More Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society Text Posts (this Time Not Only Robert) Because These Are Ridiculously

More cornley polytechnic drama society text posts (this time not only Robert) because these are ridiculously fun to make

my baby, my baby

Weekly Check-In #2!

How are you doing? Is the Cornley Crew cooperating with your story ideas, or are they putting up a fight?

Do you want these weekly check-ins to be an ongoing thing during the event, or would you rather just be left alone to write?

These are simply meant as a lighthearted way to talk about your progress, maybe tease your story, or maybe just vent a bit about your struggles if that’s what you want.

Prompt List for Cornley Christmas Chaos 2024

It is Friday the 13th, the perfect day for the prompts to finally be released! The AO3 Collection is open, so go forth and write to your heart’s content!

Before we get started, however, here’s a quick recap regarding how the different prompts work;

The 12 Point Prompt List is open for any interpretation you wish, be it literal, metaphorical, or maybe the prompt is only mentioned in passing. It’s up to you!

The 13th Prompt, also known as the Quote Prompt, is our additional challenge. The quote provided must, in full, be included in your fic. How you choose to include it is entirely up to you.

Now, it’s time!

Prompts: 1. Snowed In 2. Hanging Tinsel 3. Wish Lists 4. Gift Wrapping Mishaps 5. Sledding Adventures 6. Christmas Crackers 7. Mistletoe Moments 8. Traditions 9. Decorating the Tree 10. Candy Canes 11. Snow Angels 12. Christmas Movie Marathon

And now, for this year’s 13th prompt.

Quote Prompt: 13. “My buttons are made of biscuits”

Additional Useful Links and Guidelines for the event.

is this orange or yellow.

“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”

The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and the kind of question she tried to avoid.

Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.

“You a cop?”

The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”

A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.

Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”

A nod.

“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”

A nod.

“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”

A tiny, miserable nod.

“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’

“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”

Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.

The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.

“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”

The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.

“I can work with that,” said the witch.