Weekly 2 - 1385 words

Part 1 - 310 words

A deep, vast, blue canvas sprawls across the earth, tall waves arcing over the cliffs crashing down, turning into sea foam. Clouds drift through the soft orange sky, little drops of cotton carrying messages from different lands, stories that never got an audience and never would. The water screamed as strong winds swept across the surface causing ripples in all directions. The tide turned and without the air seemed to simply stop.

My hands gripped the rail tightly, it was the only thing between me and freedom. I dream of diving into the cavernous blue and swimming far, far away to a lonely island made just for me. I dream of waking each morning to the sounds of the waves crashing along the shore and of hearing birds swoop and dive in a search of food. I dream of escaping the rotten land I am chained to being able to finally breathe. But these are all just dreams.

The line of contrast between the blue of the sea and the orange of the sky is a lie. The sea spans on and on infinitely which is something that the universe seems to be confused by. The idea of the infinite is often rejected but at this moment I could not help imagining the sea stretching across the cosmos, engulfing anything in its path.

Perhaps one day my debts will be paid and I will reach the ends of the earth in my humble ship with no one but my imagination to keep me company. Then I will be able to find the truth out once and for all for myself. Then the doubt can be gone from my mind forever and it could never be manipulated to believe falsehoods ever again. Perhaps then the ringing will stop, the roar will end, and I will finally be able to achieve silence.


Part 2 - 377 words

Blurb - 75 words:

As war rages on across the land the friendship of two children is tested as they dream of escaping their homes. With no one to help them, they must learn to survive with just each other. Unfortunately just after they seem to finally get settled into their new life, one of them gets drafted into the continuing war and they are torn apart. Now they must find a way to get back to each other.

Blurb by lio used:

abandoned by her mother—tricked by her mother—betrayed by her mother—snow white feels near nothing. now married to a prince she hardly knows, the young girl understands not her place nor herself. ladies from distant lands with similar circumstances come to her to offer aid, but will she accept it?

Continuation - 302 words:

The first letter came months ago. A mysterious note with no signature on her doorstep. At first, she thought it was just a joke. Something written by one of the townspeople, trying to get a meeting with the princess. The letter had a time and place but nothing else, the deadline for the first meeting had long since passed but then another came, and another, and another, each with the same handwriting but still no answers.

Florian had found the most recent one, thinking it was some sort of threat he put the castle under lockdown and interrogated the princess. She lied. He had never got to know her well enough to be able to tell when she was telling the truth and when she wasn’t. In fact, he never got to know her well enough to be able to tell many things. Not that it mattered now, he spent most of his nights not even at the castle instead on trips to other kingdoms, at least that’s what he told her.

The day after the letter came Snow White was banished to her room in case of any “threats.” She hated that room. It was her mother’s old room and despite countless guards dismissing her, she swore that some nights she could still hear her mother's screams, coming back to haunt her. With nothing to entertain her, the princess sifted through every note she had found and dreamed of what awaited outside of the locked-up castle. Perhaps the letter was from an assassin as the Prince said, or maybe, it was from a savior. Someone who would take her away from this painful life. Just then soft tapping on the window startled her and she spun to can a folded paper stuck to the glass. On it, two words.

Tonight. Pond.

Part 3 - 156 words

(i am very much not a fan of poetry)

click clack
the hearth crackled
warmth radiated out through the home
the cloying scent carried along
a rhythmic beating of the whisk

click clack
soft pouring dribbles
mixing and pouring
powders and extracts fall in sync
the beeps of the oven on and on

click clack
the snap of chocolate
a clang of spoons
the soft rain of flour
mixed round and round

click clack
a symphony of scents
which yearns for my attention
a soft bliss blanketing the batter
folded over and over

click clack
the sizzle of butter
over the stove
melting into golden glass
a sharp aroma filling the room

click clack
the pitter patter
as they hit the bowl
rolled thin as a sheet
a canvas to a baker
a place for big imaginations

click clack
the pop up of delectables
confections of all size
honeyed dreams coming to life
artwork crafted from strong hands
each with their own stories to hear

Part 4 - 447 words

Put the first paragraph of the second part through google translate

–

The notice posted outside of the ice cream had been up there since at least February. Apparently they got no reply for all that time. No reply until, Amelie showed up. It had been asking for someone who was good with riddles to watch someone’s house while they were travelling. Why you had to be good at riddles no one had any idea. Tentatively Amelie wrote her name below the request. Luckily, despite the notice being posted so long ago, the first week they asked for had no passed yet.

After writing her name Amelie checked back each day looking for more directions and yet for a whole week, none came. Finally on the day they first asked for the wrote back. Amelie had lost hope and checked just one more time and found a second paper pinned to the original notice.

The instructions were very clear. They gave the exact door to enter through, which of the many frogs held the key, and exactly where the house was. The one thing it did not mention was what to do once you actually got into the house. Now Amelie stood in front of the tall oak door and stared up at handle. It was unusually high for a handle and was made of an odd material she had never seen before.

Taking a deep breathe Amelie clutched the paper tightly with one hand and with the other reached out for the handle, before the could reach it, the door swun open. She jumped, startled, looking around for the source but found no one there but her. Turning back to the house and jumped again as she looked into the all white house in front of her.

By all white, not only was the ground and floor painted white but so was everything else, the dresser the same pale white, and what might have once been a mirror now not reflective and simple, well, white. Amelie’s first thought was that the notice bust have been some practical joke. Perhaps that’s why no one answered before her for so long. But why would anyone put this much effort into a simple joke.

Upon taking her first step Amelie noticed something else, despite looking solid the ground was made of some odd, rather squishy, material. The room was very bright but as she took a closer look no doorway to another room could be found. She took a few more steps until she reached the center of the room. Just then she noticed it. A small red tag on the dresser. Before she could give it much thought she turned to a slamming door and no way to get out.

Daily 17 || 435 words

“NADÓIR. WATCHER.”
The deer jolted to their feet in a panic. They were in some sort of void room, with absolutely no memories of who they were and what their life had been before they had been transported here.
They looked around, searching for some sign of…anything, really, beginning to panic. The voice spoke again, jumpscaring them.
“NADÓIR. YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN TO WATCH OVER THIS WORLD, AND GUIDE STRAGGLERS HOME.”
“What?? Why??” Nadóir gasped out, feeling their voice get hoarse and the fear inside them grow more.
There was no response.

With a sharp gasp, Nadóir sat up. They still couldn’t remember how they had got here, in this random forest in the middle of the night, and their heart was beating heavily. “I…” they started coughing hard as they tried to reassure themselves, and when they tried to speak again…
…No sound came out.
Nadóir began hyperventilating, in a panic, before someone spoke to them. “Hey, are you okay?” They looked up to see two floating, transparent, pale figures in front of them. One was blue and one was purple, and they both looked at them in concern.
*THEY’RE GHOSTS AAAAA,* Nadóir mentally panicked, trying to yell and scream but physically unable to do so. They swished their tail in front of their face, realizing they…had a tail? And the tail…WAS STARING AT THEM?
Nadóir shoved the shadowy bush of a tail away, staring at the overwhelming number of menacing green eyes as they were shoved into the purple ghost, who made a squeak and turned into a glowing orb, which flew up into the sky.
Nadóir made a face, startled out of their panic somehow. The blue ghost stared back at them, scared that their friend had been poofed away by the tail, before a scythe was slashed through them, also turning them into a skyward orb.
The deer scooted backwards in terror as they saw the cloaked figure approach. She looked like some sort of brown rabbit, and the heartbreak in her eyes made Nadóir feel some pity for her. She offered a paw to them, and they hesitantly took it, being pulled to their feet. They looked at what looked like a…green, eyeless snake head on the end of her tail? It seemed a bit shrouded in some sort of red fog though, not showing any signs of life.
Nadóir noticed that the figure was looking at their own tail, which seemed to be judging everyone. They tensed up in fear, meeting the sad creature’s eyes. They felt a shiver, and then a single thought in their mind.
“BÁS. DEATH.”

daily 17 - ability to see ghosts - 366/300 words

it is thought that ghosts of king fletcher and queen daphne lurk around the kingdom. people claim to see them ballroom dancing during parties at the castle. sometimes, they explore a saturday market or laugh together in a flower meadow. no one has been able to prove the existence of their ghosts — by the time they get a camera or grab someone else’s attention the ghosts are gone.
i know they’re real though. i’ve seen them with my own eyes.
and they haunt me.

their ghosts, they follow me everywhere, chatting with each other or clinking glasses of wine together. they don’t seem to notice me, but i know they’re keeping a close eye on me. everywhere i look they are lurking just around the corner, and i don’t know what they want with me.
until one day i ask.

i was sipping on some tea a friend gave me, and i heard their giggling whispers behind me. i couldn’t take it anymore so i whipped around to face them.
“what’s your problem?” i demand, getting concerned looks from the people around me.
“what’s wrong, leah?” my friend asks nervously, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“the stupid ghosts,” i begin, not taking my focus off of them. “daphne and fletcher.”
“leah, i think…”
“you wouldn’t understand.”
daphne and fletcher look at each other, then sighed.

“leah, we’ve been following you because…” fletcher chokes, teary eyed. he turns, hiding his pain, though, i don’t know what from. daphne gives his hand a loving squeeze then continues for him.
“believe it or not, you’re our daughter, and you should be the kingdom’s next queen. the only problem is, nobody knows that except us, and now you.”
i shake my head. this can’t be happening! i don’t have royal blood in me.
“no,” i tell them. “i can’t do this, i have a life. I’m sorry.”
the ghosts nod, wiping the tears slipping down their cheeks.
“we understand,” they say. “we just hope you come to know the truth and save the kingdom before it’s too late.”
i perk up. “what do you mean, ‘save the kingdom’?” i ask, looking back at them.

but their ghosts are gone.

Silver tumbled through the water, unsure of which way was up. Panicked, he thrashed his tail and limbs in an effort to regain his balance and make it back to the surface.
Instead, his claws raked through the sand and the current hurled him against the riverbed, his body scraping painfully against the rocks and forcing the last of the air out of his lungs. He latched onto a smooth, round stone in the hopes of steadying himself, but it broke loose, sending him spinning away again.
Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. He was only dimly aware of a tugging sensation on his back as the shadows washed over him. With one final twitch, it all went black.
When Silver awoke, he felt odd. He soon realized why. From above, he saw his body, limp and wet, strewn across the sand at the edge of the river. His brother, Birch, perched beside it, desperately pushing on it with his front paws. He was… dead.
“Not yet,” a voice answered.
Silver jumped. He tried to ask who was there, but found that he had no voice.
“Ghosts don't really speak,” the voice explained. “We sort of just… think our words into existence.” It sighed. “You get used to it after a while.”
Silver was confused. So he was a ghost? And this mysterious voice could hear his thoughts?
“Pretty much. Except you're about to go back to your body. See- oh, there you go-”
Silver felt a dizziness come over him and suddenly, he was coughing up water, every muscle stinging and exhausted. But wait- that meant he had a body again! Gratefully, he guzzled air, relishing the feeling of his lungs expanding and contracting.
Gradually, he became aware of his surroundings. Birch was right by his side. “You're alive!” he gushed. “I thought- I thought you were gone, and the river had taken you and…”
Silver lifted his head, letting Birch's relieved babbling fade into the background. There was some other presence nearby, one he didn't quite understand.
“Yes, it's me. Haven't gone anywhere. You can still hear me?”
The voice he had heard! Who was it?
“My name is Feather,” it said. “Let me take a form you can see.”
A shape appeared in the shadows across the river. Its eyes glowed an otherworldly blue. The moonlight shone right through it, highlighting the ripples on the surface of the river.
“Birch… do you see that?” Silver croaked out.
Birch turned to follow his gaze. But he looked right through the ghostly figure. “Let's just get you somewhere dry so you can recover…” Birch tugged him to his paws, continuing to talk, asking him questions. But Silver couldn't tear his gaze away from Feather.
“My best guess is that a part of you is now stuck here, in the world of ghosts,” Feather said, her voice echoing inside Silver's mind rather than coming from outside.
Was that a problem? Silver stumbled forward a few pawsteps, away from Feather.
“Well, it's interesting,” she concluded. “Let's see where this goes, shall we?”

the corridor was dark. most of the lanterns on the wall had died, leaving behind traces of warmth that did little to aid one’s sight.
eliza doesn’t remember this specific area. which wasn’t all that strange, since it had only been her first week at the manor and she likely hadn’t gotten to explore as thoroughly as she had thought. still, the area gave her general bad vibes. she found it hard to recall how she’d wandered here in the first place, which made her immediately eager to leave.
she drew open one of the heavy curtains to have a peek out the window, where she noticed an almost-full moon hung high above the clouds. perhaps she’d been sleepwalking, then? she hasn’t ever done it before, but there was a first for everything. whatever the situation was, she remained deeply unsettled, and started to walk in a direction that she hoped led to her bedroom.
it’s then that she noticed a shadowy figure in the dark, bits of orange light illuminating their blonde? hair. she brushed past them at first, before abruptly pausing to do a double-take. she’s scared to be in trouble for being out here so late, but the person isn’t anyone that she recognizes.
“…hello?” she asked tentatively. the figure had already been studying her, seemingly as surprised as she was.
“i… haven’t seen you around here before,” they said, frowning. their voice had a slight accent to it, one that she couldn’t place.
“i’ve been here for only a short while,”
the figure took a step closer to her, and something about their movement felt… off. she wanted to run, but at the same time, was very curious.
“short while?…” they continued, “i’ve been here for a couple hundred years. nice to meet you, though. always happy to welcome someone new, it’s been a long time.”
“a couple hundred years?” she repeated in astonishment.
the chuckled, with a smile that felt more apologetic than anything. “well, time tends to ignore us when we’re dead.”
dead? us?
one of the boys who were staying at the manor passed by then, and eliza gasped. “alex!” she whisper-yelled. “why are you out this late? do you know who this person is?” she gestured next to her.
but alex only walks by without a flinch, so eliza follows, confused.
“hello…?”
the figure behind her sighed. “you don’t get it, do you?”
everything clicks suddenly. dead. they were a ghost. and… her, apparently.
oh dear.

WORK IN PROGRESS <333 (EDITING)

Intro: Hiii, this is what I wrote for the “language of flowers” daily on the sixth, and since I'm planning on writing something new as a fanfiction entry so I thought I would submit this as my other entry to have more time for the fanfic since this is my favorite daily I've written so far this session <3


Now: Marigold

I didn't cry when Pansy died. I don't cry now as I place the wilted marigolds upon her casket. I don't cry on the way back to our once-shared home. I don't cry when I stare at the picture on our nightstand, me in her arms, a smile displayed on both of our faces. I never did cry at the appropriate times. I cried the first time she raised her voice at me when I accidentally lost her mother's ring. I cried when she found it tangled in the sheets of our bed. I cried when she brought me soup when I was ill in that same bed. I didn't cry when the nurse told me there was nothing they could do to save her. Crying seemed like a pointless thing to do when she is gone and I am still here, at least the part of that didn't die when she did in that hospital on the night of our anniversary. I can't cry when she's not here to wipe the tears from my face and tell me it will be okay because for the first time, it won't be.

Then: Buttercup

“Come on,” Pansy shouts over the crashing of the undulating waves. “Join me in the water!”
“I don't know…,” I respond hesitantly, what if it's cold?“
”You'll get used to it, Pansy calls, already bobbing underneath the crystal-like water. I step into the ocean and hiss at the unwelcoming harsh temperature of the water. Questioning Pansy's idea to go to the beach during the early and still freezing springtime, I make my way over to where Pansy is splashing in the water like an excited child. She grins at me as I swim over to her, then abruptly splashes water onto my face.
“Hey,” I scold her as I blink the water out of my eyes, but I'm smiling too. We must have spent an hour there, playing in the water, gratifying both of our inner childishness. When we finally emerge from the water and walk back out onto the shore, hand in hand, I find myself wishing we could have stayed in the water forever, postponing the uncertainty and anguish life would later bring.

Now: Pansy

It still hasn't hit me yet, that she's gone. I keep expecting to hear the jingling of her keys as she opens the door and to see the smile that creeps on her face when she sees me sitting on the couch waiting for her like an obsessed dog, whose only thought is when they will next see the one whom they love. I keep expecting her to wrap her arms around me, plant a kiss to my temple, and tell me we'll get through this together. It still hasn't hit me this is the one thing we can't get through together.

Then: Sunflower

Pansy and I sit on a rock, one of many surrounding our favorite lake. By now, the uncleanliness of the place has stained both our jeans, and bugs are found crawling on practically every available surface, but somehow this feels like the most romantic instance of my entire life. It's a peaceful quietness as we stare into the still lake, and I can't help, but wonder what she's thinking about. I wonder if she's thinking about me the same way I'm thinking about her. Suddenly, she shifts to look at me and when I meet her hazel eyes I fear I may never escape the beauty of her intent gaze. By some miracle, I break my eyes away but am immediately drawn back to her lips as she starts to speak. I see her lips move, but I'm unable to hear what she says, the chirping of the birds even stops as if the entire lake has been put on mute.
“Uhh earth to Daisy,” she says and the sounds all come rushing back. “Sorry, I… I got lost in thought,” I answer lamely. Daisy gives me an understanding smile and begins to circle the palm of her hand with her finger, a nervous habit of hers. “I um, I wanted to ask you something,” she starts, eyes focused on her finger continuing to trace circles around her palm. “The spring formal is coming up and I um, I was wondering if you'd wanted to go with me, only if you wanted to,” she hurries to add. “And you don't have to, obviously, I was just wondering and if you don't that's totally-” I stop her prattling by gently putting my finger to her lips. She slowly tilts her head to look up at my face to see my radiant smile. “Of course I want to, silly,” I say and she laughs, then eases her head onto my shoulder. We spend the rest of the afternoon like that, in silence gazing into the lake and our futures together.

now: peach blossom

My head is consumed by thoughts of her as I turn my wedding ring around on my finger. As I look at her wedding ring on the nightstand. As I look at the wilting tulips she got me for our anniversary because she knew they were my favorite. The memory of her holds me captive and I can't seem to break free.

then: periwinkle

It's seven years later and we're back at the lake where Pansy first asked me to go to the spring formal. We're the same, but also entirely different people after seven years of each other's almost constant company. We sit shoulder to shoulder on the same rock as back then, and I'm confident our heads are occupied by the same thoughts, the memories we've shared since that day all those years ago; the spring formal, and then the fall formal after that, the sweet memories of countless days and nights spent together, but also the sorrowful memories of the struggles we'd each been through since being teenagers. Pansy turns to me like she did that fateful day seven years ago. She takes my hands and pulls me to my feet. Suddenly she's kneeling before me with a ring in her hands. All I can remember are squeals and shared smiles, tears and warm embraces, and the promise of forever.

Now: Zinnia

The reminiscence of our years spent together becomes too much for me to bear. I fish out the car keys from my pocket and hurry to my car. The engine roars to life, the sound welcoming to my ears and I head towards the only place where we can be together now.

Then: Sweet Pea

It's the night of our anniversary and we're heading home after a date night at our favorite restaurant. I slow and stop the car at an incoming red light and take a quick glance out the window. I see a field of rhododendrons and oleanders and then blinding headlights barreling towards us.

I wake up in the hospital, on a bed surrounded by nurses. There's an unbearable pain in both my side and head, but my only question is; “Where is Pansy?” The nurses exchange silent glances with each other and suddenly, I wish I hadn't woken up at all.

Now: Asphodel

I kneel in front of your grave and I'm hit by such an immense amount of regret I'm afraid I may drown in it.

What if I'd been paying better attention?

Would I have been able to evade the car speeding past the red light?

What if you hadn't been the in the passenger seat?

What if you had survived?

Why couldn't you have been the one to survive?

Why did it have to be me who's still here when you no longer are?

And as I place the bundle of dahlias on your headstone I at long last, feel them coming, tears, and there's no one to wipe them away now but myself.

Critique

To start off with, I loved reading through this. The plot was very clever and there was a really good balance of adjectives/ similes / metaphors to making the piece too dense which I really liked, because it helped with the flow.

Overall, you could have added a few more single words or really short sentences in the first two paragraphs as you said that this part was fast-paced but it felt a little bit like it was dragging. Just add something super staccato e.g Resounding footsteps. Clattering amour. Clenched fists. etc

I also think that you could put the speech on different lines as it makes the piece less dense and it makes it look neater altogether and creates that fast-paced style you were ultimately looking for. I think the sentence ‘The cool air feels like freedom on his face, rolling with
sweat - ’ sounds a little strange. I really like the first phrase, as it’s very descriptive but ‘rolling with sweat’ isn’t like anything I’ve heard before and (please don’t take this offensively, I'm just tryna be honest <3) is a little gross?
The rest of this paragraph was amazing and really well-written! This was my favourite part <3

I loved the idea of a Potion Shop, as it is a really cool scene for a story and quite an ethereal setting! However, I am a little confused by the phrase ‘every spring gust’ because I don’t really understand that, but that might just be me being dumb lol
I think for ‘Shay starts to giggle and then it turns into both Shay and Callum laughing’ you could take out the second ‘Shay’ because it makes the flow not as smooth, and replace it with a pronoun.
I don’t have any bad comments on the rest of it! I loved the creepy ending and the suspense you added!

I loved critiquing this and I think you’ve done a really good job with it! I don’t think the flow was bad at all, but you could just work on the pacing and the clarity of a few phrases a little I loved working with this piece with all its clever descriptions and suspense making me want to read more! I look forward to seeing what other writing you create!
I hoped this critique helped and thank you for letting me critique it!

Critique for Wavecolor | 443 words

Hey y'all! Once again, it's critiquing time. Let's dive in, shall we?

Wavecolor wrote:

mykonos | critiquitaire | 328 words

I was born a hollow child in a hollowed out belly of a land:
youth but a masquerade ball for everyone but yourself,
angel darlings and devil kin. Play, a satanic ritual, the strange kind of thing
that fades with the ages.

Nice opening here, only thing I would suggest is making the first line a little more, shall we say, symmetrical, like so: I was born a hollow child in a hollow belly of a land
Even that's just a personal suggestion based on the way I write; if you like your version better, by all means, keep it.
Moving on to the second line, this one was a little confusing for me. Is the speaker comparing youth to masquerade? Suggesting that they have eternal youth? Comparing beauty to a mask? A combination, all of them, something else entirely? I'd propose adding a little more context to let your readers know what you're comparing to what.

Sand holds memories the same way sleep carries dreams,
nebulous inhuman human things. As they may be. The Mediterranean washes up on
the shores of our ancestries, back and forth,
back
and forth.
Seeds are sewn softly into soil,
like a quiet sort of victory, where the dawn hues turn
the ancient rivers into running rose fields. I seek the comeuppance of the
far long lost, and the penance self-chosen
by the duly responsible. The shadow on a soul will follow
regardless of the destination. It hangs over the sea foam where a nymph dissolves into the
deep unyielding blue.
Learning to become
a child of the sun
is only easy when your earth was born of his blood. Gold is
the deadliest color of life. In the stones that rise from the
sea churning and between the young trees, the ghosts of
millennia glow pallid. Toppled giants
and ossification. As they may be.

The lines flow beautifully here, the only thing I would change is the amount of punctuation, as too many periods can make writing seem choppier. Using transitions like “–” “;” and “:” are great ways to splice sentences together, so to speak, and preserve the stream of words without making the reader stop and register the periods before moving on.
There's only one more thing that I want to point out here and that is that the line “Gold is the deadliest color of life” sticks out a bit to me because it doesn't appear to fit with the rest of the poem. I think I see where you were going with it, but it takes a bit of thinking to arrive at the conclusion, and again, stopping to register something can disrupt flow, at least for me. When reading, I like to read something all the way through and then put the whole thing together like puzzle pieces to muse over the whole picture, instead of a single piece. Once the whole picture has been seen, then I can admire individual pieces on their own.

In the waters of the Aegean lie
a nebulous inhuman secret. I trace myself in lines and branches,
tree of life, lightning and owl. In the stones of Anatolia are
pieces of long faded families, bloodlines in the crevices of the Balkans, all drifting away
like flotsam in an olden ocean, like Cassandra
was only breathing the saltwater air all along. I breathe the same air
an eon and a million miles away.
I turn to history and philosophy
and the gaps between sand grains. In the belly of this ancient place
are nebulous inhuman human ghosts. As they may be.
I want to watch my skies turn to sunrise and the cobwebs of tombs glitter with dew.
An arrow deep in the dirt
bleeds out centuries of human turmoil.
Breathe.

One final section here! I like your repetition of the phrase “nebulous inhuman,” but after it's first introduced, it doesn't appear again for several lines, and then it appears twice in quick succession, which jarred me a bit. Other than that, I really don't have any more critiques for this piece. It's beautifully written and I love your artful usage of blank space. I especially love the one word “breathe” at the very end–it ends the poem in a way that lets the reader come down and, well, breathe, after intaking the poem.
I'm not sure if any of my critiques were actually helpful or not (lol) but I hope at least some of them were, and I'm thankful for the opportunity to read over your stunning work. Keep on writing–you've got this!

Natt519 wrote:

Writing for a critique (I’m not trying to actually spell it lol)
{this is currently unfinished- this writing is gonna be about half of the story (and I’m planning on a sequel to it, as well)! I’m writing this for the writing comp, though, so i wanted to see how i was doing so far <3}
Word count: 908

Oasis. Some call it a city of dreams. Others say it's a curse, a remnant of Pre-Flood that will be destroyed one day. I call it home.

It's been two hundred years since Flood. Pre-Flood humans burned fossil fuels, polluted, and warmed Earth to its literal melting point. The glaciers melted, and the sea level rose, and rose, and rose. By the time the Pre-Flood humans actually acted, it was too late. Some places were safe, but many couldn't get to those places. Those years were called the Years of Tragedy.

Now, the sea has fallen, but we only have half the amount of land that we used to. Cities are crowded, even parts of Oasis. We have a place to live, at least, so we're grateful. It's almost like before Flood, the older people say.

Almost.

——–

I sat at my desk- the middle, almost back, right on the edge by the window. In my opinion, the best seat. Ms. Blunden was telling us about the construction of the wall. It surrounds Oasis, protecting us from the sea. Usually, we don't need it- only when we have a big storm. Then, the sirens blare. People panic, even though we aren't supposed to, as everyone rushes to their basements. There, we wait, talking in hushed whispers as we wait for the sirens to stop. That hasn't happened in a while, though. It's a bit strange, honestly. Global warming made the storms worse and worse, but now we don't use fossil fuels, or pollute. I guess that's why, but I don’t really know.

I tried to turn my attention back to Ms. Blunden, but Ashla, my best friend, elbowed me. I ignored her. She waited a moment, then-

“Pada!”

I still didn't look at her.

“Pada Louise Avrum!”

"What?“

”Wanna come over after school? My mom found some SUPER old DVDs- like, almost 250 years old- and a DVD player she hooked up to our HoloVision. One is about a magic school or something, and the other I think is about these people fighting this super cool masked robot dude.“

”Sure! But can you please focus on the lesson? I need to take notes.“

”Your notes are filled with doodles anyways,“ Ashla said, rolling her eyes, but she obliged and began to scribble in her notebook.

———-

It began to rain during the last few hours of school, so I didn't end up going over to Ashla's house- nobody is allowed to go outside when it's raining. It's just one of the laws that we have now, to keep us safe.

Later that night, I lay in bed, listening to the rain thrumming against my window. If it didn't stop by tomorrow morning, then we wouldn't have school. I've read books from Pre-Flood where students went to school for 9 months every year. With the rain, we usually end up going only 7 or 8. I still wonder what it was like back then. How many people knew that they had to change, but just wouldn't? Flood could have been avoided. People could have survived. But it happened, all of it, because they were just too stubborn to see it.

Will we make that same mistake one day?

☽ ☆ ☽ ☆ ☽ ☆ ☽ ☆ ☽ ☆ ☽ ☆ ☽ ☆ ☽ ☆ ☽ ☆ ☽ ☆

The next morning, it still hadn't stopped raining. No school today, I suppose. As I crept down the stairs, I heard my mother whispering nervously to my father- I hadn't know they were up yet. I know I shouldn't have, but I couldn't help eavesdropping. ”Huge storm…another flood? …will the wall…“ I could only catch bits and pieces, but I got the gist of it. What if all this rain meant another flood, or a big storm? Would the wall protect us?

I heard footsteps as Mom and Dad walked into the kitchen- I wouldn't be getting any more information out of them right now. My cat, Holly, padded over to me, meowing until I scratched her ears. She's a calico. I found her when I was 9, when she was just a kitten. Someone had abandoned her, even though that's against the law, and I've had her ever since- 4 years, now. She followed me as I went downstairs.

Mom was already in her studio, and Dad was eating in the living room as he watched the news. I grabbed Holly's food from the cabinet, pouring her some- if I didn't then I'd be meowed at all during breakfast. Once she was content with her breakfast, I poured myself some cereal- strawberry milkshake flavored (yum)- and went into the living room to see what was interesting my dad so much.

”We've been tracking a severe storm that's about 20 miles away from Oasis. It's moving slowly, so it could dissipate by the time it would reach us, but make sure to be prepared. Stock water and food in your basements and make sure you have a phone or radio with you. Remember…"

I stopped listening after that. A severe storm? We hadn't had one of those since… I think I was 8 or 9. Hadn't they gotten better? I put my bowl on the table and walked over to the window. I could see dark clouds in the distance, and there was the rumble of thunder. My spoon shook, rattling against the sides of my bowl. The clouds looked… different, though. There was a red glow around them, and every few seconds I saw something that looked like red electricity sparking around them.

What was going on?

Feedback: Hi first of all I think the story begins in a really nice way. The introduction to Oasis really pulls your readers in and gives them a good idea about this setting. What I found interesting was how much the past, I.e today's present day, is brought up. I think for the most part you wove these mentions in nicely and I understand that they definitely would be relevant to a story where that was basically their apocalypse. Actually I suppose wake up call is a better term for evidently the world seems a little more utopian now just with extra measures against disaster. However there are times where your mentions of their history feel forced and i start to lose a sense of your main character and your narrator doesn't seem to find her very relevant nor do they seem very interested in her story but moreso in her world. There are some things that do not make sense to me, for instance: what exactly did the world do to bounce back from this disaster? Why is the rain dangerous? Another thing: Why does she think they'll fail again when nothing in the story actually seems to hint at that? As a reader I find myself struggling to connect those things. Anyways that's all I got. Happy writing.

Part 0: Deathless Prelude

Truth No. 1: Mary-Anne could not die. She had learned to accept that fact after much trial and many tribulations, and yet still Fate wished to test it. Fate wouldn’t concede until She was completely sure of that so-called truth, just as heartbreak was sure to come with love, and pain was sure to come with life. In that way, Fate was cruel, benevolent yes, but still so cruel. Mary-Anne knew she shouldn’t even think such things. No doubt her mother would scold her, the priest would be stunned, everyone she knew would disagree, but what did it matter? All of them are dead.

Truth No. 2: Fate doesn’t care if others get hurt. Why would She? If someone dies much too young, it’s their destiny, divinely ordained to be nothing but collateral damage. If not now, it’s bound to happen one day, much too early but never too late. That meant She could put Mary-Anne through hell, for her soul would forever and always remain pure. The church around her would burn to ashen husks and their remains would streak her body. She’d walk through every circle, each step onto burning coals, every breath taken filled with ash, her tears searing off her face, but that didn’t matter. As long as Mary-Anne is alive.

Truth No. 3: Mary-Anne is the only one who matters in the eyes of Fate. Mary-Anne, the savior, is the only one who can awaken Fate from her endless sleep. Mary-Anne, the prophesized, is the only one who can bring light back to their achromatic world. Mary-Anne, the maestro, is the only one who can play the holy Lyre’s strings, the one who can purge the inhumane rule of the Sovereign. Mary-Anne, the eleven year-old girl, must do this, because it's her only purpose, her only choice, and otherwise, everyone she cared about died in vain.

Mary-Anne didn’t like believing in such things, they hurt, sometimes more so than the memories branded into her brain, but she couldn’t simply deny them. Not when she’s been tested three times already and she was sure her life would have several tests more. As sure as pain, heartbreak, and grief, but not death. Death felt far away when the prophecy held her captive until she could pay its ransom.

The first test happened a week ago, give or take a day, yet she relived it every time she closed her eyes. Being shoved into the cupboard, lyre in hand. The final kiss to her forehead, seeing her mother’s face streaked with tears. The final lie she told, “It’ll all be alright”.

The lyre glowed bright with hope in her hands as if to affirm the empty words as rapid footsteps came from above. Then came the gunshots and the screams. In it she heard her mom’s, the priest’s, her sister’s, all but hers, muffled by her hands, her tears and the cries of everyone else. Footsteps approached, words were exchanged, but no one looked inside, where a child silently sobbed falling asleep to the scent of fresh blood.

The second test came after. After she woke up thinking everything was just a nightmare. After she opened the cupboard to see all of it was real. After her eyes found her mother, gunshot in her stomach, lying lifelessly on the ground. After she ran to her mother’s body and cried, cried, and cried until her tears had run dry.

It was then she saw her lyre, clean and gold in a room splattered black with death. It was the reason. It killed everyone. If only it was never here, then her mother and sister would still be alive. Everyone would be alive. Mary-Anne wouldn’t have been resented by all her peers and revered by all her elders. She didn’t know if she was capable of living a normal life, but if there was even the smallest chance, that instrument stole it from her.

Before she knew it, she had a matchbox in hand. When she was stressed, she would light a match and watch the flames. Mary-Anne found solace in its warmth, in its pure white light, and sometimes she swore she could see the tiniest flecks of yellow hiding within it. In the times it burned, all her problems dissipated like smoke and maybe it would make her lyre disappear too. She struck the match and threw it in. The cursed blessing burst into flames.

But it didn’t burn.

Instead it blossomed, the pure flames being stained with the lyre’s golden hue. At first she was angry. Why wouldn’t it leave her alone? Everything else in Mary-Anne’s life disappeared, why wouldn’t the lyre follow suit? But then, something about the light, the color, the way the flames moved, it called to her. So she sat and watched.

Even as smoke filled the already suffocating air. She sat and watched. Even as the fire slowly spread, seemingly to everywhere but her. She sat and watched. Her lungs were singed black with ash but her mind was calm. Her mind was clear. But soon it began to fog. Smoke. Cinder. Blacken until her consciousness burned away with the dancing golden flames.

Death was also gray, Mary-Anne discovered, the bitter realization stung her chest. Why did she think it would be any different? She failed her goal so there was no color, no happiness, no eternal paradise after a short somber life. But she deserved it didn’t she? If she was never born, her mother and sister would have never died. Maybe she could find them and apologize for causing them both so much pain. Maybe the two would hug her and they’d all cry, dead but united at last and forevermore.

But as she stood up and looked around, Mary-Anne realized she wasn’t dead. She was in a cell. This was test three.

The drowsy numbness of sleep wore away and pain took its place. Her limbs were sore, her eyes stung red, and her throat and chest burned like fire. The weight of all that happened crashed into Mary-Anne and her legs gave out underneath her. Tears fell from her eyes once again but her sobs came out as ashen wheezes.

Mary-Anne didn’t die, instead, somehow, patrol found her. They found her and imprisoned her, and now she was going to be executed. Just like her father.

Seven days. That was protocol. Seven days until she’d be taken to the capital to die. In the last two days, she had wished for death, but now, having to wait knowing the inevitable. It was terrifying.

But maybe it didn’t have to be inevitable.

Mary-Anne should be dead, and she knew that. How did no one ever think to look in the cupboard she laid hidden in when the entire sanctuary was ransacked? How did the fire spread to everywhere but where she sat? It was impossible.

Impossible for everyone but the savior. She let out a wry sound, one that should’ve been a laugh but came out a raspy coughing fit. She hadn’t failed her mission. In fact she couldn’t fail her mission. She would bring color back to the world, and her life wouldn’t be able to end until her life’s mission did.

In the empty cell as the hours passed, Mary-Anne wasn’t able to lose herself in her lyre’s melody, a matchstick’s flame, or fantastical tales, so she wrote her own. She would survive this, perhaps by a dashing hero or a sudden epiphany of her own design. A supernatural disaster causing the prison to crumble away or perhaps Fate would finally show Mary-Anne mercy, extend a divine hand and lift her out of her cage.

Or maybe the seven days would pass. She’d be taken to the capital. She’d look out to the audience as the noose tightened around her neck. She would suffocate but her life wouldn’t leave. She’d dangle, she’d choke, but death wouldn’t grab hold of her, because Mary-Anne couldn’t die.

A silly thought really. That would never happen! It must be one of the former. But as the days passed, her hopes wore thinner and thinner. Mary-Anne could no longer bear to hear the guards whisper and taunt her through the cell’s bars. All her tales of escape turned from happily ever afters to tragedies. I’ll survive, she’d repeat to herself, there’s no good story without tension, someone will come. Whether it was that day or the next, or the day of her ‘death’, someone would come.

And on the last day someone did.

The alarms blared suddenly, cutting through Mary-Anne’s soft humming. She heard the shouts of guards below and quickly approaching footsteps. This was it! She just had to remember her lines. In all the panic, a sense of calm spread throughout her body. Mary-Anne was right, she would survive.

A tall girl came barreling through the halls, stumbling to a stop right in front of the bars. She looked a little younger than her sister, not yet an adult but soon. Her long dark hair was disheveled, her clothes crumpled with a single sleeve ripped. Her whole body shivered, and Mary-Anne couldn’t tell if it was from the winter cold or the anxiety. In her hand she held a crimson violin. Despite all the chaos, when they’re eyes met, a faint look of shock spread on her face before she put on a brave smile, one full of warmth. Her hero had arrived.

“You’re finally here,” Mary-Anne said with a gentle smile and curtsy.

Mary-Anne could not die, she realized, but maybe Fate wasn’t so cruel. Twisted in her ways yes, but meeting that girl, she knew, would be her greatest blessing. Someone who knew her pain, her struggles, what it was like to be placed on a pedestal of brimstone. Someone Mary-Anne could cry on and laugh with like she once did with her family. She didn’t have to be scared of loss anymore. Not when neither of them could die.

word war 06: alana banana <33 | no prompt | 3 minutes | 243 words | win/loss
behold, the ultimate pepper vs banana rematch! >;D

alrighty gang the rematch starts now oof already off to a rough start we’re good i just got done playing badminton so my hands are all shaking and i’m far too hot than i comfortable sobbing i dont know the words for that i’ll probably think of it later when it too late sobbing i’m too slow AAAA anyways my day has been alright thanks for asking am excited to see swcers applications for yab i think coming out slowly but surely they're all super super good and i'm so glad we’re going into that side of scratch because i think it'd be great way tp make a difference so im probably going to make my way over there too more often than not i tried a bit today and it's been fun! i like helping out there so yeah i'm running out of word to say and my fingers are literally stuttering as if finger can do that eye roll me and my brother are going to make tuna noodles for dinner tonight highly recommend because they are absolutely delicious it's just shells and white cheddar souce i think and then you add a can of tuna for each box of nodles you put it which is super delicious and there is also mac and cheese with chili called chili mac which is aso rather tasty if i do say so myself and it's basically the same idea, you just add chili

I am exhausted. For reference, I happen to be a cd. Specifically I am a Found Heaven (Conan Gray!) cd. This PSYCHO keeps playing me 24/7. Do you know how dizzy I get after spinning around for literal hours? It gets warm in the player too. I mean, YOU try spinning as fast as you can outside in 90 degree weather for about 4 hours straight. I’m used to it at this point. As a matter of fact, I don’t even BELONG to Bowie- they accidentally took me from one of their friends. They had a sleepover together and I unfortunately was left behind at Bowie’s house, and now I’m overworked. They seem to be milking the fact that they get to listen to the album for a while. Thank GOODNESS I’ll be going home tomorrow. Since it’s Bowie’s birthday, they’re having a party where their friend will FINALLY be picking me up and bringing me to my rightful home, where I’m not getting played every ten seconds. It really is tiring. At least Bowie enjoys it. Even if their singing is terrible, it’s nice to know at least someone enjoys my presence. While it’s rather fun being a cd, getting overplayed is not. As a matter of fact, I’m playing right now. Do you know how hard it is to write something comprehensive while spinning at a hundred miles per hour and playing Bourgeoisies? The song title is incomprehensible and so is my writing. You might be wondering how a cd is literate (or maybe not, I don’t know what humans wonder), but think about it. We’re playing music with lyrics and we have song books in our cases. Of course we know how to read and write! Now of course it’s silly that I’m writing this, but I figured some of you could benefit from learning how crummy your cd is probably feeling right now. Do you feel guilty yet? Good. You should.

part 1-
Scene 1: Perspective of Sarah
Sarah walked briskly through the crowded streets of New York City, her heels clicking rhythmically against the pavement. The evening sun cast long shadows, and she tightened her grip on her briefcase, containing crucial documents for the merger meeting. Her mind raced with thoughts of the upcoming presentation, and the potential career advancement it promised. She paused momentarily at a crosswalk, glancing around at the sea of strangers. Everyone seemed preoccupied with their own lives, unaware of the anxiety bubbling inside her. As the light turned green, she continued her march, determined to make it to the office on time.
100

Scene 2: Perspective of Jake
Jake lounged on a park bench, strumming his guitar lazily. He watched the people pass by, each lost in their own worlds. His day had been a slow one, filled with music and the occasional chat with a passerby. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the park, and he noticed a woman in a sharp suit hurrying down the street. She looked out of place amidst the relaxed atmosphere of the park. Intrigued, he played a gentle melody, imagining the stories behind the hurried footsteps and the stressed expression on her face. He wondered what her rush was about.
102

Scene 3: Perspective of Michael
Michael sat in the corner booth of the coffee shop, sipping his latte and observing the bustling city outside the window. He was waiting for Sarah, who had texted she would be a bit late due to a last-minute meeting. His eyes drifted to a street performer in the park across the street, strumming a guitar. The music was calming, a stark contrast to the chaos of his own day. As he took another sip, he saw Sarah approaching, her face a mix of relief and determination. He stood up, ready to greet her and discuss their plans for the evening.
101

303 words

Part 2-

Traits of the Unreliable Narrator:
- Overly confident in their perceptions
- Tendency to misinterpret events
- Prone to exaggeration
- Selective memory
- Hides certain facts from the reader

Scene:
I knew from the moment I woke up that today was going to be exceptional. After all, not everyone gets to witness a robbery firsthand and live to tell the tale. As I was walking to the convenience store, I saw a man in a black hoodie lurking near the entrance. My instincts screamed danger, but I’m always one to confront trouble head-on. I swaggered inside, grabbing my usual pack of gum, pretending not to notice the suspicious character.

Minutes later, as I stood in line, he pulled out a gun. People started screaming and ducking for cover, but I remained calm. I was the only one who noticed his hand shaking. Clearly, he was more scared than any of us. How funny, if he was so scared then why do it in the first place. I decided to play the hero. With a swift movement, I grabbed a can from the shelf and hurled it at him. It struck him square on the head, and he dropped the gun, dazed.

The store clerk called the police, and within minutes, they arrived, arresting the would-be robber. I was hailed as a hero, with everyone clapping and cheering for my bravery. Of course, the reality is, I probably saved countless lives. But I’m not one to boast. I simply did what anyone would do in such a situation. Obviously, he wasn't able to rob anything or anyone since I stopped him so fast.

Later, when the police took my statement, I made sure to downplay my actions. I didn't want them to think that I was too good for them or that I was hiding something. It was all in a day's work for someone like me. As I walked out of the store, a woman approached me, tears in her eyes, thanking me for saving her life. I nodded humbly, knowing that my quick thinking had made a difference.
319 words

part 3-
Literary Tropes:
1. The Chosen One
2. Love Triangle
3. The Mentor's Sacrifice

scene:

Aria glanced around the empty room, realizing with a start that she was alone, yet somehow, she felt like she was being watched. She frowned, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling. “Alright, this is ridiculous,” she muttered to herself. “I know I'm just a character in some writer's story. But seriously, could they not come up with something more original than making me the ‘Chosen One’? It's so overdone.”
She walked over to the window and peered outside, half-expecting to see the author scribbling away at a desk somewhere in the clouds. “And don't even get me started on this love triangle nonsense,” she continued, shaking her head. “Why do I have to choose between the brooding bad boy and the loyal best friend? It's like they’ve never heard of polyamory or, heaven forbid, staying single.”
Aria sighed and turned away from the window, her eyes landing on a portrait of her mentor, who had, of course, sacrificed himself to save her just a few chapters ago. “I bet the writer thinks they’re so clever, making me face the final battle alone. Classic ‘Mentor’s Sacrifice' trope. Yawn. If only they realized that I’m perfectly capable of handling things without needing a tragic backstory to motivate me.”

She picked up a sword from the table, giving it a few experimental swings. “Well, if I'm stuck in this story, I might as well make the best of it. Maybe I can subvert a few tropes while I'm at it. Who knows? Perhaps I'll refuse to save the world and just open a bakery instead. Now, that would be an interesting plot twist.”
Aria chuckled at the thought of her enemies walking into a quaint little bakery, the smell of freshly baked bread greeting them instead of the cold steel of her sword. “Welcome to ‘Chosen One Bakery,’” she imagined herself saying, “where we bake destiny into every loaf.”
As she prepared for her next move, she couldn't help but criticize the predictability of her journey. “Honestly, writer, do you think readers can’t see through these clichés? How about giving me a choice for once? What if I don't want to save the world? What if I just want a quiet life?”
She stepped outside, and the landscape seemed to shift, almost as if the world was listening to her complaints. The rolling hills that led to the Dark Lord’s fortress seemed less menacing today. The sky was a bright blue, birds singing cheerfully as if mocking the usual doom and gloom.
Halfway down the path, she ran into Derek, the loyal best friend. He looked at her with his usual earnest eyes. “Aria, we must hurry! The prophecy says—”
“Enough with the prophecy,” she interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Have you ever wondered if we're just characters in some overblown fantasy tale? Maybe the prophecy is just a plot device to push us into danger.”
Derek blinked, clearly taken aback. “Aria, are you feeling alright?”
She sighed. “Honestly, Derek, doesn't it get tiring? The constant battles, the predictable turns. What if we took a day off? What if we lived our lives instead of following some predetermined path?”
He frowned, confusion etched on his face. “But the prophecy—”
“Forget the prophecy,” she said firmly. “Let’s take a break. Have you ever just enjoyed a sunny day, had a picnic, or read a book for fun?”
Derek's expression changed, a hint of curiosity replacing his confusion. “A picnic does sound nice. But what about the Dark Lord?”
Aria waved her hand dismissively. “The Dark Lord can wait. If he's so powerful, he’ll still be there tomorrow. Today, we’re taking a break from being heroes.”
611 words

part 4-

We were about to reach the outskirts of the village when I noticed a figure standing awkwardly near the entrance, looking around with a mix of confusion and curiosity.
“Who do you suppose that is?” Derek asked, squinting in the fading light.
“I have no idea,” I replied, instinctively gripping the hilt of my sword. “But we should find out.”
As we approached, the figure turned to face us. They were dressed in strange clothes about far-off lands. They had a notebook in hand and a somewhat bewildered expression.
“Hello?” I called out cautiously. “Can we help you?”
The stranger smiled, a bit nervously. “Oh, hi! Yes, actually. My name is Mango. I know this might sound strange, but I'm here to observe and interact with you.”
Derek exchanged a puzzled glance with me. “Observe and interact? What do you mean by that?”
“I'm from outside your world,” Mango explained, shifting on their feet. “I help people with writing and creating characters like you. I thought it might be interesting to see how you would react to meeting someone from the ‘real’ world.”
I raised an eyebrow, skepticism creeping in. “So, you're saying we're characters in a story? And you… know about us?”
“Exactly,” Mango nodded. “I know it sounds unbelievable, but think of it as a unique opportunity. I’m here to learn from you as much as you are from me.”
I couldn't help but chuckle. “Well, today has already been full of unexpected twists. Why not add another one to the mix? What brings you to our little corner of the world?”
Mango looked around, taking in the quaint village and the distant mountains. “Honestly? I wanted to see what it’s like to be part of your story. To understand you better, Aria. Your struggles, your choices, and maybe even offer some insights.”
Derek, ever the practical one, folded his arms. “And what kind of insights are those?”
“For starters,” Mango said, smiling, “you don’t always have to follow the prophecy. You can make your own decisions, write your own destiny. Though, I will probably get in trouble for telling you that.”
“By who?”
“Oh, some other people who do similar things like me. Don't worry, they can't come into this story, and you can't go to others so only you know.”
I nodded slowly, appreciating the sentiment. “That’s… interesting. I was starting to realize that today.”
Mango's eyes lit up with excitement. “Great! And I'm here to help you see beyond the tropes and clichés. To explore what truly makes your story unique.”
We walked into the village together, the three of us. The villagers gave Mango curious glances, but no one questioned the stranger’s presence. As we sat by the fire in the village square, I found myself enjoying the conversation more than I expected.
“Tell me,” I asked, leaning forward, “what other stories have you been part of?”
Mango launched into tales of different worlds and characters, each one more fascinating than the last. Derek and I listened intently, marveling at the vastness of possibilities beyond our own experiences.
514 words

Total: 1827 words

Name: Ava
Cabin: Sci-Fi
Content: July 19th Daily
Wordcount: 270/250
Topic: Write from a random object's pov.

I'm pretty sure the objects in my room have concluded I need clinical mental help.

Hey, it's me. Ava's laptop. I'm already 9 years old. My fans have given up trying to cool me down though sometimes they try their best. I'm on all the time, even when she's not using it. Though the night and through the day, the only time I'm off is when I crash because of her godforsaken game Genshin Impact. When she's not using me she just mutes me so the game doesn't make sound in the background and she can go to sleep. What about me? I want to sleep too.

Sometimes I'm pretty sure that Ava has no emotions, and other times a little too much of them. She can sit for five hours straight playing any game or having any hyperfixation, and then suddenly when she gets bored she starts turning in her chair and making weird noises. It scares me, to be honest.

This one time, someone told her to deny herself oxygen online because they got mad with her, and took their friend and started saying stuff to her. I honestly find her really annoying, but at that moment when she started crying I felt bad for her. She talks to the air around her sometimes just to make sure she isn't going insane (though that does the opposite, ironically.) To this child, friends are so important she would die for them, so I felt a bit sad when she felt sad too.

That, however, does not make up for the hours she sits and presses my keyboard for this SWC thing. Doesn't she ever just take a break? I swear, what even is SWC?

Go back

daily july 19th: personification daily
object chosen: fireplace?

i keep you warm during snowy winters. my embers glow softly and comfortingly, yet sometimes provoke a sense of panic rooted deep into your very being. what am i?
hi!! it’s me, the flame that you keep caged in a box of bricks and black wire inside your home. i guess i’m like a domesticated version of my ancestors. you know, house fires, wildfires, things like that.
… they’re all really pretty, by the way. and powerful. i’ve never destroyed anything before - i’m calm, never straying outside my boundaries. but sometimes, i can’t help but wonder how it feels to grow that big. to let myself go crazy, turning everything in my path to ashes, incinerating whole forests…

what’s that? do my thoughts scare you? oh, sorry.

don’t you ever wonder what it’d be like to live a life of crime? no…? ah, i thought it was normal.
well, no need to worry. i like this existence too, it’s bliss and peace. i’m happy to serve you, and i like when your fuzzy ball of a dog comes near to curl up for a nap. the walls of the cabin are familiar, and i’ve never known anything else. and i think it’ll be fine, to keep living this way.
eventually, you’ll put me out, and i’ll shrink down for the night. a bit of myself still exists as sparks in the grooves of blackened logs, and i’ll wait. i’ll wait for you to make your morning coffee, before coming back over as you always do, bringing me back to my glory like magic. i’ll watch as you curl up on the couch with your dog for another rewatch of your favorite show.
and i promise, i really do like this little routine of ours. i’d never want to step out of line, not when you’re here.
that is, until summer comes, and you start to forget.
:)

critique for chueythecat | 436 words

Hey!! This is my first critiquitaire of the session, that's exciting.

There's a kind of love that knows
A kind of love for sadness
A kind of love for caring
A kind of love that's madness
What are you doing later tonight?

There's a kind of dance that pulls you in
A dance that never lets you go
A dance that makes your heart beat fast
A dance that makes your breath feel slow
Your eyes are filled with special light

Right off the bat, I like the repetition motif that I think I'll see more of in later stanzas. It sets the scene for the rest of the poem. The two-stanza ABCBD EFGFD rhyme scheme is interesting but it works, especially with the italicized D lines. That being said, if you want a more consistent rhyme scheme, I personally would try to rhyme the first and third lines of the stanzas, but that's up to you.

Meet me in the moonlight
Before the music ends
Kiss me in the starlight
Before my heart is rent
in
two
I don't know who I was before I
met
you

I have some mixed thoughts on this part. It runs more like a song or lyrical spoken word, and I feel the gaps that you made by putting the words “in” “two” “met” “you” in their own lines, but on paper it makes it a bit harder to read without the flow breaking. I would put the two words together to make them their own line (i.e. “in two” is one line, “met you” is one line), or I would just add them to the full sentence in a line. It would still stand out, as those two lines would be longer than the rest.

There's a kind of love that heals,
A kind of love for sadness
A kind of love for summertime
My love is made of madness
What say we go out together, just us two

Firstly, I'd put a question mark at the end of the last line - the italicized lines do seem like dialogue, and it ends the stanza more neatly that way. You also ended the last line of the first stanza with a question mark, so consistency. Also, this stanza echoes the first stanza, which is cool, but because you've changed all of the lines except for “A kind of love for sadness,” I would try and do that, if you can find another rhyming word. Something like “sweetness” could work.

There's a kind of dance that whirls you round
A dance that binds you
A dance to show you who you are
A dance that finds you
It could be like this forever, just me and you

Meet me after midnight
When the moon is high
Pointing out the stars so bright
Give my heart wings
to
fly
Together we can reach beyond
the
sky

Again, I suggest removing the single-word lines in whatever way best works! I like the dance stanza, I don't have any major critiques for that, nor for the general wording of that last stanza there.

Find me in the moonlight
Before the night has died
Hold me in the starlight
Close to your side

The last line of “Close to your side” is less syllabically consistent than the rest of the lines. The previous three have six syllables, so the four syllables of the last line feels jarring here, especially as its made of one-syllable words. I would rewrite that line because it breaks the flow a little bit!

There's a kind of love that knows
A kind of love for sadness
A kind of love for caring
But my favorite love of all is madness

I liked the repetition of madness throughout the poem and it's tied nicely up with that last line!

I think that's all I have for you, I can't think of anything else major. I hope that something I wrote helped at least a little bit - thank you for letting me critique your piece! Keep writing poetry, it's wonderful, and you're awesome. Have a wonderful day!

July 19 Daily

After the sixth time of being thrown and returned, the routine gets old. And what, you ask, else are you supposed to do? You have a point there. However, I must digress that even though my purpose will forever and always be that of a ball, that fact will not stop the monotony of a ball’s life from being just that: monotonous. It could actually be even better described as undignified, or maddening, or even torturous. Let me illustrate. I typically mind my own business and try not to get under anyone’s feet. The few times I have been tripped over, the tripper was not pleased, thus encouraging me to stay out of the way. However, practically every day there comes a time where my tormenter comes for me, and I am suddenly scooped up into the somewhat slobbery little jaws of The Dog. After the fluffy menace has secured her prize, which is me, she deposits me at the feet of The People, as if spontaneous relocation was something I had asked for. Typical. She paws at me and tries to move me because The People are asking her to, but either she thinks she’s too smart for them or they think she’s not smart enough, as it’s almost like a game between them: who can get the ball. I didn’t ask for this. It’s infuriating to be the pawn of their little game. But then The People will pick me up, and, oh the horror, fling me across the house for The Dog to fetch. Her new favorite little trick is to jump onto the couch with me, instead of being a normal dog and returning me to her owner’s feet. It was fun at first, but when The Dog wants to play this over and over again, the fun quickly dissipates. My rubber has been punctured by her little teeth and my squeak is now much more resembling a wheeze. I worry about myself, for I do not know how much longer I can take this abuse.

340 words

Daily 19
362 words

Object: A really old copy of Treasure Island

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have feelings. To feel a cool breeze flicking through my pages. To smell coffee drifting through the air. To have a warm hand stroke my cover.

But I can’t.

Sometimes I wish for a better life, a life with interactions and speech and touch and hearing. Somewhere that I can relax. Somewhere I can make friends. Somewhere I can be myself.

And then I remember what a privilege it is to be a book. To be fondled and stroked, to be flicked through so many people, to see so many souls, to be a part of their lives. A good part. To become old and battered, to start falling apart, and yet, still be loved. My covers are frayed and tattered, the red faded and discoloured, my pages covered in splashes of tea and dog-eared. Yet I am still loved.

And I’ve seen so much. Ever since I was first made, since my binder stuck me together in that horrible way, since I was sent off in a tumble on a boat, the ocean tumbling about inside my cramped little box, since I was first bought, I feel like I’ve seen the end of the universe and back. I’ve watched from my cracked, worn bookshelf a small child grow from 5 to 20. I’ve seen their life, the hardest bits and the best. I’ve seen tears fall down their face like a waterfall, trickling onto my cover, and I’ve seen them smile like the first rays of sunshine after a storm. I’ve seen the effects of a war, I’ve seen new life, I’ve seen death.

And now, nearing the end of my life, with my binding falling off and my pages stuck together with sellotape, I wonder if I’ll ever hear waves crash like thunder onto the pebbly shore. I wonder if I’ll hear the wind wail in my ears like a harrowing ghost come back to haunt me. I wonder if I’ll feel rays of sunshine beat down on me, feel the warmth bring my senses alive.

But I know I won’t.

SWC Daily: On Calendars
7.19.2024


A calendar is an interesting object.
It’s a collection of papers with numbers and squares on it, easily laying out a year in twelve different pages. It counts down all the days it has left to be used. Its sole purpose in life is to count down until the end of a year and it keeps track of everything the person using it has in upcoming days during its life.
It sits on the wall, pinned to a corkboard for a full year, watching as you work and live a life it never could. It watches as you waste days and even weeks of precious time with various forms of entertainment and sleep, disappointed and tired of being unable to do something. Its exasperation seeps off the wall and falls in an invisible mist, surrounding you and continuously annoying you until you start to be productive again. And once you do start to become productive again, you feel much better.
Because your calendar feels better.
It only has one life and it’s short, and all it can do is sit on that corkboard and allow you to cross each box out with a pen with every day that passes.
You flip each page as another month goes by. And eventually, twelve months go by.
The last second of December 31 fades away.
The year resets and renews.
January 1 comes.
And it no longer has any purpose.
The pages are filled. The boxes are crossed out. Assignments have been turned in. Friends have been visited. Vacations have been enjoyed. Birthdays have been celebrated. Anniversaries have been cherished. It has been filled with special dates and moments from your life. And it could not be any prouder.
A loyal servant to the end. Don’t waste its time.


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- Prompt: Write a short story from the point of view of a random object in your surroundings. Your piece should be at least 250 words long, and when submitted, will earn you a total of 200 points.

- Word count: 296

- Salutations from the Mystery Cabin.

Daily for July 19
280 words
Do you ever feel pushed around by others? Do you ever think that people only like you because they want to get something out of you? Do you ever feel ignored until someone needs you for something? Try being a credit card. You get no days off, your housing conditions are ATROCIOUS (not even a square inch of breathing room-), you keep getting squeezed into uncomfortable spaces and blinded by red and green lights constantly. and you don't even get dental! You're just a floppy rectangle of plastic that is used for all its worth, without getting anything in return. Don't you think your card deserves a vacation while you go on vacation? What if your card wants to get a tan instead of getting a scan? It could be worse though. You could be a coupon. Not even made of durable materials, you could easily get a drink spilled on you, or folded and scrunched up, or written on. You serve one purpose, and it's a lot more exclusive than what a credit card can do. Eventually you will have served your purpose, whether it be a free drink, a half off hour at a trampoline park, or a free rubber duck with the purchase of a not free one. And then? If you're lucky you'll be ripped apart, and that'll be the end of it, but you might just be thrown in the garbage, and then everything that gets tossed in before or after you will be pushed and shoved and shifted against you all the way to the dump where you'll live out the rest of your motionless and compacted life.
And you still don't get dental.