MARCH 1: INTRODUCE YOURSELF!

When we arrive at the island, I don't expect anybody to come and visit us. I step off the boat, and am instantly hit by the fresh sea air that blows against my curly mop. Mother takes my hand and we walk swiftly across the beach, kicking sand into my boots. I feel like I'm being stared at, and when I look around, I am.
The island boat was full of people who has been here before. Fear rushed through my bones. Was this how it was always going to be? Full of an island of dark-skinned, dark eyed, fisherman people? Mother didn't allow me a moment to think about appearance as we rushed off the boat, and into the first homestay we saw, but as I was put in a hard bed to sleep, I looked up at the star-speckled sky. Will the people like me as they did when I lived at home? The island is not home, I furiously murmur to myself underneath the cover of the scratchy blanket as the soft breath of my mother beside me ruffles my hair. It is simply a non-permanent staying-place. Not home. Never home.
The next day, a girl walks up to me. She has puffy hair that haloes her face in a cloud of bright golden. She sits on my bed, shakes my hand. We talk for a while. I do not know her name. She tells me her name. Angel. Funny, I think. With the halo and all. Halo Girl, my mind names her.
Will you come with me? She says.
I start.
What? I say quickly. Where?
Stargazing, she says. Energy runs off her, in waves.
Stargazing.
Do I even enjoy stargazing?
I remember the stars from yesterday, that speckled the sky in bright waves of white that shone like the street lamps in the city.
In the city we did not sleep with the stars.
They are like guardians, the eyes of the night, spying on them for us. The night has a thousand eyes, I murmur to myself.
What? She says.
Nothing, I say. I'll ask.
I ask Mother then. She smiles, showing off a dimple we barely see now.
Yes, go with your friend. What is her name? Mother asks.
Angel, I reply. Angel.
Good name, Mother replies.
I go to Angel. I tell her I can come. She smiles. She has dimples too.
She meets me on the beach. Sand fills my toes, bare because my boots are drying on the balcony of the homestay. She has two chairs. She invites me onto one.
It's our culture, she says quietly, filling the silence of the nights. Tonight no crickets chirp, there is barely any rustle of trees in the wind. It's our culture to appreciate and love the stars, and the fishermen use them to chart paths. She points at the shadows of ships that live at the edges of the horizon. The soft swoosh of the beach water warms me, and when I look up, my heart races.
It's so beautiful.
It's more beautiful than any land I have ever seen.
Not even the cliff that dropped down so far I could barely see the ground beneath, not the amoeba-covered cave that shone in the light of microorganisms.
This is the best thing I have ever seen, the eyes of the night shining upon us all.
What is this island's name? I whisper.
Angel turns to me, smiling. We call it Stalle Minov, she says.
Star Isle.

DAILY #3 ADVERTISMENT:
combing the words whistle and train

INTRODUCING THE WHISTRAIN!
What is a whistrain? What does it do? Why is it important? And most importantly — why should you buy it?
OKAY EVERYONE, LET'S GET THIS SHOW STARTED! Now, the very first question that literally everybody asks. Yes, all of you train-takers, you must be wondering what is this Whistrain? Let me give you a brief– A whistrain lets out a piercing whistle at every station, automated by a computer! Not only that, but the driver of the train can control it, so want to get any people away from the tracks, it's perfect! Sometimes, there is an emergency button in the carriage that helps the passengers to alert the driver, or even alert the people on the station. I hear that weird drivers are flooding the entire business. Creating accident-free stations, that's my job!
Anyway, why should I buy the whistrain? First of all, it's so efficient! It's simpler to just blow a whistle to make it known that the train has arrived, no need for intercom messages or whatever else you guys are using nowadays! It's so loud, that basically everybody will know about it! As for timings, people can be given an average timing, and then the train's whistle mechanism helps to gather everybody! No people left not on the train. Plus, for extra, we make distinctive whistles, so that there will be particular sounds. People will get an audio of their train's whistle, so, it's easier for people to locate their train, too! It's more elitist, yes, but maybe you will actually like it! Our suggested use of it is for local trains, an easy system for everybody to maintain!
Of course, the most important bit of the whistrain is the fact that it is very aesthetic. It is painted like old vintage trains, the kind you see in old movies and a bit like Thomas the Train Engine! One of the most entertaining things for small children is to board the strain and feel like they've been transported into their favourite Thomas episode! Or perhaps for the older citizens, to be transported back into their favourite vintage movie!

WEEKLY 1

part 1: language and culture

My world's language is a special language developed years ago by the first rulers of the land, inspired by what they called The Ancient's Language. The Ancients were people who could see and manipulate the future. Anyhow, The Ancients based the language of their incantations and chants, focusing broadly on the inflections and the stressing of certain words. A lot of the culture is celebrated in festivals and fasts like Indian culture. Over the years, the Fates, who were the Ancients ended up e bit like Saints for many people, religiously significant to them, even portraits were created of them, broadly based off of whatever they could salvage from the ancient documents. However, many people don't believe that the ancients weren't actually the saints and so they only observe fasts out of respect to their relatives.
These fasts and festivals usually happen interconnected, only a few festivals are not at the end of fasts, like the Festival of Dans, who created the lithosphere according to the mythology. Many a time, however, a fast is observed for a month or more, often sprinkled with religious occasions and then the final day is a festival celebrated with great pomp. The three major Fates who rule this land are Dans, the lithosphere, Hymna, the atmosphere and Jaluum, the hydrosphere. Together they form the Ancients.
The Monarchy
Hierarchies are divided based on your birth and how prominent your parents or grandparents were in the Monarchy, a close-knit government-like thing. There are four royals at a time, one king, queen, and two children. If the queen cannot bear children, she must adopt from local orphanages. Largely, religion is not allowed within the systems of the Monarchy, however a few daring workers say otherwise.
In smaller communities, like not in the very centre of the capital city, most hierarchies are decided by how rich you are and how religious you are. In many places, you cannot become a mayor or a duke of the land if you don't observe all of the fasts, or don't celebrate all of the festivals. The Monarchy does not care about these trivial matters, and many a time, a duke or duchess is appointed to the land either way, even if they are not supported by the people.

Aesthetic Boards

https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1142014171/
Moodboard 1: The skies of Elorin are remarkably clear and clean of any dust because of the secret Monarchy's powers, so the cycles of the moons of their world and the stars and skies are easy to see.
Moodboard 2: The rose gardens of the palace are extremely important and culturally significant
Moodboard 3: Elorin is known for having many cliffs.

Technology

Tsarina had never had an offer like this. The first ever Burning Carriage, the first ever carriage not pulled by the mysterious air spirits that worked as per their own devices, often pulling the carriage owner and customers into errant directions. Though, the glowing wood-like material which was encased in the bottom of the carriage made her nervous.
The fancy new carriages were crafted using a special material called Milicite. Tsarina looked at the burning wood at the bottom of the carriage doubtfully. The scientest standing beside it looked at her, his big grey eyes enlarging from underneath his glasses. Tsarina was certain that somehow his glasses enlarged his eyes, because there was no way that somebody's eyes could look that big.
“So?” he asked. “Will you take it?”
“Is it even safe?” Tsarina asked. “I mean, really? For the price you're saying, I don't want to sell something that can blow up any minute! Don't think I can be easily conned, big scientist guy!”
“Okay fine,” the scientist said. “I'll take it for three thousand qurains. What do you say now?”
Tsarina looked over the carriage, her expert eyes pointing out little flaws, which she catalogued into her mind. The wood of the carriage was the destong, a wood that was weak, and could likely only hold three or four people. She touched the bottom, and though anticipating a sharp sting from a burn, she did not feel anything, just a soft pulse against her outstretched fingers.
“Can I open the carriage?” she asked.
The scientist nodded, handing her a bunch of keys, and pointed out one tiny one. She opened the carriage, and touched the seat, which was directly adjoining the Milicite. “It looks good,” she said quickly. She walked over to the money vault at the far end of the shed. Taking out multiple qurains, she handed them to the grinning scientist. “I'll take it.”
***
The next day, as Tsarina was walking through the town square, she was met by loud sounds. A reedy, high voice pitched above a deeper voice.
“What abominations you make in the name of science!”
She turned to the side and saw Seiner, the most religious man in the town, and the scientist she had met yesterday facing off each other. The scientist looked harassed, with townspeople gathering around him in a small crowd, most angrily looking at him.
Tsarina walked over. “What's this, Seiner?”
“That's master Seiner to you,” he said quickly. “And this monster is making carriages with the materials of the Dark Saint!”
He pointed at the scientist with a long finger. “This is truly terrible! I demand that you immediately destroy it with a fire so as to make the dark forces burn!”
Tsarina looked the man up and down, her eyes scanning the thin, bony person. “If you'll remember, Seiner, I sold you the carriage. If you're not happy with it, you don't go to the maker, you come to me. I own the Shed. I sell you carriages. He just made it. If you have a bone to pick, you pick it with me.”
Seiner's eyes bulged. “I'd-I'd like to return the carriage. Because it was made of –”
“I don't care. I'll find another buyer somewhere else,” Tsarina said, flicking her hand upward in annoyance. “Useless information. I'll remember to warn them next time, though.”
Seiner shook his head. “You'll never get a buyer.”
“Please,” Tsarina said. “I'm in a town full of people who worship my vehicles. I think I'll be fine.”
She gave Seiner a thick wad of senets, the cheaper version of qurains she carried around and handed them to Seiner. “Carriage,” she said, and took it by the rope that anchored it to a wooden pole.
Seiner huffed and marched off, and the scientist let out a breath. “Thank you so much. I'm indebted to you.”
“Not really,” Tsarina said. “All in the name of science, right?”
“Maybe,” the scientist said. “Don't really want to do anything in the name of science now.”
They laughed.
“I don't know,” Tsarina said. “You'll do great things, I think. Keep doing mechanics, as a mechanical engineer myself, you're doing really well.”
The scientist smiled. “Thank you. I hope I'll do great things too.”
And suddenly, all was alright.
(715 words)

STORY

The quiet tap-tap-tap of the raindrops against the windowsill of the carriage barely distracted Sven as he looked intently at the wilderness. Papa looked out of his window, his eyes gazing half-sadly at the blurry trees and grass. It was barely two minutes into their trip west, to the palace because of Papa's job. Papa was a blacksmith, and he was smithing for the royals, glorious crowns for their princesses.
Papa looked very disappointed at leaving their little town of Forisin, in the west coast of Elorin, the Kingdom of Golden Thread.
Papa was a good geographer as well, and he made maps of Forisin for the townspeople, and he had a lot of them in a grey leather bag he would sell to get them a new carriage every day.
Svenn and Papa used to go on many travels when Sven was younger. He remembered things, blurred from age and bits and pieces lost to time. Like the day when Sven had only lived four summers and Papa had taken him to the beach on the north-west coast, and picked out some pink, shiny seashells for him. Or the day when they had gone to the northern forests and Papa had stolen a bright red statue of a magpie that lived in a tree, lost and abandoned, from the forest. Sven had clutched the tiny magpie as papa had said, whispering as though they were in danger, “Quick, before the spirits see. We don't want the Saints thinking that you were doing bad things!”
Now all the joy seemed to have seeped out of the caramel-eyed man, bags decorating those wonderfully coloured eyes.
“Papa,” Sven said. “Why are you sad?”
“Oh!” Papa smiled. A mere shadow, Sven thought resentfully. “I…simply felt…sad. That we are leaving.”
“Yes,” Sven said, and turned his head to the wilderness. He breathed in the scent of wet forest, and heard the chirps from the birds that lived in the soaked trees, trying to find a safe haven. Their old house in Forisin would be full of birds when they left, Sven thought. Papa didn't rent it out for that reason. So that the house could go back to the birds.
*** (five years later)
They were back in the carriage, leaning against the cool glass, divided by an invisible wall that shimmered and shuddered with the tension between father and son. Sven didn't bother looking towards his father. The image of the bright eyed man who once led Sven through the forest, and led him into the palace that would become his home was long dead.
Sven wasn't quite sure what had gone wrong in those three months, the months that Sven had made friends and been educated with the gentry of the palace. The three months that all the joy that gone out of Papa. Now he was taller than his father, a towering five foot nine at fifteen. Still, no compliments that come his way, no hellos in the fraction of space that they shared in the servant's tower, while his father had slowly become less good at socialising, Sven had bloomed in the garden, one of the multiple carnations that survived the plucking away of the bad ones. He got sponsors, he got a life that he loved, the luxury running through his veins.
He had even found people to replace Papa.
But still, his soft-heartedness made him agree to the offer that Papa made. One night, when Sven was reading a book, Papa said his name quietly, whispering. “Sven,” he said. “Will you go on a trip with me?”
“A trip?” Sven said. “What kind of trip?”
“A trip to the western cliffs,” Papa said. “You've never seen them. We can go together, they're beautiful.”
“Alright.” The word had slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it, before he could use the diplomacy that he learnt in the court.
Now here they were.
“Stop,” Papa said abruptly. Sven jerked forward as the carriage stopped suddenly.
“What happened?” Sven said. “We're not at our homestay yet.”
“We need to stop.” Papa opened the door to the carriage, and motioned for Sven to step out beside him. He did, and then looked around. “What's this?”
“Come.” Papa walked down a rocky path. They walked for many minutes, until the fresh sea air hit Sven in the face, brushing his dark hair back. He looked forward, and the cerulean sea seemed to welcome him, crashing around the grey rocks, as seabirds circled above, and fish splashed in tiny salt-water pools surrounding them.
“It's beautiful,” Sven said, his eyes widening.
That knowing look flashed across his father's look. “It is always beautiful.”
“Papa,” Sven said in a strained voice. “I'm sorry.”
“It's alright,” Papa said.
And just like that the wall disappeared.
*** (Two months later)
The night that his papa disappeared, Sven was sleeping.
Even now, as he sat in the carriage, tears staining his perfect pearly skin, his voice cracking as he told the man at the head of the carriage to go north, guilt shimmered in his head.
“You can come out now,” The carriage-owner said. When Sven moved to his wallet, the owner shook his head. “I had a sister,” he said quietly. “I know the face of one of the relatives of the disappeared.”
“Thank you,” Sven said. The small courtesy cost him his composure, and he bowed once, a sign of respect that barely anybody showed to commoners, and walked away, feeling tears roll silently down his cheeks and used his already soaked cuffs to brush them away. Before he could even see the cliffs, the wind hit him, like a mother's kiss he had never had.
The sea itself was mourning that night, because raindrops fell delicately down onto Sven's hair as soon as he reached the cliffs. The wind picked up, and the seabirds went into hiding as the sea turned feral, and the boy who sat on the cliffs sat in silence, letting the wind buffet him here and there, let the sea spray hit his tear-stained face, allowed the sea to grieve with him as he mourned the loss of the blacksmith.

DAILY 5: ANTHEMS


(Journalism):
Going on secret missions with a notepad by your side,
You find interesting in the mundane
Lost news, that's what you find
Stories never told,
The fighters of time
And deadlines
By our side
Every day fighting for first place in SWC,
Bravely, as though soldiers in a war
Magic makers, I think I should say
Finding things, I didn't even know existed!
Maybe a little crazier,
But much more kind
You all are warriors of your own kind!
LET'S GO, JOURNALISM!


(Adventure):
Bravery runs deep inside your blood,
Every day is a new quest!
Every day is a new opportunity to do your best!
Every day is new exploration of our dear SWC,
Every day is a judge of strength
and bravery!
And you do it every single time, as though it were as easy as pie,
Fighting like there's no tomorrow
Discoverers, wanderers, nomads of the best kind!
Explorers, exploring the great unknown!
You'll make it through the hardships
As though you could do it every day!


Action:

Superheroes, the commoners call you,
Superheroes, because you're the best of your kind,
Superheroes, because you're heroic for all of us
Superheroes, because you're brave and nice
Crimefighting by night
Bravely battling through SWC through the day
What heroes, they say,
They know what heroes you are!

Daily 8: women's day!!!!

CRITIQUARE:
BY: @i_like_kotlc
NAME (S) : reflection on the world parts one and two


PART 1: I really like how this poem sounds! It sort of reminds me of a Shel Silverstein poem, but that's just an opinion. Some parts, though, were harder to understand, like “It would be like /Australia except it would be/ Really upside down”, but of course, poetry is simply the author doing whatever they want! But the poem's idea is very nice, I like the description of magma in particular, and to me it feels like the poem means quite a lot when you really apply yourself, but again it's my opinion.

The world would flip.
It would invert -
Just like a sock
It would turn itself inside out.

This stanza, however, I felt as though it was a bit unnecessary to add “It would turn itself inside out” (not meant in a negative way) but I liked the simile used in this particular stanza.

Retreat
To the center of the planet
Like a turtle retreating
To its shell.

I particularly liked this one, because of the simile used of a turtle retreating to a shell.
The poem, when read out, or even read in your mind, has a very nice flow, and captures your attention from the very beginning. I particularly really enjoyed it.

PART 2: I like that this one ventures into deeper territories, like the whole idea of ‘sense’ being a societal construct, and your idea that it almost eliminates creativity.

For sense is just
An adherence to societal
Values and a refusal to
Rethink the world

I really liked a particular line here that I wanted to point out, which is “a refusal to rethink the world”. It's a very nice way of saying that our creativity is stifled by societal constructs like sense, and I truly like that idea.
The flow of this poem is really nice, and as I was reading it, I could almost hear someone saying it in my head.
One thing that I would say is that ‘adhere’ or ‘adhered’ feels slightly overused in this poem, and I don't mean it in an offensive way, I just felt that it seemed like you were saying it a lot.

Daily 11: Changed Fairy Tales

(Cinderella but the fairy godmother is secretly evil and the prince almost dies because she stayed past midnight by accident)

The clock's bong resounded over the whole party. Then another, then another and nine more bongs distracted the members of the gentry to look away from their glittering dance partners and towards the bell tower.
Cinderella felt fear rush into her bones, and she looked down at the dress, expecting it to change immediately. After all, that's what her godmother meant about the whole ‘you will lose what you gain in that ball’ thing, right? Her honour, because she'd turn back into a lowly maid who scrapes the cellar floors again. Luck was escaping fast. Her step mother looked at her strangely from the other side of the room, and so did her sisters – or what was left of her sisters. It was almost admiration that they looked at her with, though that made her suspicious. After all, they had spent their entire lives tormenting her, why did they look at her in this way?
The music started again, a simple waltz. The prince smiled, and Cinderella asked (furiously trying to remove his dimples from her mind), “What exactly makes you so happy?”
“Nothing.” The prince said. “Honestly, I feel dizzy.”
“Oh, and I should leave.” Cinderella said. “You can rest I suppose. It has been a long ball.”
“So it has,” the prince said quietly.
Cinderella got up, her sleek, blue gown moving with her as she walked away, and up the staircase to the hall. That's when a loud, shrill cry sounded from the ballroom. “The Prince has collapsed!”
Suddenly it occurred to Cinderella what exactly the god mother had meant. She meant the prince. The handsome, kind, prince who had talked to everyone, who had introduced her to some gentry, who had cared enough to try with someone who he didn't even recognise. Who had talked to her despite her step-mother's announcement that Cinderella was really their maid and her true name was Cinderella, when she went by Ella in the first half of the ball.
“I need to get out,” Cinderella said. The guard shook his head. “We need all witnesses.”
“Please, if you want the prince to survive, you need to let me out.”
“You're the scullery maid, aren't you? Did you spread some illness to our prince?” The guard's hand lay threateningly on the sword that sat on his hip. “No, please, I made a deal with someone,” Cinderella said. “A deal in which I wasn't aware of the specifics. My–”
She swallowed.
“Please, you won't understand, let me out and the prince survives. Never let me back inside the palace again.” More screams rose from the ballroom.
She gripped the guard's collar and pulled him close. “Remember my face. Remember my name. Remember to let nobody near me.”
The sob rose in her throat. “I need to get away, now.”
The guard looked half frightened. “Witch,” he murmured.
Let them call me witch. A new determination rose in her. If she was to let the people in this kingdom survive, she needed to bring the curse of the godmother far, far away. Perhaps she'd go seek out a new land entirely.
The guard moved, and she raced from the palace, her dress disappearing into her normal, comfortable, easy to run in clothing. As cries of relief rose up from the palace, a girl ran far away from the land she had cursed.

WEEKLY 2: Breaking Rules

PART 1: BREAKING COMMON RULES

Writing rules overused: (I don't know okay) - Show, Not Tell
- Don't use said

The night air whooshed into the dilapidated building, which was filled with peeling paint and mold growing on the more moist corners of the rooms, a hotel with a still-sparkling sign mounted on top which said ‘Ellentar Hotel, Receive the Best of the Best’ which glitched on an hourly interval, sparks flying erratically from the neon lights.
There the boy sat, in his creaking chair, the rot spreading up his legs. He was pristine, though, not like the rest of the hotel, barely even dirty, but if you looked closer you could see the dust that sat in his hair, the reason he was sitting up at the night, a pen poised reluctantly on the paper.
“Ella,” he said in the silence of the abandoned hotel, “How am I supposed to do this?”
They had told him to write his own story, but which story would he write?
He got up, his voice shaking.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy,” he said to the empty hotel. “There was a boy who loved telling stories. Once upon a time, there was a girl. A girl who loved to dance.”
“When the darkness came one dark night,” he said again, continuing the story. “They fled from their redwood house and ran into the forest.”
Imitating Ella's melodious voice, he said, “The girl said to the boy, ‘We need to escape the darkness. We need to save who is left in the world.’ ”
The story unfurled in the dark, rotting place, the boy adding a new sentence, continuing the story of his life, using the words he said. It was almost a brainstorming exercise.
“Now,” he said, his voice breaking. “When the darkness finally caught up to them, the girl… fell into it. She fell and fell and fell until the darkness consumed her. And the boy wrote his own story, a story where he finally was able to control what happened to him. Control the darkness, which rises up like a blindfold.”
The final sentence was said by the boy as he slumped down the rotting walls. “A place where one could never see, never live, should go away.”

(358 words)

Daily 12: Choose a Title

Title Chosen: Gold Rush (based off the song itself)

The summer trip was when it started. The cold sea air brushing us all about our bare legs and arms, ruffling our hair. A few students from high school, a few parents, one pet exactly, Lennie's pet budgerigar, Summy, who squawked loudly at six in the morning in our beach house. My mom was there, and she slept in the other beach house. She barely cared, to be honest, paying more attention to my best friend's mother, who she hadn't been able to bewitch yet with the her natural charm.
He had come too; I didn't quite think it through. I shouldn't have come.
Honestly, seeing him in that dumb school uniform that was too big for him didn't look half bad but he looked even better in actual, good-looking clothes that fit him properly. It was a mistake, a mistake because it felt like when he was looking at me it felt like I was soaring, soaring, soaring, an eagle that had gone above the clouds. And when he looked away, it was like how Icarus had felt, plummeting into the deep waters of reality, drowning in it.
I could lose myself in those horrible places because of him. That's why I hated him.
That night, when the news came in the middle of the night that Lady, my cat, had passed away in the night, I couldn't resist breaking down in the bathroom.
When Lennie called out that she had to use the bathroom, I had run away, my loud footsteps banging against the wood. He was waiting outside. I think. Maybe it was just an accident. He looked at me, I think. Or I looked at him, because it felt like I was drowning in the chocolate of his eyes. The waters turned cold again.
Reminding me I was sad.
Reminding me that if he cared, he would ask if I was okay.
Reminding me that a possibility of us would only exist in an alternate university.
Reminding me that this was just a gold rush, a feeling that would ebb after some time.
Soon the beauty would fade, and soon I would be alright.

Daily 13: Language of Flowers

The sun peeked out hesitantly from the big white clouds that covered it, the sky grey as the tea sitting on the table, which had easily been sitting there for a day or two. I had never been to the beach house in the winter, and clearly it was complaining. The sound of the waters plunging against the sand was much louder than the rain that streaked down, down, down into the garden. It meant slush tomorrow.
“Izzy!” Mother's piercing, high voice jerked me out of my rain-watching. “There's an envelope waiting for you!”
I ran across the house, my feet pounding against the creaky wooden slats. “Coming!”
The envelope was soaked by the rain, and had a little grey book inside, wrapped in a Ziploc packet. “What's this?” I read the title, embossed on the soft velvet. “The Language of Flowers.”
“Oh! I remember this book.” Mother smiled, holding the tiny tome in her hands. “Me and my friend, Alena, used to exchange messages just like this! We'd either draw or pick some flowers and each of us had these books and we'd try to convey the message as well as we could.”
“Okay,” I said. I dug inside the envelope, and pulled out a soggy, white flower with small petals and a bright red, larger one that looked like a sunflower gone wrong. “What are these?”
“Snowdrop,” my mother said, snatching the white flower from my hand. “And zinnia. Go check what they mean in the book.”
I did, and it said that snowdrop means hope and zinnia meant thoughts of absent friends. I thought about it for a while, and it seemed that the person who was writing to me wanted to say that they were remembering me and they hoped that I did too.
I thought about it for a while but I wasn't quite sure who it was talking to me.
The next day, the same letter came, but this time a stranger one. This time it was filled with a bunch of meadowsweet, and some foreign plant japanese kerria. This person got irritated easily.
I shook my head.
The next day, I left the beach house for good, and never came back. Sometimes, I still wonder who sent the flowers.

Daily 16: Interview with Mascot

My Mascot: Cally the Capybara


Midnight: *cough cough* Ahem, testing, testing, is the mike working?

Midnight: Alright, it is. So, hello, viewers of the tri-annual SWC show! Coming to you is Midnight, a camper in the Dystopian Cabin and someone who's very special, completely new to SWC and apparently the biggest rodent in the world! Are you ready to hear who this mysterious guest is? As per the SWC Daily of making up the mascot and doing an interview with them, we have Cally the Capybara with us! Say hi to our viewers, Cal!"

Cally: Yes, hello, viewers. Call me Cally, Cal, Calamanious, or Caltastic. Nothing more, nothing less.

Midnight: Okay, then. So, Cally, tell us where you're from! What brings you to the Tri-annual SWC show?

Cally: I thought I came from the depths of your imagination because you just watched–

Midnight (laughs nervously) : NO, Cal, tell us where you're from.

Cally: Uh, mostly capybaras are native to South America?

Midnight: Now, there's an answer. So, Cal, any place you particularly fancy in South America?

Cally: Uh, no? I've never been.

Midnight: Ah, you only originate from South America. So, Cal, tell us more about you! What do you like to eat?

Cally: Is this a personality quiz?

Midnight: No.

Cally (laughs nervously): I like walnuts. They look like little brains and taste good.

Midnight: Any particular dish you really liked, coming to SWC?

Cally: No, just the walnuts that grow here are really nice.

Midnight: Okay, then. Onto the next question. Tell us about what you like!

Cally: I like… well, I like eating… sleeping… sitting in the shade… ooh, I like picnics!

Midnight: Yeah, picnics are pretty awesome. Any memorable ones?

Cally: Well, it was once a lovely day out in Imagination. I decided to take a little walk down to the lake (the lake is just south of my house) and I took a bunch of walnuts for me, and I was sitting there by the water underneath the good ol' willow tree, and I used the blanket that I had used to transport the walnuts on to sit on and it was a very nice day! I ate my walnuts, and I had some bananas at noon. After that I slept for a very long time and when I woke up, the stars were out! I found some more walnuts and ate them, and counted the constellations!

Midnight: Oh, that sounds so great! Must have been a long day for you, though!

Cally: Not much, just the best day of my life.

Midnight: Ah. That's nice. *shuffles documents* Hold up, I have a bunch of things for Gurtle and Blahaj and all but I must have completely forgotten about you coming! I just need to find out where the papers are for your questions.

Cally: It's okay, I'll rest. *falls down and falls asleep*

*elevator music plays while Midnight scrambles in her bag and Cally snores*

Midnight: Cally, Cally, CaLlY, CALLY! Up! I found the docs.

Cally: Right, right. So, what's the question?

Midnight: SO, TELL ME ABOUT YOUR FAMILY. Oops, too loud. So, tell me about your family?

Cally: I do have a brother, though he doesn't know his name. Then I have a crocodile friend with a name that sounds like a seven-year-old made it up. Honestly, he acts like one, too, possibly because a seven year old imagined him. Gosh, it's terrible for old imagined animals. They look and sound their old owner's age.

Midnight: So, would you say that they're your chosen family?

Cally: Yes! I love my brother despite his anonymity, and honestly, my crocodile friend is like a little brother to me, despite his childishness as nearly five years. He's survived a long time, my old crocodile!

Midnight: Well, thank you for this interview, Cally!

Cally: Thanks to you too.

WEEKLY 3:- TROPES

Part 1: PROS AND CONS OF TROPES

The Prophecy: So, this trope is super common in books like Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, and many more highly popular YA series. The prophecy gives the reader a slightly abstract interpretation of what events are to come – however, they're usually hard to understand, and don't give specific details, which makes it harder to write, because there's a very specific balance between revealing just enough and revealing too much, giving away major plot twists that may affect the book in later moments. Also, despite the author giving the reader a brief summary of what may happen, and how it affects the book, which is good, prophecies are usually in a rhyming or poem-like style, which is again hard to write for people who are more adept in prose.
(128 words)

The Love Triangle: This trope can be both very interesting and very badly done. Mainly, I don't really like the love triangle trope because it often makes one person the hero and the other the villain, which is not very realistic. If a person is good-looking enough, then many, many people can have a crush on them, especially when it comes to celebrities. There's no need to make the other person the villain, they have their own reasons, and they have their own drama. However, a well-done love triangle in my opinion also allows the characters to be grey– no particular black and white when it comes to liking or loving someone, after all.
(114 words)

The Holiday Romance: Okay, I love this trope. I cannot tell you enough about it, but let's be basic. Holiday romance is a very nice trope because in my opinion it showcases the characters exactly how they are. With concentrated time, you get to see the characters' likes, dislikes, passion and backstory, and often these books are smaller and shorter, too. Holiday Romance allows a lot of other tropes to flourish, too, like small-town romance and childhood history to lovers, all of which are very well done in this kind of trope; however, holiday romance can be overdone very much too, and some authors may rush the romance which always ends up being the most irritating thing for the reader.
(117 words)

The Rebellion: This is a very dystopian kind of trope, used by the Hunger Games and Legend authors, creating a rebellion against the evil government. Often these people are teenagers, unexperienced, but have all hated the government in some way. They all have tragic back stories relating to how the government made them suffer, and in my opinion these tropes can be really well done or very badly done. There are a few things you need to remember, like you have to showcase how much it means to the character to overthrow this government. In the Hunger Games, you can tell how much the Capitol made Katniss suffer and the author has weaved in her anger through the book. This is vital for the Rebellion trope in my opinion.
(129 words)

The MacGuffin: The MacGuffin is a trope that discusses an object that is vital for the villain, and the hero must find/transport before the villain does. Books like Aru Shah and Percy Jackson used these tropes. The MacGuffin is hard to get wrong – but the one thing that you must do is remind the reader over and over again about how vital this thing is. In some way or the other, even if the character doesn't know it themselves, you must tell the reader how much this would affect the world/imaginary world. Books which don't do this don't really make sense, because they're not telling you how important the MacGuffin is.
(113 words)

Total: 604 words

Part 2:

I walked down the familiar street, a book in my hand, and opened the glass door in the fourth shop to the right. The bell rang with a brief ding-ding! and then fell silent. Mr Martins was sitting at the counter, his rheumy eyes looking out at his coffee shop. I've heard the story about a thousand times, about how he bought the old building on Bougainvillea Street and created Martin's Coffees and Milkshakes out of it. Honestly, I only used to stick around because the coffee was good and they didn't do carry-ons, but recently since the shop's crowd has started going to the Starbucks down the lane, Mr Martin has been allowing me to sit here and read in my one free hour from work and shores.
This time, I've gotten my old teenage favourite book from the library, The Hunger Games. I'm more than excited to read it, because all I remember is the Capitol and the Katniss-Peeta-Gale situation. Either way, it looks like Mr Martin isn't keen on letting me go, because he calls, “Isabel! You're back already?”
I reluctantly walk over to the counter. “Yes, Mr Martin.”
“There's a young man who's waiting there, says he's saving a table for you. No need to take your original.” He points to the table at the very far end, with just enough lighting from the window to read peacefully. But this time, I was stuck right by the window in the stark wintery light that flooded through the shop.
I looked curiously towards the table, wondering who exactly was waiting for me, but my answer came soon enough in a call of, “Izzy! Over here!”
My childhood friend, who I had not seen for exactly seven days. I walked over, my eyebrows raising. “What are you doing in my coffee shop?”
“Not your coffee shop,” Aryan said, his eyes narrowing in challenge. “Are you really going to buy the shop from that old man?”
“No, never, despite it being my one refuge from everyone.” I glared at him angrily. Already, we went to many parties together, and we even worked a street apart, though clearly, he couldn't not spend time with me, despite him completely adapting to the whole work-place thing while I was still floundering and getting pity treats from my colleagues.
“So, why did you want to talk to me?” I asked, looking at him curiously.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” He asked quickly.
“What?” I said. “Is this some kind of weird-brotherly-protectiveness act? I don't, but I may?”
“Oh, the guy from the party last Saturday?” he asked.
“Yeah, we were thinking of meeting?” I said. “But why exactly do you want to know? It's not like we're in a relationship. If you're worried about him, he's the same age as us, and works in another publishing company. But, that's none of your business. Are you done?”
“Yeah.” He looked at my book curiously. “What're you reading?”
“The Hunger Games.” I smiled. “Haven't read it since I was thirteen. All I remember was the Peeta-Gale-Katniss situation, though that was incredibly fun to read, either way.”
“Yeah. Did you know love triangles were popularised by Shakespeare?” he asked.
“No. Where did you learn that?”
“Colleague.”
“Hmm.”
“Well, I should be going now,” he said, distractedly looking at his watch.
“Okay.”
He left, and the door jingled merrily again, as I opened the first page and began reading, ignoring the sinking feeling that I'd dissapointed him somehow.
(581 words)

Part 3: Something's not Quite Right…

Harry woke up in the middle of the night. His hands were shaking, and his scar was hurting more than ever, and one touch from his hand proved that he had been crying. He wasn't quite sure where he'd been, nor where he was supposed to be. The red hangings of the Gryffindor common room had disappeared, replaced by a dark, dark room he had never seen in his life. His breath came in short, quick breaths as he moved back slowly, pressing his back against the metallic wall, the cool metal letting cold run through his body. He'd not been so scared since the first time that he'd been shoved into the cupboard under the stairs by his uncle for the first time he'd accidently used magic.
A soft voice rippled through the gloom. “Harry, harry, harry. How remarkably good it is to see you here!”
The high-pitched voice of Professor Flitwick cut through the gloom.
Harry let out a sigh. “What is this Professor Flitwick? Do you know if this is just some big prank for Halloween?”
“Well,” the high-pitched teacher said, “I'm not exactly Professor Flitwick. In fact, you may know me as one of your classmates.”
Harry thought about which classmate had a high voice, and instantly ruled out the girls. But the highest-pitched boy in the entire grade was…
“Neville?” he scrambled to his feet. “Neville, why am I here?”
“I may have gotten you here,” Neville said, his pink, pinchable cheeks finally visible in the gloom. “With some help from some friends.”
“Oh, good, then can you get me out?” Harry shivered. “I hate this cold. Where even are we?”
“I don't know,” Neville said, flourishing a hand. “My friends helped me find here.”
“Do you even know your way back?” Harry said, feeling more panicked by the second. “Neville, you could have brought us somewhere dangerous!”
“Maybe that's exactly where I want you to be.”
“Why?” Harry said. “I've only been in school for a few months. What could I possibly have done to offend you, Neville?”
“You stole my prophecy!” Neville's voice had risen into a fever pitch. “I was born at the end of July, my parents were t!rtured in unspeakable ways by You-Know-Who's followers, I suffered so much more than you! Ridicule my whole life, even by my own family! I suffered too much, too much. And yet, you got the scar. You got the title, you got the life, you got the fame. Your life is pristine, mine is filled with ongoing insanity!”
“Neville,” Harry said, his voice cracking in fear. “Neville, I'd gladly give it all up to you! I'd gladly–”
"Exactly, you'd gladly give away everything. You'd give away your mother's love that shields you so much, you'd give away you entire life, you'd give away everything I never had for peace. That's what I don't like about you, Harry. You could have been so much better.“
”I'm trying! I'm trying to be the greatest, I'm trying to be the chosen one, but it feels like everybody has a different idea of who I'm supposed to be! I was a baby, Neville, I couldn't have done anything!“
”I know.“ Neville smiled a deadly smile that had never graced anybody's face except for Lord Voldermort. ”That's why I'm offering you something. You'll stop trying, I'll take over your duties. I'll completely replace you, my new friends will find a way.“
”How will you replace my scar!“ Harry said.
”It's easy.“ Neville lifted his mousy hair and showed an inked-on scar that gleamed and glinted in the dim light. The skin around it was puckered and pinched into thin grooves. ”I'll tell everyone that someone chose me. It was me, not you, and you were the one with a tattoo scar.“
”How are we going to erase mine?“ Harry said.
”Easy, you won't be in the picture!“ Neville smiled his ‘I’m-a-hopeless-child' smile, which suddenly seemed to be more malicious than before.
”How so? I'm never not going back to Hogwarts!“
”No. You'll never be in the picture. Not ever again.“
A chill rippled through Harry's bones. ”Neville…“
”I do mean exactly what I'm saying, Harry. So, anything else to say?"
The Gryffindor Tower had a new ghost, a few days later. A troubled young boy, who kept saying he was named ‘Harry Potter’.
(724 words)

Part 4: Implementing Tropes

The sadness tore through Nova's heart, as the girl's eyes closed, pain leaking through the eyelids. Her hands held a cold one, and the school uniform she was wearing leaked with a red liquid that inspired Nova to think that maybe she didn't want to know where the girl had been. The raw screams were slowing down now, and she had slumped to the floor, her hands clawing at her mother's, which lay still, constant apologies in a hoarse voice ringing through the room.
Nova held the vial out for two more seconds, and then shut the top with a firm shick with a special cork that allowed her to bottle the emotion so precisely that it still had the energy that had once belonged to the owner, but not able to escape. The after-effect of being an Emotion-Reaper tore through her, a sadness that pierced her heart and in another second it was gone, but a single tear leaked out of her eye as a homage to the first owner of the poignant emotion.
She looked at the pulsing, purple sadness. It would be easy to get a good price on that, considering the pure concentration of the emotion. It looked like the person had been bottling up their emotions for the majority of their mother's sickness, so it turned out that the emotion was very, very concentrated by the time it came out. A small twinge of guilt ran through her as she took the bottle, thinking about how she took advantage of the person's feelings, but it quickly passed as she stepped through the gate into the Glass City.

The guard at the Nightwatch, the gate that loomed far above the glass pillars that marked the entrance looked her up and down, his eyes quietly judging her. Nova felt pink rush into her cheeks. She'd just bought some fancy new clothes from the human world, a dark crop-top with the letters, “Feminism” etched in burning pink and cargo pants with six pockets, a style she couldn't quite get anyway. She dressed in human because human clothes were far more fun than the sundresses that were the only really comfortable thing to get in the Glass City in peak summer.
“Name?” He said, curtly stepping to attention.
“Nova, Nova Lembenbert, you'll have me under F, though.” A little mishap that happened when she changed her name from Farentall to Lembenbert, her mother's maiden name.
“Ah. Got you. Go right in, Nova.” He moved aside, and flashed her a pair of dimples. Gosh, she really was a sucker for dimples.
She walked into the city at night, starlight gleaming off polished glass, and the soft buzz of the bazaar up ahead, the place that she knew she could get buyers for her goods. Three vials of jealousy and two vials of sadness, both in different concentrations. This was the buy of a lifetime, and she knew just who she could give it to.
She waltzed into the bazaar like she'd done a thousand or more times before, being an Emotion-Reaper for trade since she was fifteen. She beelined to the shop that had easily the most crowd, fourteen or so people jostling for the best vial to make into glass, harried jewellers carrying off the prettiest ones, a sheen of sweat covering everyone's faces. This was the bazaar, and one of Nova's favourite places on Earth. And her favourite Emotion-Vendor's shop counter was just there, Lenard and Sons.
“Lukas!” she let her voice cut above the others, high-pitched. “I've got some wares!”
A deeper voice shouted loudly, “Stop!”
Instantly everyone froze. Nobody messed with Lukas Lenard.
Nova smoothly walked through the crowd, mostly glass-forgers, and smiled when she reached the counter.
“Hi, Lukas.”
“Hi, Nova.” Lukas smiled back, dimples deep on his tanned face.
His smile was colder than before, though, but that was mainly because Nova had dumped him before. They'd known each other for years, and then one night at the Festival of Blown Glass Lukas confessed his crush, they kissed, and Nova fell head over heels for those dimples until suddenly it was too weird and suddenly it felt strange and everything fell apart.
“Five vials of jealousy, two vials of sadness at different concentrations.” She could feel the looks of glass-forgers, practically drooling at the possibility of the two vials of sadness. Their top buys had just changed.
She could see his eyebrows go up for barely a second. “Okay. How much?”
“I'd say two quans, three miskes?”
“That'll work.” He pulled out the payment drawer, and handed her her cash. “See you, Nova. Oh, and by the way, I've heard that the Council of Emotions wants you to go to their office. Not quite sure why, but nothing good comes of that.”
His face darkened, and Nova wondered what the Council of Emotions, the most prestigious and posh glass-forgers, emotion-vendors and emotion-reapers had to say to her.
“Thank you Lukas.”
He nodded. “Bye, Supernova.”

Nova had decided to pass by the conference office of the Council of Emotions, and though some people may think that the city offices would shut down in the night, the only time the City of Glass was truly alive was the night, and most glass-smiths only were awake at the night (which was why largely all the glass-smiths were single, but that was something unrelated. Anyhow, she reached the big, spherical office that looked like it was crafted from one big blow of a glass-blower's tube, oddly shaped and containing many random things that the Council had bought or found on their comprehensive travels.
She knocked twice on the glass door knob and it was opened by a sleazy, greasy-looking man who was very tall and very thin and had big, moist eyes. “Mrs Nova Lembenbert?”
“Miss,” she said. “And yes. I was told to drop by?”
“The Masters are waiting for you in the Meeting Room,” he said. “I shall lead you.”
She followed the man dubiously. Surely the Council themselves, the unofficial rulers of the Glass City weren't dropping by?
But when the man opened the door, the triad of the most important people in the entire city were lounging on sofas, and smiling up at a shell-shocked Nova.
“Sit,” said Léonard, the oldest glass-blower in the entirety of the City. “Nova, Lembenbert. You have much to catch up on.”
She bowed twice, and sat next to Pearline, the most experienced Emotion-Reaper.
“You may not know this, Nova Lembenbert, but the Glass City is falling on hard times.” The youngest council member, only about forty, Keston, sat forward, his fingers steepled under his chin. “We are having the most curious phenomenon. The Emotions, they are not being reaped properly anymore. It's not happening. We require your help, because it appears that you are the only Emotion-Reaper who has not been affected by this.”
“What kind of help?” Nova asked quickly. She didn't want to go dancing into something that quickly. It was dangerous to do that, and not that the Council was lying, she'd heard rumours, but it was still so dangerous to accept a bet from the Council.
“Just, find something. With whatever powers you have to guide the emotion.”
“Find what?” Nova said. “Is it an object, a scroll? I'm good at reading through catalogues.”
The Council members all laughed, which made her even more nervous.
“No, my dear girl. It's an object, yes. A very important one. A vial, that the very first Emotion-Reaper got crafted by the first Glass-Smith. It's supposed to be renowned, rumoured to be lost, and it's not in any catalogue that we posses.”
“So, you'll let me do the dirty work of finding it?”
“You will be compensated handsomely.”
“Sure?”
“Yes, Nova.”
Nova cocked her head, considering it. Living alone was extremely hard, even with the daily sales. She wasn't making that much. Handsomely compensated sounded good. More than good.
“I'll take it.”

(1324 words)

Tropes used: The MacGuffin, Holiday Romance and the Chosen One.

Daily 19: Three words
3 words in question: stain, red, butterfly by @ForestSorchenDweller

It had been a while since he had been in Groverstown. The little town that sat at the bottom of the huge city, that's where his life had begun, and that's where he was hoping it could end. But the end wasn't anywhere near in sight, not for a twenty-six year old man who had just gotten his first corporate job after college and working at a publishing firm for a few years. Not that he was hoping it would be, either.
The entire town was so stagnant, the midsummer heat making the fat flies buzz lazily and casting a sheen of sweat over everything. He wasn't planning to stay out long, though. The small bookstore on Elm Lane was always air conditioned, so he stepped inside, looking around the familiar place. It looked like it had become a cafe now, all with the shining tables and chairs and coffee menu propped up by the counter. A large-ish shelf still kept all of there books, lined up in alphabetical order, sititng neatly on the green-painted wood. It was now a lending library, apparently, according to the sign.
“A book café,” he said quietly, the silence echoing his words. “I never thought it would be a book café.”
Suddenly, a quiet thumping alerted him to a person who was currently clomping their way down the stairs. “I'll be just with you, I'm just lugging some more books!”
Soon, a straw-berry blonde girl appeared, large stacks of books sitting in both of her arms. She turned towards him, huge dimples flashing in her cheeks. “I'm so sorry for the wait–”
Her brow furrowed in recognition, and suddenly it seemed to hit her. “Oh my gosh, I didn't think you'd come back to Grovers! I've not seen you since college!”
He nodded and smiled. “So, the bookstore has evolved,” he said. “How did that happen?”
“Well, since my uncle passed, I've been thinking about what's trending, and honestly, people are just happy to sit and read.”
“That's nice, and I'm sorry about your uncle.”
She nodded. “He was a great man.”
She looked down at her hands. “Gosh, these are dusty. I should clean them off.” She dusted them against her green cargo pants, and a small flourish of red stained the mint. He looked at her fingers. A small cut pulsed red. “Uh, you've got a cut.”
“Oh!” Her eyes widened. “I'll, um, go get a bandage. Make yourself comfortable.”
In an impulse, he reached out an wiped the red away from her fingers. She stopped in her tracks, and looked at him with a curious, evaluating gaze.
“I will,” he said quickly. “Make myself comfortable. Where ever books are, I'm not far behind.”
“Yeah.” She walked away and moved behind the counter.
He picked up a book and furiously tried to drown the butterfly that had begun fluttering around his stomach. A friend, that's what she was. Just. An. Old. Friend.
And there we leave them, two little butterflies beginning to make their way into the world.
(506 words)

Daily 25: Holiyayyyy

My holiday will be International Procrastination Day! Yes, yes, we know it's unhealthy, we know we shouldn't do it, but wouldn't it be great to have a day where you have an excuse to do it? Yes, it would be the bane of teachers, and other mentors, and even working people's bosses but honestly, a day where you didn't have to feel guilty about procrastination would be great! Of course, like any holiday, some terms and conditions should be laid out.
To truly appreciate the procrastinators of the world, you can procrastinate all day, but at dot 5 in the evening, you have to speed through everything you procrastinated on, all in the space of exactly 3 hours, 5 to 8. Of course, there are no real rules on what you can procrastinate on, it's your choice and nobody can stop you! This is for everybody in the world who has procrastinated, so go ahead and do whatever you want with the day! No possible way can you avoid this. If you choose to celebrate procrastination day, then you must do this, or you'll be considered a foolish person for celebrating it. No pretend procrastinators (productive human beings) can participate in this day, lest they lose their title.
If you're a procrastinator, go ahead and enjoy the day, and if you're a curious productive human, the one in the million, you can try and see how much you can procrastinate! The goals of the day are procrastinate, hesitate and play by the rules of the game, because you can't ever procrastinate too much *laughs nervously* is there a limit *laughs nervously again*?(274 words)

https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1152125808/

WEEKLY 4:


Prompt 1: Write 150 words where a character experiments with new or unfamiliar technology.

“Are you new here?”
Sarah jolted, tightening her hands around the bag that sat in her hands. “Well, yes. I am. Mr…Stationmaster.”
The station-master was quite intimidating looking. He had small, beetle-black eyes that were set on either side of his tiny nose. A soft, white beard sat on his chin, stopping at his Adam's apple, and he had wrinkles covering most of his face. “Well, may I help you, Miss?”
“I'd…yes,” Sarah said. It had just occurred to her that it was best to get a message to her aunt and uncle in case they had forgotten. Mother had said that they were quite forgetful people, and maybe they had simply forgotten about their niece, sitting alone at a railway station surrounded by woods. Though she was fifteen, she'd manage fine at home, but New Halftonland was something… unusual. Estranged from the cities that were raging with revolutions, New Halftonland was covered by tiny villages with sometimes only six or seven people to call their own, or filled with summer homes with actresses who moaned about their dreadful arthritis and the good old days in theatre. But her aunt and uncle had their own way of living, and she was to respect that.
“Do you have any way to get a message along to Mr and Mrs–” she checked her scrap of paper. “Lanton-Joy?”
“We do have a dialer,” the station-master said. “You know, to dial their number and get the call around?”
“Yes, I know, Mr Stationmaster.” Sarah felt a bit of uncertainty rise in her. Dialers had vanished from the big cities where she had lived long before she even had been born.
“Do you know their number? I'll get it across.”
“I think I could do it,” Sarah said, wincing at her own rudeness. “We have telephones in the cities, can't be too different, am I right?”
“No.” The stationmaster said, looking strangely amused.
Sarah walked over to the dialer, and found a string that was firmly attached to the ringing end was tangled horribly. She pulled it towards her, and in that process knocked over the button of the dialer to 4, and when she pulled it tighter (because it just wasn't budging), it landed on a series of other numbers, and a faint ringing came from the dialer.
“Agh! It's not even their number!”
The station-master walked over smoothly, and moved the tangle (spiral, Sarah noticed now) to the correct position and pressed a firm hand on a button situated at the back and nodded at Sarah. “What's their number, miss? And if you'd like to dial it yourself, how about I show you how?”
Sarah read out the numbers to the station-master, who still looked faintly amused and tried to ignore the heat that was rushing into her cheeks.
(466 words)

Prompt 2: Write 200 words in which a character is put into a dangerous situation.

Sarah boarded the carriage leading into one of the only villages in New Halftonland that had the highest reading of people living there. However, the carriage was filled with nearly 6 other people, and space was cramped. She found that she was with another boy who appeared about three years older than her, who smiled awkwardly at her before offering her a seat. “M'lady.”
“You really needn't,” Sarah said happily, before realising that he was simply moving over.
There was a small titter from another companion, a lady who was wearing a fairly fine dress and looked like she was accompanying him. “He doesn't hand over his seat to anybody, truly. You'd be lucky to catch his attention.”
The carriage began moving and there was a long, slow creak from the bottom.
“Is this quite safe?”
“Maybe without your luggage,” said a mean-faced old gentleman. “You new to Halfton?”
“I'm visiting.”
“How long?”
“Don't know.”
“She's new.”
Another slow creak, and Sarah hitched in a breath. “Is this quite stable?”
“I'd hope so.” The boy leaned back, looking at her. Sarah got the distinct impression that he was testing her. “Otherwise your bag'll all fall through, won't we.”
The carriage had become more unstable, running over gravelly ground, bumping dangerously, while a maiden in a corner looked like she was regretting taking a ride, Sarah was regretting bringing her bag.
Suddenly, there was a huge crack, and Sarah's bag fell right through the roof, landing squarely on her lap, and barely missing her neck and head.
The maiden in the corner pressed a handkerchief over her mouth and turned an unappealing shade of green.
The boy leaned back, closing his eyes. “Isn't this just a wonderful ride.”
“At least we have a skylight,” said the girl wearily.
(297 words)

3: Write about a moment where your character overestimated their abilities in 200 words.

After the terrible carriage ride (and some profuse apologies to the ryder and the other people) she had tried to avoid the motion sick maiden and the boy and his sister (a thing she had found out by comparing their looks to see if they may be suitors) and made her way into town.
In some of the big cities she'd lived in because of her Father's soldier service, her friends and family had been amazed at the fact that she could find her way just by looking around a bit. While they'd be dithering over whether the map said their left or the other left (what this mysterious other left was, nobody quite knew) she'd have already found the destination.
But this time, stuck in the middle of a town square, with only four houses surrounding her and possibly only four behind, she was suddenly caught by a sense of homesickness and fear that was snaking through her veins. In the city, she was used to giant buildings, but in this town, everything was remarkably bare. Where was she going to go?
She took a deep breath and looked around. “Alright, Sarah, you've got this.”
She walked up to the door, and looked carefully at the faded numbers. Another thing she was good at, reading faded numbers. It was fairly large, just like her mother's description of the house – and her memory was impeccable, so she should know.
And it must have been mint green, right? Yes, mint green.
She knocked firmly on the door, and when it opened began her monologue. “Hello, Aunt Irvith and Uncle Sandler, I'm your niece Sarah, and I've come here from the Sadver, so you can expect me to be a proper young lady and –”
However, the woman standing in front of her bore no similarities to her mother and looked at least six (or sixty) years older than her aunt.
“Who are you?”
“Miss Sarah. I've come to see my aunt and uncle… the Hallowens. Do you know where they live?”
“I'm not stupid, girl,” the woman said. “I'm Fella, the woman who lives opposite.” She laughed in a way that made it seem that she was truly crying. “Not that anyone knows my name, though.”
“Can you direct me to my aunt and uncle's?”
“Right over there,” Fella said, pointing in the direction of a relatively smaller house with shuttered windows and a vivid – dark green. Sarah sighed. Perhaps she wasn't quite so reliable.
(413 words)

4: Write about something a character believed was perfect but actually was flawed in 100 words.

Sarah knocked on the door, anticipating a rambunctious, rowdy woman like her mother had described, but she was met by a small, rather short woman who had bags under her eyes, and lips that were small and thin and chapped. “I'm Irvith, and you must be Sarah.” She had a quite melodious voice, that pitched up and down as she spoke.
“Hello,” Sarah said. “Aunt Irvith.”
She gave a little start.
“Are you alright?” Sarah asked.
“I just didn't think that your father would let you call me your aunt. Come inside, dear. Your uncle will be back soon.”
Sarah followed her, getting more curious. “Why would my father have an opposition against you?”
“I didn't like their marriage. There's a reason the women's revolts are spiking up around the cities.” Irvith helped her put her bag down somewhere safe, and walked around the kitchen. “I'll make you some tea.”
“What?” Sarah said. “But my father… he's a soldier, a fighter for his country, a person who's honourable.”
“Well, he's not the kindest. And that's something our parents overlooked in choosing a good man for Livvy.” Irvith set the water boiling and sat down alongside Sarah.
“Your father disapproved of me disapproving, because of the misogynist he is, so that's why you've practically never seen me before. But you're a good girl, Sarah, and I'm pleased to finally meet you.”
(230 words)

5: Write about something bizarre or unexpected happening to your character in 200 words.

After the revelation of her father's true character with Aunt Irvith, Uncle Sandler came home. He was a stark contrast to the bony, tiny Aunt Irvith, because he was built like a wrestler and was at least 5 inches taller than his wife, though in their interactions, you could tell that they loved each other very much, and cared very much for each other in small ways.
On her third day in New Halftonland, Uncle Sandler woke her early in the morning, and when she asked him angrily why she had been woken at nearly only 6 hours past midnight, he said matter-of-factly, “I'm going to need your help. I need some help loading the fish into the shop. You'll have help, me and another boy.”
Sarah groaned and got ready the fastest she could. But her dismay at being woken up early at an unholy time only doubled when she realised that the person she was to work with was the Carriage Boy in front of who she'd made a complete fool of herself.
Somewhere midway through the organising, he said, “You know, the ryder got another carriage.”
Sarah couldn't stop herself, she giggled.
“What's your name?” he asked.
“Sarah,” she said. “Your's?”
“I'd rather not say. All you have to know is that I work for the shop.”
“Mysterious boy, then, that's your name.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“I'm eighteen. You can't call me a boy.”
“I can call you whatever I want,” Sarah said, loading another carp into the wooden stand.
She hadn't quite expected to become friends with the strange, mysterious boy who's waltzed into her world, but whatever happened between them in the carriage vanished and soon they were laughing with each other like they'd known each other for years.
(296 words)

Prompt 6: Write your character recieving a message from an unknown person in 150 words.

The village had become far more appealing that when it first introduced itself to Sarah, but suddenly a strange thing happened. She recieved a letter one day in the post, the envelope crinkled and rumpled from rain, which hadn't hit the village yet. It was presumed that heavy rains would lash across the countryside, but first they always came to the giant cities that stood tall and strong. It must have come from somewhere in the big cities, but no return address was on it, and when she opened it, a deep purple plant fell out, and and a lavender-like one.
She could swear she'd seen both before, and then it hit her. They both were in a book one of her city friends had lent her, one deadly nightshade that meant dark thoughts or sorcery, and one, lucerne, that meant life.
But the lucerne plant was old and withered, the petals falling out. It was d!ad.
(158 words)