welcome to my swc writing stockpile!
specifically for Nov '25 <3

Poem, titled Stitches

My heart is made of stitches
Backstitch, front stitch, sewn in-between
Each atrium, every ventricle
Like fabric you’ve never seen.

And those stitches tighten
The way my throat does when
You ask me about broken dreams
And the wasted time that makes them.

Broken, empty promises
Are all they are—all they’ll ever be
Is potential you wasted
On your stroll with complacency.

Out along the wayside,
Beyond the eldritch streams,
Lay a cottage by its lonesome
Something plucked from your dreams.

And beyond the vacant wayside
Clutching at the seams
Is the stitched-up heart
You abandoned with your dreams.

So, my dear, I’ll tell you where you’ll be
If you only take the path
Away from complacency.

If you only you walk along the wayside
Follow the eldritch streams
You’ll stumble across a cottage by its lonesome
Filled with all your stitched-up, hopeful, open-ended dreams.

- 145 words
(it's absolutely terrible i cringe every time i read it - i promise the next one's better (i hope lol)

Song / Ballad, titled We Made Every Sound


“Lend us a harp,” the townschildren told
“A broken harp, for souls old as seafoam
And strings, a flute, a song she owns
To take her back, to bring her home.”

When I left, gone were the words I longed to say,
all that time, an age, a while away
Aunt told my story to townschildren and for forty days
Sang a night, an age, a day,
until even they forgot my name.

So when the ghosts had lapped her up and told,
among broken hearts and and leaning gravestones,
they told of days a while away and a girl with a name
they’d never sown
because why shall the ghosts weep and claim
to care for a girl they left in vain.
They simmer amongst the rain and hope i break every bone i own,
snapping my vertebrae to make a melody,
cracking a tooth to carry a tune,
split my skull for a scathing elegy.
Why would they care for a girl cracked open
her fingers at her middle, splayed like spare parts
and beneath each distal phalanx
the ribcage snaps, cracks, splits itself apart.
Until the bits of bone sow the ground
in letters that spell “we made every sound”
except the one of a healthy beating heart.

Now here, with these words, is what I wished to say,
all that time, an age, a while away
She told my story to townschildren and for eighty days
They repeated it a night, an age, a day,
until they happened to remember my name.

“So, lend us a heart,” they say to older souls
“A broken heart, for the souls of seafoam
And veins, a cord, a smile she owns
To build her heart, her spine, her bones.”


- 290 words

Script, titled Spats


INT. SPACESHIP CONTROL ROOM - TIME: UNKNOWN, SEEMINGLY NIGHT

A whirring sound. Screen blurs and then focuses.

Sebastian sits at the controls, wearing a white space suit and helmet. Blue dashboard light reflects in his helmet.

SEBASTIAN
(looks into the camera, deadpan)
Liftoff of the Blue Moon successful, expected orbit completion at 0:800 hours, and Leon's singing Ghostbusters again.

LEON
(singing terribly out of shot)
Who you gonna call–

SEBASTIAN
(looks over his shoulder)
Not even two hours off the ground and you're already singing.

LEON
Eyes ahead, Seb.

SEBASTIAN
(turns back to camera)
I can still hear you.

LEON
Ears ahead too.

There's a hiss of pipes. The sound of scratching through the walls.

A middle-aged man with greying hair enters from sliding double-doors on the right.

SEBASTIAN
Everything swell, sir?

CAPTAIN JONES
We've got Spats in the food pipes again. Kat's spraying them down.

LEON
(mumbling)
Stupid space rats.

Captain Jones nods in his direction, weary.

Something starts beeping. Sebastian's eyes dart to the screen above his dashboard.

CAPTAIN JONES
Navigation update.

SEBASTIAN
We've got two ships on our tail, sir. Appeared outta nowhere.

Sebastian grabs the ship's steering wheel and yanks it. The control room arcs upwards. Captain Jones grabs the back of Sebastian's chair.

CAPTAIN JONES
Keep on ‘em, boy. Just get to that crater. They’re too big to reach it.

Sebastian wrenches the steering wheel. The control room leans to the left.

An explosion. Red alarms blare. Sparks spit next to Captain Jones, who flinches away. The control room rocks.

Captain Jones presses a button on the dashboard.

CAPTAIN JONES
Kat. Status report.

KATEA
(voice tight)
One thruster down. Right wing damaged. Sir–

CAPTAIN JONES
(interrupting)
Alright, sit tight. Percentage for vitals?

KATEA
30% and falling on right wing. Back right thruster is completely out of action. And sir–

CAPTAIN JONES
(to Sebastian)
We need your flying, son.

(to Katea)
Heading for a crater on the Theon moon. ETA: five minutes.

KATEA
If we make it, sir, things are going to be difficult.

CAPTAIN JONES
Let's focus on making it first, eh, mech?

KATEA
(resigned)
At least I got the Spats out.

- 353 words

Speech, titled:

Why SWCers Need To Sleep

In the midst of cabin wars, when your timezone is hours ahead (or behind) and the hour-hand is reaching for midnight, do you ever wonder if sleep is actually necessary? I’d argue it is.

I’m May, an eighteen-year-old SWCer of roughly seven sessions (both because I haven’t been active for a few and because I’ve forgotten the exact number), and I would say I’ve collected a number of sleep-hours over my lifetime. In fact, I’ve calculated up to (and most likely beyond) 78,840 of possible hours of sleep in my life. (For specifics on how I worked this out, see footnote.) That’s a whole lot of hours. And let me tell you exactly why it is necessary that I sleep that many hours.

Without the needed wind-down and allocated rest time, your body is not able to function as adequately as it would after a good night’s sleep. You’ll sleep late, possibly have to get up early in the morning for school, and feel absolutely hammered. Alternatively (during weekends and holidays), you might find yourself sleeping late and also waking late, however you might find that you’ll end up feeling even groggier than you would have if you’d slept less hours, but at an earlier time.

Sleeping late disrupts your body’s natural circadian rhythm which acts an internal clock, and uses the hormone melatonin to regulate your sleep-wake cycle. When receptors in your eyes detect a lowered light level, they begin to send signals to specific parts of your brain which regulate the sleep-wake cycle. Your body then naturally responds to these cues, making your eyelids feel heavier and relaxing your muscles to ready yourself for sleep. When you disrupt this by forcing yourself to work deep into the night, you’re going against your body’s natural inclinations, and so this can have a negative impact on your health as a whole.

According to Mayo Clinic, sleep heavily depends on factors such as age, and there are rough guidelines for the recommended amount of sleep you should be getting. If you are between the ages of 6–12, you should be getting roughly 9 to 12 hours of sleep per night. If you are between the ages of 13–18, you should be getting roughly 8 to 10 hours of sleep per night. This can differ based on different individuals due to your activity levels, your weight and height, and a number of other factors, but these are some general guidelines to follow.

A key reason SWCers, in particular, need to make sure they sleep is because of the additional strain that consistent writing can have on the brain. Especially if you’ve been working all day and then dive right into writing with deadlines, your brain needs to be adequately rested in order to carry out those mental loads and produce the best quality writing that you can. Both quality and quantity require a refreshed brain. A well-rested brain makes for the best writing—remember that.

To conclude, I hope this speech that I typed up in roughly twenty minutes inspired you to sleep even an hour earlier than usual. To think my Biopsychology module covering circadian rhythms in A level Psychology was actually worth something is crazy to me. Remember, SWC will still be there in the morning (unless it’s November 30th, then maybe not).


—
References:

https://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-lifestyle/adult-health/expert-answers/how-many-hours-of-sleep-are-enough/faq-20057898
And my brain for everything on circadian rhythms (and Tutor2u to make sure I didn’t forget anything).

* Calculation for no. of possible sleep hours: (no. of days in a year) x (no. of sleep hours a night) = x (age) = ANS
365 x 12 = 4380 x 18 = 78,840
* This is a very rough estimate, considering the number of hours you sleep a night changes depending on factors like age, activity levels, weight, etc.


- 651 words

Research

1800s:
The decade was a period of drastic change. The advancements of the previous three decades towards the end of the 18th century had propelled the Industrial Revolution into a global movement, with entire wars fought with the newly developed technologies – creating an impetus to imperialist campaigns across Africa and Asia, as well as the counter-movement on Latin America later on.

Inspired by neoclassical tastes, the short-waisted gowns sported soft, flowing skirts and were often made of white, almost transparent muslin, which was easily washed and draped loosely like the garments on Greek and Roman statues. No respectable woman would leave the house without a hat or bonnet. The antique head-dress, or Queen Mary coif, Chinese hat, Oriental inspired turban, and Highland helmet were popular. As for bonnets, their crowns and brims were adorned with increasingly elaborate ornamentations, such as feathers and ribbons.

Younger men of fashion wore their hair in short curls, often with long sideburns.

In 1801, Richard Trevithick ran a full-sized steam ‘road locomotive’ on the road in Camborne, England, followed by his 10-seater London Steam Carriage in 1803. In 1804, Trevithick built a prototype steam-powered railway locomotive.

The first railway began operating during this time. The Surrey Iron Railway in Great Britain was established by the British Parliament in 1801, and began operation on 26 July 1803. The railway relied on horse-drawn haulage than powered locomotives.

In 1807, Isaac de Rivas made a hydrogen gas-powered vehicle, the first vehicle powered by an internal combustion engine. James Watt creates first steam engine based on Newcomen's design.

References: Wikipedia

——————————————————————

Part 1, The 1800s:

Traces of the Industrial Revolution are present in the steam carriages rattling along Oxford Street, puffing out clouds of vapour like a great gasping creature. It shudders to a halt in front of the Brown’s Hotel, beside a long-necked, hazel mare that shoots the vehicle a withering look.

The carriage’s door cracks open, and a woman in flowing mauve skirts steps out, her delicate shoes brushing the cobblestone with the grace of a dancer amidst her stage. A maroon bonnet crowns her head, and she tosses a rosy smile at the doorman. A younger man, on the cusp of eighteen years, in a tailored white coat walks over to greet her, and tugs at the ribbons in her hair with the irksome fondness of a sibling.

Along the street and down past the quarry and the fishermen reeling in the day’s load, steam billows from the chimney of a heaving train, its red paint chipped and cracking. Children in fourth-hand smocks and bare feet race along the train tracks, their palms cupped to catch rainwater and coins. Night paints the station in shadows, and the children run to escape the cold creeping up their spines and grabbers hiding between the trees.

Part 2, The Setting:

A building hunches at the end of the street, crumbling in on itself. Moonlight rims footprints of oil which cross and crisscross the surrounding cobblestone, footsteps of the darkness. A train screeches to a stop in the distance, and the sound itself seems to send a shudder through pools of oil and rainwater.

Brittle English wind tugs at the building’s door, and its pliant wood rasps open. The flickering, golden light of an oil lamp floods the makeshift cobblestone path and ripped-open envelopes in scrawling handwriting litter the doorstep. The wind beckons, and the envelopes shiver against the cold, dislodging from under the door. Forced by the wind’s pressing hand, they slip out of the building and escape into the night.

The footprints of oil tread beneath the wooden door and into its crumbling abode, flickering in the lamp’s glare. The escaped envelopes stumble along cobblestone, then concrete as they find their footing. Barely legible words are scribbled across greying paper—words that say: ‘to my idiot brother’. But idiot could easily be mistaken for idiom or liant (with a missing ‘p’). Despite the insult, the envelopes contain the memory of a bulging stack of papers. One could only imagine what they included.

A cat skulks across the street, indignantly stamping on an empty envelope. The wind tugs harder, and so the envelope flails under the cat’s weight. Eyes—grey in darkness and could be any range of colours in daylight—stare at the envelope with an unwavering resolution. It moves its paw. The cat watches as the envelope slips away into an oily puddle.

From across the street, a steam carriage rattles to a stop, puffing out steam in a breathy exhale. Its occupants laugh boisterously from within, and its door swings open. The cat continues watching from its vantage point beside the crumbling building, the look on its face condescending in all manners of the word. It knows these people as the faux rich—utterly besotted with the coins weighing down the lining in their muslin skirts and tailored suits, while simultaneously too poor to be quiet about it.

Moonlight traces the angles of their powdered cheekbones and idle smiles—the ones humans make for the people they know are looking. In this case, the cat muses, it seems to be the carriage rider with his slicking hair and hooded eyes. Unbeknownst to them, he is made of coins from the temple to the soul.

Part 3, The Character:

- The character is a 24 year old student studying medicine in the 1850s
- He is obsessed with the concept of grief and how it is felt just like a disease or an illness, and yet no medicinal individual has ever considered it as one.
- He obsesses over both ancient and recent medicinal texts alike, looking for prolific individuals’ take on the concept of grief.
- He studies Galen and Hippocrates and Ibn Sina and even the books of barber surgeons from down the street.
- He does not ignore the ideas, observations and theories of others—even if they are shunned by the medical field; anything to help him on his quest.
- His parents both passed when he was just starting his medical education—cause unknown (he keeps it close to his chest).

The character is a 24 year old male, which is considered to be the ripe age of the time and when a man such as himself should be settling down. He was a medical student studying in a prolific institution, however, ever since the passing of his parents, the provided education had failed to fulfil him. He had questions that his professors could not answer, and so left the institution.

He currently practices medicine, as well as illicit experiments with hazardous substances that have happened to burn parts of his makeshift laboratory down, and plans to answer his questions about medicines and cures and disease himself.

He studies the widely pronounced works of thinkers like Galen (of the four Humours), Hippocrates (whose prominence in the medical field led to the formation of the Hippocratic Oath, of which its usage became common during the previous century—the 1700s), Ibn Sina or Avicenna (whose works have been translated into Latin in earlier centuries, and then English more recently). He takes the theories of all those in the medical field (and occasionally those outside of it) into account, as all theories come from a sliver of truth, and if he can find one sliver of truth from every person he meets, he may end up with the entirety of the truth when put together.

His parents both passed when he was slightly younger, and he deals with grief very differently to the way most others do. He does not seem to mourn them from the outside, and when asked about it, he deflects and switches the topic of conversation to his most recent finding in his search for the truth of grief. It does make one wonder, someone has to be truly grieving for them to investigate grief with so much vigour.

Most men of his age in this society are married with children, however, he is so engrossed in his research and experimentation that he does not have the time nor the frame of mind to nurture a family. A part of him, buried so deep that he no longer recognises it, wishes for a family. People to lean on, and to trust. But he has shut himself in with his obsession, and no one can save him from the prison he built himself.

Part 4, The Scene:

The carriage rider watched his passengers step out of the steam carriage, their hats high and cheekbones higher. Moonlight caught on their face, like it had been snared and must tear itself away—traces of it remained on their skin, and their eyes glinted beneath it.

The woman angled her face to the heavens, parted her rosy lips and sighed into the wind; it replied, and carried her sigh out to the furthest parts of the street. She held a glass of silver liquid between two elegant, gloved fingers. She tapped it absentmindedly with her other hand—the glass clinked, moonlight caught on silver.

A man stepped out behind her, his top hat casting stretched rectangular shadows across the pavement littered with newspaper clippings and, if the carriage rider squinted, envelopes.

Envelopes that —if he’d seen the one trapped beneath the carriage’s right wheel correctly— look like my brother’s handwriting.

The woman murmured something about powder or wigs or possibly both, and the man laughed. The wind did not carry the sound, and so the carriage rider immediately distrusted him. One could not rely on those the wind abandoned.

A cat screeched across the street. The woman jumped; the man did too, yet pretended he had always been leaning against the carriage door, completely composed. The carriage rider sent a faint, breathy laugh with the wind, a sound that might have been a cough if heard from more than a foot away. He hoped the cat heard it.

The cat’s tail twitched, and it stalked off into a crumbling building bordered by oil puddles.

The man’s nose twitched as if he’d caught a faintly offensive scent, and the woman clutched at her coif with the renewed vigour of a wealthy woman.

Despite the theatrics, they could not deceive the carriage rider with their weighed pockets and powdered cheekbones. No wealthy individual with half a brain would brave the streets of London with coins on their person. It wasn’t safe, and more importantly, it wasn’t comfortable.

The man shifted away from the cat-less street. He turned to the carriage rider.

“Five sterling coins, as payment.” He knocked a wheel as he leaned to hand over the coins.

The carriage rider did not move from his position. “That’s not necessary.”

The man stopped short; his expression spelled confusion and the beginning of anger. These types of people liked to know the next play; when someone moved a different piece, they were knocked off-kilter.

“Another form of payment is preferable in these parts.” The carriage rider slid his gaze to the moon and all it caught on. “A silver drink is all I ask for.”

The woman turned to look at him, her own eyes liquid silver. “It’s only a type of fizz. New drinks to wake us up.”

“Some of us need to be woken more than others,” the carriage rider replied, and moonlight settled in the hollows of his eyes.

The man stepped forward, his mouth forming a protest, and then the woman said,

“Fine.”

She handed the carriage rider her glass. He took it, and silver flashed beneath the moon.

“Goodnight, sir,” the woman said. He did not know whether it was derisive or perfunctory or a little of both, and so gave her a dip of his head.

She turned and, with the befuddled man on her heels, went on her way.

Grab his tongue, and pull, drooling out, squirms

a naughty kids deed…

Like a torn down bush, branches on hard-
Panelled bathrooms floors, of marred

Leave him to save Denmark, but cause he slaves
He'll never stop seeing the Ghost around.

Hundreds of actors made the tale renown
But all they see is the Prince of knaves
When Hamlet grieves, topsy turvy, upside down,
He'll never stop seeing the Ghost around.

Cause your fulfilling the look…

Baboon brains, bombs on bottom, at the floor of the bay…

In depths of his dreams, he too drowned
under the practiced mask, unlike player in plays

ap0l0 wrote:

critique for gigi

Quickly prefacing this by saying I have such limited time right now (apprenticeship forms are killing me </3), so this is a quicker critique. Also, bear in mind that the medium I'm most comfortable with is prose, and poetry isn't my strength. Most of these critiques will be grammar/syntax, or things I thought were unclear. Do with that what you will. ^^

Here, where it says:

Grab his tongue, and pull, drooling out, squirms

In the first part of the line (“grab his tongue, and pull”) I assume we're talking about the worms; are the worms still the subject in the second part of the line as well? “Drooling out” made me think that this is referring to the person we're talking about. If it's a stylistic choice or I've just misunderstood, feel free to discard this (and that goes for the entire critique).

a naughty kids deed…

I would assume “kids” needs an apostrophe if we're talking about their deed.

Like a torn down bush, branches on hard-
Panelled bathrooms floors, of marred

I like how you've used enjambent to split the imagery here.

Leave him to save Denmark, but cause he slaves
He'll never stop seeing the Ghost around.

Does this refer to a cause (like a movement/ideal/principle that an individual defends or advocates for) or is it a shortened form of because? If it's the latter, it may benefit from an apostrophe before it ('cause) or just changing the word to because. If it's the former, it might benefit from more clarification by changing the structure of the sentence.

Hundreds of actors made the tale renown
But all they see is the Prince of knaves
When Hamlet grieves, topsy turvy, upside down,
He'll never stop seeing the Ghost around.

I really like this stanza. I believe there's an extra space before knaves that doesn't need to be there. Just my preference, but it would be really interesting if knaves was capitalised as well (as Knaves). I know it's not an official term, but making it seem as such in the poem would be interesting.

Cause your fulfilling the look…

Again, is this a shortened form of because? This might be a personal thing, but also because the words are pronounced differently, it might be best to clarify. Also, due to how the sentence is worded, I assume “your” should be “you're”.

Baboon brains, bombs on bottom, at the floor of the bay…

The repetition of the ‘b’ sound is really interesting sonically here, and that goes for the rest of this poem as well. The constant repetition of certain letters, specifically letters that aren't so smooth to say, makes it almost uncomfortable to say out loud, in the best way.

In depths of his dreams, he too drowned
under the practiced mask, unlike player in plays

Could this benefit from additional words? "In the depths of his dreams… unlike a player in plays.“ I feel that it's slightly easier to read.

I like how the seventh poem begins with softer verbs like ”nips“ and then gets progressively harsher, with ”bites“, ”claws“, etc.

I've only commented on poems that I wasn't clear on, or felt that needed an edit for grammar or clarification. I think, overall, when read critically, the poems are quite easy to understand and get a good grasp of - I think the only piece that I couldn't quite grasp properly was the second poem; I understand the imagery of the bathroom but what exactly is the ”Time Bomb Town" referring to? It might be that I've just misread or need to do another re-read, but that was the only one I wasn't clear with on a first pass.

Thank you for letting me critique your piece, Gigi! Again, I apologise that it's on the shorter side and focuses slightly more on grammar, I'm not the best at writing poetry and also not the best at critiquing it lol, but I hope this was helpful in any case.

Taking Accountability

I am currently procrastinating my writing competition entry mostly because I’m slightly struggling with it. I had my original idea which I’ve been developing and building up for a while now, but I spent a little while today trying to write the beginning, but I just seem to be struggling with it. The thing I know about myself is that, even if the premise and the current prose is inherently intriguing and would be to anyone who reads it, if I’m not invested and intrigued, it’s just not going to happen. I’ll have to look at it from a different angle or change elements like the setting, characters, conflict, and basically the entire thing except for the specific idea that I’m really drawn to. I like to call all these drafts I go through different “versions” because it makes me feel better than thinking of them as separate, completely different story ideas (because I’ve just scrapped the previous one). So yes, I think that’s probably what’s going to end up happening, and that’s okay! As long as I get a story done and really like it.

Another reason I’m currently procrastinating my writing comp entry is because I’ve been offered an apprenticeship (yay!) but it doesn’t just end with me accepting – I now have to complete a ton of paperwork like health information, government checks, and bank details (all boring adult stuff, I know). And because it’s an apprenticeship, not a normal job, I have two organisations that I need to run things by and who need to sign off on things. So anyway, the reason I’m procrastinating is because I have to get all that paperwork done because I’m travelling tomorrow, and then Sunday I’m teaching and then have a class after that. It should be done by Monday I think, so I need to find time to get all that done.

Motivation

I spent time with my family and then we travelled this morning before sunrise, and reached London by about ten o’clock. It’s currently twelve o’clock in the afternoon so hopefully the change of environment and spending time with other family members as well (my grandparents) will increase my motivation.

I also did some semblance of brainstorming, and what I mean by that is I have ideas and I’m just categorising them into ideas that are worth pursuing and which ones aren’t – this is done in my head, because things seem to lose a little of their sparkle when they’re written on paper, in my opinion. And also many ideas are in the form of vibes or plot points that don’t make sense or a smell or a vague action or a setting, and so for a lot of these, it’s extremely hard to put them into words, and if you do, sometimes they do tend to lose a little of their sparkle. That’s why I like to wait until I’m actually drafting the piece to write it: and I think, personally, it’s easier to adjust and mold ideas to what you’re writing if you haven’t already placed them in a box, so to speak.

Time Management

I really like the Pomodoro technique because it’s what I’ve used to revise for exams for the past three years – I tend to adjust study timings and break timings depending on my level of motivation, how tired I am, what exactly needs to get done, etc. I’ve attempted to use it for writing before, but it actually hasn’t worked very well, and maybe that’s because I’m a slower, more methodological writer (I also edit as I write so that makes it slower), and also writing is a very creative process. But I’m going to put a timer on for twenty-five minutes, and let’s see how we go.

So that timer didn’t go well at all. It’s now about twenty-four hours after I wrote that first paragraph, and I just attempted another twenty-five minute Pomodoro, but it didn’t go so well. I have more than two-hundred words of scrapped writing, so there’s that to add to my word count for this session. I honestly have no idea what it is that’s stopping me. I have plot ideas, but also maybe because I have the whole plot mapped out in my head, I’m struggling to feel inspired to write? Because there’s nothing to discover anymore? And I would say, when it comes to short stories, I’m quite a discovery writer because they’re such short pieces of fiction that I can get most (or at least the skeleton) done in just a few sittings. And also knowing that I want to submit this piece for the writing comp and do well in it and have it be a new, interesting piece that challenges me and has me discussing topics I haven’t broached before is also intimidating. I’d probably argue that’s more of why I’m struggling – I need to forget anyone’s going to read it, and just write it for myself. Who knows, I might discover something amazing, or just not submit anything for the writing comp this time :’)

for my great grandmother,
who died as she lived.

Author's Note:

This is an extended metaphor for the lives of immigrants—all that they leave behind to build a new life. And all that they sacrifice to be accepted.

—

We Are Caskets is an ode to my great grandmother, and to the parts of my history I will never shed. I am a daughter’s daughters of immigrants, I am the progeny of a land the British split apart, and I wrote this story as a bridge between my exposure to cultural inferiority complexes, and the lived experiences of those who dig out their own roots to replant themselves elsewhere.

This piece is not based on any one person or personal account. Any errors are my own.

I hope this is a story within a story. I hope a little of my history, and another’s current reality, slips through.

—

Thank you to Sage and Snowy who gave me feedback for the piece, and everyone else who was prepared to critique it though there wasn’t enough time. Thank you to my sister who had to deal with my late night writing sessions, I appreciate every extra minute you gave me. <3

More in-depth author’s note can be found in the project version .

The water vapor is moulded like a marble statue.

The pearly white practically glistens in the sun, blinding one like snow or pure white sand.

They can barely be seen from the ground of the palace, much less the ground of the world underneath that, and not at all by that beneath the latter.

No royalty nor people reside here in this place.

The floor echoes with one’s footsteps. The winddrifts sing their melody through the pipes in the castle walls and grand chandeliers of sun rays twinkle with unspoken magic.

Only pictures may be drawn up of the clouds’ highness by yearning folk too far to reach the flying water vapor.

The hard white marble glitters in the sun, a melody unheard whistling to the pure bird that is called a cloud.

The palace stands, floating, on a tall hill of air.