Fae's writing thread ˚ ⋆｡˚ March 24
id: 744574
category: Things I'm Making and Creating
posts: 4
-faerylights
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˚ An Abridged Guide to Incoherent Ramblings - Writing Thread March 2023
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Script Activity 1
-faerylights
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Script activity 1: letter to self
Fae,
We're going to have every busy session ahead, aren't we? Schoolwork and assessments are looming large around the corner, and just happen to coincide with the height of this SWC session – and during this time we can tend to let go of things we enjoy taking part in. Please take time for yourself and let yourself enjoy this session – as we’re moving up in grades and years we push away extra activities that don’t serve our schoolwork, and as our time in SWC draws to a close, make sure you make the most of it in this month <3 This session my hope for you is that you were able to write a piece that you’re proud of, and work towards submitting an entry to the writing competition, interact with your cabin, get into the spirit of SWC and enjoy your time. Have a wonderful session and I’m looking forward to meeting you at the finish line <3
{159 Words}
-faerylights
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Writing comp temp post not formated/finished - title suggestions appreciated also <3
In the half-lit room, dust collects in reservoirs in corners and permeates through the still air.
A single beam of sunlight falls through the part in the curtains, kaleidoscopic colours warped through bubbled glass, scattering hues onto the floorboards.
She’s wrapped in bedsheets, skin stretched and brittle over her pale frame. She still, save for breaths marked odd intervals; shallow depressurisations of her chest that accompany a flicker of the eyelids.
She’s asleep – but fitfully; her eyes roam, swinging beneath closed eyelids, fingers clutching at bedsheets, locked with a sudden movement. Fever and half-forgotten memories writhe beneath her skin and press outwards, a war that rages outside the walls and within her soul. There’s something she should remember, someone -
Her eyes open fully now, gaze haltingly flicking across the room. But it’s empty, and threads of memory slip through her grasp in the veil of sickness fog. Pictures come in pieces through the heated glare, but aren’t fully developed.
She doesn’t notice I’m gone; lying in a twin cot in the opposite room, a child whose skin has already been spun out of all warmth, pockmarked with berry-red sores that circle it’s thin limbs.
Outside, the war pummels down in fiery shards; inside, the morning blooms in painful silence of absent cries, that a mother, locked in fever, has forgotten.
The scene sways and darkness swells back; I’m torn away.
Ma,
Do you remember in those rare early years before the sky shed the flames of metal capsules, and bullets drummed silver into the carcasses of ruined land?
That trip, that day – past water-laden rice paddies that tiered a staircase towards the sky, past smiling children who clung to fence gates, clutching the wood with one hand and bringing the other up into a wave.
Grasses pushed their thin headed stalks up from beneath the ground, snared in webs of scattered droplets, and parting lightly beneath our feet as we scaled the hillside. Under a cloud-knotted sky we watched the pools rimmed with reeds, as long-legged birds with red dotted heads leant down and broke its surface. From the mountaintops, cold wind tumbled down the slopes and lifted our hair, biting at our ankles like tangles of purple thistles, and upturned the faces of the flowers until they all waved together, swaying in a single motion.
We danced in time; through grasses we swayed to an invisible music that pulled our limbs in a ceaseless rhythm, two cranes caught in flight.
Later, you pressed your hands against mine, and as we lay, our faces upturned towards the sun, you leaned in to whisper a truth that was already broken before it passed your teeth;
Everything stays, promise.
I remember the way her arms wrapped around me; after the door had opened and broken the darkness, her frame hanging tiredly on the twisted wooden beam. She’d crouched and pressed her hand to my cheek.
“I’m sorry.”
I didn’t get it then; I stretched my limbs in a hungry cry and pulled fistfuls of her clothing into my mouth.
I could smell smoke, and with it a burning. Somewhere the city danced alight, but with closed eyes I could almost believe it was Ma bringing home the damp brown paper bag of skewered charred meats like before. The smell raked its fingers up against the hollow cavity of my insides.
Tears strung wet constellations down her face. She leaned over the countertop, palms pressing together until they whitened. I remember I tugged at the frayed edge of her skirt until she produced the crumpled dry leaves of green tea that had lain beneath spiderwebs in the cupboard.
Our stomachs were stretched with warm watery juice, but it did nothing to mellow the sharp edges that were carved into the skin where our bones protruded.
I’m sorry ma, I was so hungry - but later, when we fell into our cots, I stepped atop the cabinets, teetering on the rickety wooden surface, so that I could reach the box of Hana’s belongings. Hana, who had fallen from fever in the early months of the war, whose existence was erased with the simplicity of absence; her possessions boxed and kept out of reach for fear of illness. Hana, who used to buy the tins of coloured hard candies and bike home from school, smiling under untroubled skies.
In the box lay the faded packaging – I shook the metal and from a brief rattle of the tin opening the drops fell. I had pressed the candies into my palm, the warmth turning the sugar sticky and leaving coloured smears against my hands. I sat, crouched in the kitchen, feet burning into the frigid floorboards, with sweetness in my mouth until morning unfurled its delicate bud.
Later, when sores bloomed beneath my skin, painting limbs scarlet, you found the unsealed lid. Our broken bodies couldn’t stave off infection and fell beneath its weight.
Outside, streets were sifted with ash and a thousand marching students with shovels pushed on; soot-blackened faces flashing as their boots fell over the city's shed skin.
The sun sunk below the horizon, but the yellow glow remained in the black.
Doors remain closed, no help comes for us.
Twin beats thrumming down on the earth, their passage marked by the whistle, and the snap of splintering wood as the force is driven through buildings. After, the wail begins.
Somewhere, fires burn through channels of streets and leave blackened hulls of houses with iron skeletons.
Somewhere fields go up in flames as the dark belies of planes split the sky.
Somewhere, the routine of war begins again here, and you dance between the shadows and silhouettes of its grasp; our only routine.
All I can see is the muted blur - the swaying of the scene as it’s rocked by another collision, and the glow that presses warm fingers on the windows, swaddled in a darkness that runs at the periphery.
You lay still, not yet aware.
If I had a voice – would I say run? Would I tell you that the flames find Hana’s rickety shrine in the garden, then dance along the spine of the roof? Or is it a reprieve, to lay to rest while the war drags what's left of us and uses it as fodder?
Flames reach the edges of the scene. There’s the soft crackle and pop, then whoosh as another beam gives way, its wooden frame charred and brittle, sending sparks spiralling into the air. Your eyes open momentarily, glazed and unfocused, but you see me – you must – for our eyes lock for a second before you close them.
Do souls have a memory, an impression? I’m sure your figure was cleaved from mine when we parted, and I can feel the joint ache with the loss. I can feel the absence of flight, the memory of wings beating in unison.
Flames suspended in the stillness; glowing particles illuminate the room and fall from the ceiling like flakes of snow, dispersing outwards into a quiet storm of alight fragments.
Will you join me here ma? Will you fly with me?
(1188 words)
Ashes and Recollections
Osaka, 1945
—————————————–
—————————————–
In the half-lit room, dust collects in reservoirs in corners and permeates through the still air.
A single beam of sunlight falls through the part in the curtains, kaleidoscopic colours warped through bubbled glass, scattering hues onto the floorboards.
She’s wrapped in bedsheets, skin stretched and brittle over her pale frame. She still, save for breaths marked odd intervals; shallow depressurisations of her chest that accompany a flicker of the eyelids.
She’s asleep – but fitfully; her eyes roam, swinging beneath closed eyelids, fingers clutching at bedsheets, locked with a sudden movement. Fever and half-forgotten memories writhe beneath her skin and press outwards, a war that rages outside the walls and within her soul. There’s something she should remember, someone -
Her eyes open fully now, gaze haltingly flicking across the room. But it’s empty, and threads of memory slip through her grasp in the veil of sickness fog. Pictures come in pieces through the heated glare, but aren’t fully developed.
She doesn’t notice I’m gone; lying in a twin cot in the opposite room, a child whose skin has already been spun out of all warmth, pockmarked with berry-red sores that circle it’s thin limbs.
Outside, the war pummels down in fiery shards; inside, the morning blooms in painful silence of absent cries, that a mother, locked in fever, has forgotten.
The scene sways and darkness swells back; I’m torn away.
—————————————–
Ma,
Do you remember in those rare early years before the sky shed the flames of metal capsules, and bullets drummed silver into the carcasses of ruined land?
That trip, that day – past water-laden rice paddies that tiered a staircase towards the sky, past smiling children who clung to fence gates, clutching the wood with one hand and bringing the other up into a wave.
Grasses pushed their thin headed stalks up from beneath the ground, snared in webs of scattered droplets, and parting lightly beneath our feet as we scaled the hillside. Under a cloud-knotted sky we watched the pools rimmed with reeds, as long-legged birds with red dotted heads leant down and broke its surface. From the mountaintops, cold wind tumbled down the slopes and lifted our hair, biting at our ankles like tangles of purple thistles, and upturned the faces of the flowers until they all waved together, swaying in a single motion.
We danced in time; through grasses we swayed to an invisible music that pulled our limbs in a ceaseless rhythm, two cranes caught in flight.
Later, you pressed your hands against mine, and as we lay, our faces upturned towards the sun, you leaned in to whisper a truth that was already broken before it passed your teeth;
Everything stays, promise.
—————————————–
I remember the way her arms wrapped around me; after the door had opened and broken the darkness, her frame hanging tiredly on the twisted wooden beam. She’d crouched and pressed her hand to my cheek.
“I’m sorry.”
I didn’t get it then; I stretched my limbs in a hungry cry and pulled fistfuls of her clothing into my mouth.
I could smell smoke, and with it a burning. Somewhere the city danced alight, but with closed eyes I could almost believe it was Ma bringing home the damp brown paper bag of skewered charred meats like before. The smell raked its fingers up against the hollow cavity of my insides.
Tears strung wet constellations down her face. She leaned over the countertop, palms pressing together until they whitened. I remember I tugged at the frayed edge of her skirt until she produced the crumpled dry leaves of green tea that had lain beneath spiderwebs in the cupboard.
Our stomachs were stretched with warm watery juice, but it did nothing to mellow the sharp edges that were carved into the skin where our bones protruded.
I’m sorry ma, I was so hungry - but later, when we fell into our cots, I stepped atop the cabinets, teetering on the rickety wooden surface, so that I could reach the box of Hana’s belongings. Hana, who had fallen from fever in the early months of the war, whose existence was erased with the simplicity of absence; her possessions boxed and kept out of reach for fear of illness. Hana, who used to buy the tins of coloured hard candies and bike home from school, smiling under untroubled skies.
In the box lay the faded packaging – I shook the metal and from a brief rattle of the tin opening the drops fell. I had pressed the candies into my palm, the warmth turning the sugar sticky and leaving coloured smears against my hands. I sat, crouched in the kitchen, feet burning into the frigid floorboards, with sweetness in my mouth until morning unfurled its delicate bud.
Later, when sores bloomed beneath my skin, painting limbs scarlet, you found the unsealed lid. Our broken bodies couldn’t stave off infection and fell beneath its weight.
Outside, streets were sifted with ash and a thousand marching students with shovels pushed on; soot-blackened faces flashing as their boots fell over the city's shed skin.
The sun sunk below the horizon, but the yellow glow remained in the black.
Doors remain closed, no help comes for us.
—————————————–
Twin beats thrumming down on the earth, their passage marked by the whistle, and the snap of splintering wood as the force is driven through buildings. After, the wail begins.
Somewhere, fires burn through channels of streets and leave blackened hulls of houses with iron skeletons.
Somewhere fields go up in flames as the dark belies of planes split the sky.
Somewhere, the routine of war begins again here, and you dance between the shadows and silhouettes of its grasp; our only routine.
All I can see is the muted blur - the swaying of the scene as it’s rocked by another collision, and the glow that presses warm fingers on the windows, swaddled in a darkness that runs at the periphery.
You lay still, not yet aware.
—————————————–
If I had a voice – would I say run? Would I tell you that the flames find Hana’s rickety shrine in the garden, then dance along the spine of the roof? Or is it a reprieve, to lay to rest while the war drags what's left of us and uses it as fodder?
Flames reach the edges of the scene. There’s the soft crackle and pop, then whoosh as another beam gives way, its wooden frame charred and brittle, sending sparks spiralling into the air. Your eyes open momentarily, glazed and unfocused, but you see me – you must – for our eyes lock for a second before you close them.
Do souls have a memory, an impression? I’m sure your figure was cleaved from mine when we parted, and I can feel the joint ache with the loss. I can feel the absence of flight, the memory of wings beating in unison.
Flames suspended in the stillness; glowing particles illuminate the room and fall from the ceiling like flakes of snow, dispersing outwards into a quiet storm of alight fragments.
Will you join me here ma? Will you fly with me?
—————————————–
(1188 words)
a/n (feel free to skip or skim)
Well - this has certainly been a process. I originally planned for an entirely different piece to submit, but ended up striking new inspiration in the experiences of Japan in WW2. Particularly, this piece was inspired by one of my favorite films, Grave of the Fireflies by Studio Ghibli, which gave me motivation and a frame of reference for life in affected cities during the final years of the war. Aside from the film, I was aided by various WW2 documentaries and testimonies from citizens who experienced the incendiary bombing campaign firsthand. The full emotional and physical toll of the conflict on individuals was impossible to capture in a single brief story, but this piece represents a fragment of insight into the lives of those affected.
If you are interested, I'd recommend further reading into the topic and highly encourage the ghibli film grave of the fireflies as well as the wind rises which provides another perspective of the war. ^^
-faerylights
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Critique for coco <3
I lost some of the formatting when I copied this over here - but I think a bold on “we don't” would enhance the impactfulness ^^
I'm not sure if this is an intentional choice for impact, but there are some instances where punctuation at the end of lines was missing. For example, “while we're supposed to laugh (comma) smile (comma) and act like we're enjoying ourselves (stop) while in reality (comma) we don't.
You've also mentioned eyes twice in the paragraph within a few lines - I know that they are referring to different people's eyes, but perhaps you could alter the first one?
for example:
”lurching stabs of guilt,
tearstains we are forced to hide." or something like that?
Only comment would be about the “miserably, miserably failing” line - I think the repetition probably isn't necessary here and disrupts the flow a little.
also, the lines
“they scream in agony
no!
in pain”
Could be rephrased for clarity to
“ the scream in agony, in pain,
no!”
or just omit pain entirely as it basically says the same thing twice.
ahh I love this ending <3 Overall, I think your piece is very strong and there were just a few minor things with grammar and punctuation that could be fixed up. The premise was intriguing and well-executed, and the writing was fairly easy to understand and clear. One think I think you could focus on is the other iterations of a “vilian” who might not harm someone physically but perhaps mentally or in another way? I think there were a few instances where this material was quite dark, and you could consider rephrasing some of the gore/harm to reflect other “villains” in a way that makes the writing a little more scratch-appropriate <3 Otherwise - I loved the pice and you've done an amazing job
⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇First off - I love the premise of this piece, and the way you've chosen to display it certainly adds to the narrative.
to be a villain
a writing competition entry
644 words
⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇
have you ever known of what it is like to be a villain;
with blood-covered fingers
lurching stabs of guilt
and tearstained eyes
have you ever heard of the torment we have to go through;
fear etched upon our victim’s faces
with their swollen eyes
crying desperately
help me
help!
while we’re supposed to laugh
smile
and act like we’re enjoying ourselves
while in reality
we don’t.
I lost some of the formatting when I copied this over here - but I think a bold on “we don't” would enhance the impactfulness ^^
I'm not sure if this is an intentional choice for impact, but there are some instances where punctuation at the end of lines was missing. For example, “while we're supposed to laugh (comma) smile (comma) and act like we're enjoying ourselves (stop) while in reality (comma) we don't.
You've also mentioned eyes twice in the paragraph within a few lines - I know that they are referring to different people's eyes, but perhaps you could alter the first one?
for example:
”lurching stabs of guilt,
tearstains we are forced to hide." or something like that?
⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇I love this section - my only question would be if whispers were the first response to pain? This would make sense if it were an interrogation style situation perhaps where the victim was reluctant to give information - if this is the case maybe make it a little clearer? ^^
have you ever heard the sound of blood;
dripping
dripping
dripping
a pool of grotesque red enlarging
filling my eyes
while we’re forced
to relentlessly use a knife, or a dagger
while watching the pain in their eyes
enlarge until the whispers slowly come out
and turn into rambles,
which slowly turn into screams;
horrible, rasping screams,
calling us out for being antagonists
for being a miscreant
for not working for the good side of the world
help me!
i wish i could.
⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇Again just a few things with punctuation and grammar; “you're my idol” should come in the quotations, and there are a few “i”s which you've left uncaptialised but I assume that's for effect?
have you ever seen the horror of bones snapping;
splintering into two broken halves
dark red covering your hands
everywhere you go
everywhere you tread
the skulls staring into your soul
my terrible, evil, vicious soul
bringing out the weak part of me
the part that wishes that i could be the hero
that i would be well-known
be a person to admire
be loved
you’re my idol!
five year olds might say as i walk past
but when i wake up
i know there’s no chance of it happening
⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇This is great! <3 I love the pacing in the section and the flow
have you ever felt their scars on your hands;
as you’re forced to repeatedly
stab
stab
stab
while inside you’re crying
your self contempt eating up your insides
growing larger and larger
punishing yourself
thinking
why can’t i ever be the hero?
why won’t i ever matter to someone?
as they pour their hearts out
tell me their story
tears spilling out of their eyes
stop!
please, please, stop!
and in the end
i know why i will never be valued
⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇
have you ever smelt the aura of powerful poison;
strong and thick, made with the blood and tears
of our dear enemies
while you pour it down their throats
and they choke and flail
trying to spit it out
while miserably, miserably failing
and as the liquid works
they scream in agony
no!
in pain
as their insides fill up with fire
their lungs stop functioning
and the fire in their eyes blows away
and you’re left holding a
cold,
lifeless body
wishing
wishing that you could just
…stop.
Only comment would be about the “miserably, miserably failing” line - I think the repetition probably isn't necessary here and disrupts the flow a little.
also, the lines
“they scream in agony
no!
in pain”
Could be rephrased for clarity to
“ the scream in agony, in pain,
no!”
or just omit pain entirely as it basically says the same thing twice.
⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇
have you ever tasted the flavour of blood;
when you hesitate even for a
hour
minute
second
to kill-
to blow out the candle of life
-in a being
and your leader punishes you
cruelly
as the hope and sense in your mind shrivels up
and turns to ash,
and you keep on
stabbing
breaking
cutting
pouring
killing
extinguishing their lives,
and with it,
slowly
extinguishing your soul
⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇
that’s how it feels like to be a villain-
no triumphant moments
no happiness
no joy
just sadness lingering in your heart
wondering
wondering
wondering
what were their lives like before i blew it out?
did they have happy children,
waiting for them to come back?
did they have loving parents,
sincerely doing the best for their child?
did they have caring friends
laughing and smiling with them?
and the dark thoughts whisper
you will never know
but as i hear their whispers of sadness
their cries for help
they encircle around
and form a thought in my head
a cloud with a silver lining
of hope
maybe, maybe one day
i’ll look at them
tears shining through their eyes
dark red blood covering their hands
and maybe one day
i’ll finally decide
to make a change
to inspire hope
i’ll look towards them, and-
-i’ll try.
⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇
ahh I love this ending <3 Overall, I think your piece is very strong and there were just a few minor things with grammar and punctuation that could be fixed up. The premise was intriguing and well-executed, and the writing was fairly easy to understand and clear. One think I think you could focus on is the other iterations of a “vilian” who might not harm someone physically but perhaps mentally or in another way? I think there were a few instances where this material was quite dark, and you could consider rephrasing some of the gore/harm to reflect other “villains” in a way that makes the writing a little more scratch-appropriate <3 Otherwise - I loved the pice and you've done an amazing job