⇾ Daily #1 (Intros) ⚘

Hey there!
My name is Poppy, but I go by several nicknames (Popcorn, for those who remember the foodie cult). I'm a teenager from an undisclosed location in an undisclosed corner of the universe (well, Earth). This is my fifth session of SWC, and I'm the co-leader for the fantastic and amazing thriller cabin!
I submitted my application in January, just kind of as a way to be more a part of the SWC community. I really wasn't expecting any offers, but lo and behold, here we are. I'm so excited to be co-leading this session alongside CJ and Rockie, who are two very awesome people <33 (If you aren't following them, this is your sign to go and do that!!)
SWC has changed my life in so many ways, and I'm so grateful for the amazing memories and friends I've made along the way (shoutout to Mouse, Bella, Kenzie, Ris, Vi, Summer, Nova, Mint, Clev, and dozens more that I don't have time to type out since I'm speedrunning this before school <3)
As you can obviously tell, I'm an obsessive writer. I've been telling stories my whole life, but I really started taking writing seriously in 2020, when the pandemic started and I realized there was a whole lot of things I wanted to get down on paper. I'd like to list off all the genres I like writing in, but the problem is… I like all of them. I really do. I like fantasy, sci fi, adventure, dystopian, horror, thriller, romance, realistic fiction, non fiction… all of it! I guess that I just like writing, regardless of the genre. I like building stories and characters and seeing where they take me.
Since beginning my writing journey, I've completed 2 novels, participated in NaNoWriMo 4 times (and won twice!), participated in multiple writing compitions, and I'm currently working on submitting some writing for a scholarship.
Besides writing, I'm also a book lover. I can't even express the way that reading has changed and shaped my life. I'd be a very different (and frankly, worse) person without it. Some of my favorite books/series include Harry Potter (Ravenclaw is supreme <3), Percy Jackson (Daughter of Athena, and I also happen to be the one person who thinks of consensus song anytime anyone claps at all), Anne of Green Gables (<33), Six of Crows (Kaz and Inej :sob: <33), Mistborn (currently finishing book 3), and many more. However, as great as these are, my top three favorites of all time are– Elantris (Brandon Sanderson's debut novel. I don't know why I love it so much, but I do), The Princess Bride (amazing book, amazing movie, with a premise so inconcievable that I'm bound to repeat that word multiple times), and my all-time favorite, Pride and Prejudice (second shout out to Vi, who is one of the only people I've ever spoken to who fully understands how amazing this book- and its adaption(s) - is <33). Jane Austen is such a witty writer, and her ability to develop characters is absolutely amazing.
Outside of my word-y world, I'm a music lover, in every sense of the word. I participate in my school’s orchestra on violin. I’ve been playing for almost 8 years in one-on-one lessons, and it’s just something that makes me happy! There’s something special about that moment before a piece starts, or when a piece has all the parts coming together… it’s just amazing. It’s how I get my serotonin XD
I’m also in choir, which is one of the lights of my life. It’s such a fun community… I literally can’t even put it into words. It’s just so much fun. I was really, really lucky because I recently got to participate in our regional choir, which is really competitive. I didn’t think I’d get in since I’m pretty inexperienced, but my judge ended up being *shocking* nice, and I made it in! Choir is just a blast… sometimes it gives of SWC vibes XD
I also play piano, ukulele, and guitar, but those are just kind of little things I do on the side. I’m currently learning the score to the P&P movie on piano, which is a struggle, but so so worth it <33
And even outside of that, I also just love listening to music. I’m a huge musical theatre fan, so I listen to a lot of Les Mis, Phantom, Hadestown, Hamilton, In the Heights, Camelot, Waitress, Six, Little Shop, Into the Woods, etc. I could go on for days. I’m a huge oldies fan, too, so you’ll find a lot of the Beatles, Beach Boys, Ronettes, Buddy Holly, etc. in my playlist. Not to say I don’t enjoy the modern stuff!! I listen to a lot of Sara Bareilles (gives me such nostalgia for July 23 session <33), Jack Johnson (sounds of my entire life), Hozier (his debut album has absolutely zero bad songs), and Taylor Swift (folklore/evermore/speak now reign supreme).Also, (and you thought I couldn’t *possibly* talk about music any longer), I listen to a lot of classical! Huge Tchaikovsky and Vivaldi fan :>
Well, I’m still just shy of my 1000 word goal so… might as well go into my SWC history :shrug:
I participated in my first session in March of 2022 (gosh, that feels like ages ago :0), but a whole lot of unexpected IRL things came up (plus I still could not figure out the difference between in-cabin dailies and main cabin dailies XD), so I ended up being really inactive throughout the month.
I decided to give it another try in March of 2023 (in the amazing Non-Fi Fossil Dig <33), and it ended up being exactly what I needed. I was a little *hyper*-active during that month. I did every daily, every weekly… yeah. It was a little much. However, it was such an amazing experience that I was so, so grateful for. I ended up getting an hm in the writing comp, which was… honestly, really weird. I kind of last-minute-wrote that entry. I’ve discovered since that I’m a better writer when I procrastinate… yeah, I think I’ll stick with that conclusion. I can’t even express how much I loved that session. It ended up being something that I was able to turn to when things got tough <3 I still have so much nostalgia for that session <33
Then came July 2023, which was a blast. I got to know a lot of swc-ers even better, and I made a bunch of new friends that session. Lyric was an absolutely amazing cabin and one I miss every single day. I’ll also never forget the spost heculation that ensued (kermit <3)
Then onward to November 2023! I participated in National Novel Writing Month that session, so while I only completed ~8 dailies, I was able to get a bunch of words. I also got another hm in the writing comp, another result of my procrastination :>
I decided about 6 hours into January that I might as well apply for co-leader, but I figured that I would mostly apply for fun because I really didn’t think I’d get any offers (as I already said). I made an app about the greatest place on earth (englandddd <3), and I magically (Cj magic :00) got asked to colead for thriller. Since then, Thriller has grown into the best cabin around and will inevitably win.
It’s only facts, guys.
Anyway… there we are!

⇾ 1256 words ⚘

⇾ Daily #2 (Compliment) ⚘

(Compliment chosen - “Good job” - from Kenzie <3)

I dip my fingers in the cold water, letting the numbness of the river cool my senses. I relax and breathe deeply until I feel my mind come into a state of calmness.
Slowly, I draw water from the river.
In the air, the water turns as silver as the clouds.
The smell of metal fills the air.
And silver drops from the sky like rain
Lia wanders over to me. Her hair is tangled up with leaves, but she still manages to look put-together. She seems like a wood sprite, at home in the forest, but ready to embark on an adventure.
We both found it amusing that I, the sister of the ideal heroine, was the one keeping our lives together.
“Good job,” she says, looking at the shining drops that had fallen to the forest floor. “That should cover our expenses for another week.”
I clench my teeth together, a nervous habit. “Don't you think we should be earning money?”
Lia looks genuinely stunned. “We are.”
"Well..firstly, I am. And secondly, I meant by doing a job. Not just me coming out here and turning water into whatever metal you feel like.“
”But isn't changing it hard?“
I nod, but it doesn't do it justice.
It doesn't do the pain justice. The bones of my hands feel like they themselves are twisting and contorting like water sloshing over the side of a vase.
It only ever hurts.
”Then it's work. No guilt needed.“
”We aren't doing anything for anyone but ourselves, though.“
She rolled her eyes. ”You're thinking too hard about this. We need to get home."
I clutched the drops of silver in my hands and pushed them into my pockets.
Lia didn't understand, she never would.
All of life was gold and silver to her.
For me, it was bright blue with streaks of black clouds.
Almost perfect, but with flaws that anyone could notice.
I walked home behind Lia, ignoring the precious metals that dripped from my fingertips.

⇾ 336 words ⚘

⇾ Daily #3 (Anthems) ⚘

Thriller
Thriller Academy
On a mountain tall
We whip around the skies
Right above them all
We climb the ranks
To the top of the board
We rejoice in our victory
And our mango hoard
Purple, blue
Green, off-white
A “thrilling”
And beautiful sight
Our insects
Near and dear to us
All flying and writing
Leaving others in the dust
Is victory a chance
Or just a guarantee?
For the insects,
It's all for one, all for me
As March moves on
And we write more
We flex our fingers
As they grow sore
Thriller reigns above
The other cabins
We chant “Go thriller,
Insects for the win!”

–
Script
Script, they say
Is a cabin killer
(Though maybe not as much
As it's dear sib. Thriller)
They act upon
Their golden stage
They sing and cheer
Cabin of an age
They type away
As they smile for crowds
They write stories
And paint fake clouds
A troupe of talent
Writing and acting
Their words and tales
Sweetly impacting
They hold talent
Like few others
Close to Dysto/Riller
Their cabin-ly brothers
They do their dailies
And act their scenes
They work on weeklies
Led by an epic team
They work all day
Perform all night
Just to do it again
Just so they can write
–
Myth
Oh, golly
The road's gettin' bumpy
Because dear old Myth
Is travelling along
Oh, dear
Their cabin's just so funny
An absolute gem
To write along
Deeds of heroism
Tales of mercy
Definitely not inspired
By this kid named Percy
Percy, who's he?
I'm not quite sure
Probably a guinea pig
With black-and-green fur
As Myth works along
Writing their odysseys
They work towards glory
It's all they see
“Kleos” they will earn
From winning the game
SWC, capture the flag
To them, it's the same
Wise like Athena
Strong like Zeus
Putting their keyboards
And pens to good use
—
Dystopian
Welcome to the ruins, kid
A world of inevitable pain
But not really, though
'Cause you're here in dystopian
Yeah, it *sounds* kinda bad
But it's actually pretty great
Here you'll find and make
Some of your best ever mates (I'm watching bluey so I'm sounding like an Aussie sjdhfjkhskj)
We're known for being terrible
It's our whole definition
But we're actually working
In fairly good conditions
Nothing's so horribly bad
When you've got a team
With us, we're more of a utopia
Than it might really seem
Our ruined towers rise above
As our word counts grow
We walk along and write all day
With shining glory in tow

⇾ 421 words ⚘

⇾ weekly #1 ~ (legends) ⚘

(weekly runs from 3/4 to 3/11)

⇾ Part One ~ (Mythology - Retelling) ⚘

Artemis Huntwire is on the prowl, and no one is about to hold her back.
No one can.
President of the school's feminism club, astrology fanatic (she knows everyone's moon signs, much to their confusion), and avid hunter.
No one sees her enter school, they just know that she shows up first hour, looking like she's about to tackle the geometry teacher.
Artemis, of course, found this ridiculous. She hadn't tackled a teacher since the third grade. And, anyway, that one had deserved it.
They'd called her an ‘odd, though cute little girl’. He'd even nicknamed her “Missy,” from the ending of her name.
Artemis took multiple offensives from this.
Firstly, she was not odd. She was mysterious. Sure, that might have seemed off to a teacher who only taught snotty children with no sense of culture, but Artemis just took things seriously, like an adult. None of the other kids could make that sort of claim.
Secondly, she was not cute. She was as radiant as the moon in a silky blue sky. Cute was a word used for the weak. Radiant was a word used for those who took the world by storm, who never took ‘no’ from anyone, who would climb to the heavens themselves if it meant getting in her way.
And she was not “Missy.” Missy was the pink-clad Aphrodite (or Dotty, as she was called)
She was Artemis.
Daughter of the moon, child of the hunt, regular community college student.
No one stops a college kid on the prowl.

⇾ word count (250) ⚘

~

⇾ Part Two ~ (Historical Fiction - Place POV) ⚘

(in free verse form for no reason, relating to the Tower of London)

These walls have felt so much
These windows have seen so many things
But they have no mouth
So they cannot speak
It began with the conqueror
William, they called him
The walls will call him
The Creator
The Man With the Armor
The Man With No Home
A Soldier on the Run
The walls were told
That they needed to show power
That they needed to show strength
No one asked the walls
What they wanted to show
The years stretched long
The walls shrank and grew themselves back
The walls became worn and strong
These walls became a prison
For those deemed unseemly
Unworthy
Unneeded
Unkind
Untold
The walls saw the prisoners
And it saw their tears
It felt their anguish
The walls housed two boys
Meant to be a home
It was still a prison
For few things changed
The walls saw their deaths
The walls housed their murd3rer
It became a place of torture
As torture became power
A fox housed there
Only to be burned to this day
A young girl lost her head
She was stupid
She was reckless
She was innocent
It became a home of jewels
Of silver-skined armor
Of people washing in and out
Like waves on an unseen sea
A place of history
Houses its own
People wash in
People wash out
Time washes in
Time washes out
The walls stay there
But they have no mouth
So they cannot speak
No one asked the walls
What they wanted to be

⇾ word count (251) ⚘

~

⇾ Part Three ~ (Fairy Tales - Retelling) ⚘

They will call me a beast.
I will call myself desperate.
Afraid.
I've done wicked things from time to time, yes. Kidnapping is wrong. I know that. Stealing is wrong. I know that. I was raised in a castle, of course my parents took the time to teach me what was right and what was wrong.
I made one mistake. I was rude, thoughtless, and a scared little kid.
Now, I was making mistakes every single day.
The worst mistake I ever made was keeping that old man. I was angry and afraid. I didn't know what I was doing.
His son came for him, begged to trade places.
I let him.
As soon as he was safely locked in his chambers, I'd run to my room and turned down the bedcovers. I'd crawled in and cried a little, remembering the girl I once was.
After that, I'd let him out of his room. He was brave, I had to give him that. He'd immediately confronted me, and I'd had to save face in front of him in order to convince myself that I would be what he told himself I was.
Evil.
We had to keep ourselves seperate, but I had to keep him here.
He will never forgive me.
He will call me a beast.
I will call myself desperate.
Afraid.

(If you can't tell I really like repitition)

⇾ word count (224) ⚘

~

⇾ Part Four ~ (folklore - badly written magical realism) ⚘

“my mind turns your life into folklore
I can't dare to dream about you anymore”

My feet hit the forest floor with a soft thumping, the pine-needles softening the sound. The needles aren't crunching under my feet. The trees are whispering to me, and I touch their bark in affection.
“What happened today?” A pine tree asks. His name is Olrii, and a close friend of mind.
“I saw someone on the streets today. He bought an apple from me,” I said.
“What else?” Olrii asks.
“He was annoying.”
“You're in love,” he says.
I scoff. For once, I don't believe him.
“You always say you hate the people you actually love,” he says.
“This time it's real,” I say. “He didn't even pay.”
“But you're thinking of him,” Eniso says. He is another pine, older even than Olrii.
“Not fondly, I assure you,” I say.
“You're imagining his villainous background, aren't you?”
“Well, who wouldn't?” I say. “A thief shows up at my stall in broad daylight and takes off, and I don't even see a coin. He's probably an escaped convict who's as bloodthirsty as a hound spying a rat.”
The trees seem to snicker, their branches knocking against each other in a hushing sort of sound.
“But you're imagining him.”
I roll my eyes.
“Perhaps he's not as awful as you think,” Olrii says.
“Oh, really?” I say.
“He's another tree-speaker. He sensed you,” Olrii says.
I choke. “You knew about him? He knew about me?”
“He left you a coin actually,” Olrii says. “But I'll only hand it to you if you take back what you said about him.”
I grimace, still shocked. “Why?”
"Well, because he's one of our friends, and he's quite interested in you. He imagines that you've had the quite the career as a damsel who takes on the world behind her shop.
Well, I think, he's not wrong. Simply foolish.
It does not do to imagine people.

⇾ word count (311) ⚘

~

⇾ Part Five ~ (Myth - Genre Swap) ⚘

Jupiter, lord of the skies, sits in a ship that sweeps the stars.
They bow to him.
His son, Apollo, has turned down the light of the sun, and his daughter, Artemis has lit the moon.
Jupiter drifts across the sky, channeling his powers into the central power tank so that the ship has no problem transporting him across the universe. It's another Tuesday.
His phone rings endlessly, but Jupiter ignores the transmissions. He simply lounges in space, enjoying the pina coladas beeing brought to him through the ship on silver trays. A robot voice simliar to that of one of the Muses, sings a song about the same thing he's drinking. There's something about being caught in the rain, a sensation he has never experienced. He controls the rain itself. It never surprises him.
For a moment, he wonders what it must be like to be surprised by the weather.
How pleasant it must be.
He wonders what it must be like to be surprised by the skies.
He opens his eyes at this thought and looks out, beyond the silver screens, to the outer space before him.
No, he'd rather stay in this familiarity.
A god need not change.
And Rome shall stand forever.
He need not fear.

⇾ word count (210) ⚘

~

⇾ Part Six ~ (Fairy Tale - Meetup) ⚘

We were trapped.
Not anymore.
–

Rapunzel (Zelli)
–
Cini sits across from me. She mindlessly swipes dust off the floor of the tower with her fingertip, a remnant of her old stresses.
She understands what it's like to be trapped. She could leave her home when she wanted, but she was trapped.
We're a lot alike. Best of friends even.
I love my husband. I do. But he wouldn't understand.
I knew Cini felt the same.
“How has it been…. since… the wedding?” I say.
Cini smiles a little. “Great. We're happy. The palace is nice. It's clean.”
Of course she catches onto that.
“You?” she asks. “You're definitely trying new things.”
She points at my hair with her dust-covered finger.
I finger the cleanly chopped ends of my hair.
“Yeah,” I say. “It's been different.
”Good different."

Cinderella (Cini)
–
It smells like dust in here. It smells like dirt and dust and spilled tea and cracked stones.
It smells like a cage.
Suddenly, a rush of rebellion I hadn’t felt since that one lone midnight a year ago came over me.
I suddenly looked up at Zelli. “Wanna do something completely and in all respects foolish?”
Her eyes light up. I knew that coming back here would be hard, but she’d begged. Now, she looked more like her usual self.
I grabbed a length of rope that she’d installed a few years back. I tied the rope to the window, grabbed the end and slid down.
The winds whipped around the both of us as we slid to the ground.
I breathed easy.

⇾ word count (266) ⚘

~~~

⇾ total word count (1512) ⚘
⇾ completed on: (3/4) ⚘

⇾ Daily #4 (Tense/POV) ⚘

(rolled a 6 and a 1)

Enia will see the sun rise on August the sixteenth, just as the eagle takes his stance upon the oak tree and the raven stakes his claim for the cedar-wood house.
Enia will turn away from the cliffside, only to see the cedar-home of the raven.
Her home.
The home will be called Flame-Rise, and Enia will be called Rise-Soul.
Enia will not feel like Rise-Soul.
She will feel like Enia.
And Enia will feel scared.
Her brother, Aine, will not understand. Aine will never understand. All he will know is that Enia comes home late and smells like the sun on a scorching day.
She will smell like fire.
He will smell like home, like a home without a hearth.
It will be no place for a fire.
Enia will come home on that August morning, and Aine will not be happy. He will yell, scream, and stare at the door as if he's waiting for someone.
Someone who is not Enia.
Aine will not understand.
At the moment when Enia will be at her worst, when she feels as though she herself is just another scream out of Aine's mouth, the raven will fly in and land where the hearth of their home should have been.
They will not see the eagle on the oak, just outside their door.
They will not see what will come, the things that will come as the sun does.
They will be displaced by the raven, as the raven holds stake over all things that are not as they should be.
Enia will stare at the raven, dark as a night sky, like ashes in a fire. It wil rise slowly from the cabin floor, only to hover over them for a moment as the sun begins to sink in the sky.
The raven will hold the home, as the Rise-Soul falls to the ground, dreaming of a hearth.

⇾ 317 words ⚘

⇾ Daily #5 (continuation chapter) ⚘

“You're a wizard, Harry.”
Hagrid's booming voice seems to drift across the stormy wind, meeting Harry's ears like a wave returning to the sea. A shiver runs up his spine, chilling him to the bone, as if he suddenly felt his destiny settling comfortably on his shoulder.
“…I… I know,” Harry says.
“You do?” Hagrid raises a shaggy eyebrow in surprise.
“I, well, no, I didn't, but… I know now,” Harry says. “I can feel it.”
Hagrid seems to get teary-eyed. He doesn't notice that the Dursleys are cocooned in a corner while Dudley whimpers like a wounded hog that's missed its breakfast.
“Your parents would be so proud,” Hagrid says.
Harry thinks back fondly on his parents.
How much he missed them, though he'd never known them.
“Yes, the Scorios really were a good family,” Hagrid says, dabbing at his puppy-like brown eyes with a tattered hankie.
“Huh?” Harry says. Scorios?
“You, my boy. Harry Scorios.” Hagrid seems as confused as Harry.
“I'm… Potter,” Harry says.
Hagrid seems to begin to panic, his hands fluttering around his face wildly. “I've messed it all up again!”
Harry begins to panic too.
Hagrid finally pulls a pink umbrella from his coat. “I'm sorry, Harry. My mistake.”
“Obliviate.”



*note to self – S-F here ^^

⇾ 206 words ⚘

⇾ word wars ⚘

⇾ word war with Sandy ⚘

I know that everything I see is covered in a perfect little cover of glass so that I can't truly touch it.
I know that.
They don't want me to.
But that's alright. They don't want me to know a lot of things, and I'm alright with that.
I am alright with that because I know that I will be able to find all the things that are hiding from me, and they will never know that I have found them. They won't ever see that I see the things that they wish would go unseen.
They get to keep the secrets with their little covers of glass, and I'll keep my secrets with the cover of my docile-eyed expression and small pleasant smile.
They will never know that I see the things that are meant to be clear like glass.
They are the things that are meant to be seen through, rather than seen at all. No one wants to look directly at glass, they want to see what is through it. They want to see the things that it's meant to show them.
But when your entire life and world is made of glass, then it's not much of a problem to think of everything and anything like it's glass.
Like it's something to be looked at.
There has to be room in your life to look at anything, no matter what it is.
You have to look at the nooks and crannies.
Or else they can deceive you.
And believe me, dear reader, dear innocent, they will deceive you.
It's in their nature, and a person cannot help their nature. They are what they think they are, and they will think themselves up many things.
They will think themselves heroes and villains.
They will see themselves as heroes and villains.
But I've spent my life knowing about the idea of seeing and unseeing, and I think that I am neither.
I don't do much of anything except look.
I look at secrets. I look at glass secrets.
I look at the world through crystal-clear glass.
I am the narrator.
I am not just a narrator, rather, I am the narrator of all.
I am the narrator of all stories that are seen and unseen.
I know that I am deceived, for those storytellers will write what th

(total words ⇾ 404 ⚘)

~

⇾ word war with kit ⚘

When one is in the presence of ghosts, there's really only one thing to be done.
And what is that you may ask?
You run.
Not a way from them, as most people would have you believe. You run toward them .
Why?
Well, it's sort of complicated. You have to run at them and tell them that you want to become one with them.
What if you don't, you may be asking. Well, the truth is that they don't really want you to become one with them. They believe that all souls that die ought to be sent to the afterlife, that they may enjoy the fruits of their life's successes. They don't wish for others to suffer from the same fate that they do.
The only problem is if you actually do want to become one with them. If you actually do want to remain on the earth as a spirit.
It's something that I had to learn.
I know, it's strange to want to be a ghost.
But ghosts have something that others do not know about. They have the ability to be in the presence of those they love, while being able to speak to them.
Not really speak, you must know.
They have the ability to affect their emotions.
I must be able to do that.
Once I become a ghost, I can remove the sadness they'd feel for me.

(total words ⇾ 230 ⚘)

~

⇾ word war with xxx ⚘

xxx

(total words ⇾ xxx ⚘)

⇾ Daily #8 (international women's day!!) ⚘

(before I start, I've just got to say- this is a fantastic daily. I'm all about women in STEM and feminism <33)

Dear Rosalind Franklin,

My name is (name) or (Poppy). I've spent my entire life loving math and science in a way I can't describe. I've gone through school constantly being told that I needed to pick out a career. A lot of the boys in my class would say things like “astronaut” or “engineer”, and for a time I honestly thought that “teacher” was one of the only options that was really open to me.
But to me, I love science. I love genetics (which you happen to know an awful lot about), and especially neuroscience. I want to become a lab neuroscientist or a neurologist someday so that I can help people with brain diseases, memory issues, etc.
That wouldn't be very possible without you and what you did for women in science.
You worked hard in your lab and made one of the great breakthroughs in genetics. Because of your hard work, you… you've made so many things possible for me.
I doubt you would have thought of yourself this way at all, but you're a hero.
I've been met with sexism about this in the past. I've been laughed at for stating my beliefs of women in STEM. I've been mocked in class for caring about my classes and my grades. I've been made fun of for talking about my dream colleges.
You were met with sexism, too, in ways that I won't ever be able to understand.
But you went through a lot of that, and because of it, I have more of an opportunity to change the world.
Your work in science and genetics was life changing for many people. Because of your work, scientists today are working to create help for people with cancer and other terrible genetic diseases. People are able to understand why they look the way that they do. People are able to perform surgeries better than ever before.
The world is changing.
Thank you for your work, and Happy International Women's Day.
Yours,
A future neurologist and genetics enthusiast
A young woman in STEM
A young woman looking to make this a better world

⇾ 354 words ⚘

⇾ Daily #14 (tense/pov) ⚘

I stand on my tiptoes, tasting the pine on the wind, wishing that I could be a little taller, if only so that I could reach out and brush my fingers through the fog that hung over the peaks.
The fog seems to hang over my head, just out of reach.
I can feel the creases of the envelope in my hand. The top left corner curls in a little. Someone used Wite-Out on the return address. At the bottom, there’s a very small tear that just barely reveals the blue-white tinge of the paper on the inside.
My fingers are trembling slightly, but I don’t really notice for a minute or two. When I finally become aware of my shaking, I forcibly still my hands and focus on the task at hand.
It’s simple.
It’s easy.
It’s impossible.
I need to open the letter. It’s not hard. I’ve been expecting it for months.
Why can’t I open it?
The voice in my head grows stronger.
You have to. You’ve prepared for this.
But have I?
I have. I’ve thought and thought and spent dozens of sleepless nights staring at my ceiling.
I’m not ready.
I open it.
The type is a clean font, something you might see in an old, outdated textbook. The signature at the bottom is large, swirling, and takes up the majority of the bottom half of the page.
I haven’t read a word yet, but the sight of the letter fills me with dread.
I close my eyes and attempt to ignore the images that flash through it.
I open my eyes. I need to just rip the Band-Aid off. I need to read it.
I read the letter.
It’s what I expect.
“I heard you’d be here,” a lilting voice says.
I turn around. No one is there.
“It’s not polite to hide and taunt at the same time,” I said crossly.
The Stickboy swings down from a tree branch and lands in front of me, his little kid grin firmly on his face. He doesn’t know my name, I don’t know his. Neither one of us has ever asked. It doesn’t matter, so long as it’s half-decent company.
“Whatcha got in your hand, huh? Some paper, huh?” Stickboy says. He makes it a habit of his to punctuate every sentence with “huh?”.
He flashes a grin, and instantly puts me in mind of a little brother, if I had one.
“It’s a letter,” I say.
He leaps over. “Give it here, huh?”
I try to protest, but he snatches it out of my hands before I even open my mouth.
He skims it over, and for a moment I wonder if he can even read.
His face goes from childish scheming to mature pity in an instant.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know… that probably wasn’t the response you wanted, huh?”
“Just… leave me be for a minute, alright?”
He swings off, leaving the letter on the ground behind me.
The answer is in ink. I should be able to accept it by now.
I stand on my tiptoes, tasting the pine on the wind, wishing that I could be a little taller, if only so that I could reach out and brush my fingers through the fog that hung over the peaks.

⇾ 555 words ⚘

⇾ daily #15 (ides of march) ⚘

It’s cold today, wouldn’t you say?
The wind has a mocking tinge to it, as if it knew a greatly amusing secret.
A draft passes me by, bringing the voice of the wind with it.
You seem in a hurry today, Daphne. Something wrong?
I am walking behind my family, the edges of my white robe catching on thorns as I walk through the streets of Troy.
Hello. I think. You seem in a hurry as well. Something you’d like to say?
The wind teases my hair, twirling it around like a chime. Hastily, I smooth it down, praying no one sees.
No one wants me to be seen more than I am.
Is there something you’d like to hear?
My patience is frayed.
Tell me, or I swear to the sky and back I’ll go mad. I think angrily.
Tsk, tsk. Feeling off today, are we? Pity.
Tell me! I think. I can feel my anger and impatience showing on my features, and I try to calm myself so that no one on the streets will notice my agitation.
What if I told you today was your doom day? The wind says teasingly.
No more speaking in riddles. I don’t have time for this. Get it out like any regular person would. You’re being incorrigible.
After all my life, it still felt strange to scold the wind when it could tear me off my feet, sweep me into a storm, tear down entire towns with only a fraction of its full might.
You’re going to die today. I thought I made that simple.
Normally, I would have passed this as a joke, something to keep me antsy and aware.
But the chill the wind brings makes me stand a little taller, think a little harder.
Truly? I think. Why do you think that?
Troops iare on their way, out to kill you all. They won’t spare a soul. You’ll be struck easily. The wind sounds a little twittery, like it doesn’t care one way or another what becomes of me.
What? From where? I think, my thoughts loud in my own head.
Sparta, the wind’s voice comes. The wind shifts directions. Off I go again!
The voice becomes silent.
Panic strikes me.
I am going to die.
“Sparta is coming! They’re going to slaughter us!” I cry.
I haven’t spoken in days, I realize. My voice sounds cracked and crumbling after its lack of use.
No one needed me to speak.
They didn’t expect it.
They didn’t want it.
But nothing could hold back the maddening fear within me in that moment.
My father, walking ahead of my sisters and I, suddenly turns around, distress and shock painting his normally empty features.
The people around us look at me in shock.
They’ve never heard me speak until today.
My father laughs nervously. “Pay her no heed. The girl’s always been a touch mad. Onward, good people.”
My mother is pale, no doubt heartily embarrassed with my outburst.
But I cannot die silently.
I will die screaming.
Maybe those are the thoughts of a cowardly man.
But for me, it’s the most courageous thought that’s ever entered my head.
I must die screaming.
I will die screaming.
An arrow strikes my shoulder, and the world washed out.
The last I hear is the teasing tattle-tittle of the wind along the road.

⇾ 561 words ⚘

Edited “Walls” Poem
—

These walls have felt so much
These walls have seen so many things
But they have no mouth
So they cannot speak

It began with a thief
With bounty in hand
He had a boy’s name
And a man’s greed

The walls will call him
The Creator
The Man With the Armor
The Man With No Home

The walls were told
That they needed to show power
No one asked the walls
What they wanted to show

The years stretched long
The walls shrank and grew themselves back
The walls became worn and strong
These walls became a prison

It held agony
For those deemed unseemly
Unworthy, unneeded, unkind
They are untold

The walls saw the prisoners
And it saw their tears
It felt their anguish
It felt their deaths

The walls housed two boys
Meant to be a home
It was still a prison
For few things changed

The walls saw their deaths
The walls housed their murd3rer
It became a place of torture
As torture became power

A fox housed there
Only to be burned to this day
His disgraced image lit
But never burned away

A queen lost her head and heart
She was stupid
She was reckless
She was innocent

It became a home of jewels
Of silver-skined armor
Of people washing in and out
Like waves on an unseen sea

A place of history
Houses its own
It holds the things
No one forgets

People wash in
People wash out
Time washes in
Time washes out

The walls stay there
And hold against fire
Against malice
Against time

But they have no mouth
So they cannot speak
No one asked the walls
What they wanted to be

⇾ weekly #2 ~ (classics) ⚘

(weekly runs from 3/10 to 3/17)

⇾ Part One ~ (Constellations) ⚘

If the sun were any stronger, the two of them probably would have wasted away, falling into the sand and getting covered by it again and again until they became just another part of the desert, instead of the two outsiders that they swore to themselves that they would remain to be.
The first one, Lai, was gripping her walking stick like she was about to lash out uncontrollably, inevitably knocking out whoever or whatever was closest to her.
The second one, Teer, was, if he was being honest with himself, more afraid of the way Lai was looking at her stick than thirsting to death.
The one commonality between them was that they were both wondering if they were living out a terrible idea, or if they had just gone mad.
“This is madness,” Lai muttered. Teer had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Of course it was madness. Why should she say it out loud and remind the both of them how utterly insane they were?
“I noticed,” Teer said.
Lai pushed herself a little further. They had to have something come out of what they were doing.
She could not fail. She’d succumb to heat exhaustion or thirst before she did that.
“We’re not going to find it,” Teer said a moment later, his exhaustion bringing him to the breaking point.
“Handle another straw, would you, camel?” Lai said, peering off into the distance.
“That’s not funny. This is pointless. We’re more likely to find it if we turn back now. It’s hopeless, and I think deep down, you know that too, don’t you?”
Lai gave him a look so withering, it could have wasted entire forests.
“Hold it for a minute, would you?”
“No, that’s ridiculous, this is ridiculous, and-“
“Would you please hush it for just a minute?” Lai said. Once Teer’s mouth was firmly shut, she smiled pleasantly. “Thank you.”
She ran off from him, leaving him to chase after her, muttering curses under his breath.
She pulled her bow out from her back.
Drew.
Released.
A cry went out, and lo and behold, there it was.
The scorpion.
The Scorpion.
The Terrorizor.
The Cursed Sand Dragon.
Lai turned to him, and he grudgingly grinned back. They’d already gained their place in the sky once they’d slain the bear in the lands of the east, but another one never hurt.
They would now be responsible for the bear stars, the scorpion stars, and their own stars.
The twins’ stars.

⇾ word count (416) ⚘

~

⇾ Part Two ~ (SWC Fanfic) ⚘

The Most Chaotic SWC Fanfic

The count is on.
The clock is ticking.
Everyone is up in arms.
The time for trash-talk has ended.
All that is left…
…are words.
It’s less than three hours until the weekly is due.
The usual suspects are at it again. Half of Thriller is madly typing away, calling words of encouragement to each other. Despite their usual habit of procrastination, they were climbing the ranks day after day, slowly making their way to the top spot.
Which they would inevitably reach, of course. Not that this author is biased. Naturally, she believes in peace, equality, and the pursuit of Thriller’s rightful place on the top of the leaderboard.
A few campers from Poetry are running around the main cabin madly, searching for someone to write about for their SWC fanfic. This author is currently without electricity and is therefore not going to reference anyone, since she doesn’t have the WiFi to ask anyone if she has their permission. The electrician is late. This author is unhappy about that, because no one has ever wanted to speed write a weekly while huddling by an ice-cold radiator.
But the procrastinators persist.
A leader from another cabin (no one looks up from their writing to see which cabin) quickly pops into the main cabin to wish everyone luck. A few quick words of thanks emerge from the writers, and the leader leaves again, off to do some no-doubt mysterious leader things.
Here, the author would like to note, that leader things aren’t really that mysterious. Except, of course, when we get the camper lists. Then we milk the mysteriousness for all that it’s worth.
A Sci-Fi camper is typing away anxiously, muttering under their breath about stars and flowers and other things that would sound far more (300) poetic if they weren’t huffing and puffing.
Naturally, there is the camper who finished the weekly on the first day and is now sitting in the corner of the main cabin, maliciously petting Gurtle and eating a mango the same way a villain in a James Bond film would swirl a glass of wine. We call this type of camper the “Early Bird”. Everyone has been that camper at one point or another. Luckily, this camper will always end up being in the same position as the procrastinators at some point. It’s inevitable.
It’s down to two hours. One or two procrastinators finish, and the others congratulate them quickly. Some camper has returned from soccer practice and is now just beginning to work on their weekly.
They are doomed, but they have a chance.
Another camper stumbles in.
It’s down to one hour.
The click of laptop keys seems to line up with the tick of the clock.
The panic has grown tangible. Someone is screaming in the corner. No one really knows why.
This author has gotten back onto WiFi and is literally weeping tears of joy but she’s also extremely upset because this bit is more required words than she originally anticipated.
Maybe she’ll just rant for a bit about the various things people do during speed writing weeklies in order to 525 finish.
Someone has finished, and they are screaming for joy. Their cabin mates cheer them along and good naturedly mock the other cabins. Of course, the other writers are well on their way to finishing the weekly.
It’s only a matter of time.
Poppy, in the corner of the main cabin, has been writing like mad, trying to push through literally everything to get things done.
She may not survive.
Who knows.
She has finally finished.

⇾ word count (602) ⚘

~

⇾ Part Three ~ (Flowers) ⚘

(I’m just going to use forget-me-nots and poppies because they’re the only ones I have memorized besides roses :sob: )

Strange that someone who died in such a way would be honored with flowers that were such a soft shade.
I don’t like forget-me-nots.
They’re pale and pretty and look like happy little spirits, gliding on the wind.
That’s not what the fallen are.
So I add my own flowers.
I drop some poppy flowers onto the new grave. Their stems are braided together tightly, locked tightly together.
They’re bold, bright, and brave in their own way. Wildflowers.
They’re more like my sister.
I sit down cross legged next to the grave.
“Hey,” I say.
No one else is around.
I laugh to myself a little. “I was half tempted to bring you some daisies. I never understood why you hated them so much.”
No response.
“I submitted my papers to that nursing school you recommended. I’m not going to work on the battlefield, though. Mom wouldn’t let me. You know why, of course.”
No response.
“I’m thinking of doing it with children. Pediatrician and all that. I knew that was your backup choice.”
No response.
“It’s Dez’s birthday tomorrow. He’s going to miss you. You knew presents like no other.”
My brother was having a rough one of it.
No response.
“Any ideas on presents? I can think of any,” I said.
No response.
I’ll just get him a chocolate bar.
“I… I’m sorry, Emma,” I whispered.
Dez came up behind me. “Poppies? I thought they were only for soldiers.”
I shook my head. “And Emma.”
“It’s going to be alright,” he said. “It’s going to be alright.”
I nodded and smiled a little bit. “I know.”
“Still planning on nursing school then?” he said.
I nodded.
“Doesn’t seem like Mom would like that very much.”
I laughed. “Nope.”
“So you’re still going to do it?” he said.
“Yeah. Emma was so excited for me when I told her that’s what I wanted to do. It’s the right choice,” I said. “I know it.”
“That’s really good,” he said.
“Really? You actually think that?”
“I mean, you’re not going to be on the battlefield like Emma, are you? It’s kids.”
“They can be a bit of a battlefield themselves, but… yeah, you’re right. It’s just… I’m doing it in honor of Emma. She would’ve done it.”
Dez shook his head “No, she wouldn’t have.”
“Huh?”
“She would have marched onto that battlefield no matter what. She wouldn’t have gone for anything besides that. She wanted to help those soldiers. And she died for it.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“It’s just… what she did. It was her choice.”

⇾ word count - 416 ⚘

~

⇾ Part Four ~ (aesthetic) ⚘

(aesthetic)

⇾ word count (0) ⚘

~~~

⇾ total word count (1434) ⚘
⇾ completed on: (3/16) ⚘

⇾ daily #16 (swc pov) ⚘

It’s loud outside.
Those are my first thoughts when I wake up. It’s loud outside.
The rubbish collector is making as much noise as he possibly can, waking me up bright and early.
My second thought is grateful I am for it.
I threw off my covers and practically choked down the entirety of my breakfast. I grabbed a can of Irn Bru and a bag of crisps before grabbing my laptop and sitting down.
Cabin Wars had begun at midnight last night.
I hated living in UTC.
I opened my cabin (poetry, of course. I live in the land of Shakespeare, after all) and quickly scrolled. We’d won our first two wars without much trouble, but most of the US SWCers were asleep, and some nasty Horror camper had given us the 8k war.
I opened my word count website and started at it.
About half a thousand in, a message popped up. A fellow Poetry camper in the US was staying up far too late and had decided to drop into the cabin to help with the war.
Thank heaven.
The both of us quickly finished the war, briefly popping into Horror’s cabin to retaliate. A little revenge between neutrals is fair game.
The other camper signed off, saying that they needed to get some rest. I gave them a little goodbye (with a whole lot of reminders to *sleep in*) before reloading the tab.
The three-person war appeared before me.
My sister popped into the room. “What are you doing?” She said in a terrible Irish accent. She had seen Macbeth on the West End a few nights ago and was obsessed.
“Surviving!” I called back.
She shrugged and flounced out of the room.
I locked in and begged for mercy.
I hate UTC so much.

⇾ 300 words ⚘

⇾ The Wolves Are Out Tonight ⚘

Mama, mama
The wolves are out tonight

The thorns in my skin don't bother me as I run home.
I have grown far too used to them.
I frantically push my way through the wall of vicious shrubs that had been growing by my house since the day I was born. They never brought forth fruit or flowers, but I insisted they stay up. Even as I’d pull the barbs from of my hands every night when I came home, I'd swear to myself I’d never tear the thickets out.
They block the things that want me gone.
I pull open the door to my family’s cabin, trying to calm my heart enough to suck in air. The door shuts loudly behind me, and the noise rings in my ears.
My mother walks into the room, drying her hands on a threadbare rag.
She looks at me and my clear distress. She sighs, the sound like water bubbling from a spring.
“Again? Truly?”
The pain in her voice is colder than a river on a rainy morning.
“I heard them.”
“They won’t come for you,” she whispers sternly, intently. “They’re dogs. We control them.”
I nod, only to please her, and turn to the window. Behind me, in the distance, the wolves howl.
Some of the people on the other side of the thorns and woods call me diseased.
They call me mad.
They call me skittish, like a rat in a trap.
A child that never learned bravery.
I say I’m braver than all of them, because I have defied the wolves thus far.

My dearest child, the wolves are blessed
Held in the arms of their crystal goddess

“We control them,” I whisper to myself. I'm making a conscious effort to stay calm, but I know it’s not true.
Wolves serve the moon. They cry to her, they pray to her, they wake when she does.
I am startled from my thoughts by a sudden trembling in my hands.
The windowsill grows warm beneath my fingers.
Not again.
I pull my hands off and stride away. The ground has become hot as well, burning my feet like coals. The hardwood floor has blackened, but I know it won't last long enough for anyone to see.
For another moment, I wonder if I’m mad.
I can feel the heat crawling in my hands. Agitated, I walk to the kitchen tap and run cool water over my fingers. After only a moment, the water stops, leaving only a few drops to fall from the silver spout.
I grimace and mutter a rather nasty oath under my breath. The water is out.
I walk outside, towards the well.
The wolves have not stopped crying.

Mama, mama, my soul is aflame
Mama, mama, will I be to blame?

My hands are only growing warmer.
The well is still half an hour’s walk off.
Panic sets in.
I begin to run.

The midnight bell begins to toll
Mama, I can hear the weep of the wolves

My heart is pulsing like a fire, crackling and growing. Every time I take a step, a spark of pain runs through my feet, to my ankle, all the way up until I can feel each stride in the pounding of my heart.
My hands, normally the pale color of the moon, are red with heat.
It is going to happen.
Blurred memories emerge in my aching head and spread through my body until I can feel them in my bones.
It started when I was eight. I’d seen the wolves for the first time. They’d stopped being a sound heard in the night- they became something to be seen, something to fear.
I’d grown warm. I thought it was just my imagination, my reaction to my fear, until my bedsheets lit up and I was almost scorched in my sleep. I blamed it on the fireplace, saying I’d moved the bed too close to the hearth.
It hadn’t been like this since that day.
It hadn't hurt like this since that day.
The well is still ten minutes off.
The wolves are weeping.
The moonlight gleams through the thorn bushes.
A song my father once sang to me, buried in memory, surfaces.
Birds love the trees, the trees love water.
Children love music, music loves the lyre
Wolves love the moon, the moon loves silver.
Men love their sun, the sun loves its fire.
If I burn, the wolves will find me.
They follow the moon. Pray to her.
I am of the sun.
My hands are hot. I can feel the heat trickling through my veins.
I tear through a wall of branches, feeling the little spikes snatching at me. Little drops of ruby-red appear on my arm- not large enough to truly cause damage, but certainly large enough to feel.
“Please,” I whisper. The plea emerges from my throat again and again, until I am screaming it to the heavens as I run.
I push my way into a clearing, where the old well stands waiting for me.
I can see golden eyes through the thorns.
Panic climbs into my throat, and a ragged, wild yell of agony bursts out of me.
A single, scorching spark drops from my littlest finger and falls to the thickly carpeted forest floor.
I cannot draw water.
I cannot draw breath.
The walls of thorn erupt.
The golden eyes emerge, and the wolves join me in the clearing. They are not afraid of me or of the fire.
They are angry. I can see it in their eyes, in the way that their jaws seem to tremble with anticipation.
I feel a battle within myself. My heart is beating fast, telling me to run. My instincts say to fight the wolves- to hurt them, so that I’d never have to fear them again.

Papa, papa, do the wolves cry tears like mine?
Cold, slick, and sweet, like Mama’s finest wine?

The one in the front snaps at me. His fur is a deeper silver than the others. He is an alpha.
He cannot be controlled.
The air fills with smoke as the wolves advance.
I am surrounded. My breaths become short and choppy.
The thorns behind me are fire. I can’t rely on them for protection anymore.
I panic again.
I raise my hands.
The wolf in the front cries out.
And the fire disappears.
All is at rest.
I can feel my eyes widen in surprise, see my hands go down, but my motions are slow, like I’m trying to move in water. I feel like I'm watching myself, not knowing what I'll do next.
The moon glints silver above me.
Slowly, as not to startle the wolves, I walk to the well and draw water. I refuse to take my eyes off them. I pull water, cleanse my hands, and soothe my throat.
My hands cool.
My heart and thoughts slow.
They do not attack me.
I look at the wolf in front. It lowers its head, bending its front paw, giving me a cool look of respect.
I nod at him. The motion is slow, small, almost invisible.
He lets out a short bark and leads the pack into the woods.
I tremble for a moment longer before turning and running through the brambles again.
I have made peace with the wolves today.
But they have not stopped their howls.
They still weep.
They weep for fear and fire, for daylight and hurt.
They weep that I am.

Mama, do you fear the wolves and moon
When they say they shall come soon?



Many thanks to May, Snowy, Sandy, Summer, Coco, Chuey and an IRL friend for their amazing critique <3

⇾ 1,268 words ⚘

⇾ Daily 3/17 ⚘

“And that day that we'll watch the death of the sun
That the cloud and the cold and those jeans you have on
And you'll gaze unafraid as they sob from the city ruins”

I rip off the cuff of my jeans to staunch the bleeding in my left leg.
He’s beside me, leaning against the dumpster in the alley we’re hiding in.
The two of us are just outside of town, watching the blue-tinged smoke rise from the center of the city. It smells like moss, and the earthy scent makes my head throb. I slide down against the dumpster. The rain from last night has made the metal cold and wet, and it seeps through my shirt, chilling me further.
The alley is covered in soggy litter and abandoned trinkets, but it's tucked away from the worst of the world. Out in the distance, something pulls my attention away from the cold and wet.
A sound like weeping, somewhere in the distance. I listen harder, my brows drawing together in concentration.
The city is mostly abandoned, but I can hear the wails of a few police sirens echoing off the few remaining unshattered windows.
He and I have talked about those sirens.
We both wonder what they’re for.
I pull my eyes away from the smoke to look at the boy beside me.
He leans his head against the dumpster, and for a moment, a shudder runs through me.
I name the shudder Fear.
I shake his shoulder in line with the rhythm of my shivering.
“Stop,” I whisper. “You have to open your eyes.”
“Why?” he says. He opens his eyes, and the the gray-blue of his irises almost blends into the haze around us.
“I… I don’t know,” I say.
“That’s alright,” he says, and his fingers wrap around mine.
He and I were strangers- the only survivors from the dangers that took our sector of the city.
Somewhere in my head, I had thought that any surviving stranger would do, but now I knew how wrong I'd been.
There is a reason he and I survive, beyond luck.
We huddle together, staring across at the smoke drifting in feathery waves from the buildings. Occasionally, we see a bird fly through the hazy air, only to disappear behind a skyscraper.
I pull my legs up to my chest and lean my forehead against my ratty jeans.
“Hey,” he says. “You gotta keep your eyes open.”
I look up.
He looks down at the ruined soles of his shoes and laughs to himself quietly.
“I don’t know why.”
I curl into myself a little tighter and play with the loose threads of my sleeve.
“It’s alright,” I say, and I look out at the tresses of smoke that curl around the branches of a blackened willow tree.

“I think we’ll understand in time.”

⇾ 468 words (updated after rounds of editing) ⚘

A million thanks to Alaska, Vi, Nova, and an IRL friend for critique <3

⇾ Critique for Alaska ⚘

My first impression was that I adore the formatting. I think that the use of the line separations helps emphasize so much, and it really helps build the tension and the feeling of brokenness throughout the piece. It's just amazing.
The description of the ‘screaming’ is absolutely amazing, and it immediately draws the reader in.
My first piece of critique is that the end of the may 2nd entry feels a little bit stiff in a way. I don't really know if that makes sense, but it just doesn't flow as well as the rest of the piece.
I love the line “everyone here has dyed their skin strange colors” ^^
In the September 4th entry, it says "rohan hastily scribbled letters“, which I didn't really understand for a second. I don't know if that was a typo or on purpose, but it took me out of the story for just a second.
I love the description of the days twisting around each other.
This is more of a personal opinion, but in the ‘two years later’ entry, I think it might be kind of cool to add a line break after every time it says ‘what’, since you did that with the line ”what/ is a week“. I'm not entirely sure how it would look thematically, but it may be cool, I don't know! XD
I love the way it says ”unknown day".
The description of the socks and the thing that the narrator's sister said about daisies was so heartbreaking. I think it really just brings the piece together in a way that stays with the reader. Great job <3
I think it's just amazing. Honestly, there's very little that needs to be fixed, unless you want to experiment more with the formatting or wording of certain lines. It's an amazing piece, and you're an amazing writer. Well done!! <3

⇾ 313 words ⚘