#sfwc

[nine-blessed-hero]

Feet Dusted from a Million Flowers

CW Bee & food mentions, fantasy religion Universe: Vanilla Oblivion Prompts used: 'Bees' from the 2022 @tes-summer-fest list, 'Festive Food' from @shortfictionweeklychallenge & 'Flower' from @dayundying's 'New Years Scrolls'. Title is taken from Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury. Also available on AO3

[Being an excerpt of Arkved of Cheydinhal's journal, c. 3E430]

County Skingrad – gateway to the West Weald, home of wine- and pastry-makers alike. But there is another profession which calls the Weald home: the humble apiarist.

I remember that spring well. The roads from Cheydinhal had just cleared of snow, allowing the first of the new-year's post through, and with it an invitation from my some-time acquaintance, Gunder of Colovian Traders. That winter had been especially bitter, so I jumped at the chance for some Southern weather.

We spent a few warm days in idleness before his assistant, Eyja – in bringing out a tray of aperitif glasses – confessed that Gunder's invite was not as altruistic as it had first appeared. In fact, she had begged him to invite me so that she would have an unbiased test subject for her meads. As she poured samples from several bottles, she explained that the nearby hamlet of Skestead held a festival to celebrate the awakening of the bees in Spring, when the Weald begins to bloom. Part of which were competitions – she added, sliding the tipples towards me – including one to see who could make the best mead. I found myself both amused by her ploy, and honoured that she would choose me as her sampler. All her meads were very fine, but which – she needed to know – would be the one she entered in the competition? All that afternoon I sampled and compared, finally selecting that which I felt was the best of the proffered options. She, delighted with my choice and the end of her agonising, asked me to join her at the festival; a prospect to which I gladly agreed.

––

The day of the festival dawned hot and bright; if not for the nip in the breeze one might have thought it the height of summer!

Gay pennants of yellow hues, strung between the houses, flapped in the breeze. Arrayed on the village green were tables ladened with cakes and candles, mead and medicines, and all manner of other related items for sale. Children wearing crowns of columbine and yellow flax, or wings of leaf and twig, chased each other in some game with shrieks of glee.

Eyja tugged on my arm, pulling me from my awed reverie, and I followed her to the competition table so she could submit her entry. Casting my gaze over the magnificent entries in all the disparate categories, I envied not the judges; for I did not know how they would choose amongst such prestigious submissions!

We took some time then to amble along the items for sale – I filling my bag to bulging with knick knacks and gifts, Eyja chattering to those she knew – before a particular stall caught her eye, and she with a squeal, dragged me over. "These," she informed me, as she paid for two waxed bags, "are the best part of the festival." Eyja handed me one bag, and from her own plucked a golden lump, hard but filled with bubble-holes and lightly crumbling. She held it triumphantly, announcing, "Honeycomb toffee!" before proceeding to crunch off a corner with a grin. I smiled, and selected a small part for myself. It was sweet and crunchy with a slight metallic tang – a most enjoyable sweet.

Then, from the center of the green, came the rumble of a drum. We drifted over to join the crowd, as a stout, tanned gentleman – evidently the provost of this little commune – gave a speech, welcoming all to the festival. He then gave the floor to a small band and a collection of children who moved in an impressively elaborate dance – ducking and swerving and wiggling and jumping! Eyja commented to me that it was known as the Waggle Dance, meant to imitate the movement of the bees. After the children had done their part, the little 'arena' was filled with adults in green robes, accented by white feathers and furs. Again, the band struck up – but rather than a frenzied tune, now they played sedately; echoing, I thought, the movement of the wind over the heath and the call of birds on the wing.

These worshipers of Kynareth began to sing a wordless hymn as they led the crowd in a procession towards the village apiary. At first their voices were like the sway of trees and the ease of nature, but as we approached the hives they began to trill. One by one they started, offset from the previous singer, until their trilling, undulating, voices overlaid to make a buzzing rill. Then I beheld a curious thing indeed. Where the hives had been lifeless, I now saw movement – a small furred bee trotting out to look up at the priestess. Soon the choir was joined in harmony by a buzzing from the hives, as slowly the bees trickled out to surround the priestess, the singers, and mill about the crowd. I saw several children take flowers from their crowns to hold out for the bees to investigate. A few even came to me, seemingly interested in the lingering sweetness on my fingers. The priestess changed the pitch of her tone, and slowly the bees swarmed around her. While the choir still kept their buzz, the priestess began speaking to the bees in a low voice. At my tilted head, Eyja whispered that the priestess was giving the bees any news from overwinter – who in the village had died, who'd borne children or gotten wed. She later elaborated that the villagers believed the bees took prayers to Kynareth and brought back blessings for the small, sick, or elderly, and thus they must be given all the news. A fascinating concept! Especially as orthodoxy holds that birds are Kynareth's messengers.

Soon enough, all the news was told and one-by-one the singer's voices fell silent. The bees went about the business of being bees and the crowd dispersed back to the village green. A Vintner's lunch of cured meat, cheese and wine was taken in the shade of a spreading elm, as we listened to the band and watched people dance – Eyja jumping up to join in at points. The afternoon wore on with competitive hive-making and lumber trimming, until the provost once again took the crowd's attention for the giving of prizes.

Eyja and I listened and clapped politely as the categories were announced, and the winners given prizes of money or tools. "And finally, but by no means least," the provost said, "the meads." Eyja gripped my arm, her eyes riveted. "Honourable mention: Jeannie Idolus." An older woman with white hair accepted her prize of a demijohn valve. "Third place: Renwic Lort." A merry young man, flower crown a-tilt, accepted his prize of a pack of isinglass. "Second place: Eyja of Skingrad." Eyja gave a small squeak, shaking my arm. With a nudge, she practically skipped towards the Provost for her prize of an empty firkin cask – while I clapped loudly, of course. Skipping back she handed me the firkin to examine, exclaiming it had been used to brew Colovian brandy. "First place: Lig gra-Dush" Eyja surprised me by whooping and hollering loudy for the orc dame collecting a cash prize along with her own firkin and pack of isinglass.

"You aren't disappointed you didn't come first?" I asked, as the setting sun chased us down the road towards Skingrad amid a pack of other revelers. "Not at all," said she. "I only got an honourable mention last year, so I'm happy to have placed higher. That might be because Master Lort has been sampling too much of his own faire to brew straight, but a win is a win." "Indeed." "Missus gra-Dush really does deserve first place though – her meads are truly excellent and have won the past few years. Beating her next year will be difficult, but," Eyja raised her fist, "I'm up for the challenge." She flashed me a grin, and I laughed with her exuberance. The sandy road passed under our feet for a time, when suddenly Eyja said, "You know, there's another festival in a town halfway along the Orange Road where they use sugar maple sap instead of honey. I've always wanted to go." I laughed again. "Would you like someone, perhaps a tall man with golden skin, to accompany you to said festival?" She flushed. "Am I that obvious?" "A little," I teased, jostling her shoulder. "But, fortuitously for you, I happen to quite enjoy eccentric little festivals and would be most pleased to attend with you." She beamed, bright as the lowering sun behind us and took my arm. "Then it's agreed!"

––

Sitting now back in Cheydinhal, I'm crunching on a block of honeycomb toffee as I write – this time from the town's confectioner, who was thrilled to receive news of a sweet he could replicate. Small though it was, the Skestead Bee festival was a joyous time; and, remembering well the ceremony, I have not only planted a small flower patch, but whenever I see a bee I relay to it any town news I think it may have missed.

And of the Maple festival? Methinks that is another tale to be told anon…

[shortfictionweeklychallenge]

Short Fiction Weekly Challenge

Friday Nostalgia Prompts from Short Fiction Weekly Challenge! Enjoy!

Dearest Love: In worlds where instant communication is the norm, there's still something special about a love letter. Where letter-writing is the only kind of long-distance messaging they're even more treasured. Simultaneously raw and full of heartfelt emotion and meticulously edited. Every word considered and weighed. They embody the uniqueness of love. Who might your character write a love letter to? Have they ever received one? What did it say? Were the feelings reciprocated?

Lasting Repercussions: Every battle leaves a mark, every injury a scar. They might not be visible, due to magic or high tech medicine. They might be psychological, but no less real or damaging. They might be social: new enemies or a change in class or status. The entire world may have changed. All your character's conflicts, verbal or physical, have repercussions. Write about one.

Mission Accomplished - Ever wonder what exactly goes down when you send your companions on those crew skill missions? How does Khem handle diplomacy missions, for example? Write about your character sending one of his or her crew members on an assignment - your character can only appear when giving the mission; focus on a companion.

[druidx]

Family is what you make of it

CW: adoption, adoptive vs biological siblings Used the 'brotherhood/sisterhood' prompt from @shortfictionweeklychallenge to help break my creative block and give Wickerswitch some love. Contcrit welcome (does it feel forced, or awkward in any way?).

The world was shimmering green. Fresh-borne leaves of broad-limbed trees reached down. Bold fiddleheads and hazy bluebell reached up. Glittering sunlight sparkled in between, a cool breeze bringing ozone and honey-sweetness. Beneath their boots, the stony track was softened by grass. "Are you sure you're ready for this, Wick?" Elo asked, following her adopted brother through the ferns. He glanced back, brown eyes more alive than she'd ever seen them before. "Why wouldn't I be?" Elo's mouth worked, but no sound came out. "I thought they were all dead, El. I thought I'd lost everyone. But my sister's alive!" Wickerswitch walked backwards, hands curled and face bright with joy. "I could hardly believe it when that Adventurer told me." Elo bit her lip. "I just don't want you to be disappointed." Wickerswitch stopped. "I'm not naïve, El. It's been decades. I know she'll have changed. I have too. I just can't pass up this chance to see her again. To meet her husband and their children." He pursed his lips. "I thought you'd understand." Elo took a breath, letting her eyes roam the canopy. "I do. Of course I do." She swallowed. "I'm happy for you, really. I'm just… worried." She gave him a half smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's in the job description." Wickerswitch huffed out a laugh and gave her a mock salute. "Roger that, Captain." He turned back to the path and resumed walking. Elo's shoulders tightened, lips clenching, her gaze once again raking the forest before it found Wickerswitch's back. "Wrong job…"

[transcendragon]

I’m at the San Francisco Writers Conference today, pitching for my novel “Mage By Blood”! I made stickers out of my art of scenes from the novel for the occasion. If you’re also at the conference, then let’s say hi!

[clairjoyance]

Book people are my people :3

[voormaligskischansspringer]

The FIS should really let more women fly next season. If they don't feel up to it, they can still refuse to go. The coaches also know enough about the jumpers to know if they are ready for a flying hill and help them decide to go or not.

It's totally valid if one is not feeling up to it to go ski flying and this goes for the women AND the men

Niko also decided to DNS after a bad jump in the training on friday.

Maybe they can have an extra World Cup in Oberstdorf, since the hill will already be prepared for the SFWC (women will be in Sapporo during that so no WC for them) and it's also accepted by the FIS for the women.

[vierschanzentournee]

wait are eurosport not airing the sfwc????

[noodle-shenaniganery]

To @tyhi:

The following are both fliers I got for free when I visited SFWC yesterday.

(Image Description in ALT text and below.)

First image: A photo of a paper with the heading AVIAN INFLUENZA "BIRD FLU". It has dark blue sections, and the logo of the South Florida Wildlife Center on the top left. Pictures and pngs of birds are spread throughout.

There are several sections:

"What is Avian Influenza?

(In bullet point format.) Avian Influenza = AI = Avian Flu ("bird flu"). Avian Influenza Type A virus causes infection in birds. Wild aquatic birds, known as waterfowl, are natural reservoirs of many types of AI and can carry and transmit these viruses without showing signs of disease. Affected species include: chickens, turkeys, game birds, ratites, waterfowl, and wild birds. Most illnesses are seen in domesticated poultry. (Underlined.) It is rare to find AI in pet or exotic birds species or for infection to spread to humans."

"How does AI spread in birds?

(Bullet point format.) Infected birds can transmit AI through saliva, nasal excretions, and feces. Transmission occurs through direct contact with an infected bird or by material that contains the virus such as contaminated coops, feed, water, equipment, vehicles, boots, rodents, etc. The virus can be killed with disinfectants, heat and drying, but if protected by organic material (manure, feathers, egg debris, etc.), it can survive for weeks."

"Signs of AI in Birds:

(Bullet point format.) Disease signs are variable ranging from no clinical signs of disease to severe disease and death. HPAI signs include slight ocular or nasal discharge, depression, and decrease in egg production. HPAI signs include all of the above signs, plus swelling of the face and head, tissue necrosis (skin sloughing), sudden death, and high mortality."

"How do I protect myself and my birds?

DO: (Bullet point format.) Avoid visiting other poultry farms, bird shows, and markets. If (previous point) unavoidable: shower and change clothing and footwear before working with birds. Keep your bird houses, pens, equipment and work areas clean and sanitary. Keep a closed flock. Separate new birds from the flock for four weeks to determine if they show any signs of disease.

Don't: (Bullet point format.) Do not loan or borrow equipment or vehicles from other farms without properly washing and disinfecting all equipment before and after use. Do not introduce new birds from poultry shows and markets directly into the flock."

Second image: A photo of a paper with the heading "AVIAN BOTULISM". It has a light pink/orange border and a picture of a sick duck on the top, as well as the South Florida Wildlife Center logo on the bottom right.

Text above the logo says: For more information call us at (954) 524-4302 or visit www.southfloridawildlifecenter.org.

There are several sections:

"What is botulism?

Avian botulism is a paralytic neuromuscular disease in birds that is often fatal if not treated. Birds get sick by ingesting toxins produced by the bacterium (in italic) Clostridium botulinum as they forage. This non-zoonotic bacterium thrives in shallow/stagnant waters where oxygen levels are low and nutrient levels are high. Botulism is a slow, painful death, often by drowning. Birds at advanced stages don't respond well to treatment. SFWC does everything it can to help all sick birds and appreciates your support."

"What are the symptoms?

(In bullet point format.) Inability to walk/fly. Legs and feet pushed back and wings hanging loose. Open mouth breathing. Inability to hold head up. Other health issues can have similar symptoms, but the tell-tale sign for botulism is the delay or lack of a blinking response!"

"What species are affected?

All bird species can get botulism except vultures who are resistant to the toxins. At SFWC, Muscovy ducks, herons, terns, pelicans, and gulls are among the most common patients admitted with botulism."

"I found a sick bird, what do I do?

(In bullet point format.) Prepare a box with holes for ventilation. Wearing gloves, gently pick up the bird around the wings and place in the box. If the bird is too active, throw a towel over it, especially covering its eyes, before attempting to grab it. Keep the bird warm and calm during transportation to the wildlife hospital. Place a sheet over the box and maintain a quiet atmosphere. If the bird cannot keep its head up, use a towel to create a 'donut' for head support. DO NOT feed or give water to the bird!"

"How is botulism treated?

Care must be given by a medical professional or licensed wildlife rehabilitator. (Underlined.) Essential care involves: (Bullet point format.) Reducing the toxins in the body. Rehydration. Lubrication to protect eyes from drying out. Assisted feeding and supportive care."

This is very important to all bird owners! Please reblog if you can!

I had to save a bird yesterday, and today there was a dead bird on a chair in my yard. What the hell is going on with the birds in my neighborhood????

Also, if you can, please donate to the South Florida Wildlife Center, which helps injured wildlife found in South Florida. They’re the ones which helped me with my little bird buddy yesterday.

[princephilipplahm]

So proud of the Italianos today! 🇮🇹🇮🇹

[themonkeyinacar]

i'm used to going to planica every year for seven years now and this year it just won't be the same. it's just painful and sad and wrong

[shortfictionweeklychallenge]

Short Fiction Weekly Challenge

Friday Nostalgia Prompts from Short Fiction Weekly Challenge! Enjoy!

If Wishes Were Horses: then beggars would ride. We often think of wishes as something for children, but everyone does it. Wishes can be for anything from a lucky chance through feasible-but-difficult to outright impossible. What things does your character wish for? Little wishes? Not much more than good luck? Middling-possible wishes? Things that could happen given some work and luck? Something that could never happen? Prohibited by the laws of physics or just wildly improbable? There’s nothing really wrong with wishes, however impractical or unlikely. Every so often, wishes come true.

A Matter of Life and Death: This week the stakes are high. Your character has to intercede or maybe they're the one in the situation. It's a matter of life and death. Whose? Why? How did the situation get this serious? Is there any way out? Is it really a Matter of Life and Death or did someone use the distress beacon to order pizza?

A Favor: Your character needs help, and someone owes them a favor. Perhaps your character is the one who owes a favor. These are social obligations with no clear monetary value, yet we seem to know instinctively when a request is reasonable. Even when it’s not, we may find ourselves honoring it. In some circles, a favor may be more codified and ritualized. Yet while money may be involved, it's never the real debt. Do your character a favor and write about them cashing in or fulfilling a social debt this week.

[frauzet]

Amici Mortis—Notes From the Afterlife

#1 Traveling Companions

Warning:  Contains spoilers for Anthem's introduction.

I died more times than I remember. I killed more people than anyone should be able to justify. Since history is told by the survivors, people around here still call me a hero. Among the various names they dubbed me, Ice Titansbane remained my personal favorite. The bards up North will sing you a different story, though, one where I play the part of the monster. Cor Petra—heart of stone—they named me, a name as well earned as all the others. My companions called me Ice before I even encountered my first Titan much less bagged one, long before I became a Friend of Death.

Death and I have not always been on speaking terms. Early in life, I started making less sophisticated decisions, though, that lead to us becoming acquainted. I must have been about eight or nine when I jumped from my room’s balcony on the second floor to test my self-made javelin. It worked for a second or two. Death told me I could do better. I woke up a few days later. I never gave up on my dream of flying. However, healing my body took too long for me to be still young enough to start training with Heliost’s Sentinels. Swearing became my favorite pastime besides working on a plan B. My father taught me you have to work hard to achieve your goals. He wouldn’t appreciate the thought this led to me running away at the age of sixteen. With more luck than brains, I managed to reach Antium, survived being robbed without losing anything more valuable than my pride, and ended up as a trainee with Haluk’s band of Freelancers.

Dead wildlife, Scar, and outlaws became the order of the day for the next four years of my life. They didn’t prepare me for the loss of my squad-mates at the Heart of Rage. Worst of all, I survived. Death had rejected me once again and I had problems dealing with it. So did Haluk. Harsh words fell. The inevitable split-up with the few pathetic remains of the band wasn’t long in coming. We all agreed they were better off without me. I drifted for several days before I realized I had been heading back toward Heliost. I had lost my friends, I had lost myself, maybe I could find the family I had left behind. Had I visited Heliost first instead of heading to the village my family lived in I might have been prepared for what awaited me. The Freelancers at the Enclave there would have had answers to the questions I didn’t even know to ask yet.

The graveyard lies in front of the village. My family’s burial wall stands out due to its size. Wreaths of fresh flowers adorned the base proclaiming a recent bereavement. I had exchanged a handful of letters with my brother, so I knew Uncle Petrek had contracted some fatal disease or other. Hence I saw no reason to worry. After all, I had never liked Uncle Petrek. Freelancers don’t care much for social conventions, but we honor our fallen. So I deemed it appropriate to pay Uncle Petrek my last respect before heading over to our house. To avoid squeezing through the gate in my javelin, I took a big step over the fence. This seemed more prudent than risking to crack the tiles through the impact of landing my jav or igniting some dried flowers with its thrusters. Leaving my suit hadn’t even occurred to me. A handful of determined yet careful strides took me to the burial site and to one of the most important moments in my life.

The new cinerary urn glinted in the sunlight. The shadows played tricks on the freshly engraved letters, making them appear in relief. After reading the inscription I blinked and read it again. I opened the helmet and traced the grooves with my fingertips, my javelin translating the sensory information of the material down to its smallest grains. More details than a touch with bare hands could ever provide and still, I had problems to grasp the meaning of the words I read.

Ismara Doran Beloved Daughter and Sister 446 - 466

The sound I made ranged somewhere between coughing and laughing. Freelancer handbook, chapter one: A Freelancer was at the right place at the right time, punctuality was for Sentinels! I wondered how many Freelancers had managed to be late to their own funeral. Was this real? Was I real? The thought to open the urn and see what was inside crossed my mind leaving behind a blank space. The thought returned. This was a game. If I opened the urn and it was empty I was still alive. If it wasn’t then what? Did I even want to be alive? Each of my steps since the Heart of Rage had been weighed down by guilt. I had dragged Haluk from the Heart of Rage without finishing the job, without even trying to avenge my fallen comrades. They had died for nothing. I had abandoned our cause. I had abandoned all of Northern Bastion. Maybe Haluk was right calling me a coward. Maybe I, too, should have died. Maybe I did.

Maybe I did! Ismara Doran died but she did so already four years ago. The beloved daughter and sister did not survive my trip to Antium. Isma reached Antium. The first time I killed a human Isma died together with a piece of my soul. But Ice had already been there to replace her. There was no need to change my name to know the Ice who went into the Heart of Rage had not returned. I realized Death wasn’t a stranger lurking at the end of my path. No, Death walked in the shadow of her sisters Time and Change and I died a little with each of her steps. The choice to continue mourning or to move on was mine. Ice could be whomever I wanted her to be.

I wiped away the last of my tears as I heard someone approach.

“Did you know my sister?” he asked.

Smiling I turned to face him. “Better than most!”

[shortfictionweeklychallenge]

Ten Years Ago Today

A decade of prompts from Short Fiction Weekly Challenge.

Week of June 5, 2015

Milestones: Milestones are more personal than Rites of Passage or Turning Points, both previous prompts.  It's something significant for your character, something they might mark, independent of holidays, formal anniversaries, or rituals.  The day your character finally paid off a loan--or the day they took one out to finance their dream.  The first time your character felt like they belonged among their peers--or when they realized they never would.  Their last drink, their first dance, moving out, moving on.  Tell a story about your character reaching or remembering a personal milestone.

Mixed Doubles: Combine any two prompts you like and write a story!  For added fun, choose randomly.  Three years of prompts means more than 150 prompts to pick from.

[shortfictionweeklychallenge]

Short Fiction Weekly Challenge

Friday Nostalgia Prompts from Short Fiction Weekly Challenge! Enjoy!

Loneliness and Solitude - Our characters end up with crews of interesting folks, but that doesn't mean they never feel lonely. When you're up against some of the biggest forces in the galaxy, it's hard not to feel alone. That said, sometimes being alone is a blessing - some well-deserved solitude is a wonderful thing when you need it. Write about a time in which your character felt lonely - or when they finally got some time to themselves.

A Leg Up: Once they have an established reputation, your character’s words and recommendations carry weight with others in the story. When have they provided a boost for another character? Was it unintentional? Applied to the wrong person? Taken out of context or misinterpreted? Or was it genuine and deserved? Was the other character grateful?  Did your character expect a return favor? Did they get one anyway?

Home Ec - Our ships and everyday living arrangements have to keep running somehow. Maybe a slave or ship's droid handles it all for you; maybe...not so much. How do your characters manage cooking, cleaning, budgeting, ship maintenance, appliance repair, and more?

[shortfictionweeklychallenge]

Short Fiction Weekly Challenge

Friday Nostalgia Prompts from Short Fiction Weekly Challenge! Enjoy!

Mix It Up - For this challenge you can write anything you like. The catch? Someone else's character has to be in it along with yours. It can be your friend's or someone else in the thread as long as you have gotten their permission and as long as your story involves your character and another player character that you don't play - NPCs, companions, etc don't count. Get creative with this one and see what cool stuff you can come up with. We have some really talented minds in here and I'm sure people will come up with some awesome stories. 

Run!: Away? What from? Toward what? Who’s commanding your character to run and why? Is your character telling others to run? Are they sacrificing themselves to stop some horror? Are they about to become the horror? Are they furious? Is your character in danger? Are they panicked? Giving up? So many possibilities! Run with it! 

Liability: A disadvantage or debt: a liability is something your character is responsible for, or something that holds them back. It could be a literal, monetary debt. It might be something they inherited but don't want. Perhaps another character, who really ought not to be in that situation. Maybe your character is the liability, endangering the mission because of inexpertise or some other quality. How does everyone deal with it?

[shortfictionweeklychallenge]

Short Fiction Weekly Challenge

Friday Nostalgia Prompts from Short Fiction Weekly Challenge! Enjoy!

Extreme Weather: Characters living on starships or hermetically-sealed habitats usually don’t have to worry about weather. But most characters dwell in places where weather--especially extreme weather--is very much a concern. Suppose a freak hailstorm wipes out the crops? Or a warm spring melts the mountain snow too soon, flooding everything and leaving no water for the summer? Wildfires burning through grasslands, forests, and towns? Strong seas make water transport and fishing impossible? Volcanoes have both local and immediate effects as well as long-term and global ones. Smoke, ice, flood, rain, tornadoes, maybe solar prominences or meteor storms. Write about your character living through and dealing with wild weather. 

Bus Stop: How did your character meet their Love Interest? Blind date? Friend-of-a-friend? Co-worker? Professional matchmaker? Your world's equivalent of a dating app? Chance meeting at a bus stop? This week, tell the story of how they met.

Closure: When has your character known it’s over? Whatever events disrupted their lives (you know, the ones that make for interesting stories) are done and there aren’t any more surprises lurking around the corner. It could be the end of a chapter or the end of the story, or the calm between storms. But there is a sense of closure and completeness. How does your character recognize that moment? Do they? Do they enjoy the respite, or are they too worried about the next crisis? Do they recognize it only in hindsight? What do they do, and where do they go from here?