(Whoops it didn't save, but here's the daily since forums are down. For those who are editing this for the fanfic comp, things in the square brackets have been edited in and should be treated as part of the text.) Written Nov. 23rd 2023 --- MCD: “Today we're bringing back yet another classic daily - Alba's flower daily! Back in Victorian times, people used to send secret messages to each other using flower arrangements! This daily is all about using the Victorian Language of Flowers! The very slay Alba has compiled this beautiful collection of flowers and their meanings here: 9. In 450 words, write a piece incorporating least 3 flowers (and their symbolic meanings!) into the narrative to earn 400 points, and an extra 100 for sharing proof! Have fun!” Tried to go for some less common ones this time, so: Meadowsweet - uselessness Japanese Kerria - thoughtlessness Quamoclit - busybody Also I am a firm believer in Holmes having a passing knowledge of the language of flowers fight me) Holmes had received many flowers in his lifetime. Many of the bouquets were quite nice really, freshly cut and compiled with great care and thought. Others were more haphazard. There were a few that stood out in recent memory that made the detective question whether there was a certain demographic of gift-givers who thought he was stupid, or at the very least not as well-versed in the language of flowers as he was. Those were the veiled dxxth threats, the foreboding, potentially poisonous blooms. Sherlock Holmes had received far more dangerous packages [in his time]— he took the limp, dark bouquets and tossed them out and that was the end of that. There was also one that was just funny. Ms. Hudson picked it up from the front doorstep, the poor woman. She knew enough to glare at it suspiciously before she shrugged and brought it up to the sitting room, where Holmes and Watson were sitting comfortably by the fire with their pipes. They had just finished a case and were winding down, Watson preparing for the possibility of a black mood if his partner did not get a case soon; the disorderly clump — for it could not truly be called a cultivated bouquet — of unconventional flowers was a welcome reason to stave off boredom, for both of them. And it really was unconventional. Neither of them could recognize the plants on first glance. It was the most eclectic thing in 221b at the moment, which, considering Holmes’ interests, was saying something. There was a moment where the detective and the doctor simply stared at the flowers, then at each other in bewilderment, before Holmes quickly got up from his chair and went off in search of a reference book. Watson tentatively picked up the blossoms by the stems and twirled them between his fingers. After a while Holmes returned with an old, worn book. The two men hunched over the chemistry table taking turns flipping the pages, scrutinizing the light watercolour illustrations and the specific descriptions of each flower. It took quite a while to reach the “J” section first. The fire had nearly died down with no one paying attention to it. Dr. Watson noticed it first, actually, uttering a low exclamation before jabbing at the label “Japanese Kerria” in bold. Holmes tilted his head quizzically. “Thoughtlessness…?” He murmured. Watson shrugged. “Shall we keep going?” The detective nodded and the duo once more continued running through the pages, a bit faster this time as they got into the rhythm of skimming the text. “Meadowsweet, uselessness,” Watson noted idly as they passed the second herb, barely giving the carefully hand-painted rendition a glance before continuing. Holmes grunted in response. A few more minutes. The crackle of the fire had died away to be replaced by the whirl of paper snapping through the air. When they reached the Quamoclit, Holmes placed his hand definitively over the page, breathing in deeply. “And finally, busybody.” The detective said it slowly, quietly, drawing it out. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson turned to stare at the offending bouquet, sitting so innocently on one of their armchairs despite having taken so much of their time. Then, simultaneously, they burst out laughing. (+535 words)
(Written Nov. 29th 2023 --- MCD: “Today is National Tuxedo Cat Day! To celebrate, write something from the perspective of a cat—anything from a poem praising catnip to a sci-fi Warriors fanfiction, or whatever else you can think of. Write at least 300 words for 200 points, and another 200 for proof. We’re excited to see your meow-velous creations ;D” Dedicated to Tama, station master of Kishi station from 2004-2015) It is very loud, all the time. I don’t know how I’ve gotten used to it. There’s the searing, grating roar of the metal sticks as they pull into the station, the constant kerfuffle of human voices, the thrum of footsteps against the stone. On bad days I simply want to tuck myself into a small corner and curl up until nightfall. The temptation is strong. Then again, I do have a calling, don’t I? If I let enough rough hands pat me as I sit on a bench, then it’s not long before a nice treat or a particularly affectionate scratch comes along. The hat fits snugly, and the tag doesn’t get in the way. I have lived here my entire life, why would I move now? I don’t know where my litter-mates are anymore. While I can only hope they are happy, it would be wrong not to be grateful for all the courtesy shown me. Thus, the routine: purr to the rushing humans. Tilt my head at the racing trains. Get dressed up sometimes for important days and hang out with the other cats the humans have brought here. Yes, it is tiring. I am getting old. But I love and am loved, honour and am honoured, speak and am spoken to. Rarely are cats acknowledged by so many. In that litter of stray cats living on the streets by Kishi Station, I could have just as easily passed into obscurity as everyone else I have ever known. Am I certain that this will last forever? Perhaps not. The human world moves so quickly, despite how much longer they live. I have watched friends come and go, watched them through the chaos and the din, and the answer is always the same. Yes, I think I could do this for the rest of my life. (+308 words) Written Nov. 27th 2023--- MCD: “From our beloved teddy bears to the notebooks we write in, inanimate objects surround us! Ordinarily, these possessions have no voice of their own, but that's not quite fair, is it? For 200 points (and a bonus 100 for sharing your story), write at least 300 words about the life of an inanimate object of your choice. From your teddy bear's secret life of piracy to your notebook's journey across the galaxswc, the possibilities are endless - have fun!” going with my water bottle, because hoo boy does that guy have a journey. He gets to melodramatically complain for a bit.) It is tiring, you know, being used without break. If it’s not at school, being bounced around through the halls, it’s in a cramped bus or god forbid a five hour long choir rehearsal. I have some water in me at every moment, even overnight when I can finally catch a rest. Where’s the equity? Where’s the justice? The pencil case gets to sleep in the backpack. The computer gets to charge. But no, I’m the one lugged around to this place and that, left behind and picked up at the most random times. Please, human, what is it you so want from me? Can’t I have just a little peace? The most egregious time was probably when I was bundled onto a plane and then shuttled around entirely new locations for over a week. I know I’ve already complained about how awful it is being full all the time, but I hadn’t realized how it’s even worse to be empty in a dry, air-pressured void cramped in a tight bag shoved under a chair. Reader, be warned. It truly is unimaginably worse. And after that, I was filled with awful, hard water inundated with calcium! The horror. Did I mention this was for over a week? Rattling around in a small bag with pages and pages of maps and guides, bumped to and fro in bustling crowds, out all day long? Pray you are never subjected to such a nightmare. Thankfully, this ordeal ended and I returned to my standard routine of dreary use. Other than the choir rehearsals (which I have adapted to since they mainly consist of standing under a chair for long periods of time), there is the science program the day after. This is a bit more distressing, as the bus is not a great place for me to calm down after the stressful school day. I often wonder how my human stands it. If we’re particularly unlucky, the bus traffic is high on a particular day and I have to spend the 30 minutes pushed up against a window. I think another day of this program is coming up soon, how will I ever manage? (+361 words)
