SWC collab thread
id: 615748
category: Things I'm Making and Creating
posts: 6
ChueyTheCat
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Turning this into my overall SWC collab thread!
Prompt: Write a story that doesn't have a happy ending
Words: 220
A cloaked figure stood at the edge of a ruined town, watching the glowing embers. The smoke filled the air with a cloying scent, a horrible dusky sweetness.
The man looked up as soldiers tramped towards him, dragging a small girl. She was perhaps ten or eleven, with wild black hair and startling pale eyes. She was bound and gagged with a few makeshift ropes and rags.
The man strode forward, yanking the girl’s chin up.
“So,” he said, his tone cold as ice.
The girl’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
He struck her, leaving a red print on her ash-smeared cheek.
“Cursed Weaver,” he snarled. “That thing doesn’t deserve to even exist. Take her away.”
The Weaver turned to look back at him as the soldiers shoved her in another direction.
Their eyes met, fire and ice, neither flinching.
Then the girl turned her attention away, and smiled beneath her gag.
Oh, he would be an easy one.
All that anger, all that rage, looking for a way to escape.
She could provide that escape, and manipulate him like soft dough.
This was going to be much more satisfying than she had thought, even more fun than setting fire to the village.
Which, it must be admitted, was an accident, but all the same.
She was a Weaver.
She was ready.
Prompt: Write a story that doesn't have a happy ending
Words: 220
A cloaked figure stood at the edge of a ruined town, watching the glowing embers. The smoke filled the air with a cloying scent, a horrible dusky sweetness.
The man looked up as soldiers tramped towards him, dragging a small girl. She was perhaps ten or eleven, with wild black hair and startling pale eyes. She was bound and gagged with a few makeshift ropes and rags.
The man strode forward, yanking the girl’s chin up.
“So,” he said, his tone cold as ice.
The girl’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
He struck her, leaving a red print on her ash-smeared cheek.
“Cursed Weaver,” he snarled. “That thing doesn’t deserve to even exist. Take her away.”
The Weaver turned to look back at him as the soldiers shoved her in another direction.
Their eyes met, fire and ice, neither flinching.
Then the girl turned her attention away, and smiled beneath her gag.
Oh, he would be an easy one.
All that anger, all that rage, looking for a way to escape.
She could provide that escape, and manipulate him like soft dough.
This was going to be much more satisfying than she had thought, even more fun than setting fire to the village.
Which, it must be admitted, was an accident, but all the same.
She was a Weaver.
She was ready.
froggitti
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Prompt: Write a story that doesn't have a happy ending
Words: 220
A cloaked figure stood at the edge of a ruined town, watching the glowing embers. The smoke filled the air with a cloying scent, a horrible dusky sweetness.
The man looked up as soldiers tramped towards him, dragging a small girl. She was perhaps ten or eleven, with wild black hair and startling pale eyes. She was bound and gagged with a few makeshift ropes and rags.
The man strode forward, yanking the girl’s chin up.
“So,” he said, his tone cold as ice.
The girl’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
He struck her, leaving a red print on her ash-smeared cheek.
“Cursed Weaver,” he snarled. “That thing doesn’t deserve to even exist. Take her away.”
The Weaver turned to look back at him as the soldiers shoved her in another direction.
Their eyes met, fire and ice, neither flinching.
Then the girl turned her attention away, and smiled beneath her gag.
Oh, he would be an easy one.
All that anger, all that rage, looking for a way to escape.
She could provide that escape, and manipulate him like soft dough.
This was going to be much more satisfying than she had thought, even more fun than setting fire to the village.
Which, it must be admitted, was an accident, but all the same.
She was a Weaver.
She was ready.
The Weaver was taken away harshly to a contained, stone cell. Her only light was a inch slab of nothing in the door. She peeked her eyes out and saw a single guard pacing around the open room. He passed every cell in the room, his tired eyes showing no expression.
But all that changed when he got to her door. The Weaver noticed his young face; he couldn't be more than 12 years old. Wisps of blonde fell over his bright blue eyes as they locked with her own. He then continued on.
She expected none the less, however, as the group that had captured her lacked any sense.
Weavers were nothing without their magic, and all magic comes from emotions. Positive, in all cases except her own. She was different, she was sneaky, and was she full of anger for the group's lack of understanding.
She could do anything she wanted, fueled with rage.
The Weaver sat back in her cell, a bored expression overcoming her; she would have to wait for the correct time to strike. The right time to sneak and defeat them from their own ranks. And that time would come, but for now, she closed her eyes and was whisked away into the land of dreams.
ChueyTheCat
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Prompt: Write a story that doesn't have a happy endingThe man, meanwhile, was inspecting the village, clinging to the hope that he might find someone, anyone.
Words: 220
A cloaked figure stood at the edge of a ruined town, watching the glowing embers. The smoke filled the air with a cloying scent, a horrible dusky sweetness.
The man looked up as soldiers tramped towards him, dragging a small girl. She was perhaps ten or eleven, with wild black hair and startling pale eyes. She was bound and gagged with a few makeshift ropes and rags.
The man strode forward, yanking the girl’s chin up.
“So,” he said, his tone cold as ice.
The girl’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
He struck her, leaving a red print on her ash-smeared cheek.
“Cursed Weaver,” he snarled. “That thing doesn’t deserve to even exist. Take her away.”
The Weaver turned to look back at him as the soldiers shoved her in another direction.
Their eyes met, fire and ice, neither flinching.
Then the girl turned her attention away, and smiled beneath her gag.
Oh, he would be an easy one.
All that anger, all that rage, looking for a way to escape.
She could provide that escape, and manipulate him like soft dough.
This was going to be much more satisfying than she had thought, even more fun than setting fire to the village.
Which, it must be admitted, was an accident, but all the same.
She was a Weaver.
She was ready.
The Weaver was taken away harshly to a contained, stone cell. Her only light was a inch slab of nothing in the door. She peeked her eyes out and saw a single guard pacing around the open room. He passed every cell in the room, his tired eyes showing no expression.
But all that changed when he got to her door. The Weaver noticed his young face; he couldn't be more than 12 years old. Wisps of blonde fell over his bright blue eyes as they locked with her own. He then continued on.
She expected none the less, however, as the group that had captured her lacked any sense.
Weavers were nothing without their magic, and all magic comes from emotions. Positive, in all cases except her own. She was different, she was sneaky, and was she full of anger for the group's lack of understanding.
She could do anything she wanted, fueled with rage.
The Weaver sat back in her cell, a bored expression overcoming her; she would have to wait for the correct time to strike. The right time to sneak and defeat them from their own ranks. And that time would come, but for now, she closed her eyes and was whisked away into the land of dreams.
He was startled by a wailing cry.
Turning, he saw a small child of perhaps three or four, clutching a ragged blanket.
Kneeling, he gently wiped the soot from her face, revealing smooth brown skin. A pair of large dark eyes blinked up at him trustingly.
Not all was lost, after all.
The guard was having a bad day.
He'd been recruited at an early age, for a start. More and more were being gathered to fight the Weavers, as more became fearful of their magic, magic they didn't understand.
They'd captured a Weaver, and that at least sparked his interest. He glanced up from the floor as he passed her cell.
froggitti
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Prompt: Write a story that doesn't have a happy endingThe man, meanwhile, was inspecting the village, clinging to the hope that he might find someone, anyone.
Words: 220
A cloaked figure stood at the edge of a ruined town, watching the glowing embers. The smoke filled the air with a cloying scent, a horrible dusky sweetness.
The man looked up as soldiers tramped towards him, dragging a small girl. She was perhaps ten or eleven, with wild black hair and startling pale eyes. She was bound and gagged with a few makeshift ropes and rags.
The man strode forward, yanking the girl’s chin up.
“So,” he said, his tone cold as ice.
The girl’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
He struck her, leaving a red print on her ash-smeared cheek.
“Cursed Weaver,” he snarled. “That thing doesn’t deserve to even exist. Take her away.”
The Weaver turned to look back at him as the soldiers shoved her in another direction.
Their eyes met, fire and ice, neither flinching.
Then the girl turned her attention away, and smiled beneath her gag.
Oh, he would be an easy one.
All that anger, all that rage, looking for a way to escape.
She could provide that escape, and manipulate him like soft dough.
This was going to be much more satisfying than she had thought, even more fun than setting fire to the village.
Which, it must be admitted, was an accident, but all the same.
She was a Weaver.
She was ready.
The Weaver was taken away harshly to a contained, stone cell. Her only light was a inch slab of nothing in the door. She peeked her eyes out and saw a single guard pacing around the open room. He passed every cell in the room, his tired eyes showing no expression.
But all that changed when he got to her door. The Weaver noticed his young face; he couldn't be more than 12 years old. Wisps of blonde fell over his bright blue eyes as they locked with her own. He then continued on.
She expected none the less, however, as the group that had captured her lacked any sense.
Weavers were nothing without their magic, and all magic comes from emotions. Positive, in all cases except her own. She was different, she was sneaky, and was she full of anger for the group's lack of understanding.
She could do anything she wanted, fueled with rage.
The Weaver sat back in her cell, a bored expression overcoming her; she would have to wait for the correct time to strike. The right time to sneak and defeat them from their own ranks. And that time would come, but for now, she closed her eyes and was whisked away into the land of dreams.
He was startled by a wailing cry.
Turning, he saw a small child of perhaps three or four, clutching a ragged blanket.
Kneeling, he gently wiped the soot from her face, revealing smooth brown skin. A pair of large dark eyes blinked up at him trustingly.
Not all was lost, after all.
The guard was having a bad day.
He'd been recruited at an early age, for a start. More and more were being gathered to fight the Weavers, as more became fearful of their magic, magic they didn't understand.
They'd captured a Weaver, and that at least sparked his interest. He glanced up from the floor as he passed her cell.
“Hello.” The Weaver said waking up and seeing him. She surprised herself with how soft her voice was. “Who are you?” Her deep brown eyes met his bright blue through the cell bars. She slowly walked over and pressed her face between them, and at that moment she realized she missed talking to people her age. The weaver carefully brushed the still red mark from where the man had slapped her.
ChueyTheCat
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The guard blinked.Prompt: Write a story that doesn't have a happy endingThe man, meanwhile, was inspecting the village, clinging to the hope that he might find someone, anyone.
Words: 220
A cloaked figure stood at the edge of a ruined town, watching the glowing embers. The smoke filled the air with a cloying scent, a horrible dusky sweetness.
The man looked up as soldiers tramped towards him, dragging a small girl. She was perhaps ten or eleven, with wild black hair and startling pale eyes. She was bound and gagged with a few makeshift ropes and rags.
The man strode forward, yanking the girl’s chin up.
“So,” he said, his tone cold as ice.
The girl’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
He struck her, leaving a red print on her ash-smeared cheek.
“Cursed Weaver,” he snarled. “That thing doesn’t deserve to even exist. Take her away.”
The Weaver turned to look back at him as the soldiers shoved her in another direction.
Their eyes met, fire and ice, neither flinching.
Then the girl turned her attention away, and smiled beneath her gag.
Oh, he would be an easy one.
All that anger, all that rage, looking for a way to escape.
She could provide that escape, and manipulate him like soft dough.
This was going to be much more satisfying than she had thought, even more fun than setting fire to the village.
Which, it must be admitted, was an accident, but all the same.
She was a Weaver.
She was ready.
The Weaver was taken away harshly to a contained, stone cell. Her only light was a inch slab of nothing in the door. She peeked her eyes out and saw a single guard pacing around the open room. He passed every cell in the room, his tired eyes showing no expression.
But all that changed when he got to her door. The Weaver noticed his young face; he couldn't be more than 12 years old. Wisps of blonde fell over his bright blue eyes as they locked with her own. He then continued on.
She expected none the less, however, as the group that had captured her lacked any sense.
Weavers were nothing without their magic, and all magic comes from emotions. Positive, in all cases except her own. She was different, she was sneaky, and was she full of anger for the group's lack of understanding.
She could do anything she wanted, fueled with rage.
The Weaver sat back in her cell, a bored expression overcoming her; she would have to wait for the correct time to strike. The right time to sneak and defeat them from their own ranks. And that time would come, but for now, she closed her eyes and was whisked away into the land of dreams.
He was startled by a wailing cry.
Turning, he saw a small child of perhaps three or four, clutching a ragged blanket.
Kneeling, he gently wiped the soot from her face, revealing smooth brown skin. A pair of large dark eyes blinked up at him trustingly.
Not all was lost, after all.
The guard was having a bad day.
He'd been recruited at an early age, for a start. More and more were being gathered to fight the Weavers, as more became fearful of their magic, magic they didn't understand.
They'd captured a Weaver, and that at least sparked his interest. He glanced up from the floor as he passed her cell.
“Hello.” The Weaver said waking up and seeing him. She surprised herself with how soft her voice was. “Who are you?” Her deep brown eyes met his bright blue through the cell bars. She slowly walked over and pressed her face between them, and at that moment she realized she missed talking to people her age. The weaver carefully brushed the still red mark from where the man had slapped her.
“I heard you were captured,” he said, looking her up and down. “People are pretty mad about Weavers these days.”
The Weaver smiled bitterly.
“Times are hard,” she said. “I'm alive, at least.”
The guard shifted. “Well, there is that,” he said, looking to make sure nobody was around. “Listen, I don't think it's fair what they're doing to Weavers. I might have a plan…”
ChueyTheCat
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SWC fanfiction writing comp entry–1051 words total, my side of the story
note to wild: i'm planning on interspersing these with yours, it'll start with the first rp if that's all right with you and then maybe transition to my first (and only sobbing) main storyline contribution, and then we can figure it out from there lol i want to do it in a somewhat chronological order so it makes sense but other than that i don't really care what goes where
“……..” is all Chuey says. “Wild you jinxed us-”
“YES!” Chuey screams, high-fiving Wild. “Thanks, Wild! This is awesome!” She ducks a flaming piece of rubble, a beatific smile on her face.
++++
“TRAITOR,” Chuey screams, pointing at Wild. She has an uncanny habit of fluctuating between a Balrog supporter and a Balrog non-supporter.
“THEY'RE ONE AND THE SAME!”
“It's him, all right,” Chuey says grimly. “And he's going to destroy everything. Gurtle has turned evil.”
++++
Chuey knew what she had to do. There had to be a way to stop this monster, somehow! She’d always distrusted Gurtle anyway. Those beady eyes…that cute but malicious grin…No, no, she’d seen this coming, but they hadn’t listened. They hadn’t seen the absolute promise of destruction in his sweet ways. He’d eaten one too many links, and grown strong on them. Now it was time to end it all, for the sake of the campers. She paused only to set fire to the Fairy Tales cabin, then began gathering all the procrastination potatoes she could find and lobbing them at Balrog-Gurtle. It didn’t work so well. He was just eating them! His digestion was strong after devouring so many links. Growling in frustration, Chuey ran over to the hosts, shaking them. “You’ve got to help! You’ve got to!” But they were unresponsive, eyes glazed over, and her heart rose to her throat. They were truly on their own here. Swallowing, she turned to face the monster that was trashing camp, wondering what on earth she could do. Campers were everywhere, running and screaming in confusion as he roared again. Chuey fought to keep the panic down, trying to think things out logically. First things first, she had to get the campers organized. It wouldn’t do them any good to run around screaming like headless chickens. But with more noise, cause, you know, headless chickens couldn’t exactly scream. Because they had no head. And now she was stalling. Shaking herself, she beelined towards the nearest camper and grabbed their arm, pulling them to safety as Gurtle hurled a giant piece of what used to be the Main Cabin at them. “Keep safe!” Chuey shouted to everyone within hearing range, then jogged off to see if she could find any of her friends. Surely they would know what to do! After all, they were all experienced, way more than she was, and they’d know how to manage this crisis. She dove through burning rubble, showers of mangoes–stopping to shove one in her pocket–okay, maybe two–and then stopped, realizing that in this chaos, it was going to be impossible to find anyone, let alone someone she knew. All the faces were blurs as they streaked by, and by now, most people had run for cover and were cowering in their cabins. A few brave souls were gathering weapons, but not many. Chuey lifted her chin. Fine, then. She’d join the few who were ready to fight. She picked up a knife and with the last of her adrenaline-fueled energy ran over. “What can I do to help?” she panted.
++++
Chuey was exhausted. It had been a long, tiring day of fighting–not only against the Balrog, but against cabins who had taken advantage of the chaos to set enemy cabins on fire. Betrayals, traitors, weary cabin mates…she was facing a disaster. Sighing, Chuey sat down to put out the fire, even though she was sick of the smell of smoke by this point. After all, if she didn't do it, who would? Her cabin was in shambles–not that that was unique to Fan-fi. Everyone was tired, and the Balrog was still rampaging, albeit with less energy. Campers had been fighting against it all day, and it was finally beginning to weaken. But it wasn't enough. They needed more. Chuey took a quick break, gazing sadly at the rubble lying around camp. Good grief, when she'd signed up for this, she'd been anticipating lighthearted mangoes and arson, not this. This…this was total destruction. And it was all Gurtle's fault. Growling to herself over the injustice of it–She'd seen Gurtle's true nature, but had anyone listened to her? No! She was like…like a rebel. The word settled around her, and slowly she nodded. Yeah. Chuey was a rebel. An outcast. Not in matters of friendship–she had lots of friends. But she stood against the Scratch writing camp mascot while everyone was still defending him–“Oh, he's just eating a couple of links, he's just hungry, look at his cute, beady eyes.” She'd seen this coming. No, no. Rebel was all wrong. She was a herald. One who could see what lay beyond. Yeah, she liked that better. The herald of doom. Doom to all enemies, doom to traitors, and most especially doom to Gurtle. A smile slashed across her face. Balrog-Gurtle didn't stand a chance. Because Chuey had seen him, and Chuey knew what was going to happen, and unable to stop it in time, Chuey was going to make it right and save them all. She left her cabin behind and struck out into the rubble, working to clear it away from the remains of the Main Cabin. She'd hidden something inside, something she'd never thought she'd have to use. But times were desperate, and the fires weren't going out. She walked quickly along the ruined, scorched halls until she reached a tiny, ash-covered, circular door. Blowing the dust and ash away, she reaching for the gleaming golden knob and gently opened it. Beyond lay intense brilliance, suggesting full daylight wherever the door led to, and as she blinked away the sudden light she could dimly see rolling green hills and mounds, into which were set circular doors much like this one. Her smile widened as she wriggled through. If she couldn't find enough help in this world…well, she'd just have to seek it from another one.
She was a rebel. A herald. And now a quester.
And she'd bring Balrog-Gurtle down if it killed her.
(Although she really, really, really hoped it wouldn't)
++++
One last farewell…
Campers cheered, celebrating Gurtle's return to normal. The tyrants began to awaken.
And one figure slipped away, lips drawn to a thin line.
Let them celebrate.
Let them cheer.
But the herald of doom would be back…
note to wild: i'm planning on interspersing these with yours, it'll start with the first rp if that's all right with you and then maybe transition to my first (and only sobbing) main storyline contribution, and then we can figure it out from there lol i want to do it in a somewhat chronological order so it makes sense but other than that i don't really care what goes where
“……..” is all Chuey says. “Wild you jinxed us-”
“YES!” Chuey screams, high-fiving Wild. “Thanks, Wild! This is awesome!” She ducks a flaming piece of rubble, a beatific smile on her face.
++++
“TRAITOR,” Chuey screams, pointing at Wild. She has an uncanny habit of fluctuating between a Balrog supporter and a Balrog non-supporter.
“THEY'RE ONE AND THE SAME!”
“It's him, all right,” Chuey says grimly. “And he's going to destroy everything. Gurtle has turned evil.”
++++
Chuey knew what she had to do. There had to be a way to stop this monster, somehow! She’d always distrusted Gurtle anyway. Those beady eyes…that cute but malicious grin…No, no, she’d seen this coming, but they hadn’t listened. They hadn’t seen the absolute promise of destruction in his sweet ways. He’d eaten one too many links, and grown strong on them. Now it was time to end it all, for the sake of the campers. She paused only to set fire to the Fairy Tales cabin, then began gathering all the procrastination potatoes she could find and lobbing them at Balrog-Gurtle. It didn’t work so well. He was just eating them! His digestion was strong after devouring so many links. Growling in frustration, Chuey ran over to the hosts, shaking them. “You’ve got to help! You’ve got to!” But they were unresponsive, eyes glazed over, and her heart rose to her throat. They were truly on their own here. Swallowing, she turned to face the monster that was trashing camp, wondering what on earth she could do. Campers were everywhere, running and screaming in confusion as he roared again. Chuey fought to keep the panic down, trying to think things out logically. First things first, she had to get the campers organized. It wouldn’t do them any good to run around screaming like headless chickens. But with more noise, cause, you know, headless chickens couldn’t exactly scream. Because they had no head. And now she was stalling. Shaking herself, she beelined towards the nearest camper and grabbed their arm, pulling them to safety as Gurtle hurled a giant piece of what used to be the Main Cabin at them. “Keep safe!” Chuey shouted to everyone within hearing range, then jogged off to see if she could find any of her friends. Surely they would know what to do! After all, they were all experienced, way more than she was, and they’d know how to manage this crisis. She dove through burning rubble, showers of mangoes–stopping to shove one in her pocket–okay, maybe two–and then stopped, realizing that in this chaos, it was going to be impossible to find anyone, let alone someone she knew. All the faces were blurs as they streaked by, and by now, most people had run for cover and were cowering in their cabins. A few brave souls were gathering weapons, but not many. Chuey lifted her chin. Fine, then. She’d join the few who were ready to fight. She picked up a knife and with the last of her adrenaline-fueled energy ran over. “What can I do to help?” she panted.
++++
Chuey was exhausted. It had been a long, tiring day of fighting–not only against the Balrog, but against cabins who had taken advantage of the chaos to set enemy cabins on fire. Betrayals, traitors, weary cabin mates…she was facing a disaster. Sighing, Chuey sat down to put out the fire, even though she was sick of the smell of smoke by this point. After all, if she didn't do it, who would? Her cabin was in shambles–not that that was unique to Fan-fi. Everyone was tired, and the Balrog was still rampaging, albeit with less energy. Campers had been fighting against it all day, and it was finally beginning to weaken. But it wasn't enough. They needed more. Chuey took a quick break, gazing sadly at the rubble lying around camp. Good grief, when she'd signed up for this, she'd been anticipating lighthearted mangoes and arson, not this. This…this was total destruction. And it was all Gurtle's fault. Growling to herself over the injustice of it–She'd seen Gurtle's true nature, but had anyone listened to her? No! She was like…like a rebel. The word settled around her, and slowly she nodded. Yeah. Chuey was a rebel. An outcast. Not in matters of friendship–she had lots of friends. But she stood against the Scratch writing camp mascot while everyone was still defending him–“Oh, he's just eating a couple of links, he's just hungry, look at his cute, beady eyes.” She'd seen this coming. No, no. Rebel was all wrong. She was a herald. One who could see what lay beyond. Yeah, she liked that better. The herald of doom. Doom to all enemies, doom to traitors, and most especially doom to Gurtle. A smile slashed across her face. Balrog-Gurtle didn't stand a chance. Because Chuey had seen him, and Chuey knew what was going to happen, and unable to stop it in time, Chuey was going to make it right and save them all. She left her cabin behind and struck out into the rubble, working to clear it away from the remains of the Main Cabin. She'd hidden something inside, something she'd never thought she'd have to use. But times were desperate, and the fires weren't going out. She walked quickly along the ruined, scorched halls until she reached a tiny, ash-covered, circular door. Blowing the dust and ash away, she reaching for the gleaming golden knob and gently opened it. Beyond lay intense brilliance, suggesting full daylight wherever the door led to, and as she blinked away the sudden light she could dimly see rolling green hills and mounds, into which were set circular doors much like this one. Her smile widened as she wriggled through. If she couldn't find enough help in this world…well, she'd just have to seek it from another one.
She was a rebel. A herald. And now a quester.
And she'd bring Balrog-Gurtle down if it killed her.
(Although she really, really, really hoped it wouldn't)
++++
One last farewell…
Campers cheered, celebrating Gurtle's return to normal. The tyrants began to awaken.
And one figure slipped away, lips drawn to a thin line.
Let them celebrate.
Let them cheer.
But the herald of doom would be back…