Daily 05/07/2025


Music. An expression of creativity which connects people across space and time. It serves as a way to express emotions, whether love or hate, joy or sorrow. It’s a crucial part of identity, whether for an individual, a group of friends or a culture. Lyrics can carry messages of protest and encouragement and provide new perspectives on the world. Sometimes music is just a way to escape from reality and feel better about the world, to process pain and move on into the future.

But what if there was a way to capture that, to keep all that emotion and identity within something? We could play whenever, and be transported somewhere else immediately, like having bottled emotions ready for use whenever. Would that perhaps be dangerous, addictive? Could people be trusted with such a thing? On the other hand, it would give the music to the people, so as to not let it be controlled by a handful of sources, and that would be a beautiful thing. The voices of many, shared to the many. It would create a sense of belonging and community spanning across the world.

I can picture it now, a silvery disc, throwing shards of light across the room as I take it reverently out of its case. I pause to admire the design printed on it. On this disc, the music is compacted into tiny symbols, yet still present. I put it into the machine, where it fits perfectly. I press down the top, select the right buttons, and inside the machine, the disc begins to spin. Tendrils of hope and fear, curling delicately together in my room. I close my eyes, full of wonder. This disc carries in it a piece of my own identity, and in sharing that with others, I find I have a family I will never know. In a way, that’s comforting.

Words: 312

1st Weekly

Some pre-story character development for Lumi (a character in my planned novel).



Part 1

Lumi is adventurous and bold, an unconventional student at the Scholary. She thrives in combat lessons, and loves completing obstacle courses, as well as finding ways to get on to the roof and building hideouts. However, Lumi has issues with trust. She often turns away others and isolates herself, which is more detrimental to her than she would ever admit. Ghosts of her early life haunt her in ways her fellow students will never know. She tries to supress her memories as far as is possible, but that leads to sudden and unpredictable bursts of emotion when it becomes too much to do that. Sometimes, she spends hours alone in her hideout, pouring her emotions out as poetry, which she keeps secret and never shows to anyone. She doesn’t often talk to others, and people tend to keep a distance from her, wary of her outbursts, and sure they will be pushed away if they attempt to befriend her.



Part 2

To start with, Lumi keeps away from others and often finds hiding spots where no one will bother her. She enjoys being outside, as her Lyrem is connected to the seasons and weather. Many students try to talk to her, with varying results. Some she ignores, others she pushes away, yet others she bursts out at, shocking them and solidifying a growing reputation for being volatile. One student who doesn’t try to talk to her is Tachi. He’s quiet, bookish, and enjoys his own company. He’s also observant and deeply empathetic.

When Lumi begins to miss lessons in order to avoid talking to people, Tachi does something very unusual, for him. He takes matters into his own hands. One day, he follows Lumi to find out where her hideout is, then once she had left, he leaves her a note. He also notices her book of poetry, and since his Lyrem is connected to words, begins to understand why Lumi behaves the way she does.

On reading the note, Lumi is at first sceptical but agrees to meet Tachi. His gentleness and patience mean she doesn’t react to much. Slowly, he gains a little of her trust. Over the following weeks, they meet again, and bond over a shared love of poetry, Lumi learning what it is to be gentle, thoughtful and cautious; Tachi what it is to take risks, explore and break rules; both learning how to interact with someone else.



Part 3

Lumi is driven by curiosity and a desire to discover new things. She is fiercely loyal to the few people who she lets into her inner circle and will protect them at all costs. When the events of my novel take place, she also becomes driven by a wish to survive and to preserve her Lyrem, and the Lyrem of her fellow students, as well as wanting to protect Tachi, Laron and later Rymielle. She is a restless spirit, who loves to travel and explore. She is also affected by the weather, as her Lyrem is connected to it. For example, she may be happier on sunny days, and any sun-based Lyrem she performs will be stronger. While she has long isolated herself, she has a hidden desire to be admired by others. This becomes apparent in the novel, as she tries to take on enemies, sometimes recklessly, to gain the approval of the students she is with. She also feels a lot of anger at the way she has previously been treated and feels that the way Lyrecoans are treated by other people is unfair. This sense of injustice and unfairness leads Rymielle to try to achieve a fairer system.



Part 4

This is a backstory which details how Lumi met Tachi and became the person she is at the start of the novel (which I haven’t written yet but anyhow).


It was a stormy winter’s evening when the first-year students arrived at the Scholary. Lumi’s cloak flapped like a crow’s wings in the howling wind, and her heart filled with a wild excitement. The moon wove between clouds, casting an occasional ghostly light on the already pale walls of the building. Crossing the courtyard, the Scholars ushered them towards shelter. Most of the students were glad to get into the warm and dry, after the turbulent weather at the initiation ceremony, which was the first step towards being able to properly use your Lyrem. Lumi, however, paused on the threshold before she entered, savouring the stinging rain and the scent of the encroaching nighttime.

A wildness like the weather that night was forever imprinted on Lumi’s heart. Many Lyrecoans were accepted, or at least tolerated, by their families, but Lumi’s parents had been so horrified by her Lyrem, that they had simply abandoned her. Lumi had survived, but grown up in fear of others, as they saw her as a threat, chasing her away and yelling abuse at her.

From her first lesson, it was clear that Lumi was used to having to fight for herself and would trust no one. She was the only one not working with a pair. When Laron approached her, her fierce glare warned him away. When the Scholar taking the lesson gently suggested she pair up, she shook her head emphatically. “I will work on my own,” she declared, stubborn even at ten years old.

Three years later, no one was any the wiser about Lumi’s history. Certainly, no one could call her a friend. Often, she would disappear for hours at a time. Still, she passed her yearly exams and stayed on as a training Lyrecoan. For the time she had been at the Scholary, Tachi had been quietly observing her. This year, he’d noticed that Lumi had begun to miss lessons. At first, he put it down to illness, but soon he realised that something else was going on, and Scholars didn’t know what it was. Loathe to leave his comfortable corners and books, but lead by his sense of responsibility, Tachi woke up early one morning and quietly followed Lumi to see where she went. She glanced about surreptitiously, before heading up a winding spiral staircase and, to Tachi’s surprise, onto the roof. Making a note of where she went, he left to go to his lesson.

It was inevitable that Lumi would have to leave her rooftop hideout for food at some point, so Tachi kept checking, and eventually found the little hut of wooden branches propped against the tower wall empty. He ducked inside and dropped his note on the cushion which lay on the floor. Before he left, he couldn’t help but notice the book lying open beside the cushion. Poetry. Lumi was writing poetry.

As he had dared to hope, Lumi was there in the library that evening. She raised her head as he walked over, the shadows on her face emphasised by the flickering candlelight. Her dark hair was roughly plaited and tied with a strip of coarse orange fabric. For the first time in a while, a cautious smile lit up her face for a moment. “Hello,” her voice was quiet and surprising deep, “Tachi, I guess?”

“Yeah,” Tachi smiled uncertainly, pushing his hair out of his eyes, “That’s me. You up for a chat?”

Lumi faltered, frowning, but then seemed to come to a conclusion. “Yeah, yeah, I guess I am.”

And that smile, a little less cautious this time, lit up her face.


Words: 1,240

Daily 06/07/2025


For everyone who has been forced to study An Inspector Calls at school. (Somewhat major plot spoiler warning.)


An Inspectre Calls



The Burling family are having dinner. The room should look very normal, until the Inspectre arrives, at which point the lights should dim and the scenery become gothic.

Mr Burling: I say, what a delightful dinner we’ve had!

Sheela: Shall we all introduce ourselves to the audience to make their job of deciphering hidden meanings easier?

Gerold: What a marvellous idea, darling. I am a self-obsessed son of a very wealthy upper-class man. I love capitalism.

Mr Burling: I also love capitalism! I’m a rich businessman, and I think the lower class should have miserable lives for my benefit. I am now going to give a long speech about how various historical events are not going to happen-

Mrs Burling: I’d rather you didn’t dear. I am a cold, selfish, upper-class women. I pretend to care by being part of a charity.

Sheela: I am engaged to Gerold. I like clothes, worship my parents like they are gods, am very shallow and immature, and I love Gerold. Did I mention I’m engaged to him? Mummy is very proud of me.

Erik: I am Sheela’s left out little brother. I don’t drink too much. Totally not…

Adna: And I-

The doorbell rings.

Mr Burling: Had better go and answer the door.

The Inspectre walks in.

Inspectre: Hello, I am Inspectre Ghoul. I think capitalists are fools and the upper class is selfish. Also, there’s a dead girl but that doesn’t matter because she just represents the working class.

Mr Burling: You’re a fool.

Mrs Burling: I agree.

Gerold: I don’t know.

Sheela: I am suddenly more mature and also I’m socialist and I’m not marrying Gerold.

Erik: I don’t know… I feel bad though.

Inspectre: Okay, goodbye. Also, I may not be real but anyhow.

Daily 09/07/2025

Sleepless hours and dreamless nights and far-aways, oh, I wish that you were here right now. It won’t do to dream of caramel, to think of cinnamon and long for you. I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you.

She thought she would break, and she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached. She would rather be a riddle, but she keeps challenging the future with a profound lack of history. She lives to feel the wind and see the sun and drink the rain. Well, I’m grateful for her sympathy, but jealous of her grace.

Do you remember what we promised when we met, my love? There would never be a reason for regret, my love. I fell for you like water falls from the February sky. Now I know that there’s just some things… just not meant to be. Did you expect I’d never know her name? I kept quiet so I could keep you. Well, please do not ever look for me, but with me you will stay, and you will hear yourself in song blowing back one day.

Words: 190



Songs in order of use:

Wishing you were here – Chicago

Lovesick – Laufey

Caramel – Suzanne Vega

The Night We Met – Lord Huron

The Queen and the Soldier – Suzanne Vega

Knight Moves – Suzanne Vega

La Belle Fleur Sauvage – Lord Huron

No Such Thing As Forever – myself

My Love – Steeleye Span

Logical – Olivia Rodrigo

Chasin’ the Wind – Chicago

The Bullet – Caro Emerald

Traitor – Olivia Rodrigo

Gypsy – Suzanne Vega

Daily 13/07/2025
(Help me this is awful)


It can’t have been me because…

I was asleep. I know it sounds like a flimsy excuse, but it’s true. My cat can vouch for me. Well, I wasn’t exactly asleep the entire time. I did some crochet, and sent a video of my cat to… someone. Who? I’m not sure I can disclose that information, but I promise I would never steal mangoes. That would just be pure evil, which simply isn’t me.

My book can also vouch for me, because I was reading it. I can tell you what it was about. It involved a child who can do magic. Also, he has a very iconic scar. It’s a famous book, you probably recognise it. Although, it was in Spanish. (Hey, what are you talking about. “Spanish” does not mean “encoded notes on how to efficiently steal mangoes”.)

Also, the walls can vouch for me. I had that strange feeling someone was watching me, so I’ll assume it was them. It seemed creepy at the time, but now it gives me an alibi so… yay. Likewise, the ceiling, floor, window, etc. will vouch for me (I’m assuming they were watching me too).

Plus, there’s the darkness. The darkness was very much there, as it’s hard to get rid of unless you have a light, and at this point I had turned my light off. I remember there being darkness, since it was a good cover for… wait, no… why am I saying that? So I could drink my smoothie without anyone else noticing. (Mango smoothie? No, why would it be mango?)

So, to conclude, my cat can vouch for me, the person I sent the cat video to can vouch for me, my book can vouch for me, the walls and ceiling and floor and window and door and other stuff can vouch for me, and the darkness can vouch for me. Sadly, none of them speak English. What a shame. You believe me though, right? Because I would never steal mangoes, especially not from an ibex. I’m not that awful a person… right? You guys trust me; I’m no mango thief. Please don’t accuse me of something I didn’t do. I’m just an innocent girl who… really likes mangoes.



Words: 372

2nd Weekly


Part 1

Fairy tales across different cultures are really fascinating. It’s also interesting how they change over time, since a lot of fairy tales were originally darker and involved things we’d consider quite questionable these days. For this part of the weekly, I’m going to focus on Swedish fairy tales, since I’m a fan of Swedish folk music, so I already know a little of the world of Swedish folk beliefs.

One story I came across told the tale of a saint who enlisted the help of a giant to build a church. Parallel with tales familiar to me, such as Jack and the Beanstalk, this giant did not have benevolent intentions and rather wished to steal the saint’s eyes. This would be the price for his building of the church, unless he could guess the giant’s name. This business of guessing names reminds me of Rumpelstiltskin, and indeed the saint finds out the name of the giant while hearing a song sung by the giant’s mother.

Another tale, which is reminiscent of The Princess and the Frog, involves a girl losing her way in the woods, and finding a house in which a snake is living. The snake, however, is hospitable and offers her food to eat. It later turns out that said snake is a prince with a spell on him. Magic, getting lost in the woods, and royalty. The essence of a fairy tale, really.



Part 2

The glass sphere sat on the table before me, colours swirling inside it. Indigo, teal, streaks of silver, shimmering like the northern lights in a dark, arctic sky on a frozen night. The silver base was engraved with twisting, serpentine patterns, almost sinister in their beauty, and encrusted with precious gemstones that glittered in the ray of moonlight that fell on them through the window. But the swirling colours inside the globe were far more precious than any metal or rock.

I breathed in deeply, the night air filling me with a strange kind of wild confidence. A whisper of wind caught the hem of my dress, as if it wanted to pull me away, but I would not heed it. I neared the table, boots striking the stone floor loudly against the silence of the nighttime. The flickering, dancing lights were reflected in my eyes. I couldn’t help myself. I reached out, hands oddly steady despite my fear. My fingers grazed the glass.

There was a burst of pain, sudden as a flash of light in my eyes, and I was thrown back onto the cold floor. I think I lost consciousness at that point, and when I opened my eyes and got to my feet later, the table was empty.



Part 3

The sun was rising over the cottage, bathing it in a honey-golden light. Roses climbed up the trellis, opening their petals as if reaching out to the new day, lightly perfuming the air. A casual observer would never have considered the hooked thorns that garlanded their stems. On the windowsill, a loaf of freshly made bread was cooling down, while Little Green Riding Hood ate her breakfast. Really, her name was Erin, but no one called her that (except her grandma). Most people called her Green for short, since “Little Green Riding Hood” was a bit of a mouthful.

As Green finished her breakfast, Mother took the loaf of bread from the windowsill and placed it in a basket, with a jar of jam and some fruit from their little garden. She covered it over with a checked cloth and handed it to Green, who was pulling the hood of her beloved green cloak over her dark curls. “Go safely!” Mother called out after her.

“I will!” Green replied over her shoulder.

Each day, Green or one of her sisters would take the basket of food to Grandma, who lived just the other side of the little woods. It didn’t take her long to get there, especially now she was older. Plus, she enjoyed the walk through the forest, as it gave her a chance to be alone for a while. As much as she loved her family, it was rather crowded for them all in the cottage.

The birds were singing brightly that morning, the sun casting cheerful beams down between the branches. A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves above her head. The day, Green felt confident, would turn out to be warm and pleasant.

Before long, she reached the cottage. She rapped on the door, and upon receiving no reply, called out, “Grandma! Grandma, it’s Green!”

Again, there was no reply. Green frowned. If Grandma wasn’t there, maybe she should just go in and leave the basket on the table. She tried the doorhandle, and the door opened. In these quiet areas of countryside, there wasn’t much of a reason to lock your door. “Grandma!” she called again, as she stepped into the hallway.

“Just a moment!” came a quavering reply from the kitchen.

Green entered the room just in time to see a flash of metal. Was that… a sword? Now it just looked like Grandma was holding her walking stick as usual, but she was sure… “Grandma, what were you just doing?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”

Green would very much have liked to know, but the mysterious smile paired with the steely glint in Grandma’s eyes told Green she would likely never know.

“Thank you for the bread and fruit, dearie. Is your mother well?”

“Yes, she is.”

Grandma nodded her approval. “Well, I won’t keep you long. I suppose you have studies to get back to, Erin?”

“Yes, Grandma,” Green affirmed.

“Run along then. Goodbye. And, I don’t suppose you’ve seen any wolves around these parts lately?”

“Come to think of it… no.”

Grandma’s eyes twinkled. “Good, good.”

Weird, Green thought. “Goodbye Grandma.”

“Goodbye dearie.”



Part 4

The castle towered above the meandering river, all soaring turrets and latticed windows, radiant in the mid-afternoon sunlight. The sky was a vivid blue; the kind an artist would imagine it to be even when it wasn’t. The clouds were like wisps of cotton wool, tugged along by a playful breeze. Light sparked on the waters of the river, refracting and splitting into shards, to be thrown across the undersides of leaves, the wings of swiftly darting birds, and a face, which looked down into the water.

A pair of hazel eyes, smooth chestnut hair, delicate features. A beautiful face, yes, but also one haunted by sorrow. There was something unsettling about the desolate nature of her gaze, something that stirred the depths of your soul in desperation to help her. But for all the help that was offered, she pulled away and withdrew. Her sisters wanted to buy her gifts, her parents tried to find a young man to court her, her uncle had offered to take her on holiday to take her mind off whatever it was troubling her. It didn’t help though. It never helped.

That day, as she sat by the river, her parents were entertaining a travelling merchant in the castle. He heard of her plight and asked them if he might go and try to help her in his own way. After a little discussion, they agreed. He walked down to the river, where he was told she spent most of her time. “Hello!” he called out as he approached.

The girl lifted her head and looked towards him but said nothing. Her eyes were wells of sadness, and it looked as if a smile had not graced her face in days, maybe weeks. “I have heard,” he began softly, “That you’ve not been feeling yourself recently.”

“If your here to offer me something, I don’t want it.”

Her voice was monotone. “No, no,” the merchant shook his head, “It’s not that. It’s more… advice.”

“Right.”

“Look at yourself in the river again, for a moment.”

She did so, eyes still sad and distant. “Now smile.”

She did, and in that moment her face lit up. The bright day seemed brighter still with just that little bit of sweetness added to it. “You see?” asked the merchant.

“Yes…” the girl replied, “I’m not sure what it is that I see, I don’t fully understand it, but I do see.”

“That’s good,” the merchant smiled.

“Yes, yes, it is. I thought that I wasn’t enough. I felt ugly compared to my sisters, powerless compared to my parents, ignorant compared to my uncle… but I never stopped to think about what I am. I don’t know how a smile fixed that, but it did.”

“Perhaps,” the merchant’s eyes sparkled, “It’s that it was your own smile. Your family tried to give you what they had, but you never saw what you yourself had. No matter how much others love you, how much they want to give you, in the end you can only heal yourself. They may very well help, but you must put in something of your own. In your case, it was the smile.”

She nodded, then looked up frowning a little. “Was that magic?”

“Not magic in the conventional sense, no. But I suppose love, in this case for yourself, is a kind of magic, in a way.”

“Yeah… you could call it that. Magic.”

Word count: 1,542

Daily 19/07/2025



As If No Time Had Passed

Title from @AudPod



It’s been two years, three months, a week and six days since I last saw her. I can work that out from the text messages. Even then though, we weren’t as close as we once were. My primary school best friend. We used to spend every day together. Then she moved schools, and we’d see each other at weekends or on holidays. I cried a lot when she left, but after that I slowly got used to it. Perhaps it was that we didn’t often get to see each other, or perhaps we changed too much, or maybe both of those things, or even something else. No matter how it happened, we drifted apart, seeing each other less and less. Then we’d just send each other messages on birthdays and holidays, before that became not at all. Sometimes I wish I could see her again, as if no time had passed, as we were all those years ago. Then we’d still get on, bond over something trivial and spend hours pretending to be people who we’re not. Time keeps moving, and I suppose that’s something I’ve learnt to accept. I hadn’t thought about her in months. Still, it would be nice to go back and relive one of those days when we were younger. Then again, knowing it would be the last time would make it awkward, make me withdrawn and sad. So, I suppose it’s good time moves the way it does. That way, there’s no temptation, but you are left wondering.

Word count: 253

3rd Weekly


Part 1



As a topic for my weekly, I would like to explore words. The basis of all human communication, words are used to express all kinds of experiences, emotions and ideas. Sometimes they don’t feel like enough, sometimes they feel overwhelming. All the same, words are beautiful things. I, for one, love learning new words, their meanings and their origins. Sometimes, I discover new words in books I’m reading. Other times, I discover them in lists of obscure words on the Internet. When I really can’t find a good word to use for something, I make one up myself. In my weekly, I would like to encourage the discovery of new words and their use in writing; explore archaic and made-up words; have a look at the roots of different words and phrases. This would probably end with creating a piece of writing using the new words learnt or made up during the completion of the weekly. I could include different tasks like opening a dictionary on a random page to learn a new word, using different methods to create new words, or creating meanings for made-up words. I’m not quite sure yet, but those are my ideas. What I do know for certain is that I would like to explore the wonderful (and sometimes strange) world of words.



Part 2



Part 1: Discovering the origins of words

Hello there, fellow SWCer! For this weekly, we’ll be looking at words (I mean, of course, this is a writing camp after all). For the first part, think of some of your favourite words and phrases. Then, research their origins, and write about them.



Part 2: Learning some new words

Now you’ve researched some words you already know and love, it’s time to learn some other words. There are plenty of obscure English words. Here are some of my personal favourites: chronosonder, meaning the realisation that every person in the past had a life as full as your own, petrichor, meaning the smell of earth after it has rained, and gallimaufry, meaning a jumble or hotchpotch of stuff. Then, use your newly discovered words in sentences.



Part 3: Coming up with your own words

In this part of the weekly, you will create your own new words. Find out some ways to do this in the workshop below. Create definitions for the words you make up, as well as the made-up words below:

Aurelth

Janip

Hareler

Sefalu

Otab



Part 4: Writing with your words

Use your favourite words, your newly discovered words, and made-up words in a piece of writing, for example a story or poem.



Part 3



Workshop: Creating words



Introduction

Plenty of authors use made-up words in their books, for example J.K. Rowling uses words like “quidditch” and “muggles” for concepts English doesn’t already have words for in the Harry Potter series, and Lewis Caroll uses words such as “brillig” and “vorpal” to tell a story by suggesting qualities and meanings through the sound of them in his poem Jabberwocky. But how do authors come up with these words? It’s time to find out.



Taking inspiration from other languages

One way to create new words is by adapting words from other languages. Many of the words which J.K. Rowling uses for spells are derived from Latin, such as “lumos”, coming from “lumen” (light), and “nox”, the same as the Latin “nox” (night). Whether you speak other languages or not, you can look up translations online or in dictionaries. This works well if you already have a specific idea for the meaning of the word in mind. You can also adapt English words if you want to, though that will likely make where you got it from more obvious.



Putting words together

You can also create your own portmanteaus, a way of combining existing words. For example, the word “smog” is a portmanteau of smoke and fog, “brunch” comes from breakfast and lunch together, and “romcom” is used for romantic comedies. Again, this is helpful if you already have a definition in mind.



Keyboard smashes!

Wewfoiergigskhje is an example of a keyboard smash. While I’m not sure how many professional authors would recommend this technique, I find it pretty helpful to come with ideas when I’m stuck. Within the keyboard smash, you might come across a group of letters which could be a word. Ideally, this would then spark an idea you can write about. Of course, you can tweak the word if needed. Other ways of simply producing random words include writing letters on pieces of paper and muddling them up, pointing at random letters on a page, and using an online generator.



Conclusion

Using these methods, you will be able to create your own words. Experiment, play around with them, and find some which you would like to use. Happy word-creating!



Part 4

Weekly swap with Willow (@-NotWillow-)



Part 1

One part of a book that really left an impact on me was the ending of Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier (so if you’ve never read it, stop reading here - spoiler warning). As the protagonist and her husband drive back home to Manderley, they see the house burning. When I read this, I turned the page and was shocked to find it was the end of the book. Such an abrupt ending would have left me disgruntled and unsatisfied, if it were not for the prologue, which was set after the rest of the story. I found this use of structure really intriguing. It left me wondering, because I knew that the fire wasn’t the end, but I didn’t know how they would go from that to where they are in the prologue. I spent a while puzzling over it, coming up with various things that might have happened. It was certainly an ending that imbued me with a lingering sense of surprise, and I kept going over it in my mind, in a way I might not have done for a book with a more conventional, ordinary ending. This was the impact that the ending had on me.



Part 2

Clara tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, hazel eyes glittering with impatience. She tore at the envelope with her slightly broken fingernails, heart racing. Then she stopped for a moment, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She thought it would be… but in this moment there was still the possibility it wouldn’t be. Hands shaking, she drew the crisp sheet of paper out the envelope. The envelope fluttered down to the wooden floorboards, discarded and no longer of any interest. As nervous as she was, Clara felt a strange calm descend upon her as she unfolded the paper, which was as white as freshly fallen snow. Her eyes scanned across each line of words, and slowly a smile appeared on her face. The glittering of her eyes turned from impatience to anticipation. She read the letter through a second time, then sprang to her feet and rushed down the stairs. “I did it, I’ve got it!” she called out, and her mother and older brother came running to see.

They laughed and exclaimed and celebrated, until each of their faces ached from grinning. There was no more possibly, possibly not, just a wonderful certainty.



Part 3

Changing the ending of Rebecca, since I've mentioned it already.



As we drove home to Manderley, the sky was very dark, and I was surprised to see an orange glow on the horizon. “Maxim,” I said, “It can’t be dawn yet, can it?”

“It’s too early for that, and you’re looking west,” he replied.

“Then what is going on?” I asked, but he didn’t reply, just stared silently at the road and drove faster.

It must have been about three o’clock when we reached the gates, which stood gaping open. Frank Crawley was stood on the path, waiting for us. “It’s burning,” he confirmed, “Manderley’s burning.”

Maxim’s face was full of thunder. “Mrs Danvers, and that Favell man.”

“It must have been,” I nodded, then after a pause, “What are we going to do?”

“I have money, we can travel, and maybe this will blow over.”

Frank stood, anxious for us as always, “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr de Winter?”

“Go back to the office Frank, book us onto the next ferry to France. We can’t stay here.”

“Very good.”

“Oh, and bring Jasper.”

Jasper, dear Jasper. When Manderley in all its splendour - the sprawling lawns, the grand drawing room, everything of Rebecca’s left there - was gone, that faithful dog would still follow us, as I would follow Maxim, full of desperate hope.



Part 4

The ceiling was burning. I wasn’t sure quite how or why, but there was no time to ponder that now. Crash! An iron beam of the ceiling fell to the floor beside me. Desperately, I turned and ran the other way. The way downstairs was blocked. I couldn’t get any further along the corridor because of the iron beam. Fire danced above me. I had to think. The balcony? I wrenched the doors open, glancing wildly around at the ground beyond the railing. “Mira! Over here!” I heard him call.

“Laron?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Now jump!”

“Jump?!” I cried.

“Mira, please trust me. There’s no other way.”

He was right. The building behind me was burning fast now. I pulled myself up onto the railing, but before I could jump myself, the heat caught up with the metal, and it buckled under me, throwing me into the air. By some miracle, Laron caught me. “Okay,” I murmured urgently, as he set me down, “I’m out of the building, what now?”

“Well… Everything’s burning. We’ve got nowhere to go back to. If I’m honest, Mira, and I do want to be honest with you, I don’t think we’re gonna make it out of here alive.”

I nodded, my face grim. “I thought as much,” I sighed, “The road looks blocked in all directions.”

“You’re right. There’s no way out.”

The light of the raging fire caught his face, and I thought how handsome he looked, in a rather tragic way. “Well… at least I’ve got you.”

He pulled me close against him. “Yeah, if I’m gonna die, there’s no one I’d rather die with than you, Mira.”




Word: 1,689

Daily 21/07/2025



My Letter to You as a Bouquet


If we were Victorian, I would make you a bouquet

Pansies to tell you I’m thinking of you today

It’s just, you’ve been on my mind for weeks now

I want to tell you so badly, but don’t know how

Vetch, so you know why I’m not saying it out loud

Why I hand you them, walk away through the crowd

Head down, eyes fixed on the stones of the floor

Carnations tell you I see you like I didn’t before

Fascinated by you, my hands shake around you

My heart beats faster, I question what’s true

I’m scared about what you’ll say, hence the fuschia

Doubtful, as I remember the heartbreaks that were

I’m so nervous, and this might be the only way

To tell you all those words I would never say

My mind goes blank when I try to speak, despite

My eloquence, vocabulary, no word feels right

But the snowdrops are what I hope you see

The quiet faith in you, shining bright in me

A fearful wish, as I see what could exist

There’s something about you I just can’t resist

Now honeysuckle, not currently representative

Of what we are, just a kind of tentative

Suggestion of what we might, I hope, be soon

We could be by the end of the afternoon

Sweet ties of love between us, but I bring

No flowers, only my heart, the song I sing

And a piece of paper, with all I wish to tell

You’ll know I feel like you’ve cast a spell

On me, and I dare to hope you’ll feel it too

The fuschia (anxiety) as I hand it to you

Snowdrops (hope) as I walk away

Carnations (fascination) in what you say

Pansies (thoughts of you in my mind today)

More fuschia (so scared of what you’ll say)

Vetch (you know already, I’m shy)

And then I’ll find the honeysuckle between you and I


Word count: 320

Competition Entry


Scholar of Storms and Solitude



Storm clouds spread like ink across the sky the night the first-year students arrived at the Scholary. Lumi’s cloak flapped like a crow’s wings in the surges of howling wind, and her heart filled with a wild excitement. This was it. Her destination. The moon wove between clouds, casting an occasional ghostly light on the already pale walls of the building. Crossing the courtyard, the Scholars ushered them towards shelter. Most of the students were glad to get into the warm and dry after the turbulent weather at the initiation ceremony, which was the first step towards mastering Lyrem. Laron, with brown eyes as warm as his kind heart; Tachi, quiet and unobtrusively observant; Rymielle, with her wild red hair and a hint of danger in her eyes. They all stepped inside quickly. Lumi, however, paused on the threshold before she entered, savouring the stinging rain and the scent of the encroaching nighttime.

A wildness like the weather that night was forever imprinted on Lumi’s heart. Many Lyrecoans were accepted, or at least tolerated, by their families, but Lumi’s parents had been so horrified by her Lyrem that they had simply abandoned her. Lumi had survived, but grown up in fear of others, as they saw her as a threat, chasing her away and yelling abuse at her.

From her first lesson, it was clear that Lumi was used to having to fight for herself and would trust no one. She was the only one not working with a pair – even the unpredictable and unsettling Rymielle found someone to work with. Laron saw the pain hiding in her eyes. He’d seen too many broken things left uncared for, and wanted to offer her some kindness, but when he approached her, her fierce glare warned him away. The Scholar taking the lesson gently suggested she pair up, but she shook her head emphatically. “I’ll work on my own,” she declared, stalking away.

Terms at the Scholary passed, yet no one was any the wiser about Lumi’s history. She had no friends, and often she would disappear for hours at a time. She passed her yearly exams, though, and stayed on as a training Lyrecoan. For the time she had been at the Scholary, Tachi had been quietly observing her. She’d caught his interest. He’d noticed recently that Lumi had begun to miss lessons. At first, he put it down to illness, but soon he realised that something else was going on, and Scholars didn’t know what it was. Loathe to leave his comfortable corners and books, but lead by his sense of responsibility, Tachi woke up early one morning and quietly followed Lumi to see where she went. She glanced about surreptitiously and pushed aside a curtain, before heading up a winding spiral staircase and, to Tachi’s surprise, onto the roof. Making a note of where she went, he left to go to his lesson.

It was inevitable that Lumi would have to leave her rooftop hideout for food at some point, so Tachi kept checking, and eventually found the little hut empty. The structure was made of branches bound together with twine. Flimsy individually, but strong together. He ducked inside and dropped his note on the cushion which lay on the floor. He was about to leave, but a book lay open beside the cushion. Fresh ink still shone on the page. He moved closer, intrigued, and skimmed the pages. Poetry. Lumi was writing poetry.

As he had dared to hope, Lumi was there in the library that evening. He had asked her to be. She raised her head as he walked over, and the shadows on her face were emphasised by the flickering candlelight. Her dark hair was roughly plaited and tied with a strip of coarse, faded orange fabric. For the first time in a while, a cautious smile lit up her face. Just for a moment. It was gone so quickly Tachi could almost have imagined it. “Hello,” her voice was quieter than he’d imagined, deeper too, “Tachi, I guess?”

“Yeah,” Tachi smiled uncertainly, brushing his hair out of his eyes, “That’s me. You up for a chat?”

Lumi faltered, frowning, but then seemed to come to a conclusion. “Yeah, yeah, I guess I am.”

And that smile, a little less cautious now, reappeared. This time, she let it stay.

Daily 27/07/2025

Writing 350 words, since I got roughly 8.5 hours of sleep.


The leaf tumbles down through the sky, down onto the water. Light enough to float, to be swept along by the current quite easily. There’s something thrilling about losing all control over your direction. The river rushes on down the hillside, getting wider and slower as it goes. Before long, the exhilarating rush is replaced with a gentler meandering, and the river flows into a pond. Still and calm. Beneath the autumn sky, it is painted shades of watery blue and pale grey in the gaps between the flame colours of the leaves. Many of the flames are dwindling, becoming brown and curled, disintegrating and falling beneath the surface. Transcendental beauty.

The bridge across the pond is made of dark wood, and though the beams of wood lean together, there are gaps between them. Nails hold the structure together. It can’t fall apart, not yet. A couple walk across it, stop in the middle to look down to the water and see their own faces looking back from the mirror-like surface. For now, clear to see, but the ripples of time will distort this moment. Simply. Inevitably. Do they realise in this moment how fragile they are, how quick the earth is to forget? Sometimes the earth does not notice in the first place.

This time, at least some kind gaze has been cast upon them. There’s a closeness in them that’s hard to achieve, but still there are gaps between them. Nothing can be complete. The trees, having seen, in some cases, hundreds of years of love and pain, life and death, bright sparks fading all too fast, they look upon the couple with kindness. Love may fade, but it endures in one way or another, leaving a mark upon the earth long after it forgets. No specific people would ever be remembered but love itself is imprinted somehow on each of our hearts. Love, and with it, pain. Some things are so mutually contradictory, and yet so inextricably intertwined. These things are two. There can be no love without pain. There can be no life without death. There can be no hope without fear. An oxymoron, maybe, but I would call myself an oxymoron, and is there not some kind of beauty in my humanity? The same kind of painful beauty that runs in all of us. Our life will run to death, but still, we live on, and we take love where it is found.

Word count: 408

4th Weekly


Part 1

Exposition – Roxy has just been broken up with and decides to try something new. She walks along a street in her city, ending up a small bar, set back from the street, and rather unassuming. She settles down there, mainly people-watching and thinking about her ex. She spots a man in a suit, looking out of place at the rather shabby bar. He walks straight through the bar, and through a door. He seems to disappear; Roxy assumes she imagined it or the light made it look strange.

Rising action – Cynthia arrives, glamourous as she is dangerous. Smiles at Roxy, takes a seat beside her. They get talking, and after a while, Cynthia takes out some old photos and letters. Roxy recognises them in the way you would a half-forgotten dream. She is unnerved, but Cynthia says she can explain, if Roxy will follow her through the door. On the other side of the door, Roxy finds a version of her city, made up of layers of time. Many buildings cobbled together, each on present a doorway to its own time period.

Climax – Cynthia disappears, and Roxy is left alone, lost. She sees herself in some glass and is scared to see her face blurring out. She sees the man in the suit and witnesses an exchange between him and Cynthia. They want to initiate her into a kind of time travellers’ society.

Falling action – Roxy manages to stay hidden, then follows the man in the suit back to the doorway. Back in the bar, he admits that he knew she was there and didn’t agree with Cynthia’s motives. They leave the bar before Cynthia returns from the other city.

Denouement – The man in the suit introduces himself and explains better ways to be involved with the other city. He leaves, and Roxy is left questioning all that has just happened and what to do next.



Part 2

After three evenings running of staring at the wall in her apartment, Roxy had been desperate for something, anything, to take her mind off it. The breakup. As was the way with these things, it had happened just when she’d been least expecting it. Restless and generally fed up with life, she had left the apartment with no specific destination in mind. Now, she was walking down a street she didn’t know the name of, while droplets of what might have been mist or light rain beaded on her leather jacket, and her boots made muffled thuds on the wet paving slabs. Tiny droplets of water swirled in the lamplight. The dark facades of empty office buildings and restaurants stared apathetically at her; a few flashing neon signs that had been left on cast the streets in shades of green and purple.

Roxy wandered aimlessly around the city, as though trying to escape the thoughts of him. Of course, this would never work. The thoughts were in her own head. It was as she pondered this that she saw it. It was almost trying to hide, set back from the street as if shy, yet, as one of the few buildings with lights on, it caught Roxy’s attention. “The Lost Traveller” read the sign. Quite clearly, the building was a bar of some kind. A sudden gust of wind caught Roxy’s black bob, and the sign creaked, swinging slightly. She wasn’t sure why, but there was something oddly endearing about the little bar, shabby and forlorn as it was. It wasn’t as if she had anywhere better to go, so she pushed the wooden door open, and went in.

A couple of people looked her way as she went in, but most people were focused on their companions, or their drinks. There was a soft murmur of conversation, and some generic music playing in the background. It didn’t take her long to filter that out. Everything seemed to be made from wood: the bar itself, the floorboards, the furniture. Roxy felt for a moment like she could have been anywhere, at any time. It certainly wasn’t typical of the city she knew. Still, a change was welcome. It would probably do her good.



Part 3

“Hey,” the bartender greeted her, tilting his head, “I don’t recognise you. New round here?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m not even quite sure what I’m doing here.”

“What, here as in, in the bar, or in this city, on this planet?” then seeing Roxy’s taken aback face, “Okay, sorry. Look, take a seat and I’ll get you something to drink, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“So,” said the bartender as he filled a glass with something (Roxy wasn’t sure she cared what at this point), “What brings you here? And are you doing, okay? You don’t look too great if you don’t mind me saying.”

Roxy tapped her nails absently on the bar. “Well, I’m not sure what I’m doing here, as I said. As for being okay… not really. But I’d rather forget about it.”

“Fair. Most people here would rather forget.”

The bartender began to wipe the counter with his cloth, and Roxy took a sip of her drink. It was strong, or at least she thought it was. She hadn’t had alcohol in a while. Nevertheless, that was probably a good thing right now. She absently studied the way the lamplight was shining on the grain of the wood, showing up as little ridges of light and shadow.

Looking up from the bar’s surface, she cast a glance around the room. Small, but not too crowded. There were some young women laughing together at one table, an older man with a grizzled beard staring into his glass, and a few couples, who seemed pretty much oblivious to anything but each other. There was a general air of everyone having given up trying to care, since they all looked a little worse for wear, rough around the edges, somehow lost.

There was one man, though, who looked a little out of place. In a smart, tailored suit, he was much more put together than everyone else in their jeans and jackets. Roxy looked away quickly as he glanced up. She felt his eyes rest on her for a moment, then as he looked away, she looked up again. What was he doing here? As if he had heard her thought, the man stood up, but instead of walking towards the door, he walked further into the place. She avoided his gaze again, as he looked furtively around. As she turned her head back towards him, she saw him disappearing through a doorway on the back wall. Not just going through it, Roxy thought, but actually disappearing. She blinked to clear her eyes, and then he was gone. Hmm, maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Or the alcohol. Or both. At that moment, the front door opened again. As with when Roxy had walked in, few people looked up, but this time those who did stared. “Oh, her,” the bartender muttered, “She’s trouble,” he looked Roxy dead in the eye, “Don’t get mixed up with her if you can avoid it.”

Roxy made a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement. Trouble sounded rather appealing right now, and this lady didn’t look like she was up to anything awful, probably just a bit of fun. She stopped for a moment, the moonlight spilling in through the window and outlining her striking silhouette. She was wearing a glittering blue gown, the skirt slit on one side, revealing a strikingly pale calf as she strode forward. To Roxy’s surprise, she was heading not just towards the bar, but towards her. “Good evening,” her voice was as smooth as the inside of a seashell, yet razor-sharp as the edge of one, “You’re here on your own?”

She leaned in conspiratorially, and Roxy caught the scent of some expensive perfume. She nodded cautiously. “Hmm,” the lady smiled, as if there was a secret they both knew, only Roxy didn’t know what it was, “Well, it doesn’t do to spend the night without anyone to talk to. Why don’t you come and sit with me?”

“Uh, sure, okay.”

Roxy slid off the stool as the bartender shot her a don’t-say-I-didn't-warn-you glance. “I’m Cynthia, by the way,” the lady introduced herself, “And you are…?”

“Roxanne, but most people just call me Roxy.”

“Good.”

Roxy frowned. That wasn’t the reaction she’d been expecting. “What do you mean ‘good’?”

“Shall we say… I was expecting you.”

“Oh?”

“Anyhow, let's get down to business. I just need you to take a look at a couple of things.”

“Riiight,” Roxy replied, uncertain, but not backing out just yet.

Cynthia spread out a sheaf of paper on the table. Photos, mainly. A church with a crooked spire; a group of young men and women, smiling; a gaudily painted canal boat. Seemingly unconnected, but they all tickled the same spot in Roxy’s mind, like scenes from a dream she’d had once and forgotten. She stiffened. She couldn’t be positive, since she had only seen him briefly, but that man in the photo looked almost exactly like the man in the suit, just younger. Perhaps only a few years younger, which was weird, because the photo was black and white, worn and around the edges and looked at least fifty years old. A chill crept, unbidden, along Roxy’s spine. “And this,” Cynthia added, sliding something else in Roxy’s hand.

A letter. Goosebumps rose on Roxy’s skin as she read it.

Dear Roxy,

Please don’t freak out (I know you are, sorry), but I am you. You are me. Your future self will write this, but in a past time, so you can read it now. I know this doesn’t make sense to you, and you don’t want to believe this, but it’s true.

Roxy paused to brush her hair out of her eyes with trembling hands.

Need proof? You just brushed your hair behind your ear. I know that, because I’ve been where you are right now. You’ve got to trust Cynthia. Not forever, just for now. That’s important. You’ll know when you should stop. And you know how you forgot to put your earrings on today? I thought I’d better return them to you.

With love,
Roxy

Roxy stared at the earrings, punched through the paper at the bottom of the letter. Little diamond ones. That was right. They were hers. She wondered for a moment if the lack of sleep had caught up with her and this was a dream. No, it was actually happening, as bizarre as that seemed, and the letter was definitely from herself. She ought to trust herself, right? “So,” she began, “What are we going to do now?”

“We’ve got somewhere to go,” said Cynthia with that conspiratorial smile of hers, “Just through that door over there.”

Roxy had had a creeping suspicion that it would be. It was the same door that the man in the suit had gone through.



Hello there! If you’re critiquing the first part of this piece, stop here (although you are of course welcome to read the whole thing). Conversely, if you’re critiquing the second part, that starts here. (Again, feel free to read the first part for context.)



Roxy wasn’t sure quite what she’d been expecting on the other side of the door, but it certainly hadn’t been this. The same room she’d just come from. She looked around, confused. There had to be something she was missing. But no, it was the very same room. Same wooden bar, same tables, everything, only she and Cynthia were the only people there. What was going on? Cynthia didn’t explain, just carried on into the room, her steps assured and confident. Roxy followed. What else could she do?

Following Cynthia through the front door, Roxy’s eyes were accosted by an illogical jumble of buildings. Normal-looking restaurants and eateries next to elegant townhouses that could well have been Victorian, then a Roman temple with a thatched house beside it, a building so tall it seemed impossible and look! As she walked a bit further long, there was that little church with the crooked spire from the photo. All of them had the same eerie feel of being somehow omnipresent, and yet never quite fully present, lost as the traveller the bar was named for. Roxy felt a strange prickling sensation on the back of her neck. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but if she did, she’d expect to see some here.

It had the same air as a graveyard, this place, as if the buildings were markers placed for all he lost souls that had once frequented them. She continued along the street, Cynthia somewhere beside her, staring up at the buildings. The sky was tinged with purple and orange near the horizon, but in the minutes they walked for, nothing changed. This place was stuck in a permanent twilight. Roxy drew her jacket tighter around herself, as if she was shivering from cold rather than unease. What was this place? How, why, even where was it? And why did she have that weird feeling that been there before? She turned to ask Cynthia and found herself looking at a wall. She turned to the other side, but there was no doubt about it. Cynthia was gone.

Okay, so she was lost in a city that might not even be in her world, she had no idea how to get back, and all she had on her was a purse with a couple of coins in. Nothing to eat, nothing to drink, nowhere to go. She could try to find the Lost Traveller again, but then again, she could just end up further away from it. She was beginning to think that the bartender had been right. Was there any way this could get worse?

Of course, in the moment Roxy asked herself that, nothing happened. But then a couple of heartbeats later, she heard footsteps. Not light and elegant, like Cynthia’s, heavy and purposeful. Most likely a man. Roxy was torn between going to ask for help and hiding. In the end, her self-preservation instincts worn out, and she slipped behind a marble pillar in some building whose purpose she couldn’t clearly identify, then darted towards an alcove around the side of it. Peering cautiously out, she saw him. The man in the suit. He was stood in the street, gazing pensively at the floor, as if waiting. She was shocked to see, even in profile, his face was blurry. Could it be something in the air obscuring it? But no, even when she moved her head, she couldn’t see his face properly.

As she heard a second set of footsteps, she pulled herself further into the alcove. Turning her head forward so as to not be seen, Roxy had to swallow down a scream. She was staring at her own reflection in a window, and her face was blurred out too. How was this possible? Panic rising with the nausea, she heard the man in the suit speaking. “Do you have her with you? She was definitely in the Lost Traveller. I saw her.”

“I know,” snapped a woman’s voice, and Roxy’s heart began to thump even harder. It was Cynthia. “I did have her with me, but now she’s gone. I don’t understand it.”

They were talking about her. She was sure of it. “However did you lose her?”

“I heard your signal!” Cynthia replied indignantly, “So I went to find you, naturally, and she didn’t follow me.”

“Well, she doesn’t know how to yet, does she? Besides, I didn’t signal.”

Cynthia ignored that last remark. “I suppose not, but I was only going to be gone for a moment.”

“For goodness' sake Cynthia, can you just accept the blame for once? Stop acting like a petulant child.”

There was a tense silence. Roxy was painfully aware of her heartbeat and breathing, and how loud they were. Her limbs were cramped by now, and she had closed her eyes to keep from seeing her obliterated face in the glass. “Fine. I was careless, I lost her. Happy now?”

“I’m not happy, but I’ll leave you alone about it. There’re other things to discuss,” clearly Cynthia gave some kind of nonverbal response to this, as the man continued, “How are we going to find her again?”

“You could look for her.”

“Cynthia, you know full well I’ve done my shift today, which technically makes the matter your responsibility.”

“What do you suggest I do then?”

“Head that way.”

Cynthia made a noise of confusion. “Why not try searching here first?”

“I know she’s not here already. My signal is far stronger than yours, and she’s not within range. She’s probably heading in the direction you were walking in together.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced.

“She trusted you; she’ll assume you had some kind of destination and try to get to it. Go on, go and find her.”

“At this point, I’d just like to stop talking to you, so I’ll go.”

Cynthia didn’t say goodbye, but Roxy heard her footsteps receding into the distance. Shortly afterwards, she heard the footsteps of the man in the suit, but instead of fading into the distance, came closer. Oh no. This was the last thing she needed, surely.



Part 4

“Roxy.”

His voice was oddly non-threating, more gentle and concerned than anything else. She opened her eyes and looked up at his blurred face. “Yeah?”

“Just checking you could hear me. Okay, get up. We’ll walk while I explain. It’s best to get away from Cynthia.”

Roxy ducked out of the alcove, grateful to be able to stretch out again. “What is this place? Who are you? What’s even going on?”

“One question at a time. This is the In-between, a place where layers of time are thin enough to all become one. Each building takes you to a different time and place. They’re copies of a real building in the time it’s taken from. Don’t ask me how it’s possible, even I don’t know, but as one of the Society, I navigate this place. It’s a very delicate process, you must avoid creating paradoxes, never meet your past self, lots of other things I won’t list right now.”

“So, you’re, like, time travellers?”

“You could say that; there’s more to it than that though. We call ourselves Caretakers. As for me, I’m a member of the Society. A rather senior member as it happens. Responsible for recruiting new members.”

They turned a corner, and Roxy was glad to see the Lost Traveller not far away. “So… why am I here?”

“Well, as I said, I’m normally in charge of recruiting people, but Cynthia was insistent that we should recruit you. I wasn’t so sure, but then she took the matter into her own hands. I only realised what she was going to do a couple of hours before and decided to go ahead of her rather than trying to talk her out of it. I would have handled it more… delicately myself.”

“You said you weren’t sure. How come?”

He didn’t reply for a moment, as he opened the door of the little bar. “Well, you had the Sight. That much was certain, but I wasn’t sure you’d be able to cope with it mentally. It’s a lot to remember where you are, who you are and when you are. It drives some mad.” He stopped before they got to the door on the back wall. “Anything else?”

“How did you know I’d go to the Lost Traveller?” Roxy asked.

“Well, I didn’t know. It was an educated guess. Most people with the Sight end up in the In-between at some point. Part of our job is to stop that happening when it could have negative effects. And… not all of us are like Cynthia. If you’d still considering joining us, come here, same time tomorrow if that works for you?”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“Well, if it counts for anything, you’ve proved yourself stronger than I thought you were.” They stepped back into the real bar. Most of the customers were gone, but the bartender was still stood there, so he lowered his voice, “I’m sure we’ll meet again one day, Roxy. I’m Alistair, by the way.”

“Well, thank you, Alistair. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Alistair smiled (Roxy realised with relief that his face was not blurred anymore) and he made his way out of the bar, and Roxy paused for a moment, before paying the bartender, and starting on her own way home. Perhaps she would come tomorrow, perhaps not. Either way, she would have to make sure she got that letter to herself one way or another. She had a paradox to fulfil.


Word count: 3,409

Critique of https://scratch.mit.edu/discuss/topic/828439/?page=43#post-8655600 30/07/2025


“Agent Sakura Xiaoliu Miyahira-Zhang AKA Luna Tsuki Miyazaki”

Overall, I like how you started your piece. I was intrigued by the second sentence. This introduction to the character though? It felt like a bit much. Lots of names that don’t yet mean anything to me. Maybe just go with one name? You could add the AKA a bit later.



“the media circus that built an image for her that she now had to conform to”

This confused me a bit at first, but perhaps I didn’t take in the bit about her being a rising figure skating star properly. While there’s not much information given around this, that seems fair enough to me, as I’m assuming there will be more details about it later.



“Instead of her beautifully designed skating dresses, she wore a somewhat form-fitting two part black combat suit. Instead of her usual elaborate hairstyles, her hair was done up in a ponytail. Instead of her weapons being concealed, tonight her weapons were openly carried, holstered by her legs and a harness carrying her electroshock staff. Instead of her face being uncovered and her smile on display for the public, she wore a half-mask that covered the lower half of her face.”

(Sorry it’s such a chunky quote.) To an extent, the repetition works, but I think four “Instead of her”s is a too many. Three maximum, I think.



The next part I like. You’ve got a good balance of description, Sakura’s thoughts, and action. The snappy dialogue creates pace. You could use dialogue tags to give the two figures distinct identities, but if they’re not going to be central to the plot, I can understand why you wouldn’t need to. The voice modulator is a neat detail! “BAM” is good onomatopoeia, it gets your attention for the next bit.



“The two newcomers seemingly had superpowers, and they were fighting in such a strange way. Perhaps they were self-taught?”

This might just be me being slow, but I can’t work out if you mean their superpowers are self-taught, or their fighting skills are. Also, I would strongly recommend some show-not-tell here, unless superpowers are something common where your story is set. Otherwise, I would expect Sakura to observe what they are doing first (flying, bending a beam of light, etc.) and then be shocked by the fact they have superpowers, and maybe be hesitant to call them superpowers. Would also recommend some rhetorical questions. Like, “Were they using… superpowers?”



Just want to say that “Badly.” is a very good use of a short sentence.



“Sasha charged forwards, taking the targets by shock once again”

I don’t think taking people “by shock” is a thing. “By surprise” would probably work better, or you can keep it as is, it’s just that the phrase is unconventional and has the potential to confuse readers.



I like the dialogue right at the end where we get to see a bit of Sasha’s personality.



Okay, as an opening I think this works very well. You’ve got engaging action, a good introduction but still some mystery, and a layered character. The whole double life thing with Sakura being a figure skater and a spy is interesting and makes her character more complex and layered. I would recommend some clarification around the superpowers’ nature, how Sakura comes to the conclusion she comes to, and some changes of phrasing in a couple of places. I have to say, this intrigued me, which is really a key thing for openings. Overall, it’s well written and has a good flow, with a harmonious balance of description, action and dialouge. Good luck with the rest of the piece!


Word count: 476 (of my own words, not counting any quotes of course)

Daily 30/07/2025

I hurtle through the air, the darkness around me shot through with a blur of lights. None of those cold, distant pinheads compare to blazing fire engulfing me. A fire of passion. Could be love, could be anger. Who even knows anymore. It’s burning me up. Like a fever. The atmosphere of this planet isn’t being kind to me. Ashes, am I becoming ashes. The agony, not of the fire, but of quickly losing myself. My own material is slipping out of my grasp. There’s a kind of screaming sound as I fall. Rock and metal and fire. That’s all I am now. My world is a roaring inferno, as I hurtle towards this other world, this planet, whose atmosphere is consuming me. I’m disappearing fast though, too fast. At this rate, my fury will never reach the ground. The fire is raging, ravaging me, tearing me apart. I’m only a fraction of what I was. Just a little metal ball, burning away to nothing. All I have seen, all the marvels and strangenesses, flash through my mind. This is the end. There is no more to marvel at, but no more to fear. Before I reach the ground, I am dust. And no one is any the wiser.

Word count: 209

Daily 01/11/2025

Intro!

Hello. I'm Eva (she/her). This is my second session of SWC. I like to write (of course), read, crochet, learn languages and generally learn stuff about linguistics. I'm Christian and vegetarian. I like cats and Suzanne Vega's music. My favourite series is probably the Sinclairs Mysteries by Katherine Woodfine. I am looking forward to spending this session with you all. Solarpunk for the win!!! (If you want to know anything else feel free to ask.) And for the something fun, I went to a Suzanne Vega concert, and it was AMAZING.

Word count: 92

Daily 02/11/2025


Lotus – eloquence

Meadowsweet – uselessness

Quince – temptation

Wallflower – loyalty in misfortune

Dandelion – faithfulness

Rose - love



There’s not a single lotus on the pond today. That’s fitting, I suppose, both because it’s not the season for them, and because I still haven’t been able to get my words to order themselves nice and neatly. The notebook is lying open on my knee, but my feelings and ideas don’t seem to like being translated into English. It’s ironic. For all the poetry I write, I can’t find the words when it matters most.

The meadowsweet around the edges of the garden is in full bloom though. Also fitting. I feel pretty useless at the moment. Crying over everything, procrastinating over most things and unable to communicate why. That’s mostly because I don’t understand why myself. I mean, I’m tired, that’s probably affecting me. I just need to keep going, and everything will be fine. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

I’ve been spending a lot of time here in the park, as if that will bring me back to who I was before. I’ve come to know the names and meanings of all the plants that grow there, and sometimes the names of other regulars there, if not their meanings. I think I feel at least a little better for it, though it’s hard to tell. The quince tree is flowering at the moment. It’s tempting to think that I could stay here and forget all my worries. I could let them pale into insignificance and let this park be my own little world. But the quince flowers remind me that it is only a temptation. I cannot stay here. Not forever.

The wallflowers are a riot of purple and orange. They’re a colourful burst of joy in this otherwise dismal life. There is always one person I can depend on to be there, no matter how bad it gets. And then it clicks. All the hours I’ve spent pondering culminate in a scribbling of words on paper. All the untranslatable feelings unscramble themselves as I hold that person in my mind. The one who makes things make sense, arranges the disorder in my mind. In some ways, I might be annoyed with myself for taking so long to write now seems so obvious, but it’s better to be gentle with myself. Another thing he taught me.

Eventually, I tear the paper out of the notebook, rise from the bench and cross the park. After glancing around, I ease the loose brick out of the wall, its form rough and heavy in my hands. I place it on the floor and reach into the cavity behind it. A single dandelion. Just as I was thinking, he’s still here for me. I place the page in the space, hoping my eager handwriting is legible, and slide in a rose with it. Cliché, yes, but hopefully should get the message across. Perhaps I should feel nervous about ruining the bond we already have, but somehow it isn’t like that. There is a strange certainty I feel in doing this. It’s not a leap of faith, because I have no doubts about how this is going to pan out. I shift the brick back into place, before slipping the dandelion into my pocket to take home and press. I smile. Sometimes you don’t need words to get the message across.

Word count: 551

Daily 03/11/2025

As the sun sank low in the sky, I strolled along the beach, letting my mind wander, thinking over the day gone by. There had been nothing remarkable about the day. I had been to school as usual, enjoyed the fun lessons and endured the boring ones, before going home for dinner, then out again for my customary evening walk. I had a routine, and I liked it like that. It was a comfortable way to go about life.

I paused before I went up the stone steps that lead back towards the town, and I looked out over the water. The sun was painting the water with streaks of magenta light and sending sparks of gold flying from the crests of waves. It was the sort of sunset that made me want to stay for just a little longer. Hesitantly, I turned away from the stairs and started towards the ocean’s edge. I picked my way down the stone-littered slope. Careful. Don’t slip… and I was there.

The stretch of sand was so idyllic I could hardly believe there was no one else on the beach, but it was empty. Well and truly deserted. For a moment, I closed my eyes, listening to the waves washing in and out, taking shells, seaweed and pieces of sediment with it. A seagull shrieked somewhere above me. I breathed in the salt-tinged air and let myself relax for a moment. Then I heard something. Crunch. Was that a footstep? Crunch, crunch, crunch. Yes, footsteps. Instinctively, I drew closer to the stoney slope, so that whoever was walking above me wouldn’t be able to see me. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone.

Soon enough, the footsteps passed, and I began to wonder who it was. The beach was usually very quiet at this time of day. I scrambled most of the way up the slope and peered over the top. Glancing around, I saw her. Another girl, I thought, her eyes fixed on the sand, dark hair fluttering in the wind. I didn’t recognise her, which was odd because there was only one school in the area for people our age, and I knew everyone who went to it. I also knew that most of them weren’t worth talking to. But something about this girl, so mysterious and solitary, made me rethink my not-in-the-mood-to-talk-to-anyone approach.

“Hey,” I called as I approached her.

At first, I thought made she hadn’t heard me, but after a moment of silence, she stopped walking and turned around. “Hey.”

A much longer silence ensued, during which we stared at each other – her looking confused and almost scared, myself wondering what I was supposed to say next. “Um…” was I could manage.

“Are you…?” the girl tried to say but didn’t finish.

“I don't really know anymore,” I replied, with a rueful smile.

“Right,” she pushed her hair out of her face, “And you’re here because…?”

“I walk here every evening,” I answered, “And I stayed a bit later today, because I was watching the sunset.”

At this, the girl looked up a little, and towards the ocean, where the sun was beginning to bleed into the water. “Hmm,” she said, tilting her head, then, “I didn’t think there was anyone else here. Anyhow, I’m here to watch the jellyfish.”

“Jellyfish?” I repeated.

“Yeah, the… are you telling me you come here every day, and you’ve never seen the jellyfish?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

She looked slightly incredulous at this but accepted the answer anyway. “Well… would you like to see the jellyfish?”

“Sure.”

We walked along the beach together, in comfortable silence. When we came to a certain spot, marked out by something I couldn’t identify, we made our way to the water’s edge, and as I peered in the increasingly dim light, I saw them. Ghostly little creatures, floating in the sea. They weren’t beautiful, not exactly, but they brought a kind of joy to me anyway. Or maybe that was the joy of having spoken to and formed a connection with another human, for a change.



“Well,” I said before we parted, “That was nice.”

“Yeah…” she replied cautiously, “Same time next week?”

“Yeah, that would be fun I think.”

“Great.”

I smiled and then turned away. That was not what I had expected to happen today, but I was glad it had. Occasionally, a change of routine might be good.

Word count: 736

Daily 04/11/2025

The song (Rosemary by Suzanne Vega):

Do you remember when you walked with me
Down the street into the square?
How the women selling rosemary
Pressed the branches to your chest
Promised luck and all the rest
Put their fingers in your hair?

I had met you just the day before
Like an accident of fate
In the window there behind your door
How I wanted to break in
To that room beneath your skin
But all that would have to wait

In the Carmen of the Martyrs
With the statues in the courtyard
Whose heads and hands were taken
In the burden of the sun
I had come to meet you
With a question in my footsteps
I was going up the hillside
And the journey just begun

My sister says she never dreams at night
There are days when I know why
Those possibilities within her sight
With no way of coming true
'Cause some things just don't get through
Into this world, although they try

In the Carmen of the Martyrs
With the statues in the courtyard
Whose heads and hands were taken
In the burden of the sun
I had come to meet you
With a question in my footsteps
I was going up the hillside
And the journey just begun

And all I know of you
Is in my memory
And all I ask is you
Remember me


The story:

The day I arrived in Granada, there was a market on in the streets. Vendors announced what they had for sale, shouting above each other in an effort to be heard. “Naranjas! Naranjas frescos y deliciosos!”

“Especias de todo tipo aquí!”

“El romero te lleva buena suerte!”

I didn’t want oranges or spices, and I certainly didn’t believe that rosemary brings good luck, so I carried on past the stalls. I checked into my hotel, stumbling slightly with my Spanish, but managing to make myself understood. I spent the remaining hours of the day making myself at home. I unpacked my bags, spent a while in the courtyard garden and tried a salad that was being served in the cheerful little restaurant down the road. Tired from a day of travel, I went to bed early and fell asleep fast.

The next morning, I awoke with the sunrise and took a moment to remember where I was before I got up. The sunlight came filtering in through a gap in the heavily patterned curtains, providing enough light for me to find the switch for the lamp. I got ready quickly, taking an orange from the bowl on the table as I left the hotel, so I could eat something for breakfast.

My guide met me outside and greeted me in accented English. “Good morning, I am your guide.”

“Good morning,” I replied.

“Do you like Granada?”

“Yes,” I nodded to punctuate my reply, “I have found it pleasant so far.”

As he showed me some architecture and talked about the history of the city, I watched the expressions on his face. It wasn’t that I thought him good-looking, more that he was so vivid and animated that just watching him inspired me, though to what I do not know. That afternoon, we visited one of the city’s famous carmens, a sort of walled garden. We went to the Carmen of the Martyrs, and I wandered along the arched colonnade, taking in the greenery and the pond. And the statues. There was a woman in white marble without any hands; a man in sand coloured stone with no head. It made sense, since they depicted martyrs, but I still found them oddly moving.

As the guide and I walked back, I saw one of the women who had been selling rosemary yesterday. My guide stopped and bought a branch, and as he did, the woman, rather boldly, touched his hair. Either he didn’t notice or chose to ignore her, but he didn’t react. As we arrived back at the hotel, he broke a sprig off and gave it to me. “For being a good customer,” he smiled, “And to remember.”

I nodded. Certainly, I would remember him. I found him oddly intriguing, but I knew I was due to leave the next morning, and besides he was already walking away, and I had no way to contact him. Perhaps some mysteries were better left unsolved.

The next day, before I had to catch the flight to my next destination, I called my sister. I told her about a dream I had had that night, with the guide, the statues and the scent of rosemary. When I had finished, I heard her sigh. “I never dream,” she said, “I think I would hate to see those possibilities within grasp and yet having no way of being real.”

“Hmm,” I replied, “I guess so, yeah.”

Still, in a way I was thankful for my dream: it had been a way to see him one last time.

Word count: 593

Word War 05/11/2025

All typos inlcuded.

I was sure we needed more glitter, but Bob was sure we didn’t. We had a very lond argument about it, and ended up with a compormise. We added some glitter, but not a lot. Then, the teacher came in, and told us we hadn;t added enough glitter. I knew it! If only we had have added more glitter, we would have got full marks on the project, but instead we noth failed. I sobbed bitter tears of regret. I shgould have convinced Bob! Why had I not convinced him? To grieve, I covered Bob’s face in sparkly pink glitter. He wasn’t happy. I don’t know why thoyugh, since sparkly pink glitter is amazing. I cried even more, then I went home and complained to my cat abouyt it. I failed the whole subject just because Bob wouldn;t add more glitter to our project. So tragic! I’m crying a lot now, it’s sad.

Word count:153

Daily 06/11/2025

Moonlight fell in beams through the gaps between branches, lacing the ground with ghostly patterns. I pulled my cloak tighter around myself, shivering as the wind whistled through the undergrowth. Dead leaves crunched under my boots, disintegrating further with each person who passed. Or at least, I assumed they did. I hadn’t seen another soul in hours, though the rustlings around me made me think I wasn’t the only one here.

I carried on along the path, occasionally stumbling in the dark. Twisted roots were like claws, branches reaching out like hands to grab me… Stop it. I’d been through this forest dozens of times. The nighttime didn’t make it any different from usual. I took a deep breath and kept going but quickened my pace. Reasonably, I should have been quite calm, but my heart was pounding, and my hands were shaking. Just breathe, I told myself, just breathe. It was fine. It was going to be fine. There was nothing dangerous in this forest, and I knew full well there wasn’t.

I began to run, which maybe wasn’t the best idea in the dark, with tangles of vegetation and gnarly roots all over the ground, but I couldn’t tolerate the darkness anymore. Then, in the distance I saw a light. With relief, a cheerful face made of light came into focus. It was my pumpkin, my house. I patted the pumpkin on the head, and it reassured me, for some reason. Then, I went in, heated up some soup and curled up on the sofa for a cozy supper indoors.

Word count: 262