliest memories are, and have you ever been able to answer? it’s the same. the world faded so long ago. all that’s left are bits and pieces. a smear of rain down the front of a car window.

we survived for this long on our own. time, in its essence, lost its meaning as we wept for the things we had lost. for our homes and our people. we had nowhere left to go, had mourned so much that there were no words left to say and no tears left even if you were to pool all the oceans we had created before.

(we drained them to keep living. because tears are not for the dead. tears are for the living.)

all of it, gone. so simply. so quickly.

you see, when it first began, we kept waiting for our turn our turn our turn

as if it was something you could wait for

as if it was something you should wait for

(wasn’t it?)

we did not know better. we wanted to be with the rest. to us, naïve and innocent us.

we gave up our immorality for our memories. we gave up our futures for our pasts.

our hopes became dreams became wishes became prayers became reality

we lived in a fantasy for so long that we did not understand what it was like to return to reality

the line blurred

our humanity poisoned

here are the two worlds: fantasy and reality. you are between them. you are the bridge. see, look, it is your responsibility.

we stepped across eagerly because there would be no consequences left. no ways in which our hearts could be torn more.

we turned to ash before our very own eyes and watched as nature mourned our loss, for there were no more people to do so for us. ashes to ashes. dust to dust. earth returned to earth.

at least we are home now. we are where we belong.
~
Word count: 387 words

→ Emotion: Freedom

See the light rising over the mountains, taste the fresh air blowing over the gorge, hear the echoes coming from miles away. There’s something refreshing about knowing that you’re the one in control, that no one else can force you into anything. Here, at the edge of the world, you are all that exists. There is nothing but wind, sky, sun. And you.

The water rushing down the river — you can see this from your lookout at the top of everything. Oh, how beautiful it is to witness the freedom of water flowing through the canyons, to see the sunlight glimpse the majesty of the earth and hold all of nature in its hands.

You, too: You are above everything, surrounded by everything perfect about this earth, reminded of what it means to live untethered. No more chains binding you to the ground. No more gravity or fear of falling. It’s like flying, you think, but only better. Even flying has its own limitations.

You dangle your legs off the side of the rock, and for once, you are not scared. You do not wonder, do not question, do not do anything but to observe the world from far above.

And how could it have passed by so quickly? How had you been unable to notice it until now?

This — this feeling of being above everything — maybe it won’t last. Maybe it’ll leave you soon enough, maybe you’ll go back to how things were before, but for now, it is more than enough.

Nothing is stopping you now. You are air and sky and quiet and loud and everything in between. The spectrum of everything stretches from end to end, and there are infinite shades of gray.

You stare into the distance, into the sunrise, into the great beyond, and a million shades of gray? They’re enough.
~
Word count: 307 words

Katelyn, Grace, and Sophia were mystery solvers. The best of their kind, if they did say so themselves (which they often did, actually). Roughly every week, someone in their school would bring to them an enticing mystery, which they would either refuse to investigate further or accept. Today’s mystery was a fascinating one — one they hadn’t been able to solve for an entire four hours. This one had really stumped them.

And what was this specific stump-worthy case, you may ask? Well, it was the mystery of the missing candy bar.

Let’s back up first, though. Where they lived, in a small town that no one really knew about except it and its own neighboring towns, there wasn’t a particularly large amount of grocery stores, and due to the fact that it was incredibly far off from literally anything else, said grocery store(s) — with the S in parentheses because only one of them was really known around town, which was really saying something — were constantly out of stock of the best things. Breakfast cereals, cupcakes, candy bars — whatever it was, you name it, they don’t have it! Except for a very few special occasions.

All this to say, candy bars were a rarity in this rural town, and they were hard to find anywhere within a twenty minute walking radius (and honestly, who was really going to walk a full twenty minutes to get a candy bar? That’s just ridiculous). So when one did show up at school dangling gracefully out of a backpack’s open smallest pocket, it drew a lot of attention.

Now, enough context. Sophia was out because she had to stay back at school to retake that math test that she hadn’t done…particularly well on, but she’d be there soon, she promised. In the meantime Katelyn and Grace were out in their mystery-solving clubhouse (also known as the shed in Katelyn’s backyard), trying to puzzle together what had happened. Long story short: It was there, right before recess. And then when they came back, it wasn’t.

What on earth was going on?

“I think somebody must have stolen it,” Katelyn announced.

Grace rolled her eyes. “Well, OBVIOUSLY,” she said. “But that’s not the question. The question is WHO stole it? And how? How could they dispose of the evidence so easily? So quickly?”

“Hmm. I don’t know,” Katelyn responded. And then they were right back to square one.

“Wait!” Grace shouted, a realization dawning on her. “They could have eaten it, right?”

Katelyn shrugged. “Yeah, they could. But that still doesn’t get us to who did it.”

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and they opened it to find Sophia, freshly out of her new (and hopefully improved) math test. “Catch me up!” she ordered her friends — and fellow detectives, which they did shortly after.

“So you think someone ate it?” Sophia concluded as they finished talking.

Katelyn and Grace nodded. “But we’re struggling to figure out who would have taken it. And what they would have done with the wrapper and stuff.”

“I threw it out at home. I mean, wait! That’s not what I mean! I WOULD have thrown it out at home, but I didn’t steal it.” Sophia’s words were a bit of a mess, all jumbling together.

Katelyn and Grace’s eyes widened as they looked at each other. “So, Sophia,” Katelyn said slowly, “did you steal the candy bar?”

“Yeah, Sophia,” Grace added. “Were you even retaking that math test at all? Or were you just eating the candy bar and then going home to dispose of the evidence?”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean…” Sophia’s pleas trailed off as she stared in horror at her friends, equally ashamed at herself for giving away such a traitorous secret. “Fine. I did take the candy bar, because I really wanted it, and only because Steven” — Steven, by the way, was the guy whose candy bar it was — “took mine last week. So it’s only fair. I haven’t quite finished it yet, though. Please forgive me.”

“I hope you saved some for me,” Katelyn said darkly.

“Oh, I did!” Sophia exclaimed, pulling out a slightly melty bit of chocolate from her pocket.

Katelyn smiled. “Good! Then we forgive you.”

“Katelyn, that’s gross. Don’t eat it,” Grace said. But she, too, reached for it.

And the three of them enjoyed their stolen spoils together, quickly forgetting the betrayal that had only moments before been tearing them apart.
~
Word count: 745 words

Queen Desdemona Chip was, as her title implied, the queen. And the queen of what, you might ask?

Perhaps you might say “everything” was a bit too broad an answer, but it’s not like that wasn’t the case. Desdemona — my apologies, Queen Desdemona — ruled over all of Fortis (or in other words, what was left of the world following the candy uprising) with an iron fist. Everywhere she went, peasants cowered in fear of her, always bowing down and shouting about how much they loved candy.

You see, Queen Desdemona was very much so a child at heart — that was, if a child had the capacity to become an utter and complete dictator. Her love for candy fueled and drove her to turn the whole world into her candy-filled empire. Outspoken rebels such as Brianna Harvey of Mudskipper News had to be dealt with seriously. The most common form of punishment was execution held on a chocolate block. After all, dissidents must be shown to have succumbed to her candy-ish ways.

All this to say, Queen Desdemona had no tolerance for people, peasants, who didn't like candy. They were an utter and absolute disgrace and must be dealt with accordingly.

Today, Queen Desdemona was off to film yet another propaganda clip. She thoroughly enjoyed making her peasants dress up in the most horrifyingly colorful clothes ever and sing and dance. Of course, oftentimes, they lacked the enthusiasm and verve she so longed for. But she would deal with them, too, as necessary.
~
Word count: 252 words

Snowy: Hello, and welcome to the first episode of our talk show (slash interview) with Scratch Writing Camp’s — otherwise known as SWC — new mascot: Mango the Mudskipper!

Mango the Mudskipper: Hi, Snowy! I’m so glad I could join you for this premiere episode of your show. I’m truly amazed at all the things the community of SWC has created and done, aren’t you?

Snowy: Yes, absolutely! All the hosts, ghosts, leaders, co-leaders, and campers make the place such a great atmosphere. So, onto what I’ve been meaning to ask you: What’s it like being an SWC mascot?

Mango the Mudskipper: Oh, Snowy, it’s absolutely marvelous. I enjoy every single moment of it, and even though I’ve only truly been an official mascot for a little while now, I can tell that it’s going to be even greater to be on the mascot team than it is to just be a camper. As you and your friends would say, it’s absolutely mudskippery!

Snowy: Oh, yes, and how long have you been on the team so far? So far, I know we’ve had Gurtle, Blahaj, and a couple of other mascots, but you’re a relatively new add, isn’t that right?

Mango the Mudskipper: Yes, that’s true. I was actually only added to the team the other day — on Wednesday, if I’m not wrong.

Snowy: Wow, so it really hasn’t been very long then, huh?

Mango the Mudskipper: No, definitely not, but I’d honestly say that it’s pretty much the opposite of that phrase you all constantly use. What is it, again? Something about flying time and good things.

Snowy: You mean “Time flies when you’re having fun”?

Mango the Mudskipper: Yes, that’s the one! So it actually feels like time has slowed down, only in the best way possible. It’s been so much fun, Snowy. I’ve gotten to know so many great people — and animals too!

Snowy: So as of right now, is there a particular mascot that you’re closest with?

Mango the Mudskipper: They’re all absolutely wonderful creatures to be around, and I thoroughly enjoy any time spent with you. That being said, if I had to choose one that I know the best, at least as of now, it’d probably be Gurtle. Us water-related creatures have to stay together, don’t we?

Snowy: That’s right! In SWC, do you find the habitat hard to deal with? I know most people are coming in from places like the United States, India, and Britain, most of which don’t have any of the brackish water you require. So how do you manage that?

Mango the Mudskipper: The hosts are so nice that just to get me on their team, they promised to build me my very own mangrove forest. Isn’t that great? It’s going to be way more environmentally friendly, and it’s going to be such a nice habitat. Plus, there’s lots of new learning opportunities that can take place in a different kind of environment.

Snowy: That definitely makes sense! Alright, so my final question of this episode and the day is: What would you say is your favorite part about being an SWC mascot?

Mango the Mudskipper: (thinking hard)

Mango the Mudskipper: (pauses)

Mango the Mudskipper: (inhales) Well, that’s a hard question. I guess it’s just the opportunity to get to know everyone better and represent such a splendid community? Honestly, it’s so hard to pick just one part of it, because all of it is so incredibly spectacular. But yeah, I think it’d probably be getting to know and spend time with everyone if I had to choose one. Or maybe watching people grow as writers and people.

Snowy: Of course, that’s great! So it seems our time is up for today, but thank you so much for joining us, Mango. We really appreciate it, and good luck with your hosting! We all can’t wait to see what you and the other mascots and hosts do with SWC.

Mango the Mudskipper: Thanks for having me!
~
Word count: 664 words

Simile, courtesy of Veni: “The dog’s bark was more like the kind that existed on trees.”

Annabelle was absolutely thrilled to be getting a dog. Today was her ninth birthday, and for the past six years (or in other words, all the years of birthdays she could at least sort of remember), she had been wishing for a dog. And now? Now, it was finally going to happen. It was like a dream come true for her, honestly. Her three-year-old self would have been jumping up and down and screaming with excitement — though that wasn’t to say that the newly nine-year-old Annabelle wasn’t doing precisely that.

Anyway, her parents opened the door to their car for her, saying that because it was her birthday, they had to treat her like royalty. And my goodness, she did enjoy it. Why couldn’t every birthday — scratch that, every day — be like this?

They drove for precisely twenty one minutes and thirty four seconds (and Annabelle’s parents were well aware of this because she not only counted, but she counted out loud for the entire ride) until they finally pulled up at a pet store, filled with lonesome little puppies staring out the windows, waiting for a lovely (and equally little) child to come and pick them up.

Annabelle ran through the door without a care at all for how silly she looked. All she could think about was how she would soon have a pet. A dog! She couldn’t believe it.

As soon as she entered, she was met with a cacophony: the sounds of dogs barking intermingling with one another, with the occasional meow and hiss from a cat, but not particularly often. She looked to her left, where there sat a small golden retriever. He couldn’t have been more than…actually, Annabelle was really bad at figuring out ages based on looks with people, and dogs were even harder. But she was pretty sure it was a puppy, anyway.

“THAT ONE!” she screamed, but her parents were only just walking in, not really in the mood to run and make a scene like Annabelle did. Such things were acceptable for nine-year-olds, but decidedly less so for adults.

Annabelle’s mom looked at her. “Are you sure? You haven’t even played with it yet.”


Annabelle sighed. “Fine. May I play with this dog?” She addressed the question to the shopkeeper.

“Of course,” the shopkeeper said, and then he moved to let the dog out of the cage.

The dog barked, loudly. Quite frankly, Annabelle was surprised. It wasn’t exactly how she expected it to sound.

You see, the dog’s bark was more like the kind that existed on trees. In other words, it was scratchy. Hard. Sharp, just like splinters. But it didn’t make Annabelle want this dog any less.

“He’s perfect,” she whispered. “And do you know what I’m going to name it?”

Annabelle’s mom shook her head. Her dad smiled and said, “What are you going to name it, Annabelle?”

Annabelle thought for a moment before saying, “Tree! Because that’s what his voice sounds like. He’s going to be my dog.”

For a moment, her parents laughed, but that was before they realized that she was being completely serious. “Well…okay,” her mom said.

After paying and all that, Annabelle walked out with her new dog — Tree — in his carrier, smiling the whole time. She didn’t know that “Tree” wasn’t exactly a pretty name, but she didn’t really care either.
~
Word count: 561 words

“The future of the world rests in your hands now.”

That’s what she told me, right before she left. “Left,” actually, is kind of the wrong word. Rather, she ascended to the sky in a manner that sounds more elegant than it actually looked, so I’ll just keep it at “left” for that reason.

Anyway, being told that? Absolutely terrifying. I mean, what are you supposed to do now?

Obviously we’ve all heard stories about how one little action can change the future drastically by setting off a major chain reaction and stuff, but I’ve got to say, I really don’t think what I have for lunch really matters in the grand scheme of things. But either way, I’m kind of getting ahead of myself.

You see, I’ve always been a bit of a loner, always keeping to myself and trying to work things out on my own. It wasn’t until she came in and announced that I was “important” in one way or another that I realized that I was supposed to work with other people. Yeah…that was a pretty big change, I’d say.

I had been enjoying my life in the countryside, and I had to say, being thirty minutes away by car from the nearest city definitely had its benefits. The whole place was so quiet. I could keep to myself and take care of myself, and it didn’t really matter what I did to other people, because, quite simply, there wasn’t anybody there that my actions really affected.

Then, all of a sudden, she appeared in my house. I’d say it was like seeing a ghost, except what made it even more terrifying was that she looked utterly human in almost all ways but one: She had wings. This, of course, was how she ascended when she told me that thing earlier, but that’s a different story. Right then, I could barely contain my gasp.

I’d consider myself a rather paranoid person, so it wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to just…lock the doors, even when I was home to monitor things. Despite the fact that the nearest house was at least half a mile away.

So yes, color me surprised when, out of nowhere, this strange…being, I guess? Just comes out and stares me right in the eye, and I know nothing about how on earth she got there in the first place, because I thought I had eliminated all of those possibilities.

Anyway. She said that my talents — whatever those were — would be useful to the population somehow. I think, actually, upon further reflection, that what she was really looking for was how to train us all — and by that, I mean the entire world (as if that wouldn’t be a task in and of itself) — to become as self-sufficient as I had become by that point.

A little bit excited, and a little bit scared, I had agreed to help her. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? I didn’t know what she would be able to do to me if I refused her, so naturally, I agreed.

Plus, it was kind of nice to think that I was special, at least for a little while, right?

But it was only a few weeks — scratch that, a few days, honestly — before she abandoned me, right in the middle of my supposed training.

“I think you’ve mastered what I want you to learn,” is what she told me, right before that phrase came. What was it that I had even mastered, though? As much as I hated (and, okay, didn’t want to admit) that I hadn’t learned anything from her — not anything of note, anyway — surely there was still more to be done, right?

Here’s my working theory, actually: We were planning to send the human species to mars, and she was attempting to help me understand how I could make it more habitable. Too bad I really wasn’t the right person for that.

But what I’m really trying to get at here was that it was absolutely terrifying to be suddenly told, without any warning and with no training that mattered, that I was suddenly going to be in charge of the world’s fate.

As if that wasn’t a major responsibility, right? I don’t know what she expected from me, and personally, I don’t think I want to. I’m done with all these games.
~
Word counter: 734 words

Forgetting was easy. All we had to do was distance ourselves from our pasts.

***

Our amnesia was a choice.

We broke our bones in August, for the summer was ending, and we spent the rest of the autumn in casts of our own making. Healing, healing, healing, we called it.

November came with a gust of cool air and the first frosts of our warming seasons. Though the leaves had fallen long before that, this was the first time we could truly claim winter. We didn’t know what else it was, so we made it a part of ourselves.

In December, we forgot ourselves. Like I told you, it was a choice. We turned away from our pasts, because without them, we could define our futures. We became the tailors of our own plans. Only, it didn’t work out like how we expected it to. Instead, we became the masters of our own destruction, all while trying to pass it off like we had greater plans for ourselves.

We made ourselves our own omniscient authors, so far-seeing that we failed to see what was right in front of us, and just as quickly, we froze over like our past had never existed. So it was easier to forget.

June came quickly, but our hearts are still ice. We’re still made of the winters in which we were born. Except now, because it is not natural, we are questioned.

They ask me, Who are you? Tell me, who are you now?

And they ask me, If you could go back and change something — what you did, who you are, whatever, what would it be?

But I press my lips together, silence as much our fortress as amnesia. Answers exist in my mind, but they are not things to be spoken. Because how am I to tell you that my greatest regret is all that I did not become?
~
Word count: 317 words

when we were younger,
we climbed to the top of the trees in our backyard,
and we wrote about them.
because that was who we were.
that was our story.
two little girls,
craving that kind of adventure.

when the stores shut down
and the schools shut down,
we were nowhere
but at home.
we had our lunch picnics in the garden
because we stared at the screens all morning
till our eyes hurt
and we grew restless,
and when we went back inside,
we were surrounded
by all the boxes we were packing,
all the empty in our house.
those last few nights,
we were left
with a dining room
without a table,
doing cartwheels across the floor
where there used to be couches.
we were left
with just two mattresses on the floor,
and our family of four stayed there,
watching episodes of i love lucy
on our mom’s old laptop.

we took a flight
midday,
but the airports were empty.
we flew
fifteen hours
and eight thousand
four hundred
and thirty-four miles
to start anew.

it’s been a few years since that,
but sometimes,
i still long for our home
all that way back
until i remember
that i am not sure if i can call it mine anymore.

now,
i walk on edges,
and you retreat to your own world,
and i’m so scared
that we have become strangers
after all this time.
~
Word count: 237 words

The girl was in line to board the plane, tightly clutching the hand of a man nearly thrice her height. To any other onlooking passenger, this was a pitiful sight, for the girl stumbled about, her free hand grasping at the walls and clawing at the air.

She had long pink hair reminiscent of peach blossoms, and wore elaborate garb.

A red dress with a wraparound skirt and embroidered patterns, a golden sash. She had gloves with large blue gemstones on the back.

Yet with the way she shook and sobbed, one wouldn’t have guessed she could possibly be of noble descent.

And within those holes bloomed flowers.

She did not bleed, no, it appeared the flowers replaced her internal organs. She had flowers where the sockets of her eyes were, too, and was blind.

He had rectangular spectacles and graying hair, and wore a knit sweater vest over a black dress shirt.

He had limbs like sticks, but the way he glared at the onlookers made him appear much more threatening. “Shush, little meadowsweet,” he whispers, his voice low and raspy. “Lyndelle, stop shouting, we’re going to the beach.”

The man holding Lyndelle’s hand took one long stride forward, and she desperately scrambled her legs backwards, pulling on his arm.

Then she doubled over, wincing loudly in pain as five-petaled flowers of red and yellow hues emerged from her back, ripping the dress above it. Wallflowers.

“When will it stop?” She patted over her back with her hands, shaking. “Doctor, WHEN WILL IT STOP?”

“Soon. I promise.” Then the doctor lifted her up on his shoulders, making her yelp. Then they boarded the plane and took their seats.

And Lyndelle was left alone, with nothing more than the sound of footsteps fading into the distance, and the clattering rolling of luggage wheels. She was floating in the void, and she screamed until she couldn’t hear her own voice. She ran, but she did not know where she was going.

Meanwhile, the doctor, with only his bag in hand, neither smiled nor frowned. He simply took one last look at the airport building before stepping onto the bus.

“If I could cut these seconds into pieces
I'd find a place for us to hide
In between the twos and threes
If I could stop the hands of time” (“Sacrifice Tomorrow” by Alec Benjamin)

“If I could stop right now, stop time, I would be breathing every two minutes.” (Google Translated version)

I’m running. As fast as I possibly can, not entirely sure why, except for the fact that there is something large and looming behind me. I can’t quite see what it is (obviously, as I’m facing forward, and there is literally no way I’m going to spare the time to look behind me when I’m scared to death that it’s just going to eat me whenever it inevitably catches up to me), but I can just feel its presence. And its shadow. Oh, my goodness, its shadow. It’s massive.

I can see it, all around me, and even though I must be at least a good…twenty paces (yeah, maybe not actually that good) ahead, it’s still surrounding my own shadow. That is most definitely not a good sign at all.

I quicken my pace again, but I’m panting so hard already, and I’m pretty sure my lungs can’t keep up with my legs. Neither can the rest of me, to be honest. By tomorrow — but let’s be real, if I make it there — I can already guess how sore I’m going to be. That’s a lie. I probably will not be able to properly imagine it because this is more than I’ve ever run before. I mean, I’m not a runner. Never have been. But now? This situation has turned me into one. Who knew? All I ever needed for motivation to get my exercise was that threat of death.

Focus, I tell myself. Less thinking, more running. I hazard a glance at the floor again, its shadow being my only meter of our distance, since I don’t want to anger it further by meeting its eyes or anything, since I do know for a fact that that CAN happen.

If I could stop right now, stop time, I would be breathing every two minutes. That’s what comes to mind as my lungs begin to give out, and I heave for breath. Even if I were to stop, I would barely be able to take in any air. I’m debating the merits of trying to find a place to climb up or something so I can at least have a bit of privacy from whatever this thing is, and maybe a bit of time to catch my every-two-minute-only breath, but then I remember that I’m not a particularly good climber, either. Well. That sure does make things difficult.

So. If hiding is not an option, then what does that leave me with? Running. I guess that’s all I’ve got. I struggle to draw air again, and then I force myself to move faster.

Hopefully it’s not going to get to me.
~
Word count: 441 words

What does it mean…
I kneel, placing my still-beating heart into iron hands.
…to sell your soul?

It was traditional to offer something to the deities when you came of age, asking for a wish granted in return. The greater the sacrifice, the more you received. Many gave a family heirloom they cherished, or long-hoarded savings, or the promise that they would dedicate this or that to their chosen deity. Some would offer the best of their labors: the most perfect apple they’d ever picked, the most beautiful dress they’d ever sewn.
I climbed the stone steps slowly as the priests chanted the words of the ceremony in an ancient language, blessing the youth and, I suspected, praying to the deities that no one would make too foolish of a wish.
I wondered what they would think of mine.

My collar itched on my neck, but I didn’t dare scratch it and ruin the sacred moment.

There were five of us today. I didn’t know the boy who stood to my left after we mounted the final stairs, but Callie was to my right, her hair in a simple black braid hanging down her back. Loose wisps of hair had escaped, framing a face flushed in excitement.

The rose, though lovely, would fade quickly, becoming nothing more than scarlet dust.

“I offer my heart, my life-blood to the deities…”
Pain shot through my chest, and I gasped, red light coalescing above my palms to form a throbbing mass, which I placed on the figure’s cold hands. Unless the deities accepted my offer and sustained my life, within moments, I would die.
“…in return, I wish-”
I had to stop for a second, wheezing through the agony.
“-to become the greatest artist the world has ever known.”

Silence fell, thicker than honey, dripping down the sides of reality. In that heartbeat, it felt as though the world had stopped, and turned, and looked, eyes wide with wonder and fear.

I lay panting on the stone, desperate for life, for breath.
The place where my heart had been throbbed, once.
And then the pain was gone, and I could stand.
A breeze whispered around my feet, and for a moment I thought I heard a voice within.
A daring boy, to be sure…and a foolish one. Laughter.
Then everything exploded back into color and sound and chaos, the crowd shouting and stamping, candles sputtering on the ground as the priests panicked.

My heart now throbbed in iron hands, no longer mine - but that was the cost of greatness, right?

Callie was waiting for me when I stepped outside, as she always was, ready for our usual walk. She had the little crease between her brows that meant she thought I had spent too long in my studio, but I ignored it.
Today she seemed to have something on her mind as we walked. She jittered in a way that was unlike the girl I knew, flushing and paling at irregular intervals. I began to wonder if she was ill.
“Do you love me?” Callie blurted.
I stopped walking and stared at her. A cart rumbled by behind us, and I imagined the driver snickering over what she’d said.
“What?”
She looked down, toying with a strand of hair. “I just…I do, but you never said anything, and you’ve never talked to any of the other girls but I don’t know because you never even looked at me like you…like you might. And I wanted to know."
A year ago, I’d held my own heart in my hands. Now it seemed that I held Callie’s, and a mistake would cost me the companionship of a lifetime.

Maybe once I could have given her my heart. But it wasn’t mine to give away anymore.

Somewhere, a forsaken heart throbs painfully, seeking for what has been lost.

So I locked my lips instead. I locked the door to my studio. And I locked myself out of our life.

Somewhere, a forgotten heart beats in iron hands, patches of it turning cold and stony.

Eventually, I made a breakthrough in my art, and suddenly everyone was craving my canvases. Callie moped, tending her garden for hours or wandering listlessly around the house, but I was too busy to pay attention.

And I’d gladly make the same sacrifice again to gain the fame that was started to trail my works.

With every beat, it grows cooler, more rigid, as the essence that made it a heart escapes.

“I’m sorry, dear,” I said absentmindedly, wondering what would happen if I mixed scarlet and vermilion. “You should go get some rest.”

I stood up and dashed to her side just in time to catch her as she fell, coughing and coughing and coughing. Crimson leaked from her mouth. I studied her for the first time in months, maybe years. She looked so fragile, hands calloused from gardening and trembling from her weakness, midnight hair streaked with ash.

I didn’t reply, fascinated by the color painting her lips. It was beautiful, redder than the rose she had sacrificed on that long-ago day, redder than my heart had been. For a moment I wondered if I should feel something - but the empty canvas beckoned behind me, its call louder than anything else.

“Did you…ever…love me?”
“Callie, it’s - it’s all right. You’ll be fine,” I tried to reassure her.

I rubbed sticky scarlet fingers together as I searched for what else to say. It was just a cough, of course, but then, the blood…I stared at my fingers, and on an impulse, I stood and swiped my hand across the canvas. My next painting came together with a click.
I didn’t notice until the dead silence fell that Callie had stopped breathing.

Somewhere, two hearts have stopped beating.
I am the greatest artist the world has ever known.
What does it mean to sell your soul?

I long to run into the arms of those who broke me
I ache to be taken back to that simple pain
But alas
The angels do not answer

Tell me
Is there a god?

Tell me?
Why do they not answer?

Tell me
As you claim to hold the answers in the palm of your hand

Tell me
My god

My god
You do not tell me

They hug me
I do not resist
How could I?

When they are all I have called out for
When they are all I have longed to reach

Lay me to rest
Her whispers poison my ears
She is not asking me
She is asking me

When did my scared hands reach for the blade? When I asked her why she did not say.

I am blind
My eyes cannot see
I scream

Screaming for someone to hear me.
They never hear me.

Why not?
Do they ignore me?

Is it me?
My angels tell me why.

They hug me

I feel the warmth in my bones
They are holding me up
The structure of my home
The home that holds me soul

It protects me
And it hates me

I am mad
All poets are
We all reach for the intangible being that we have to

I, the poet reach out my hand for the freedom
Just out of reach.
Too far, some may argue.
But the poet, I reach out nonetheless.
It is in my blood
The blood of the poet to reach out.
It is what makes a poet.
What curses them with their beautiful words.
Their soft tales.
The fact they alway reach out.
Day after day.
Year after year.
They reached for something nobody could see.
I reach for something nobody can see
Some doubt even the poet can see it.
I cannot
But they can feel it.
So we reach out.
Always stretching their hands.
Falling, getting up. And reaching again.
One day, the poet will grasp it.
One day the poet will see.
One day the poet will feel so much that they cannot contain.

That is when they become our tortured poets.
Tortured with the words they cannot share.

The poet reaches every day.
And then when they have reached it, they often wonder what they reached out for.
They are filled with so much emotion, so many words.
The words of the lost souls.
But they cannot translate these words.
So they are left to cry and swim in their own minds.
Trying to capture the beauty the voices feed them.
Failing every time.

And then the poet becomes one of them.
It becomes a lost soul speaking in a foreign tongue to another tortured poet who cannot express the words he could not express.
The cycle continues.

And every poet reaches out, because it is in their blood to fall. And to get back up again.
It is in their blood to reach and reach and reach for what they desire.
It is in their blood to try to write their soul onto paper.
To share their words.
To spill their blood onto the paper they lay upon and hope it releases the souls free.

I reach out over the cliff
And only my angels answer

I scream.

Screaming not enough
Screaming will never be enough

If I give in to her beautiful warmth
Give in to the flame
Reach further than I can

I will fall
Fall not to the ground, as I’ve done so many times

But fall to fly

And I will join the smoke of the flames
My bones
My structure will become but a part of the stars
I will see
But I will be lost

Your loss does not define you
Then how do I live with this piece of me gone
How do I live with this pain
This hole inside me nothing could ever fill

There is a little tear in my soul
A little crack in my structure
Some pain tangled with this grief
Grief
A simple word to define something so heavy

My God

I dwell in this half state
Cracks in my bones
Splinters in my soul
The angels of demons whispering in my ears

The flame I long to lend myself to
The smoke I long to join as my ashes are charred
Left to nature's embrace

My angels-
Demons
They are demons

My demons mummer into my ear

My god
You gave up on me

Or I gave up on you

They will carry me to my Madness

And I fall into her embrace
She holds me
And I cry