ocular rewritten

♔ a finilisy writing thread

blackbird singing in the dead of night
take these broken wings and learn to fly
all your life
you were only waiting for this moment to arrive

– blackbird, the beatles



howdy doodle! this is finley (she/her) and welcome to my swc megathread. this is where i will be penning down and sharing my swc creations with you all. whether it's a daily or a cabin war, i'm looking forward to releasing my creativity shackles and exploring the beyond. i believe in the power of constructive criticism, and i'm open to receiving your valuable feedback on every piece i share. eel free to share your honest thoughts, whether it's a simple expression of appreciation or a detailed critique!

a benevolent introduction (1.3.24)
word count - 1015 words

hello there! i am finley, an ist-er, writer, poet, bibliophile, spreadsheet and linguistics enthusiast, and passionate swimmer. these are just a few of the hats i wear, each reflecting a facet of who i am. but today, i step into the light not just as an individual, but as a member of the incredible swc community.

swc is more than just a hobby; it's a vibrant tapestry woven with the threads of friendship, laughter, and boundless joy. seven times i've had the privilege of immersing myself in this transformative experience, four of them venturing into the realm of leadership. and yet, when it comes to expressing my profound connection to swc, words seem to elude me, leaving me in a state of eloquent emptiness, like a poet staring at a blank page.

but words often seem to elude me when it comes to expressing the depth of my connection to swc. it's like being a poet staring at a blank page, the emotions too profound, the memories too numerous to capture in mere words. each swc session unfolds with laughter, late-night brainstorming sessions, the shared exhilaration of conquering cabin wars. the nostalgia lingers like quotes in a well-worn book (and if you know me, you know quotes are my forte!).

this year, i return to swc with a twofold purpose: to refine the art of storytelling and share this passion with my fellow campers. my pen is ever in hand, constantly seeking new avenues to transform words into captivating narratives. however, my aspirations extend beyond personal growth. i yearn to nurture the budding storytellers within my fellow campers, guiding them in discovering their unique voices, unleashing their creative fire, and finding the confidence to express themselves through the written word. so, let us embark on this exciting adventure together, pens poised and spirits ignited!

over the course of my seven swc journeys, i've delved into diverse themes:

myth: calypso's island
script: works of shakespeare
horror: the lost and found
non-fiction: fossil dig
poetry: the lighthouse
mystery: mansion!!

reaching this point wouldn't have been possible without the unwavering support of the entire swc community – a shout-out to ya'll! this year around, i am committed to the sci-fi database. to stand alongside cd and zion, two individuals who are not only fantastic but also utterly dedicated to their craft, is an honor. from cd's infectious enthusiasm (you're amazing, bestie!) to zion's willingness, planning this cabin has been an exhilarating adventure. i have no doubt that it will blossom into something truly remarkable.

while structure and clarity might seem like my natural habitat, within the confines of my mind lies a spirit that enjoys the logic and order of spreadsheets. these aren't mere tools to me; they're playgrounds for the analytical side of my brain. untangling intricate problems, meticulously organizing information, and crafting elegant solutions through numbers and equations – these are the puzzles i relish.

however, don't be deceived by a writer's logical exterior. creativity sails throughout my veins. as a writer and poet, i find myself transported to fantastical realms, weaving narratives that carry readers on exhilarating journeys through worlds both familiar and fantastical. from brainstorming intriguing ideas to meticulously polishing each sentence, the entire process – from conception to completion – ignites a spark of joy within me (though my idealistic self often pushes for the “perfect”).

but the world of words transcends mere storytelling for me. languages, with their unique structures and nuances, hold a captivating allure. each one is a key, unlocking doors to diverse cultures and perspectives. whether i'm attempting to maintain my streak on duolingo with my neighborhood owl, or simply delving into the complexities of new languages, the journey feels akin to uncovering hidden treasures, each new word a precious gem.

and then there's r.f. kuang, a literary beacon who has illuminated my path. her meticulously researched historical fiction novels have served as a potent inspiration, reminding me that history is more than just dates and figures. it's a tapestry woven with the threads of human experience, a powerful testament to the enduring spirit of generations past. her work inspires me to delve deeper into research for my own writing, ensuring my stories resonate with authenticity and depth that transcends mere entertainment.

music is my way to go. i simply cannot carry on my day without my usual playlists running in the background. whether it's jazz or taylor swift, music holds a special place in my heart. they can alter any mood, or defy any reality; just by offering soothing tunes to the ears. boygenius, norah jones, taylor swift, noah kahan, imagine bragons, phoebe bridgers are my way to go – for their music truly makes me feel alive <3 my favourite song these days has to be ‘the nights’ by avicii, the lyrics is just beyond my comprehension.

i haven't been able to write anything i'm proud of from this year, and i simply don't know what to do about it. writing has always been the way to express myself, but how shall i do so if i simply can't get myself to write anything. i do write *-bits every now and then, but i want to extend beyond those and attempt nanowrimo. this march, i want to start writing again; and truly be proud of myself. i have this tendency to read my previous writings, and honestly, they aren't as bad as i expected. for they were fuelled with passion and interest. now, i usually limit myself towards writing towards only swc and school. so, to add, another goal i would like to set for myself would be to overcome my self-doubt and be confident in my work. let's do this together; shall we?

the future holds uncertainties, but one thing remains constant: the unyielding desire to create. whether it's crafting stories that resonate with the human experience or simply revealing in the inherent beauty of language, i embrace this path with open arms. for in the end, it's through the act of creation – that we truly illuminate the vibrant canvas of life. and that, in itself, is a story worth telling.

we shall find (2.3.24)
word count - 294 words

no! a choked sob escaped my lips, and tears spilled down my cheeks, blurring the world around me. rivet, she couldn't really be gone - could she? it was just a day ago when we were guzzling hot chocolate by the horizon, what would have possibly happened in twenty-four hours?

panic gnawed at the edges of my grief. i scrambled for my phone, its familiar weight a small comfort in the chaos. no missed calls. no texts. just a single photo on the screen: rivet, her eyes sparkling as she claimed the cloak of light, the same one dipping below the horizon now, painting the sky with streaks of orange and purple that seemed to mock my despair.

with trembling fingers, i dialled the number memorised since forever. the ring echoed painfully in my ear, unanswered. i tried again, and again, each unanswered call chipping away at the sliver of hope that stubbornly clung to my heart.

as the last sliver gave way to crushing despair, rivet's parting words, whispered under the starlit sky the night before, echoed in my mind: “i hope that in every possible universe, we still find each other”

my gaze wandered back to the phone, landing on the picture of rivet bathed in the sunset's glow. it was then i noticed something i hadn't before: a faint inscription on the back of the photograph, barely visible in the fading light. it read: “meet me at the horizon, tomorrow, sunset.”

a spark, faint but persistent, ignited within me. hope, fragile but flickering, began to fight back against the tide of despair. could it be? could there be a chance? with newfound determination, i grabbed my coat and raced out the door, the promise of dusk, and possibly answers, pulling me forward.

genre anthems (3.3.24)
word count - 400 words

historical fiction (100 words)
from empires of old, to battles long won,
we sing of our ancestors, beneath the setting sun.
through trials and triumphs, their spirits remain,
a legacy etched, in freedom's domain.

with wisdom as armor, and truth as our guide,
we honour the past, with courage inside.
for the stories they left, forever inspire,
a nation united, set the world on fire.

the modern, let us rejoice
for we have the power to learn from thy;
hear their voices, we entreat,
for they forever inspire.

we are the future,
their legacy carried forward,
our voices a promise to a brighter tomorrow

science fiction (100 words)
o sci-fi!
a place where we unite,
to work for more than just validation;
thy strive to bring excellence

with the wisdom of galaxies as our guide,
and truth as our compass, we journey inside.
their stories, whispered on cosmic waves, inspire,
a universe united, setting the future afire.

modern minds, forever we strive,
to learn where knowledge survives.
hear our voices, echoing in the vast unknown,
for the future we build, we sow a legacy.

o sci-fi!
the home to our mind and innovations.
with glowing minds we work towards progress,
for a nation's development,
is our individual growth.

fantasy (100 words)
where dragons soar high, and castles hold high,
we raise our voices, in a heroes' song.
with swords raised in valor, and hearts filled with might,
we stand for justice, and vanquish the dark.

we are the descendants of heroes,
formed in the fires of courage and sacrifice.
in our hearts burns the unyielding flame of justice,
for there's nothing we don't do for the king's validation.

we are the guardians of miracles,
the protectors of the magic,
forever vigilant against the villainous beings.

learning from legends, that never will die.
the future we weave is where the heroes reside.

poetry (100 words)
haikus to sonnets, to epics untold,
a nation of verses, in honour unfolds.
with metaphors painted in pastels and brights,
we stitch stanzas of wonder,
bathed in sunlight.

words dance on the tip of my tongue,
yearning to be set free.
each line, a brushstroke,
they flow like a river
a narration of the expressions that form a well-told story.

millions with but one shared goal,
braving the beauty of simple expressions,
march on!

we are the dreamers,
the catchers of feelings.
we bow in respect to the flowers that bloom our nation,
and salute the forgotten valley,
ever exalted.

the past in first person (4.3.24)
word count - 587 words

the sun dipped below the horizon, commanding the stars that fell over me. as chaos threw its cape over my shoulders, the moon was beckoned out in the orange sky.

“chaim,
do you remember
when the sky was blue -

when chaos wasn't infuriated inside of us?”

“star,
how could i ever forget
the day our life turned against us - ”

letters. i had thousands of them. each word penned by chaim, it held fragments of our lives before the war. i reached for one, its edges ink-stained and worn with the emotions of a bygone era. unfolding the envelope, the words leapt off the page.

“chaim,” i muttered. “there's a story in all your letters, a life we could have lived. do you remember the days before the war? if only we had known sooner.”

“before chaos threw it's cape,
i used to wear my own. ”
- chaim

we all wore our own capes; until the germans stole them away. they left us to fend for ourselves in concentration camps, with meager food and water, giving us no life beyond the one we got trapped in.

that deafening boom will always stay in my memory; a haunting reminder of the night the nazis dragged us away. giving no chance to say goodbye to the life we'd always known, i bore witness to all my overwhelming emotions. your face, etched with tears, stared at the germans with hatred and disgust. confining us in a room with thousands, controlling our minds and our every action; robbed all our chances.

in my days of youth, hope lingered, dreaming about walking by the blue horizons, guzzling milk along with the stars and taking in that fragrance of blooming sunflowers. little did i know, life never meets our expectations.

after they took you away - sentencing something beyond what you could offer, i never saw the sky again.

chaim, you're the only one i had. you stood up for me; and it cost you the world. your drawings, a glimpse into prison life, it seems like hell. the chains, pinning you to the wall, always reminded me of the pressure in this world.

you always wanted to be a scientist; to study the planet we live on, and all its wonders. sneaking into the library after closing hours, you were always a bit of a rebel; upholding a passion for learning. the pain to know that you're trapped in a place you don't belong in; it hurts more than anything that could ever happen to me.

i pen these words, knowing you'll never read them; attempting to bridge the gap between our past and present. the dreams which we once dared, and the harsh reality we find ourselves entangled in. the stars have witnessed our bond, but also the tyranny of the war that tore us apart.

if i could only return your velvet cape to you, i would. even if it meant sacrificing the world. the cape, adorned with your quirks and imperfections is the only thing you have. but the days continue to march forth, unforgiving and unyielding, leaving me with the weight of what might happen with the slightest mistake.

“starr,
i know that you may think that this is the last letter i'll bestow upon you,
but i promise -
i will meet you again. and together, we shall live the life of our dreams.”

chaim, so naive; never knew that it may come up to this. destiny is a game not to be played, and it chose this life for us.

legends never die (weekly one)
word count - 1489 words

part one - mythology (200 words)

the salty spray stung odysseus's weathered face as he surveyed the churning sea. the relentless waves mocked his plight, mirroring the turmoil within him. ten long years had passed since the fall of troy, yet ithaca, his beloved home, remained elusive. the gods, ever fickle, had woven a tapestry of trials, stranding him in a web of monstrous encounters and alluring enchantments.

tonight, under the watchful gaze of the moon, a flicker of hope ignited within him. calypso, the beguiling nymph with whom he had spent seven years, had finally relented. freed from her spellbinding island, odysseus gripped the helm of his trusty ship, the wind whispering promises of a long-awaited homecoming.

but as he steered through the inky darkness, the words of teiresias, the blind prophet, echoed in his ears: “many are the woes that the sea shall bring upon you, odysseus, before you reach your homeland.” a shiver ran down his spine, a stark reminder of the challenges that lay ahead. yet, fueled by an unwavering love for his family and his unwavering spirit, odysseus set his course, determined to defy the whims of the gods and carve his own path back to ithaca. he shall do it.

part two - historical fiction (231 words)

the rumble of the metal beast startled boudica more than any charging roman chariot ever had. emerging from the london tunnel, blinking in the blinding sunlight, she found herself surrounded by towering structures of glass and steel that scraped the very sky. gone were the quaint wooden houses and bustling marketplaces.

a young woman, face illuminated by a glowing rectangle, bumped into her, muttering an apology. boudica, clad in her battle leathers and wielding a hefty iron sword, felt utterly ridiculous.

“where… where am i?” she stammered, her voice rough with disuse.

the woman, barely giving her a second glance, pointed a slender finger at another glowing rectangle. “lost, are you? look up ‘london’ on your, uh, phone.”

phone? boudica scoffed. the closest thing she had ever used was a clay tablet for messages.

confusion gnawed at her. where were the legions, the oppressive rule of rome? had the gods finally intervened, transporting her to a strange new land?

one day, while watching a group of young men battle with sticks on a holographic battlefield, a fire ignited within her. though their weapons were mere shadows, the passion in their eyes mirrored the warriors of her time. perhaps, she thought, the fight for freedom wasn't confined to a bygone era. maybe, in this strange new world, there were still battles to be fought, injustices to be challenged.

part three - fairy tales (274 words)

with a deep breath, i spun the first wheel, its golden surface emblazoned with a roaring dragon. a gasp escaped the lips of the ancient fairy beside me, but i held firm. dragons may spit fire, but they were predictable. i'd trained with knights, learned swordsmanship, and even befriended a fire-breathing lizard (a much smaller version, of course).

the second wheel, etched with swirling storms, whirred to life. again, not ideal, but manageable. i possessed a knack for navigating storms, courtesy of years spent exploring the treacherous cliffs near my castle. finally, with a resolute hand, i spun the third wheel. a blank surface stared back, a symbol of the unknown. unlike the predictable dragon or the familiar storm, this held the potential for surprise.

as the last wheel settled, a gentle breeze ruffled my hair. no curse, no sleeping sickness. instead, a shimmering portal shimmered into existence. curiosity warred with caution, but my chosen obstacles had forged a sense of confidence in me. stepping through the portal, i found myself in a land bathed in an ethereal glow, a land where knowledge flowed freely and magic pulsed through the very air.

this was no curse. this was an opportunity. years of forced slumber in a castle would have yielded nothing. this, however, was a chance to hone my skills, to learn from the greatest minds in existence. here, i wasn't just defying fate, i was embracing it, shaping it into an adventure far grander than any fairy tale could have offered. sleeping beauty might have yearned for a prince, but i yearned for something far more thrilling - a destiny of my own making.

part four - folklore (335 words)

iara, a hummingbird no bigger than a thimble, hovered before a vibrant bromeliad, its promise of nectar momentarily forgotten. unlike the other hummingbirds, she wasn't drawn to the vibrant displays. lately, a different kind of color preoccupied her - the dull, unsettling grey of self-doubt.

had she chosen the wrong path? all her siblings reveled in the thrill of open skies, chasing each other like miniature rockets, their wings a blur of iridescent green. iara, however, preferred the quiet nooks within the foliage, seeking out delicate blooms hidden from sight.

but today, the silence within the canopy echoed her growing uncertainty. was she different? were her quiet moments, spent savoring the sweetness of hidden flowers, a weakness? a pang of guilt stabbed at her when she thought of the stories exchanged at the communal feeding grounds, tales of daring dives and perilous chases, feats she wouldn't even contemplate.

just then, a rustle in the leaves startled her. an elder hummingbird, her feathers dulled by age but her eyes filled with wisdom, landed beside her. “little one,” she chirped, her voice like the rustling of dry leaves, “why do you wear such a heavy heart on this bright day?”

iara confessed her doubts, her voice barely a whisper. the elder listened patiently, then spoke. “there is no single song for a hummingbird to sing, little one. you are not flawed because you choose a different melody.”

the elder smiled. “there is no greater or lesser in the symphony of the forest, little one. each creature, each note, contributes to the harmony.”

iara looked back at the bromeliad. perhaps, she thought, her quiet moments weren't a weakness, but simply another note in the grand song of the forest. maybe her joy in the hidden blooms was just as important as her siblings' daring flights. taking a deep breath, iara dipped her beak into the nectar, her heart lighter than it had been in days. she was iara, the hummingbird who loved hidden flowers, and that was finally enough.

part five - historical fiction (216 words)

my weathered bricks have absorbed the whispers and shouts of countless souls. i stand tall on a cobbled street in london, overlooking a bustling pub named “the rusty flagon.” centuries have etched their stories onto my surface, each raindrop a silent tear, each ray of sun a fleeting smile.

long ago, i witnessed the great fire. the flames, monstrous and hungry, licked at my edges, scorching the paint that adorned me then. i heard the terrified screams, the frantic scramble for escape. smoke choked the air, and the sky wept embers. yet, amidst the chaos, i saw acts of extraordinary courage – neighbors pulling neighbors from the inferno, forming a human chain to ferry buckets of water. the fire, though devastating, forged a bond in this community, a shared memory etched in the very mortar that holds me together.

years later, the flagon became a haven for weary soldiers returning from the trenches of the first world war. the air grew thick with the stench of stale beer and unspoken grief. young men, barely out of their teens, haunted the pub with shadowed eyes. they drowned their nightmares in ale, their camaraderie a fragile shield against the horrors they'd witnessed. i held their silent pleas, their desperate longing for normalcy, for a world that seemed forever shattered.

part six - folklore (233 words)

i, amara, sat upon its ghat, the air thick with the scent of chai and jasmine. the city, usually a cacophony of honking horns and bustling crowds, was hushed, holding its breath as the day surrendered to night.

a shiver, not entirely from the cool breeze, danced down my spine. the world seemed to sharpen, the familiar sights of the ghat taking on an unfamiliar edge. the stray dogs, usually content with scavenging scraps, watched me with eyes that held ancient wisdom. the banyan tree, its branches a tapestry against the deepening blue, seemed to sigh, its leaves rustling a wordless question.

was it the approaching spring, the air pregnant with anticipation, or something more? i felt a disquiet stir within me, a yearning for something i couldn't name. was it a story, a song waiting to be sung? or a truth, hidden beneath the layers of my own reflection in the rippling water?

the city lights flickered to life, casting the ghat in an orange glow. a lone boatman hummed a tune, an old melody that spoke of journeys and crossings. in that moment, i knew. this disquiet, this yearning, it was an invitation. an invitation to step beyond the known, to delve into the stories whispered by the river, the trees, the very soul of this ancient city. and i, amara, with the ganges as my guide, was ready to listen.

sophie's uncertainty (5.3.24)
word count - 210 words

fitz stood patient by the window. “ready, sophie?” he asked, his voice laced with a hope that mirrored her own turmoil.

sophie stared at the worn pages of the guide, the forbidden symbols swimming before her eyes. “i…” she started, her voice trembling. “i don't know.”

fitz turned, his expression unreadable. “the elves need you, sophie. you belong with us.”

but did she? the thought of a dazzling world brimming with magic was thrilling, yet a strange emptiness bloomed within her. was this truly where she belonged, or was it just a desperate yearning to escape the mundanity of her human life?

tears welled up in her eyes. “what if… what if i don't want to go?” she whispered, the words tasting foreign on her tongue.

fitz's face contorted in a mixture of surprise and disappointment. “but sophie, you are an elf.”

“maybe,” she said, her voice gaining strength, “but i'm also sophie foster, and this is my home.”

a tense silence stretched between them. then, to her surprise, a flicker of understanding crossed fitz's face. “i understand,” he said, his voice softer, “but know this, your place is always welcome amongst us, should you ever change your mind.”

sophie knew, with absolute certainty, this was where her journey began.

a new genre ohoho (6.3.24)
word count - 260 words

genre - somnolent surrealism
i walked, not with purpose, but with a sense of being drawn by an invisible current. buildings stretched skyward, their facades peeling like sunburned skin, revealing layers of forgotten dreams and desires. the air, thick with the scent of overripe fruit and damp pavement, held a strange dissonance; a sweetness tinged with decay.

a stray cat, its fur a patchwork of greys and browns, materialized from an alley. its eyes, pools of liquid gold, held an ancient wisdom, an awareness of the city's somnolent heartbeat. it brushed against my leg, a fleeting touch, before disappearing back into the shadows.

the further i ventured, the more the fabric of reality began to fray at the edges. shop windows displayed impossible trinkets: clocks with faces that bled tears, compasses that pointed inwards, books with pages that whispered forgotten poems. the air shimmered, distorting shapes and blurring the line between what was real and what was dreamt.

suddenly, the ground beneath my feet dissolved. i plummeted, not into darkness, but into a sea of memory fragments. faces, half-forgotten, flickered past – a childhood friend, a long-lost love, a reflection of myself from some other life. the fragments whispered, pleaded, accused, each a shard of a story left untold.

i emerged on the other side, blinking against a light that seemed to emanate from within. a single tree stood in a clearing, its branches heavy with dreams, each fruit a swirling nebula of color and potential. as i reached out to touch one, a voice, soft as falling snow, whispered in my ear, “wake up.”

a haunting apology (word war with starunicorn_5)
word count - 350 words

in the presence of ghosts, there was only one thing to do: apologize profusely. so, there i stood, in the spectral drawing-room of blackwood manor, bowing deeply to a translucent gentleman in a powdered wig.

“my sincerest apologies, sir william blackwood,” i stammered, the floorboards groaning beneath my combat boots. “it wasn't my intention to disturb your, uh, afterlife.”

sir william's spectral monocle twitched. “afterlife? poppycock! this is my home, built with good blackwood brick and mortar. you, on the other hand, seem more suited to a… less permanent structure.” he gestured vaguely with a semi-transparent hand. “a tent, perhaps?”

i winced. blackwood manor was notorious. supposedly haunted by a dozen disgruntled blackwoods, each with a bone to pick with the living. my bone-picking, however, was strictly professional. hired to retrieve a specific blackwood heirloom – a silver compass rumored to point towards lost treasures.

taking a deep breath, i whipped out my business card, complete with a holographic ghost winking mischievously. “specialist finley, at your service. paranormal retrieval and… appeasement. now, about that compass…”

sir william's spectral form flickered with something akin to amusement. “appeasement, eh? never heard of it. but retrieve, you say? the hawthorn compass? hmph. lost to a particularly nasty poltergeist residing in the attic. nasty fellow, throws a right tantrum.”

“poltergeist, huh?” i adjusted the silver crucifix around my neck – standard ghost-hunting attire, though frankly, it felt a tad ostentatious in front of a gentleman in breeches. “well, perhaps a sincere apology is in order for him as well.”

sir william chuckled, a sound like wind chimes in a mausoleum. “intriguing. very well, specialist. appease away. but if you wake bertram, the poltergeist, with your apologies, prepare to be pelted with spectral teacups.”

a thrill shot through me. a poltergeist with a penchant for teacups? this wasn't just any haunted house – this was a haunted house with exquisite taste. with a determined glint in my eye, i marched towards the attic stairs, ready to face a tea-throwing tantrum and, hopefully, retrieve the hawthorn compass. after all, a good haunting deserved a proper apology.

coffee in the city (word war with cb2jkl)
word count - 364 words

the chipped mug of lukewarm instant coffee felt heavy in my hands, its bitter tang mimicking the acridity rising in my throat. the fluorescent lights of the 24-hour diner buzzed overhead, casting the entire scene in a sickly yellow glow. outside, the city was a blur of rain-streaked neon signs, a constant reminder of the relentless energy that thrummed just beyond these greasy windows.

yet, here i sat, an island of inertia in this ocean of movement. the world seemed to be hurtling forward at breakneck speed, fueled by ambition, deadlines, and the insatiable hunger for something more, something just out of reach. and me? i was adrift, an untethered raft bobbing listlessly in the current.

the worn leather of the booth creaked softly as i shifted, the sound swallowed by the low murmur of conversations and the rhythmic clatter of cutlery. each face i saw held a story, a tapestry woven with dreams, anxieties, and the quiet battles fought every single day. but none of them seemed to register. the world had become a muted film, the vibrant colors leached away, leaving only a grainy, monochrome reality.

was this it, then? this gnawing emptiness, this sense of being perpetually stuck on pause while the world sped by? a dull ache settled in my chest, a physical manifestation of the existential dread that had become my unwelcome companion.

raising the mug to my lips, i took a small sip, the lukewarm liquid doing little to soothe the turmoil within. my gaze drifted down to the worn copy of a well-loved book lying forgotten on the table. its pages, filled with stories of grand adventures and extraordinary lives, mocked me with their tales of possibility. where was my adventure? where was the extraordinary in the monotonous rhythm of my days?

a tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down my cheek, a silent testament to the frustration simmering beneath the surface. but then, amidst the swirling vortex of doubt and despair, a tiny ember flickered to life. a voice, faint but insistent, whispered from within. maybe… maybe the adventure isn't out there. maybe it's here, but the question is, where do I even begin to look?

trailblazer appreciation (8.3.24)
word count - 203 words

dear amanda gorman,

this international women's day, I find myself reflecting on the quiet power your words hold. they're not shouts that demand attention, but invitations to a conversation. it's like you peek into the secret corners of our hearts and pull out the hopes and dreams we tucked away, saying, “look, they're still there, and you're stronger than they ever can be.”

before you, my own dreams felt like faded paintings, colours muted by doubt. but then I heard you speak, amanda. your words, infused with a quiet strength, reminded me of the magic that resides within simple things: a girl with a pen, a voice yearning to be heard. and suddenly, those dreams entered my mind all over again.

you're a beacon that the most powerful revolutions often start with a gentle nudge that awakens the dreamer within. you inspire me to embrace the strength of my own voice, to believe those fragile hopes, and to keep writing my own story, one word at a time.

thank you for reminding me of the beauty that lies in the ordinary, that we all wield an extraordinary power. you're stand as an idol on international women's day, as well as every day.

– finley

a frying pan (word war with amethyst-animation)
word count - 537 words

the sizzle woke me up. not the satisfying sizzle of perfectly caramelized onions, mind you. this was a frantic, desperate sizzle, like a tap dancer with two left feet. i creaked open one of my seasoned, circular eyes (who knew cookware could get cataracts?) to see a floppy piece of something trying to waltz across my greasy surface. it landed with a pathetic plop, spraying me with hot oil.

“great,” i grumbled, my pre-seasoned voice a rusty groan. “scrambled eggs again?”

don't get me wrong, i used to love scrambled eggs. back in the day, they'd come in with a flurry of whisks and a pat of butter, all luxurious and confident. but lately, it was just this. this desperate scrambling, this existential dread clinging to them like yolk.

“is this what my life has become?” i pondered, the question echoing in the cavernous metal hood above me. “just a greasy stage for culinary mediocrity?”

i flicked a rogue speck of egg white off my rim. below me, the burner grumbled, its blue flame a constant reminder of the fiery inferno i was constantly teetering on.

“there has to be more,” i sighed. a life beyond eggs and omelets, beyond the greasy confines of this kitchen.

a clatter from the window startled me. a rogue pigeon was perched on the sill, cooing nonchalantly. it tilted its head, its beady black eyes gleaming.

“hey,” i called out, my voice barely a whisper. “what's it like out there?”

the pigeon ruffled its feathers, regarding me with something akin to pity.

“it's a whole world, metal face,” it cooed. “a world of wind and rain, of adventure and… leftover fries.”

the pigeon launched itself into the air, a flurry of grey feathers. i watched it go, a spark of longing igniting in my greasy core. maybe, just maybe, there was more to life than burnt toast and lopsided pancakes. maybe, just maybe, this frying pan could take flight.

the pigeon's flippant “leftover fries” comment did little to quell the existential dread bubbling in my seasoned depths. Sure, adventure sounded exciting, but leftover fries? That felt… beneath me. Still, the seed of doubt was planted. Night after night, I'd lie awake (well, as awake as a frying pan can be) listening to the symphony of the kitchen. The rhythmic gurgle of the faucet, the baritone hum of the refrigerator, the high-pitched whine of the microwave – a symphony of domestic drudgery.

one particularly dull tuesday evening, as i sizzled under a heap of lukewarm sausages (seriously, who puts ketchup on sausages?), inspiration struck. not a spatula-to-the-head kind of epiphany, but a slow, simmering realization. maybe adventure wasn't about soaring through the sky like a wok on a hot air balloon (though that did have a certain undeniable charm). maybe it was about experiencing the world through the ingredients that graced my surface.

the next morning, I greeted the eggs with a newfound curiosity. “so,” I sizzled, my voice surprisingly chipper for a pre-dawn hour, “where do yolks come from?”

Tte eggs, a gossipy bunch by nature, clucked excitedly. “we come from happy hens who peck around in a field filled with sunshine and… worms,” one confessed, shuddering slightly.

sunshine and worms?

guilt from privileges (11.3.24)
word count - 384 words

rain splatters against my window, caffeine coursing through my veins. tonight, as I stare at the glowing screen, a familiar pang hits me – a strange mix of gratitude and a gnawing disquiet. my apartment, a home to worn books and mismatched furniture, feels like a fortress against the storm outside, both literal and metaphorical.

i've got the whole “blessed” package – a degree that cost more than my first, a supportive family who cheers from the sidelines, and the freedom to chase dreams that sometimes feel as vast and intangible as the constellations plastered across my childhood bedroom ceiling.

but the privilege feels heavy tonight. scrolling through social media, a curated land of success stories, makes a pit form in my stomach. the face of a girl from a documentary I watched flickers in my mind, her eyes burning with a hunger for opportunity, a hunger that gets choked by the barbed-wire fence of circumstance. opportunities, those shimmering golden tickets to a brighter future, haven't graced her doorstep.

guilt, a bitter aftertaste to my good fortune, twists in my gut. how can I fist-pump my achievements when the starting line for so many is a minefield? this feels like some twisted cosmic race where some get a rocket ship at the starting line while others are left with rusty bicycles and bad directions. the human spirit, that spark in all of us, craves the fight, the chance to rise above. it's a primal need, a seed yearning for sunlight, but the disparity feels like an endless, grey sky.

maybe that's where things get interesting. maybe, just maybe, this access I have, this knowledge I've hoarded like a squirrel with acorns, can be a spark. maybe I can be a bridge, a voice for the voiceless, a hand reaching out from the other side of the minefield. maybe my good luck wasn't just meant for a bigger apartment and a nicer coffee maker.

tonight, under the soft glow of the screen, I choose to be more than lucky. I choose to fight, to be a champion for that girl in the documentary and countless others like her. the world needs dreamers, for sure, but it also needs people who fight to make those dreams a right, not a privilege. and that is a story worth telling.

i'm naming the stars after you (13.3.24)
word count - 302 words

“why the silence, astronomer?” she rasped, voice like gravel on asphalt. the city lights bled into the horizon, a sickly yellow halo that mocked the real stars we both craved.

i scoffed, a humorless sound that died in my throat. “renaming the constellations,” i mumbled, feeling as insignificant as a pebble on a mountain road. “thought cassiopeia deserved a more… poignant title.”

she snorted, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. “oh yeah? enlighten me, professor cosmos.”

“the constellation of the heartbroken,” i said, each word a hammer blow to my chest. “five stars, scattered like the pieces of a shattered wish.”

a flicker of something, maybe understanding, crossed her face. she settled closer, the warmth of her a stark contrast to the bite of the night wind. “why cassiopeia?”

“because,” i breathed, voice dropping to a whisper, “it's the one that looks like a broken crown.”

silence stretched between us, a vast, echoing emptiness. the city lights mocked our vulnerability with their garish glow. did she get it? did it matter? in that moment, huddled beneath the indifferent vastness of the sky, i felt a strange kind of peace. the constellations, those distant pinpricks of defiance, held my story captive. a coded message, a love letter written in starlight for an audience of one.

but as the first sliver of dawn sliced through the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of bruised purple and angry orange, a new question gnawed at me. would she ever decipher the celestial script? would this love story, scrawled across the canvas of the universe, ever be read? or would it remain a lonely inscription, lost in the cosmic shrug of a million indifferent stars?

plotting a mystery (weekly two)
word count - 1400 words

part one (266 words)

- Rain splatters against my attic window. A wave of nausea washes over me as I clutch the tarnished locket, its inscription barely legible: “To Amelia, always and forever.” Memories flood back - a lavish birthday party, my father's booming, his sudden disappearance. Was it an accident, as everyone claims, or something more sinister?

- Decades later, the manor creaks awake with the arrival of a peculiar antique dealer. He eyes the locket with an unsettling gleam, muttering about a “hidden legacy.” His words spark a dormant fire within me. Is this the key to unlocking the truth about my father's fate? Does this man know something about his disappearance?

- The investigation unearths a diary of a family curses, a darkness that taints the Blackwood family. Doubt gnaws at me. Could the darkness be hereditary? Am I destined to repeat the same fate that befell my father? And why, beg, is our family being punished so?

- Delving into dusty family archives, I discover a hidden will, leaving everything to a distant cousin I never knew existed. Relief washes over me - perhaps the curse only targeted the direct line. But a cryptic symbol scrawled beneath his signature sends shivers down my spine. Is the danger even closer than I think?

- I confront the cousin. A standoff reveals a shocking truth - he's not a relative, but a vengeful descendant of someone wronged by the Blackwoods. The locket, a family heirloom, housed a hidden key, unlocking a secret passage leading to yet another truth. Facing the darkness within the walls (and within myself), I must finally lay the past to rest.

part two (233 words)

- Each portrait in the long hallway stares down with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. One, in particular, depicts a young woman with an uncanny resemblance to me, her eyes filled with a haunting sadness. The inscription reveals her name - Amelia, my great-grandmother, who vanished mysteriously a century ago. Is there a connection between the disappearances?

- Since childhood, I've been plagued by a dream; peculiar, right? A storm rages, lightning illuminates a figure cloaked in black at the edge of a cliff. Their face remains unseen, but a sense of dread and a chilling laugh pierces the dream. Could it be amemory, a premonition, or simply my imagination?

- Throughout the manor, I find a recurring symbol etched on furniture legs, tucked into dusty corners of paintings. It resembles a twisted bird in flight, its meaning lost to time. Is it a family crest, a dark omen, or merely an artistic flourish with no hidden significance? I shudder to even wonder.

- Hidden within my father's desk drawer, I discover a locked diary. The intricate brass lock seems untouched, hinting it was never meant to be opened. Could it contain the final piece of the puzzle, or is it simply a personal journal filled with mundane details, offering no answers? I need to find out. For myself, and the rest of my family.

part three (349 words)

finley (the detective) : “why, greetings, miss ziony. witness reports paint a rather… unconventional picture of your involvement with mrs. eswecee's unfortunate rendezvous with a frying pan. they mention a heated exchange, a flurry of activity, and then… silence. followed, of course, by the rather distinct clang that heralded mrs. esweecee's culinary-induced concussion. now, you claim that you were simply present in the crime scene. but some might find that explanation a tad… undercooked.”
zion (the witness) : *zion walks closer* “you think I did this?! i would never!”
finley (the detective) : “whoa there, miss ziony, easy does it. i never said you did it, just that the picture's a little blurry around the edges. let's rewind a bit. tell me your side of the story. what were you and mrs. eswecee discussing that got so…heated?”
zion (the witness) : zion scowled. “sure you weren't. we were just talking about… uh, candles. candles, yeah!”
zion (the witness) : “she has really bad taste in candles, if I'm honest. she had a grass scented one. grass! It was just outrageous–I'm not making this up! ask her yourself!”
finley (the detective) : “candles, huh? that's certainly a…unique topic for a heated discussion. look, zion, if a grass-scented candle was the worst part of your visit with mrs. eswecee, i think we can both agree you got off lucky. but something isn't adding up. you wouldn't be this worked up over a candle, even a particularly pungent one. what were you really arguing about?” *look of disbelief on the face*
zion (the witness) : *dramatic sigh* “you don't believe me–of course you don't! why is it so hard to believe that people get upset about silly things? i would've had no reason to do ANYTHING to mrs. eswecee–other than maybe do her a massive favor and throw out that candle! If you can tell me why you think I did and your proof, i'll tell you why you're wrong!”
finley (the detective) : “okay, zion, you want specifics? here's what doesn't quite fit. witness reports mention a heated exchange and a flurry of activity before the… frying pan incident. a disagreement about a candle, even a particularly offensive one, wouldn't typically lead to that kind of intensity. now, I'm not saying you bashed mrs. eswecee, but something seems to be at play. look, if you're innocent, the more you tell me, the faster we can clear your name. so, what else happened with you and her?”
zion (the witness) : *rolls eyes and sighs again* “i told you already! we were talking idly and she mentioned the candle she bought as a souvenir last summer!! she said it smelled like freshly cut grass” *wrinkles nose* “and that it was simply amazing! i told her straight up that if she kept wasting money on candles that didnt even smell good she wouldnt be able to afford any GOOD candles when she evantually found one!! that loud sound? that was me punching the table out of pure RAGE. i dont know who hit her with the frying pan. it wasnt me–when did you say she was found, again?”
finley (the detective) : “a punch on the table? look, if you want to play coy, that's your right, but the evidence speaks louder than outrage. you know what else is loud? a lie! here's the real question, zion: when you ”punched“ the table, did it knock a frying pan off a hook sending it flying into mrs. eswecee or did you get a little more creative in your argument? because right now, you're the only one with a motive and the opportunity! let's talk about the truth, zion.”
zion (the witness) : “YES, a punch on the table!! i punched the table, gave her a dirty look and then i left. and then HOURS later you come banging on my door accusing me off hitting someone over the head with a frying pan! it's insanity! don't you wonder who took that picture? seems pretty suspicious!”

part four (552 words)

The rain hammered against the attic window. Moonlight speared through a crack in the roof, illuminating the tarnished locket clutched in my hand. The inscription, barely legible, sent a shiver down my spine: “To Amelia, always and forever.” Dad gave it to me on my fourteenth birthday, saying it was a family heirloom, and I would always live to love it.

My father's booming laugh echoed in the cavernous halls of my memory. Decades had sank into one another, the memory of his disappearance a wound beneath the official story – a flimsy bandage over a gaping chasm of doubt. Accident, they said. But doubt had taken root deep within me.

Mr. Graves, the antique dealer, had watered that seed with his cryptic words of a “hidden legacy.” Tonight, I found myself creeping down the shadowed labyrinth of the old manor.

The silence pressed in on me, broken only by the traitorous creak of the floorboards beneath my feet. Was I truly searching for answers, or chasing a phantom – a desperate attempt to recapture a childhood stolen? The line between past and present widened, as I embarked on a one of a kind mystery.

The library door loomed. Pushing it open, I was met with a wave of stale air, thick with the scent of decaying time and lingering ghosts. Each shadow stretched and contorted, mocking the fragile hope flickering within me. The portraits, lined up across the crimson hallway, were judging me in every manner possible. Their eyes, I swear I saw them move once.

Was I unraveling a mystery, or unraveling myself? The question hung heavy, an unwelcome echo of the doubts gnawing at the edges of my sanity. My fingers traced the cold stone of the fireplace mantle, a familiar chill chasing away the clammy sweat clinging to my skin. Beneath my touch, a hidden compartment yielded a worn leather-bound diary. My father's diary.

A flicker of relief, fragile and fleeting, washed over me.

The diary lay open in my trembling hands, the spidery handwriting a connection to a father I never knew. But as I began to read, a sense of voyeurism, a prickling unease, settled over me.

A sudden scream, raw and primal, shattered the silence. The diary tumbled from my grasp, forgotten in the face of a more immediate terror. Adrenaline coursed through me, this time devoid of the desperate hope of discovery. There was only fear, a primal instinct for survival.

“Is anyone here……?” I whispered, perhaps too soft for even an ant to hear. Quickly grabbing a torchlight, I lit a lone pathway back to where I came from, but I could no longer see a way out. What on earth was Mr Graves up to in the shop? And then I remembered, the legacy. Everything made sense now. The diary, the clues, everything. I had to go back. The screams continued to be heard, though now I had the answer. Someone needs to know the truth.

But as I raced towards the source of the scream, another question rose above the clamor of emotions. This was more than a mystery to solve. This was a puzzle with a missing piece shaped exactly like me, and a chilling realization began to take root: I wasn't just investigating a case, I was a part of it.