✶ )) ultimate challenge ──

[type.]

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ＣＨＡＬＬＥＮＧＥ! ＣＨＡＬＬＥＮＧＥ! ＣＨＡＬＬＥＮＧＥ! ＣＨＡＬＬＥＮＧＥ! ＣＨＡＬＬＥＮＧＥ!

ｓｔｙｌｅ
person switch
no dialogue
just dialogue
one character
ｅｍｏｔｉｏｎ
love
anger
happiness
humor
sadness
fear
ｓｅｎｓｅｓ
color
smell
weather
sound
touch
ｃｈａｒｒｉｅｓ
alternate reality
alternate ending
interaction
illness
personality break
parents

✶ ✶ ✶

If you normally write in third person, w
rite in first or vice versa. If you write i
n both, take a character you only use o
ne for and use the other. | Now's the ti
ime to focus on description and body la
nguage. Not one spoken word! | At leas
ast one line of dialogue in every paragr
aph. | Use only one character in the en
tire scene. || As an added challenge, u
se characters that do not normally expr
ess these emotions. || Focus on sensor
y descriptors. || Write your abnormal c
haracters in modern present day or vice
versa. | Write what would have happen
ed if something in your story went diff
erent. | Take characters that never int
eract with one another, and have them
do so. | Take a mental or physical ailm
ent your character suffers from and wri
te them struggling with it. | Write a sce
ne with an event that breaks a characte
r's composure and causes them to act di
fferently than they normally do. | How
did one of your character's parents mee
t? | End of the line so far for descriptio
ns for these challenges, so I am ramblin
g a little here don't mind me alright k.

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Hey there anyone reading this, I'm type.
as you could probably tell by my userna
me and this is a writing challenge thread
so hooray! You may post so hooray! Any
way, I feel like telling you a bit about m
yself/how I started writing. I started get
ting into writing in grade four, with a te
acher I had for grade four and five and l
oved soo much. He started me on my wa
y, and I couldn't be more grateful. He li
ked to predict what his favorite students
would be in the future, and I was one of
his favorites (hence me being in his class
twice); he thought I would be an author
one day. He was so sure about it that on
e time in fifth grade an author came to
our school; he said some of us would be
come authors, too. My teacher very obv
iously pointed at me, and some kids pro
bably stared at me, but I was so overjoy
ed at the scenario that I didn't notice. It
became one of my favorite memories fr
om that year. It made me feel so motiva
ted to continue writing and maybe one d
ay become an author; maybe a somewha
t popular read. I wasn't expecting to beco
me the next JK Rowling, but who knows?

[type.]

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[ word count: 1516 characters: zachary and xanthe notes: if you didn't know they're from here. wow dis is long and.. cute i think. *sniffs* mm choc ]
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Running his hands sharply through his already messed up snowy hair, he gritted his teeth and stared at the door. The shiny golden doorknob was taunting him mercilessly. Come out, Zach, come out! Go talk to her, you know you want to~! But he couldn't. She wouldn't talk to him, anyway. She had refused to talk to him for at least two weeks now, even if he tried.

Basically, life's roller-coaster had taken a serious dive since Christmas.

First of all, his parents were always angry at him about something. He thought maybe they knew about his (mixed) feelings for their 'maid'. If he did the slightest thing wrong, he would get a loud lecture, yells, and occasionally a small hit. They were being so snappy towards him, and it was as if they were shunning him, paying him no attention unless they could say something negative. They had first stirred faintly devastating thoughts. Then he had started bottling up his rage. Eventually he couldn't hold it in anymore, and starting taking it out on Xanthe. He yelled at her for no reason or messed up her room while she was gone, until she started to know better and would lock her room with the single little key she had once leaving it. She took it surprisingly well for a while, until one day, quite a while later, he slapped her. She had been quietly arguing with him after he'd accused her of something (who know's what) and he got so furious at her irrationally that he hit her. He hit her. Afterwards she screamed at him for a moment, before retreating red-faced to her room. When he had calmed down and turned to his room, he heard her crying. His bedroom was right next to hers. And he had listened, and felt considerably worse, which made the devastating thoughts a little bit louder. Finally, after that incident, she gave him some sort of silent treatment, as if to say "look at what you've done". Her voice used to distract him blissfully, but now that is seemed gone, he had no where to run from his mind. He started slowly falling into a depression.

Turning his body around slowly to look out his window, he heard soft raindrops pattering outside on the ground and on his window. Grayish clouds hung over the sky, blocking any sight of blue sky or weak sunlight. His dark curtains hid most of the window, though, and left his room with a weak rectangle of light from the middle of the window, which wasn't covered. He could faintly pick up scents of chilly air and lazy rain, but a different smell was becoming more prominent from outside his door.. was it..

Chocolate?

It smelled warm and inviting, unlike his cold room that was about as welcoming as a prison cell. It came from the kitchen and living room, right in front of his door. He sighed unhappily. His parents weren't home and wouldn't be for about a week (they were on a lovely vacation to Hawaii escaping rainy weather that they didn't take him on, which was actually not a result of them ignoring him; they preferred to go on vacation without their only son) so it must be the dreaded girl with the long dark brown curls. Xanthe must be doing this on purpose, he thought, to drag him out of his cave and make him feel worse. His stomach growled anyways; he hadn't eaten breakfast. He hadn't been out of his room since the day before. And the smells from outside were so enticing that his body won instead of his brain and some minutes later, he left his room.

As soon as he roughly opened the door, his cold, tired body was greeted with warm air and more delicious smells drifting from the kitchen into the large living room, which he was now technically standing in. Xanthe was on the main couch, curled up under a teal throw blanket with a steamy hot chocolate on the coffee table in front of her and her nose in a book. She didn't seem to notice him, too engrossed in pages embedded with words. He still strongly smelled chocolate in the kitchen, so he slipped in there, not knowing that the girl had seen him and was now closing her novel. He looked terrible, she thought. Incredibly messy hair, tired eyes, weak stance. He wore one of his plain t-shirts colored light gray and dark blue pajama bottoms.

When he stepped into the pleasurably hot kitchen, he saw another hot chocolate sitting on the counter in his favorite mug that was black with red swirls and designs littering it in different shades. Next to it was a plate of perfectly round pancakes, buttered delicately with maple syrup drizzled on top, some assorted fruits on the side and a bit of whipped cream on the edge too. There was a fork, a knife, and a napkin next to it. She made this for me. He thought, eyes wide, before thinking it was yet another trick. Still, he barely hesitated in taking the plate and napkin of cutlery in one hand and the mug in the other. He stepped back into the living room quietly, and sat down in an armchair, placing his food at the very edge of the same black coffee table.

She had definitely noticed him now. She sipped from her mug of hot chocolate carefully, while he ate tenderly though he was starving. He would have liked nothing more than to dive in to his food like a hyena, but instead chewed and swallowed at a brisk but thoughtful pace. She went back to reading her novel, not saying a word. With a pang he realized again that she did this to torture him, being nice to him and then giving him no attention. He hadn't finished his meal (though most of it was gone), but he didn't feel hungry anymore. His body slumped weakly, like it had lost all it's will to move. He didn't notice, but now she was staring at him, her book down again. He looked about ready to cry, and her chest felt tight. To calm herself down, she lifted the seam of her shirt to her nose to breathe in a familiar scent, like herself. Then she smelled it, and remembered something.

This was his shirt.

She looked down on it, Zachary still oblivious to his surroundings, and recalled sneaking into his room the day he slapped her. She wanted to remember the normal side of him, the (usually) nice side, so she took a dark gray shirt and hid it in her room. Last night she had been so tired and cold and unable to fall asleep that when she took a t-shirt from her drawer, she didn't notice who's it was. In fact, once she had changed into that shirt out of a tank top, she had slept quite peacefully. She had smelled him on it. He smelled of cinnamon and fresh air and raspberry, like pine needles and pillows and faintly of dark chocolate. He smelled like comfort to her.

"I'm sorry," She said softly, quiet enough someone might not hear it. But he heard it. Oh, of course he heard it.

He snapped his head up and his sagging posture changed immediately, eyes wild, filled with surprise. His mouth gaped for a moment. Finally, finally, finally she had spoken to him and it was without his prodding. He seemed unable to form words for a few minutes afterwards, in which they stared at each other. "Why?" He managed to say. "I should be sorry. I hurt you." He murmured sadly. She blinked, hazel eyes round. "I'm sorry for making you sadder and not talking to you for two weeks and four days. It seemed to have a bigger effect than I knew.." Her voice was still quiet which usually wasn't like her, and he caught his gaze shifting to her top half unconquered by soft blanket. He recognized her shirt from somewhere. That's mine. He processed quickly. "Why did you steal my shirt?" He blurted before he thought about it.

She looked frightened for a moment before offering a half-smile. "The day you, well, hurt me, I wanted something that was familiar from you, something that would remind me how you usually are, so.. I sneaked into your room and stole it. I wanted something like you in my possession. It smells like you." She spoke thoughtfully, and appeared to regret adding her last sentence. A recognizable smile cracked on his features, though slightly broken from him being out of practice. "I like how you smell." He chatted earnestly, and she smothered a grin with her hand. He took a sip from his hot chocolate to soothe his discomfort in talking after he hadn't in a while. She raised an eyebrow, more of herself shining through to him like rays of sunshine. "And what do I smell like?" She asked innocently. He took a big breath and smiled. "Well.."