inspired by the first movement of mahler's first symphony

it just gets worse as you read on *sobs*

All was silent over the wooded hills, the pale haze of sunrise emerging through the dark clouds which blanketed the sky in its cold embrace. Only the gentle swaying of the trees was audible – until the mournful call of the cuckoo pierced the silence with its distinctive melody. It seemed to be a signal of some sort, when slowly the forest came to life with the rising of the sun. First a chaffinch, then a thrush, and soon the air was alive with birdsong. Over the hills, a fanfare played in the distance, their lively motifs a quiet but cheerful sound.
The sun rose over the horizon in a blinding flash of light. Warmth spread over the land, and with it came animals. Deer ran across the meadows, bleating and calling to one another. Hares bounded through the long grass, weaving between the tree trunks.
In the nearby village, the atmosphere was festive as the residents gathered in the village square, accompanied by lively music played by the local band. Cheers and laughter rang out as they danced until midnight, energy unbound. Children chased each other in a ferocious game of tag whilst the elderly gathered around the fire, roasting sweet potatoes and apples.
But the village had to sleep at some point, and they did. The last curtain was drawn and the last lamp dimmed, until the small hamlet was asleep once more.
It was in the darkness that nature seemed eeriest, casting long shadows. Sporadic owl hoots cut through the not-quite-silence – there was a low rumble, barely audible, which grew and grew until dark clouds which poured rain from the heavens were directly overhead. The rainwater sluiced down into the valleys, giving the grassy hills a pearlescent sheen. Thunder crashed and flashes of lightning lit up the sky, the storm reaching its terrible climax just before it passed, petrichor hanging in the air, ready for a new day.

Daily for sci-fi (July 4) - It’s Over Now by Kevin Kiner. I wrote a retelling (more or less) of the scene from Rebels that this music plays during, since that’s what it makes me think of. 306 words, +300 points

“GO!”

Her voice broke through the clash of lightsabers, urgent and forceful. The boy turned, desperation painted in his eyes. He couldn’t leave her. There had to be something he could do, some way to help her. She wouldn’t die on this planet. He wouldn’t let her. But his master needed him, too.

He had a choice, with neither option ending happily. And he had made his decision.

He ran towards the rapidly closing door, drawing his lightsaber. At the last moment, he was pushed back, nearly colliding with the ship. The woman didn’t speak, but her eyes said enough. Go. This is my fight.

And may the Force be with you.

The door closed, leaving the boy and his master alone as the temple crumbled.

Three hours later

The boy sat alone in his room, holding the Sith holocron. The corners twisted, then floated apart. His eyes shined red from fear, from anger, from guilt, as the holocron opened. He thought it would help him, that it would help his master. Though he didn’t know it yet, he was wrong.

A man sat in the cockpit of his ship, glaring out the window. Kenobi. Kenobi was alive. But where? He had been searching for thirty years. To some, it may have seemed like a foolish search. To the man, it was a quest of revenge. His hate had kept him alive this long. He would not let it fail him now.

On the planet, a monster- not even human any longer- trekked away from the ruins of the temple. His mask, which had once allowed him to breathe, now was useless. Half of it was gone, revealing the face of Anakin Skywalker. A pale bird that had been sitting on top of the rubble shrieked, then flew away as if it knew what had happened.

when green flag clicked
say [EVERYONE GIVE IT UP FOR AMERICA’S FAVORITE FIGHTING FRENCHMAN, LAFAYETTE]

Fated | 477 words

The cave was moist and dark, lit by luminescent mushrooms that glowed softly blue into the gloom. Water dripped off of stalactites and splashed into a pool carved by many droplets over many years, faintly lit by the same cold azure light from somewhere in its depths.
He woke with cold stone on his cheek.
Blue eyes flickered open, and he pushed himself up, gazing around, brushed dark hair out of his eyes. A shiver coursed through him as he took his surroundings in.
Destiny, whispered the drips of water. Destiny.
He didn’t want this destiny. His fingers curled at the sight of the mark on his hand.
“You’re branded, boy.”
If he ran now, where would he go? He’d always end up back here. Back at the pool. Back at the choice. Back where he’d always been fated to end up.
It was both disheartening and encouraging to know he never could have done anything different, because then the voice inside would start to nag, saying what if you had done this or what if you had done that instead. What if he had stayed in the village? What if he hadn’t made the bargain? What if his life was still his own?
A life for a life, the Merchant had told him. A life for a life.
His time was out. His fate was spiraling towards an end.
The boy stumbled closer to the pool, shakily touched it with his fingers. It felt cool and wet, like any water. Maybe he could still turn back.
But that might bring other consequences. You couldn’t–you couldn’t cheat, not with lives. Not with such deep promises.
There had been folk-tales in his village, tales of men who drank from faintly glowing pools and vanished, or became monsters, or went to live with the fay. As the storyteller, the mood, the audience varied, so did the ending.
He had thought nothing of them until his sister became sick. So sick. So sick there was no hope, except in legends. More folk-tales; tales of a Merchant who bought and sold and traded lives.
He had found the Merchant. Made the trade. Learned of the curse, and the true story. The current Merchant had gotten lucky. He’d bargained away his position within the first hundred years.
For that was the way things really were. The truth of the curse, for curse it was. A life was traded for time as a Merchant, until either a thousand years had passed or another unfortunate fool came, pleading for a life, willing to die a heroic death in turn.
The latest Merchant had, fortunately, been kind. The boy had been young. He had pressed his mark into his hand and given him a year.
Tick, tick, tick.
He was out of time.
He cupped the cursed water in his hands, and drank.
And screamed.

Weekly for Dystopian!

Part 1
A lush forest stretched in every direction, but if you climbed a tree, you might see mountains in the distance. This land seemed to be full of life, whether it be a blistering summer or frigid winter, whether the trees were bare or filled with leaves, flowers, and fruit. Insects floated lazily in the air, the flowers in full bloom. A deer or two hopped by munching delicately on shrubs as birds flew over. This world seemed to always be full of noise, of birdsong, of wind, even at night crickets filled the air with music. Everything existed in harmony, in union. Everything was, as we know it, perfect. But something had changed. A new being had emerged, and this one was different. It walked on two legs, its other limbs able to manipulate objects. It was different than anything anyone had ever seen, and who knew how it would affect this world? (153 words)

daily 04 - turn an instrumental into words - 365/300 words

a group of large palm trees swayed the distance, each calm gust of wind causing its leaves to brush against one another. the air smelled of ocean salt and the warm sand sprawled across my arms and legs calmed me to the care. as i heard the familiar and inviting sounds of the carnival, i instantly felt the need to check it out, leaving behind each comforting aspect of the beach. the joyous screams of children and aroma of popcorn and cotton candy drew me in, and i got up from where i was sitting to explore. the moon and stars glistened above me, but the lights of each ride and food stand in the carnival shone far brighter, illuminating the sky with color.
as i purchased a ticket and stepped into the bustling display, a smile filled the bottom half of my face, and it was at that moment that i remembered how much carnival meant to me. and how much it hurt.
memories of his hand in mine made me feel empty. his deep blue eyes staring into mine filled me grief as i realized i would never get the chance to stare into those eyes ever again. his thick blonde hair blowing in the wind reminded me of his charm. the excitement that came off of him that beautiful night was incredible, something i never want to forget. his wide smile that gave me butterflies made me wish our time together never would’ve come to an end. but when i think about it all now, i realize how heckons grateful i should be that i got the chance to meet him, to bond with him, to love him.
as i take a lonely trip down memory lane with each stand and prize and game and ride that i see, a sense of peace fills me. a peace that i haven’t felt since before his death. and even though i’m overcome with feelings of joy and regret all mixed together, it’s the peace that keeps me going. and it’s the peace that shows me there is more to life than love. and i think he would’ve been happy that i figured that out.

daily 07 - how to - 288/250 words

How To Get Revenge on Someone with a Green Thumb

step one - invite a person of your choosing to paint with you, whether you paint on the cold floor of your garage or go to a pottery painting shop is up to you!

step two - carefully lay out paints that stain everything but be sure that the person you’re painting with doesn’t know that they won’t be able to wash the paint of clothing, body parts, etc.

step three - “accidentally” spill a bottle of green paint onto the person’s left thumb and both of your painting surfaces. this step is very important.

step four - let out a dramatic gasp.

step five - quickly stand up and rush to get paper towels or something to clean up the mess.

step six - wipe up all of the paint, and then act like you are extremely surprised about the green stain it left behind. pick up the bottle of paint and examine the sticker that tells you it’s non washable, then cover your mouth as if you’re surprised. shout, “OH NO”

step seven - now you wait until your person of choice (now with a thumb stained green) does something to upset you.

step eight - next time your green thumb person goes on a vacation, ask if they’d like you to watch over their house and water flowers. they’ll say yes if you’ve done each step correctly (if they don’t, start over the process with a different person of choice).

step nine - finally, your revenge. pretend you’re a robber and in the dead of night break into their house and steal stuff you want, then kill all of their flowers by not watering them and/or pulling their roots out of the dirt.

Dailies 4 - 7 (posted for my writing record)

July 4
(Inspired by part of Luke Faulkner’s composition “Life and loss”)

Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
The rhythmic bells filled the square. Footsteps fell in line with their chimes, tap, tapping against the brick roads. Snow dusted shoulders as the crowds smiled and chattered. Coats were pulled tighter. Children rubbed mittens together. The theater lights glowed brightly in the dimming light, and the crowd funneled towards the ticket booth. Coins clink, clicked into a bright red bucket, causing the bells to ring enthusiastically onward.
A man wove through the line, pressing a ticket into an outstretched hand, and pushed his way through the grand double doors. Like the many he had followed, he quickly found his seat in the theater that lay before the foyer. Scarves were undone. Coats rested on seat backs. House lights dimmed, and for one, breath holding moment, there was silence. Thrum.
The orchestra began to play. The magic of the night was underway.
Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap.
The dancer’s feet glided across the stage, her composure graceful, her costume … breathtaking, as it glittered under the stage lights. The audience watched her every movement, captivated by the story unfolding before them.
And the man watched it all, and he knew something about it felt right.

Laughter rang hollowly in his ears as he pushed through the crowd. The cast stood in the epicenter of it all, and he strained to catch a glimpse of them. Push. Shove. Politely muttered apologies and pardon-mes. Then there she was, ballet slippers tied with soft ribbons, dark hair done up tightly, smiling at an excited little girl who was posing to take a picture with her.
Click, click. The camera bulb flashed and the girl’s parents stepped forward to exchange kind words and thank-yous.
The ballerina turned away from the retreating family and her eye caught his. He stopped at the threshold of the crowd, not willing to move into the cast’s bubble. Instead, he offered her an awkward grin and held up a hand in lieu of a wave. She laughed and waved back, the sound lost in the noise of the foyer.
He adjusted his glasses and took a moment to build up the courage before stepping towards her, handing her the flower he had been holding throughout the performance, whispering a you were wonderful, darling and then letting the crowd sweep him away.

388 words


July 6

Hunter sat on the couch, swinging his legs and staring out the window. No one else was in the room.
“This is sad,” he said abruptly.
He cocked an eyebrow sassily.
“You really didn’t have any better idea of what to do?”
The room shifted around him, a television, gaming console, and table appearing in front of the couch. The window Hunter was looking out disappeared, and instead multiple panes with soft curtains grew into the walls around the room, filling it with light.
He hopped off the couch and strolled over to one of the windows in the living room.
Peering out into the white nothingness beyond the pane, he said, “Seriously, this is pathetic! Way to procrastinate.”
A paper suddenly smacked against the window. It was a circus advertisement, except instead of the expected message, it read: “I DIDN’T PROCRASTINATE. It's Saturday. We had to do things. I didn’t have the time to work out the logistics of my original idea.”
“Ooh, real creative,” Hunter called out. “I remember that little paper trick, with your ‘subtle’ messaging to get the plot moving along. Let me guess, next you’re going to-”
He was interrupted by the room disappearing around him. Now he stood in a field of buttercups, the rolling hills stretching into the horizon, all coated with the cheery yellow flowers. He put his hands on his hips.
“Wow, I was literally just about to say you were going to do something like this. Let me guess, these are supposed to be a message to me?”
He kicked at the flowers and looked around into the endless blue sky. “I don’t even know what these things are, but I guess the point of the daily is that that's for you to know and for me to find out.”
He wandered around the fields for a bit, but found nothing new to pique his interest.
“So … what now?”
He plopped down amidst the flowers and started to pluck the buttercups from the ground.
“Are you going to keep the plot moving, or what?” he called out.
The fields slowly shifted from yellow to white. Hunter stood and glanced around as delicate white flowers bunched around his feet.
“Another message, I suppose?” he asked.
A small scrap of paper flew by on a breeze. He chased after it momentarily, then snatched it out of the air. He read it aloud.
“They’re Meadowsweet. They mean /uselessness/ because, you Hunter, are being useless right now. What!?”
He stared indignantly at the sky. “Okay, I’m not the only one who has to move the plot forward for this weirdo daily! I can't be my natural hilarious and entertaining self without any material!”
He flopped down and onto his back, smushing some of the flowers.
“At least talk to me,” he said, dragging his hands down his face.
Silence.
Then,
“Fine,” a girl’s voice boomed. “You’re insufferable when you want to be, Hunter.”
“Whatever.” He raised a cocky eyebrow at the sky. “You know you love me. Otherwise you wouldn’t have kept me around this long.”
“Hmph.”
She didn’t reply beyond that, but the scenery slowly changed. Hunter now lay in a shaded forest, large ferns fanning over his face.
“This is supposed to mean something, right?” he said.
“Yeah, yeah,” she replied. “Now let me submit this in peace.”

556 words


July 7

How to be annoying:
1. It all starts with observation. Get to know the people around you, your friends and family, or, as you should begin to call them, your marks. What pushes your marks’ buttons? What are their pet peeves? These vital tidbits of information will allow you to personalize your annoying tendencies to each mark.
2. Start acting on your marks’ dislikes. Do exactly what they wouldn’t want you to do. For example, if you wanted to annoy me, you’d eat the brownies out of order from the way they’re sliced in the pan or untuck the sheets from my bed. Keep it lighthearted and simple – don’t do anything major or offensive. Staying simple will actually make you more annoying anyway because your mark will still somewhat tolerate you.
3. Begin to call people by the wrong name. Your alternative should be very close to their actual name. This will most likely be the least offensive to close marks, and therefore more comedically frustrating, but it may also be plain annoying to others you don’t really like.
4. Begin to overuse cheesy sayings to create your annoying catchphrase. For example, you could rhyme every last word in your sentence with a name, in the manner of “no way, Jose!”. This is a tested strategy and has elicited a great response from my sister after a whole conversation of me rhyming. You could also find one phrase to say all the time, or use slang your mark will not appreciate. Some examples of this are my sister always saying “alright, buddy” or me mimicking her by using popular slang. Once you have mastered this way of changing your speech patterns specific to your mark, their annoyance will be triggered every time you bust out your catchphrases.
5. Conveniently forget to do things your mark wants you to do. When your mark comes asking if you did anything yet, pretend like you forgot. Let them fume, then reveal you actually did do it. It’s funny after a few times, but then it just gets annoying.
6. Break small social norms. You probably know when to be quiet or when to not say something. Do exactly the opposite of what all instinct would tell you (if your instincts align with social norms). What I think is most effective is to be a little too loud. It's something that can be applied to many situations. Again, make sure to not be offensive and pushy - break those norms just enough to be the person your mark doesn’t want to go out into public with, but not enough to be the person your mark doesn’t want to associate with at all.
7. Be persistent. No matter what behaviors you attempt to annoy others, you must persist in them. The most annoying thing about annoying people is that they don’t know when to stop.

472 words

FORUMS ARE BACK FINALLY

Weekly 1 - 2839 words

part 1: 303 words

isabella stood, ghost-white hair blowing in the salty sea breeze as she traced a wrinkled finger over the craggy rocks surrounding the beach. she sighed, curling her bare toes in the sand, watching the waves crash against the shore and willing the sound into her memory, trying to remember every single detail of the stretch of sand that had become her favorite place in the world.

isabella knew that this would likely be her last visit to this beach - and that thought scared her more than she cared to admit. she pasted on a happy face, telling her family (especially her estranged daughter lilith, who seemed surprisingly torn up about the news that isabella had only a month to live) that they had nothing to worry about and that she would always be with them, no matter what. but honestly? she didn’t believe that, not one bit. she had no idea what was waiting for her in death, but she was determined to make sure that she visited all of her favorite places one more time before she passed, hence her visit to this particular beach.

she had always noticed that this place always seemed brighter and happier when she was around: the leaves of the palm trees to shine a brighter green, the sands sparkled with sea glass, and the waves seemed to lap against the shore with renewed vigor. isabella used to think it was because she was special, but now she was old enough to realize a coincidence when she saw it.

however, the gentle wind kissing her face and the beams slanting through the clouds to cover her in warm, comforting sunlight seemed to carry a feeling of bittersweet longing today, as though the beach was saying goodbye.

this time, she allowed herself to believe it was true.

part 1 (swap): 315 words

“there once was a cottage of smoke and secrets, inhabited by a woman who could give you the world. she lived in a house that most would assume was abandoned, but, if you decided to take a look inside, you’d see still-steaming cups on the little table, whimsical paintings on the walls, and a beautiful woman with hair the color of the spiderwebs that filled her jars of prophecies.

“yes, this woman wasn’t what she seemed. but, one day, seven years ago, a little girl - swaddled in palest pink and nestled in a basket like a loaf of bread - showed up on her doorstep.”

“what was the girl’s name, mama?”

“that would spoil the ending, child. keep listening, and i’ll tell you.

“anyway, the woman couldn’t leave this girl on the doorstep of her house to die, so she took her in and raised her, making sure the little girl didn’t have any idea of what the woman truly was. the woman vowed, though, to tell her new daughter someday, when she believed the child was ready to know the truth and help her mother with her work.”

“but what sort of work did the woman do?”

“didn’t i tell you already? she made prophecies and kept them secret.”

“but why would you make something just to keep it a secret?”

“prophecies are a risky business, child - think of the woman as a channel, letting the powers of the fates wash through her into the world. making a prophecy creates fate, but interfering with it causes nothing but destruction. it’s best if people don’t know their fate. that’s why the woman wants her daughter to help her - she will pass away soon, and she needs someone to keep up the work.”

“but what was the girl’s name, mama?”

“the child’s name is alyssia.”

“but… that’s my name.”

“yes, child. it is.”

part 2: 884 words

“mama, look,” the child called, bright seaglass eyes filled with the light of unabashed wonder as she danced around the garden, baby-fat arms reaching into the air as if she could capture the very sunlight in her fingertips. “There’s a butterfly!”

—

“mama,” the young woman says, eyes misting as she enters the hospital room, the smell of antiseptic and stale air filling her nostrils. “how are you feeling?”

—

the young girl’s mother stood bent-backed over a zucchini plant, muttering to herself as she fiddled with the plant’s dying leaves, patting the soil aimlessly with a small, rusted shovel as if her very touch could restore what she had lost.

at the sound of her daughter’s voice, the woman shut her eyes behind her hair, growing tired of her daughter’s constant interruptions. she replied wearily, not looking up from her futile work.

—

“i’m alright, dearest. they moved me into this room yesterday, and look at all of the windows, evangeline!”

the frail woman on the bed was painful to look at - hands that had once held the weight of the world were now wrinkled and pale, a face that had once burst with smiles now seemed to struggle to move its lips, and eyes - eyes that had once been bright and filled with thousands of twinkling stars - now dulled, a mask of fragility.

—

“elizabeth, sweetie, we’re in a garden; there are butterflies everywhere. I’ve seen six today.”

the woman began to turn back to her planter, but her daughter was there in a flash, her wide eyes full of sadness as she tugged incessantly upon her mother’s ripped-up sleeve.

“but this is a special butterfly,” elizabeth insisted, hanging onto her mother’s arm determinedly as if it could stop her from going back to her work. “look!”

—

yet the woman in the bed tried her best to smile, pale lips twisting, as she gestured to the wide windows adorning the wall. past the windows, gardens flourished, boxes upon boxes of zucchini plants exploding in brilliant bursts of honeyed color.

it really was beautiful, but the woman in the doorway decided not to mention that her mother had been moved into the terminal patient’s ward.

—

the woman turned around then, wiping a dirty, calloused hand on old, ratty gardening pants, eyes following her daughter’s finger (which was pointing towards a nearby bush, outstretched like a pointed accusation) until they finally landed on the butterfly, alighted proudly on a shining leaf, almost as if the delicate creature had been waiting for the woman to notice it.

—

“that’s wonderful, mama,” evangeline said, trying to hold back the stinging in her eyes as her mother struggled to sit up.

“honey, what’s wrong?”

even sick, evangeline’s mother could always tell when her daughter was upset.

—

the butterfly in question was large, with white-sliver wings covered in colorful splatters that looked as though it had been doused in shimmering paint. jet-black antennae protruded from large disco-ball eyes, but what really made the butterfly unique was the way it seemed to fly, darting and dancing as though it was taunting the world, proving that it could outdo even gravity.

—

“nothing, mama… i’m just really going to miss you, and it’s going to be so hard raising elizabeth on my own…”

eyebrows crinkling in concern, evangeline’s mother beckoned her close, taking evangeline’s hand in hers and tracing circles over evangeline’s pregnant stomach.

—

the woman gasped softly, eyes welling as she stared at the butterfly, refusing to look away as if that would make it disappear. her grip on her shovel slackened and dropped from her hand, landing on the earth with a small thud.

“it can’t be…” she trailed off, expression distant, as if she was remembering something from another time.

“mama? are you okay?” elizabeth asked quietly, pressing against her mother’s side. her mother didn’t reply as the butterfly continued to dance in front of them, looping and twisting and showing off, until eventually it fluttered away in a flash, gone as quickly as it had come.

—

“i promise you will be an amazing mother, and i swear that i’ll never leave you alone. oh, look!” she said as she gestured to the window, where a silver-white butterfly sat on the sill, colorful, painted wings sparkling in the warm sun.

“look at that beautiful butterfly over there. are you looking?”

she met evangeline’s eyes, and the woman had to smile. even as a mother, her own mama still treated her like a child.

“this butterfly is a unique, wonderful, beautiful creature, just like your mother,” she winked, then continued.

“every time you see a butterfly like this, please remember that I will always be with you: in your heart, in your mind, in the way your eyes crinkle at the corners and the little freckle on your left cheek. I love you, little star,” evangeline’s mother said, kissing each of her daughter’s fingers like she used to do while evangeline was still young. evangeline, blinking back tears, enveloped her mother in a hug.

neither could know how long they stayed like that, arms intertwined like pieces of a perfect puzzle. all evangeline knew was that, two days later, her world shattered, and all she had left was the butterflies.

part 3: 407 words

Story point 1: two lovers meet under a willow tree, and they have an argument
Fast paced

Story point 2: two best friend meet under a willow tree and simply sit there, enjoying the other’s company
Slow paced


The willow tree whipped in the wind. Mournful branches extended out like silent claws, grasping for invisible strings. Leaves flew off in a flurry of broken promises. Two young lovers sitting under the willow tree argued fiercely. Sharp words cut deep into the tree’s roots as it struggled against the storm.

“Why do you have to go away? You promised we were going to have a life together! You promised, Ryan! And now you’re trying to leave without even telling me… I trusted you!”

“I can’t help it! Alice, you know I would never choose to leave you, but my father got me a job in the city and you know that I need the money, and I thought I could leave and get back before you got back from London and never have to say goodbye! How was I supposed to know you’d get back early?”

The storm surged as the arguing rose to a peak, words whipping and flashing around the lovers in a barrage of invisible knives.

“My father could have given you the money! That isn’t an excuse for trying to leave in the middle of the night without telling me!”

“Your father hates me, and I’m not strong enough to say goodbye, you know that!”

“Then I‘ll say it for you. Goodbye, Ryan.”

One stalked away, wounded beyond repair.

The willow tree was never the same.

—

The next two who met under the willow tree visited in late-morning sunlight, when every single leaf on the tree seemed to be gilded in gold. The willow tree itself didn’t grow quite as large as before, but it seemed to stand a little taller as the two best friends lounged underneath the tree, giggling and smiling as they told secrets that only the other would ever know.

The freckles dotting their rosy cheeks and the hair falling over their foreheads seemed to glow with sheer joy as they relished each other’s company. They didn’t seem to have any motive or goal, other to than sit lazily in the shade with warm honey dripping from their eyelashes and the sounds of wind in fragile leaves. The best friends stayed together under the willow tree until the sun dipped below the horizon and the fireflies sparkled in the dusk, and, when the two eventually departed, their voices filled the air with soft goodbyes, vowing to return another day.

The willow tree doubled in size that night.

part 4: 929 words

The boy first visited the park at the age of twelve. He was just a little boy then, a young, wonderful thing, made of warm, curious sparks and sun freckles splattering his face like haphazard dots of paint left behind by some great artist. Already dripping with sweat and sticky with watermelon juice in the Californian sun, he wandered through the park’s gardens, entranced by every plant and animal he passed on his way.

Even at such a tender age, he could tell that this park was something special. The gardens burst with incredible shapes, textures, and colors, and the birds scattered throughout the different areas of the park seemed especially playful and gorgeous, their vibrant hues and patterns shining in the shade of the tall trees, stretching their wings out as if they could fly to the moon.

The boy already knew that he loved this place. Maybe, somewhere deep down, he even knew that this park, made of dewdrops, vibrant leaves, and spectacular flowers, would eventually turn into the place where he would be saved.

In any case, the park itself knew that this boy would be different than all of the children who ran through the gardens with scraped knees and minds aflutter; already onto the next thought, the next thrill, the next smile. Nate, through, took his time: he stopped to admire a particularly beautiful flower with petals of the palest pink, stopped to sketch the outline of an interesting leaf in the dust of the path, stopped to imagine what it would be like to fly. He had something that seemed so rare these days: imagination, creativity, and the ability to dream.

The park noticed this, and therefore, the next time the boy visited, it was ready.

—

The boy next visited the park as a high school student, lugging a backpack full of thick textbooks and unreasonably complicated assignments as he collapsed gracelessly onto a bench in front of a small waterfall, dumping his backpack unceremoniously on the floor as he pulled out his phone and started typing something.

The park was disappointed: the spark of something special in him was flickering weakly, offset by something dark and unhealthy that seemed to smother the flame. It seemed the boy was not what the park had thought he was.

But then, the boy placed his phone in his pocket and wandered up to the waterfall, closing his eyes and letting the spray spritz his face with water as he gripped the handrail with unnecessary force. It seemed that he was crying, tear tracks tracing a weary path down his boyishly freckled face. It seemed as though something was happening with this boy, something that lingered like a dark cloud around him, obscuring his thoughts. He rubbed a spot on his wrist, head bowed, and watched silently as a bird flew past the waterfall, chirping cheerily as it flapped its magnificently blue wings and caught a fat, wriggling worm in its beak.

The boy’s eyes followed the bird intently as it carved a path across his vision, eyes tracking it as if it was a lifeline.

Eventually, the bird alighted on a nearby branch, wings tucking into its sides as it hopped over to a nest of some sort. The boy watched as it dropped the still-writhing worm into the nest, where three baby birds gobbled it up greedily, high-pitched squawks quieting as they ate.

The boy looked away from the tender scene, blinking rapidly. He quickly picked up his backpack and walked away, still fighting against tears that threatened to spill over.

The park noted this sadly, knowing that it had done everything it could to save this boy from the darkness plaguing him. All the park could do now was hope that it had been enough.

—

The park wasn’t sure if the boy would come again, but, thankfully, he did: a decade later, with eyes once again bright, but filled with a sort of longing, a desire to experience everything the world could offer. He was a changed man, and indeed, a man: his face held a sort of maturity that showed the park that he was no longer the boy it had once held so much hope for.

But this time, the boy was not the one that needed saving: the park itself was dying, years of hidden decay revealing itself in a burst of terrible truth. A lack of funding and a particularly searing summer meant that the place the boy had once loved more than anything was falling into disrepair.

The boy’s face fell as he traveled through the park’s once-beautiful gardens, now filled with the dark colors of dying things.

The boy eventually made his way to the center of the park: a giant tree that had been alive for hundreds of years. This tree, thankfully, was strong and healthy, and the boy traced his fingers across the great trunk, letting the memories fill him as he remembered all that the park had done for him.

The boy couldn’t allow this place to die. He would do anything he could to keep it alive.

—

Twenty years later, the Bluebird Hills Botanical Park opened its doors once again, bursting with life as it grew and grew and grew. The boy, now a man of almost fifty, watched proudly as dozens of children raced into the open doors, into a world of greenery and wonder at life’s simplest things.

The boy knew best of all that sometimes, the simplest things were the most beautiful and powerful of them all.

Tempest | 507 words

The Storm-monarchs were stirring again, their growls shaking the heavens. Chess pieces rattled and clicked on the wooden board as the small wooden house quivered from the force of the noise. The one window rattled in its frame.
The old man reached out to still the game, glancing outside. The small girl opposite him frowned, following his gaze.
“It…it won't start raining again, will it, Grandfather?” she quavered, her halo of chestnut curls bobbing as she turned her head.
Her grandfather sucked in his cheeks, thinking. “Dunno. Might. Don't worry, Honey, it'll pass.” He rose and drew the curtains over the window, and Honey sighed and plugged her ears with cotton, knowing that if he was worried enough to block her view of the storm, it was almost certainly coming, and it would be a bad one.
A shrill cry shrieked through the air with all the force of a gale, penetrating even the soft white balls in her ears, and she bit her lip, hoping against hope that the following noises wouldn't.
Then the rain began.
Loud thumps struck the house, coupled with terrible screams. Honey squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that no matter how hard her grandfather tried, he would never be able to shield her from the bloody mess outside.
Members of the Hive were falling from the sky, and their bodies were frailer than most, built for flying above the clouds, not being thrown down on the merciless ground. For some reason or other, the Hive had been lower to the ground this year than most, and the members were growing desperate for food. Farmers reported seeing winged cat-and-dog-like creatures carrying away their sheep and chickens, robbing them of their living–a rare sight. Hivelings almost never ventured lower than the very highest tree-tops.
Then they started falling.
The bodies were too light to damage much, but hundreds, sometimes thousands, could fall in a “storm”, and the aftereffects…Some families had gone so far as to move away, to spare their children the sight. Shattered bones, and torn flesh, and scattered feathers, and blood, so much blood…
Honey buried her face in her arms and cried for the poor, beautiful Hivelings, and her grandfather moved from the window and strode over, rubbing her back soothingly.
“There, there, I guess they don't feel it for long. Shh.”
“Are-” she hiccuped and broke off. “Are any of them alive? After falling? We could…we could put lots of soft things on the ground, maybe, and catch them before they got hurt.”
Her grandfather shook his head. “I don't know. I don't know. But the Hive will probably move up again, once the…once the load is lightened. Then they'll be happy and free again, baby. Then they'll stop falling.”
“O-kay,” Honey sniffled, swiping at her tear-dewed lashes. “Soon.”
She drifted off to sleep, while her grandfather stood watch and the wails shook the walls as the rain of bodies raged.
“It'll be over soon,” he muttered again, and this time it was to reassure himself.


the forums are back i'm so happy i could cry <3

Weekly 1
7/8-?/2024
TBD words

Part 1:
Partnered with @hamilchaos <3
152 words

The beach along the rocky coast was filled with tourists, the summer season a perfect time to visit the ocean. Shouts and splashing water filled the otherwise peaceful area, and the sand was covered with vibrant beach towels and large umbrellas. Footprints marked the grainy terrain and occasionally spilled food. A boardwalk stretched the expanse of the beach with restaurants and arcades lined up on it.
Alessia came here every year, since she was 2. She was 10 now. She'd spent her summers walking on the boardwalk, following the same trail of wood as she hops over every second plank. Freckles peppered her face and lightly over her shoulders. Her mom had pulled her hair back into a braid and tied it off with a purple hair tie, her favorite color. She carried a yellow plastic bucket, ready to go searching for seashells and determined to fill it up to the brim.

Part 2:
468 words
208 words for one timeline and 260 words for the other

“Mama?” my voice wavers as I reach for her hand. “Will Cy be okay?”
Her fingers wrap around mine and she crouches down next to me, brushing the hair out of my eyes. “He'll be okay, dear.”
“…Really?”
“Yes, really.” She smiles and gently tugs at my hand. “Come on, little one; we've got to see your brother before he heads off to the lands abroad.”

—

I tug on my waistcoat, buttoning it up and staring at my reflection. This was the day.
I turn my head as the door opens with a creak and Mama walks in. “Ready for your big day?”
She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes, shining with unshed tears.
“Mama,” I greet with open arms, embracing her. “Yes, but not to leave you.”
Mama pulls back and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, grinning. “You'll still see me. Just like Cyrus, you'll come back with the king's men every six months.”

—

Cy looked… Well, Cy looked like himself. But older.
He didn't usually wear clean, neat clothes. Usually he wore the play clothes, like me.
But he's going off to train under the king's guards now. Cyrus is super important.
He's standing in his nice, neat clothes. Next to all of the other guys like him.
They're going to go off to somewhere else. Mama says the lands abroad are wealthier and they have big schools to teach things that Mama can't. She says that I'm going to join him someday.

—

I walk through the corridors, falling into place next to the line of boys as we all walk through the courtyard. My fingers play with the hem of the waistcoat, running over the stitching.
We're all going to be leaving this place for six months. Leaving the island that we call home. Leaving the only place that we've ever known.
I take in a deep breath and keep walking, to greet the ship at the dock.

—

He left.
Cy left me and Mama. She told me that he would, but who’s going to play with me?
Mama says that he’ll be back in six months, but that’s in /forever/. I don’t want Cyrus to be gone forever. And then he’ll just leave again. On the huge black ship.

—

The crowd hollers and waves as the ship pushes away from the dock. On our island, being recruited as part of the king’s guard is the highest esteem and source of income for most families. There isn’t much else to do.
The black boat steers away from the island; it’s smaller than I remember it being. I’ll see Cy again soon.
But the island that’s been my world gets smaller as the expanse of the sea grows.
Cyrus has had his journey, but this is the start of mine.

Part 3:

Part 4:

July 8 Daily

According to the last time Lisa checked, children should not have been flying out the windows. And yet,
“AHHH!” screamed the familiar voice again.
Someone had just fallen out of the open train car window, but Lisa was too busy plummeting towards the ceiling to see who it was.
“Oof!” She landed on the paneled ceiling, now their new floor, and the wind was knocked out of her. She hardly had time to catch her breath, however, as the thick textbooks they were studying with were falling towards her at a rapid pace. She rolled over, bumping into someone. The textbooks landed with heavy thuds in the space she had just occupied, though one hit her back on its way down.
“Oww,” she complained.
She wanted to curl up into a ball and shut her eyes until it all went away, but the person next to her, no doubt equally dazed, sat up.
“Lisa!” they hissed. “Lisa, get up. Laurel just went out the window!”
Wait, that’s Alexandria. Lisa’s mind finally caught up with her as she watched her friend hesitantly stand up and look around the room. Wait, Laurel!
Lisa sat up straight, her self-discipline kicking in. She scanned the car. It was a mess. Everything that wasn’t bolted down was scattered on the ceiling, including her friends. There was West, struggling with a big blanket that landed on him. There was Hunter, holding his head and staring at the mess. Alexandria was now walking towards the open window – the one Laurel had been staring out of right before it all went down.
Lisa looked up. The floor of the car hung above her head, tables and seats now upside down.
“Laurel!” she heard Alexandria shout into the open air.
Lisa stood and carefully made her way to the windows, the slope of the car’s ceiling making it difficult to balance. She looked out the closest window. There was nothing but blue and clouds, and when she looked down, it seemed to keep going forever. When she looked up, however … there was land, like some grassy cave ceiling.
“What in the world?” she wondered aloud.
A flapping sound interrupted her musings. A large bird had flown up to the window. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw its bright orange and red coloring.
Laurel, now a bird, squawked and tried to squeeze through the window. About halfway through, she shifted into a girl again, grabbing Alexandria’s hands and letting her friend pull her the rest of the way through.
She tumbled onto the car’s ceiling and grinned sheepishly. “I guess it's easier to fall out of a window than to fall in one.”
“At least it was you and not me!” Hunter called out. He grimaced as the children huddled together in the center of the ceiling. “What do you guys think happened?”
Lisa’s eyes flicked to Laurel.
Laurel cleared her throat. “Right. Guys, I think the world’s turned upside down.”

494 words

Both of these are already posted on scratch, I just want them on the megathread as well

Daily for 7/7/24
How To Drink Water
The first step to drinking water is finding a source of water. This could be anything from a stream in the middle of the forest to a simple glass of water in your kitchen. Other sources include, foods, different bodies of water, water fountains, just plain fountains, the blood of other humans and yourself, rain, sewer water, juice, shower or bath water, clouds, and many others. Most poisons include water, though I wouldn’t suggest that as a source. A word to the wise: people will judge if you drink sewer water.
The next step is acquiring the water. This could be extremely tricky or as easy as turning on the tap. To acquire water, you will need a vessel. Vessels include glasses, water bottles, animal skins, human transportation, people, and other things. Your vessel should be watertight, though it is not a requirement. Fabrics are often bad at holding water for periods of time longer than a minute, though that can vary depending on the fabric. It also must have a place to drink the water from. This place can be forced by you or can already exist.
To acquire water from the middle of a forest could involve a lot of travel or none at all. I would suggest you use the source closest to you, or that is easiest to get to. Drinking sewer water will most likely involve climbing into a sewer. If your water source is another person, it is a good idea to have their consent.
Once you get to the source, get the water into your vessel. This might be the hardest part. I will not go into details on this part, as there are far too many possibilities.
I would suggest purifying the water at this point, unless you want to get sick.
Now on to actually drinking the water. You need to get the water into your mouth from your vessel. There are two ways to go about doing that. The first way is to politely ask gravity to help you and place the vessel above your face, witn the opening close to your mouth, while still above it. The second way is to suck. Close your mouth around the opening and suck in the water. You have to make sure that there aren’t other openings, because then you would just suck air in through that opening. If you have a straw, the straw is under water, so this principle doesn’t apply.
To swallow the water, push the water towards the back of your throat and down. If you drink too much water at a time, your stomach might feel heavy with water.
Tips for drinking blood: 1) As I mentioned before, make sure the person you are drinking from has given their consent. This could be you or another person. 2) A syringe is the best way to extract blood. Movies may depict it differently, but always carry a syringe with you to extract blood. 3) Once you have extracted the blood, make sure to drink it in a glass. That’s just polite. 4) The best way to drink blood is iced. I know this from experience

Daily for 7/8/24
This Will Be A Piece of Cake
Calm down, girlie, I told myself. This will be a piece of cake. Quite literally, too. To pass, I have to make a slice of cake that fits the prompt. It also has to be elegantly arranged, delicious, and a million other things that I could manage in my sleep. The prompt is the hard part.
I take another step forward with the line of young bakers who want to become the king’s personal chef. One could be chosen, five could be chosen, none could be chosen. And yet everyone thinks that they could be one of the special few to be accepted. I know I will be accepted.
A groan comes from the front of the line. They must have been one of the few people to get an actually hard prompt. Like me.
I haven’t even gotten my prompt yet, and I already know it will be next to impossible. People think the prompts are completely random, but do you really think a kingdom with magicians would let the daughter of a death sprite have the chance to get an easy prompt?
The answer is no. Absolutely not.
Sometimes I imagine a life where I won’t be followed everywhere by my mother’s shadow. Where the first thing people see isn’t my black hair.
When I finally reach the front of the line, I reach my hand into the bag. I know I will pull out the hardest prompt in there, but I move my hand around a little for show.
I grab a slip of paper and pull it out.
Haunted Candyland. I look up, thinking this is a joke. Haunted Candyland? Simple and done before.
The administrators smirk and gesture to a table, outfitted with baking equipment and walk over, still turning this development over in my head.
Once I make it to the table, everything else flies out of my head and I start brainstorming. No matter how strange this is, it will not stop my focus.
I eventually decided on a dark chocolate cake with red and black buttercream frosting and, of course, candy.
It isn’t that original, but it should be good enough.
✧
I take a colorful lollipop and place it in the slice at a slightly crooked angle. Done!
✧
I wait in the room. The king is eating my cake right now. He is the only one who judges, and the only person who doesn’t know who’s cake is who’s. Or, at least according to him.
✧
Dear Marie,
His royal majesty, King Atlas, is sad to inform you that your cake did not meet the standards of a royal chef, and you will not be accepted.

whoops don't mind this akdjsfh-

Idiom: A penny for your thoughts
The map was tiring, leading us in endless circles around the fairgrounds, no closer to finding our dad. The mystique of the place never quite wore off, still as I looked around, I felt magic flowing through the air itself. Every now and then I’d bump into a fae, elf or satyr walking their pet and still get shocked when I see it's an imp and not a dog or cat. And seeing Mel, spry and in wonder of the whimsical sights, almost made me forget how hopeless this journey really is. Almost.

We found a small nook to sit in, just adjacent to some magical ingredients store, large and majestic, especially compared to Elrick’s little tent that made me wonder how the old geezer hadn’t gone out of business. We’re eating– well more so picking at– some sort of meal we bought from a very happy pixie vendor, though I wasn’t sure what it was and at this point, I learned it was best not to ask. It tasted of childhood and happy dreams, as nonsensical as the description might sound, most magic things were like that. I had learned to accept that too.

I was about to accept that this whole fair adventure was fun but fruitless and we should cut our losses, which I’ve probably suggested a thousand times now. Out of the two of us, I was never the strong one. Mel though, piped up before I could even figure out how to word my thoughts.

“Addy? Addy! Addylin!” She yelled, waving her hands in front of my face. I didn’t even realize I’d been spacing out until I saw her slightly annoyed pouting face in front of mine, her blonde hair unkempt, no matter how many times I smooth it for her.

“Huh? Sorry, what were you saying?” I say, a bit dazed. Mel sat back down next to me, and leaned on my shoulder, letting out a huff.

“I think we should ditch the map,” She said bluntly, which made me jolt a bit. I mean, Mel was always the one diving headfirst into every challenge or danger, following the map like gospel. Of all the things she wanted to get my attention for, that wasn’t at all on my bingo card.

I turned to look at her, “Ditch it? But it's our only clue to finding dad! Is this some sort of lying hex? Did that crystal ball I told you not to touch curse you?” I asked. We kept salt and garlic on us, though we’re pretty sure the whole thing was some myth, and I regularly made sure to be really clear when talking to any of the creatures here, just in case one happened to be a jinn, fae, or any boon granting trickers hungry for an easy target. But that sentence made as little sense as this whole fair. Ditching the map?

Mel pulled away from my close examinations, knocking some of the food off of her lap in the process, “I’m serious. I don’t mean giving up on dad, I just mean trying to find him ourselves. I mean, that dopey wizard was the one who gave us this, it was probably a scam just like everything else in his shack.” She pulled the wrinkled paper half-hazardly out of her pocket and crumpled it completely.

I let out a gasp but somehow, the action felt like a weight off my chest. All we had gotten from that map was trouble, maybe she was right. Somehow, the magic in the air felt a bit thicker now, headier, and I fiddled with my hands, not sure what to do with the energy. “So if we aren’t following the map anymore, where to now? Don’t tell me something cheesy like ‘follow our hearts’, or I’ll be sure you got possessed,” I joke.

Mel stood up and held out her hand to me, “Let’s have fun! I mean, we’re in a magical fair that only pops up once in– I don’t know– a million years? There are dragon petting stalls! We still haven’t pet a single dragon, Addy, that must mean we’re doing something wrong!” She said excitedly, a smile finally forming on her face. The thought of not focusing entirely on dad made me feel strange, if that’s a good word. Maybe iffy was better, like we were getting distracted. But her ideas sounded so much more fun and her smile was contagious, I couldn’t help but grab her hand.

“Okay, I’m sorry I never looked up any ‘fair-going guides for dummies’, how was I supposed to know fairs are supposed to be fun?” I joke, and she begins to giggle, almost losing her footing as she hauled me up.

“You’re so right, maybe we should find a book called, ‘common sense’, that would probably tell you,”

I smack myself on the head with my free hand, “Dang, I should’ve thought of that.” I say, walking out of the little spot we were sitting in and into the light of the fair. I give her a small bow, embracing the fantasy vibe of everything, “So where to, my dearest sister, if one wishes to have fun?”

She just looked at me and bit her lip, avoiding my eyes before looking back and smiling softly at me, “I think you should choose Addy. You’ve looked… sad lately. So what do you think looks fun?” she asks. I expected her to rush to the dragon pen so the fact that she even thought of me was both touching and strange. I tried to get her to pick instead, but she denied my every offer. I really was choosing.

I felt myself grow excited, I never bothered to even think of what I wanted to do, my mind always on Mel or dad. Now I was really taking in the fair, all its vendors and booths and the creature within it. My eyes were drawn to what looked like a cottage, sticking out like a sore thumb in the presence of tents. I pointed to it, “What’s that place?”

Mel followed my gaze and cocked her head, “I don’t know… Was that always there? Who am I kidding, it probably wasn’t. Do you wanna check it out?”

“Yeah… Let's go!” I say, and we walk over to the cottage. The door opened smoothly leading to a room that had to be bigger on the inside than out, the scent of herbs rushing towards me. Sage? Parsley? There were others I didn’t recognize in the slightest. It didn’t matter though, instead I was focused on the people. Person?

A bunch of boys who looked maybe my age were rushing from shelf to shelf, restocking and testing and talking to themselves. Except all the boys had the same face. I took another step forward and one of the several clones looked over to the two of us. His eyes widened and suddenly all the copies flew over to him, merging into one guy. He looked a bit flustered but rushed over nonetheless and smiled, his eyes having the smallest glint of mischief. “Welcome! Sorry for my appearances, I wasn’t expecting customers this early, my services are usually sought for after dark.”

His eagerness caught me off guard, maybe even more so than the clones he just was, “W-We can come back later then! Sorry for intruding,” I say, stepping back slightly. Unfortunately, all of those clones still somehow missed a vial on the ground, which just so happened to be under my foot causing me to trip in probably the least graceful way possible.

I let out a yelp but before I hit the ground, I felt a woosh, cool and heady, somehow stronger than the magic always in the air and I felt something warm at my back. “Gotcha. Make sure to watch your step around here, I’ve never had a knack for cleaning.” The voice said from behind me, with the same voice as the person still in front of me. Before I could even think to look back the boy in front scooted closer, and pulled me up by the wrist.

“No need to leave, I have a feeling you found this place for a reason. Just please don’t mind the mess.” He said, though I could barely register his words from how I could feel my heart racing in my ears. Both of them– or just him– were so close, I could see the exact sliver color of his eyes, each strand of his messy dark hair, the way his smile ever so slightly widened at my growing silence, and was that just me, or did both of them press in closer?

Suddenly, both of them were forced away from me and I came to, just in time to see Mel scowl at the one in front of me, “Hands off, you slob!” she seethed, as she pushed him– them– off me. He didn’t look alarmed, in fact he just stared at her for a second before rubbing the back of his neck bashfully.

“Sorry, sorry! I just just wanted to make sure she was okay, I got a bit worried when she wasn’t responding there,” He said, but Mel's eyes just narrowed more, she barely ever trusted strangers, but something about how she looked at him was more hostile, even more so than Elrick. I put a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s okay, he kinda saved me, don’t be rude!” I softly chided her, and she muttered a quick apology but she didn’t become any less tense. Perfect time for a subject change. We came here to have fun, not whatever just happened. “So uh, we were just wondering what this place was. There was no sign and, well to be honest, we aren’t looking for anything in specific.” I say, my eyes scanning the high shelves of the room. The place reminded me somewhat of the old geezer’s tent but instead of dark creepy ingredients like eyes of newt, the items were more dreamy, like a jar of true laughter.

“Well this place doesn’t really have a name. I like to call it my archive or my study even, but it looks more like a shop doesn’t it?” He says following my gaze and walking farther into the shelves. I hesitate, wondering if I was meant to follow him, before jolting at the sound of the boy behind me. I completely forgot he was there!

His voice felt like a whisper in my ear. Even if he wasn’t holding me up anymore, “But really ‘it's the people that make the place,’ is what I like to say. So why don’t we find what exactly brought you both here.” He comes out from behind me and takes my hand leading me away from the other boy now deep inside his archive and into some side hallway I didn’t notice before. Mel immediately sprints in front of him, blocking his way.

“Hey! You think we’re stupid enough to follow you into some shadowy corner or something? We’ve been here long enough not to trust anyone here so easily.” She said, and the boys smile shrank the tiniest bit, his grip on my hand tightening the smallest bit, before he let out a sigh.

“You’re right, trust is a fickle thing here, though it's an inconvenience to us honest ones,” Again that cool woosh passed through me and suddenly, a clone of him appeared at his side, removing a tear-shaped silver earring from the other, and put put it into the palm of the hand he was holding with a shudder. Then the clone merged back into him.

“Thank you?” I say, the jewelry was pretty, though I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to do, it felt impolite to say nothing.

“Don’t thank me for the earring, a contract requires a sacrifice of something significant, and that's the easiest for me to part with. Really, I’m giving you this part of my heart as a show of my honesty.” He said. Hearing that I nearly dropped the earring but his hand clasped around mine.

“Y-Your heart? What do you–”

“Contract? What did you do to her?” Mel turned to me, interrupting my stammers, not budging from in front of the boy but not taking her eyes off me, “Give him the earring back! What if it's a curse?”

The boy looked at Mel sympathetically, before turning his attention to me. I shrunk below both of their gazes, “It won’t affect you in the slightest, it's all to my detriment if anything. You’ve seen me split already, well each persona contains a piece of my heart. Now that you own a piece of it, you’ll be able to hold me accountable. Any hex I put on you I also put on myself, do you trust me now?” He asks me and everything seems to disappear. Literally, the world went black and I could only see him.

He asked again, “Do you trust me,” And with each second that passed I felt the world pulse around me like a heartbeat. His gaze was steady and I couldn’t look away.

7/8/24 - 406 words

Idiom: Beating around the bush
Specter blinked, staring at his friend while she rummaged around in the shed, clearly trying to find something. He ran a hand through his white hair, a nervous habit of his. He blinked again, took a sharp breath, and then blinked once more for good measure
“you doing okay in there?”
“Yup!” She called back, which was, of course, followed by the sound of a crash. He went to stick his hands in his pockets, realized he didn't have pockets, and stuck his thumbs through the belt loops on his pants instead. Eventually his friend emerged from the shed, a baseball bat in hand. He blinked (he seemed to do that a lot).
“Do you have that for any reason?”
She then proceeded to start smacking the ground around the bush in the front yard. He jumped at the noise.
“May! What are you doing?”
She did not respond, resolutely beating at the ground.
“Dude! Come on!”
“I’m doing a thing.”
He gave a loud sigh, taking his hands from his pants and putting his head in them (in his hands, not his pants. He was not that flexible.
“May we have to go soon. I don’t have time for you to do this.”
“Come on, let me do it Specter, you know you want me to.”
“I don’t even know what you’re doing!”
He was very clearly exasperated now, he began pacing back and forth. He raked his hands through his hair, racking his mind for ideas as to what in the world his best friend was doing. Sure, she was normally a bit odd, he was as well. That was why they made such good friends. He took another breath. And then another one. Because humans breathed.
May continued to smack the ground around the bush. She was also breathing.
He gave a loud sigh, she looked up.
“Can you tell me what you’re doing yet?”
“A thing, I already told you that.”
“Specify.”
“Well, I’ve got a baseball bat in my hand and I am hitting the ground with it. Specifically the ground around this bush. This is the raspberry bush that your grandmother planted.”
“May I know that! Please just tell me what you’re doing.” He was annoyed, this was weird even for her. Also she had reminded him that he rather liked that bush. He didn’t much appreciate her assaulting it.
“A thing.”
“Stop beating around the bush!”
“You’ve got it!”

7/6/24 - 824 words
❝ Come, my dear, and be a part of my home, missing stitch and flowers on a headstone ❞

I loved you from the day I saw you. From the day I saw you and your grinning face, you and your unbearable shamelessness. You never acknowledged it, but I still think that you knew. That you could tell from my lingering glances and clingy hands. Sometimes I even allow myself to think you felt the same. Sometimes I would give you plants. Ferns, usually. You never knew why, or maybe you did, but you would play it off. Scold me with a grin for giving you a silly plant every time I saw you. And I would laugh, laugh like it all meant nothing.
I don’t know if I meant anything to you.
But you meant the world—
Her hand stopped and she shoved the pen away, burying her head in her hands. Even after all these years so could still not write those words. Still not blatantly acknowledge it. She could say that she had loved her, but she would never say just how much. Let them all believe the two were friends, that was safer. It was safer to never acknowledge whatever was happening between them. Amina rose from her chair, shoving it in and rolling up the paper. She grabbed her coat and hat, pulling them on. Then she shoved the scroll into her pocket along with a pair of keys and some money.
She strode down the cobblestone street, black coattails flowing behind her. She pushed the brim of her hat lower, hoping to hide her face. She hated it when people interrupted her little missions. After a while of swift walking she finally slowed to a stop, staring at the shop before her. Unbidden a memory surfaced.
She and Amina were standing in the shop, a grin on her face.
“Here, these will look pretty with your hair. And they match my ribbon, that way people will know we’re connected.”
Amina looked between her and the flowers, taking the small red blossoms gently and leaning down to breathe in the aroma.
“What are they?”
“Quince.”
Amina walked into the shop, the bell tinkling softly with her arrival. She waved hi to the shopkeeper and allowed herself to smile. The loved the memories this place kept. The way her heart raced every time she would speak. She also loved how it smelled. It smelled like her.
“Hey, how are you doing?”
“As well as I can. How about you?”
He sighed and shrugged, a grim smile on his face “‘bout the same. What can I get you?”
“Asphodel, please.”
He nodded and strode into the back. She drummed her fingers on the countertop softly as she waited, trying not to let her mind wander in the minutes the shopkeeper was gone. She heard some grunting, the crash of what was probably some crates, and then he appeared, some leaves in his hair and the bouquet in his hand.
“Here you are. Sad flower for a sad time, I suppose.”
“Yeah. Take care.” She pulled money from her pocket and gave it to him.
“You too. Oh, and Amina, tell her I say hi.”
“I will.”
The graveyard was empty. As it often was. Well, it was empty of living people. Crows fluttered around the stones, pecking at the dead grass and trodding on upturned soil. The atmosphere was appropriately gloomy for the figure donned in a black trench coat and hat. She let out a swift exhale, and walked the familiar path to her grave. She crouched down so she was eye level with the tombstone. She hated that stone. Hated that it showed nothing of the effervescent person who was buried under it. All it said was her full name, which she hadn’t even gone by, “Come on Mina! Nicknames are more fun!”, the day she was born and the day she died, and “God bless her soul.” God better bless her soul or Amina was going to storm up through heaven’s gates and make him. Her hands were shaking slightly and she pulled them up to wipe her eyes. She looked around, just to make sure no one was here. It was a habit she could not break. “Hi, Mel. I’m here again. Third time’s the charm right? You always said that.” Her voice was caught in the lump in her throat. “I wrote something for you. I was always better with writing than talking. You loved my poetry, said it was just as pretty I as I was.” Her voice was shaky, shaky and so unbelievably broken. She felt broken too. Like she had shattered and one of the pieces had been lost. Ritualistically she put down the asphodel and scroll “I brought you more flowers.” She tried to laugh and it came out as a sob. She pressed her forehead to the tombstone, murmured a prayer, and stood up.
“I love you.”
And then she walked back to her house and away from her home.

7/7/24 - 297 words

How To Write a How To For SWC
1. Find your device, this should not be too hard unless the gnoblins have taken it to their lair.
2. Open said device. If you cannot open it consider asking someone to do this step for you. Then log into your device
3. Open up scratch, you then need to log into your scratch account.
4. Go to the studio titled “swc main cabin ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ July 2024”. You can do this by checking your followed studios, checking your curated studios, checking the link in your cabin (see previous two suggestions to get to your cabin), or copy-pasting the title into the scratch search bar.
5. Read the instructions for the daily, make sure you follow this how-to guide precisely.
6. Go to the comments of the studio and look for a comment by scratch user Le_lake. Their comment will contain a how-to guide on how to complete your daily.
7. Make sure you have done steps 1-6
8. Open up somewhere where you can write. Scratch hates us all so forums are unfortunately down. Sacrificing your firstborn does not open them up again, I have tried.
9. Pick a topic. It can be any topic.
10. Write out your first step to accomplish this topic with detailed instructions anyone can follow.
11. Repeat step 10 until you have all the steps needed to complete your task.
12. Check your word count. If it is not at 250 consider adding more steps or adding more detail to your steps.
13. Take a picture of your writing and figure out some way to share proof.
14. Give this picture to Mazasa the polar bear. I do not know Mazasa’s intentions but perhaps they will open up scratch forums with enough sacrifices.

prishaJuni wrote:

25th! Claiming for later!

7/1 Daily: N/A

7/2 Daily:


Dear Future Me,

I only have one question for you: have you achieved everything I expect of you? (Gah, why do I sound so formal?) In case you don't remember, I'll tell you all of them (cackles). I sure hope you achieved them all…

First of all, I expect for you to have written at least five chapters of your story. Yes, that story. You have been working on it every day… right? I also expect for you to have started drafting that apocalyptic lump of sadness that you came up with a few months ago, or at least started plotting it. My other story (the dark and really depressing one) should also have a plot and at least a few pages drafted. Surely you can do that. You should also be writing outside, and make sure to hit that 7k goal. I did some math, and that sounds pretty doable - even with your myopia (oof, that was a pain to spell - I think I'm losing brain cells) Just take breaks and follow the 20-20-20 rule. I hope you posted the DMC RESULTS and that project - or else you're in for a whole lot of guilt-tripping.

Okay… I think that's it. I'm sorry for being so demanding (dramatic sigh) but I'm a Slytherin for a reason! I hope you remembered to chill - for the sake of your mental health. Don't take me too seriously, okay? Make sure to be enjoying life - that's what it's all about!


*set in big font to make it easier on the reader's eyes - I don't want anyone else getting myopia because of me

7/8 Daily:

Warning: Mentions of vomit that may make some readers uncomfortable. Set in small font so that fewer people read it.

“Line up!” barked the teacher, holding a ruler in her hand. She used it to “motivate” students to stand in a straight line, if you get what I mean.
Everybody knows she’s stressed about the test, so they keep quiet and obey her.
The test. I gulp nervously, hyperventilating.
The test was a menacing thing, a tall monster looming over you. It waited and waited and waited until…
It struck.
It was an imposing, tall cliff, waiting to be climbed. It knew that no one would make it to the top, and it awaited the death that would follow in trying.
Ever since I joined this school, I have lost my craving for cake. This school is a prison, and only naughty children are sent here—the children who crave sweets and sugar.
Because that is the biggest crime of all.
Every month, we are forced into the most cruel torture ever—stufffing our mouths with one sugary treat until we get sick of it. We aren’t allowed to stop until we vomit—the principal will shove it into our mouths if he has to.
And today is the day I have been dreading all year.
Cake Day.
The day when we have to shovel all sorts of cake into our poor mouths. I used to cry for cake, begging my parents to buy it.
That’s what got me into this prison.
They take us to the room. We are the last class to arrive, and I can see some kids retching already. My stomach starts to feel tingly in that way when you are about to vomit, but I hold it in. I heard that the principal has a special kind of torture for those who vomit before even starting, and I don’t want to find out what it is.
The cakes are lined up at the tables in different colors. I spotted the chocolate one immediately—it used to be my favorite.
“Welcome, students of the Pig House,” announced the principal. I whimper as vomit fills my mouth, trying to hold it in.
“This month’s theme is cakes. Many of you have been admitted here for this reason, so we thought it would be a fitting gift.”
Gift.
My mouth curls into a sneer.
This? This was no gift.
This was torture.
“I can see some of you holding back from retching, and for that I thank you. Go on, sit at your seats.”
The entire school sat down as one.
I can’t hold back. With a final groan, I spill all over that chocolate cake.
The principal is already walking to me.

Daily 8: Idioms
word count - 427 words

Like a fairytale blown into the wind, its dire ultimatum lost across the traversing seas. It was as if this, this life I was living was built upon a steam of lies, that never showed any signs of ending. As much as I wanted to pull through and make by with it all, I couldn't help but feel the overbearing weight of what my body had succumbed to not even a few days early. It was as if someone was holding me down - keeping me from flying away and becoming free once and for all. I was a prisoner to my own wounds, and now the serendipity of the situation finally began to settle in. Although I was very much in denial at the start, I knew that this prophecy knew no bounds and would somehow only add to the complications in my life.

I had to keep fighting. A tainted heart at battle, scorched with the sins of war and blades of fire that had sharpened by with over time. I wasn't complaining… no. Making it this far is a dream that many consider impossible, yet me being here, in front of all these people, is living proof that anything if possible. The celestiality in the sky, the dimmness of the light, working together as if to bind one by their own despairs unknowingly. All I wanted to do was scream, let out a yell, but my dulcet voice was to quiet and worndown after years of flight and attack.

A battle turned into war, and a war seemingly lasted for eternity. It was as if I was fighting a war with my self - the butterflies swirling in ridiculous patterns, dying to make an escape. I wanted to laugh, I wanted to breathe. yet most of all, I wanted to be free. Living a long a prosperous life, away from all these dreaded struggles. Was that really so hard to ask for? To everyone else, my life looks perfect - a vibrant flower, surrounded by distilled glass for miles, shining in the broad daylight with no worries. That's not me, no that sounds like a fantasy. A world that I would drift off into the comfort of my nightmares and the hope my dreams bring me. I wanted nothing more than to set those butterflies free, see them live and prosper without being confined. I wanted to be that butterfly, with her wings stretched out high, overlooking the wonders of the world, and never having to worry about a thing.