Ivy’s original writing:

A rainy summer, secretive decay lying secure in the hollow. Sleep purring purpose, poised to put a point on progress. The elite vie to rule the throne, worthy anger lying a trap of destruction. Instead a plucky consort, conscious of the cold contract, will yolk the carriage and drag, unwieldy, the rock round the point. A volcano to burn its own, poised to scorch boats frantic to adjust. Hypnotic songs with neat shape identify the chase, spot partners to drag, possessive, into the ooze.

Refine that writing into a core concept:

A prophecy about a young hero, stating they will drag, against its will if necessary, the current status quo into something new.

Elena’s take on Ivy’s core concept of her original writing:

i put on my eyelashes.

they’re bigger than any pair i’ve had so far and it was an adjustment, getting used to them.

the first time i put them on, i sort of forgot about it and then blinked real big and caught a glimpse of them in my peripherals and thought a spider had sneaked its hairy legs onto my face.

nearly put my eye out with a cocktail straw, screaming and swatting.

luckily, that’s probably the least strange thing that happens on a club night.

my outfit is all silver tonight, like chain mail except if the chain mail had already gone through some kind of sexy battle and lost.

i’m showing more skin than not, which seems like kind of the opposite thing you’d want from chain mail, but luckily no one is going to war tonight

no one is lifting their broadsword or lance or poniard or mace 

and no one will be holding their innards in one hand and a shield in the other

no one is getting hurt.

i poke myself in the eye with the mascara wand.

rat’s asshole.

i’m fumbling for the kleenex that i always keep tucked in my makeup bag because i cry at least four times a day these days, and manage to knock over the entire bag – setting powder goes one way, bobby pins the other, and a wrinkled square of paper floats lazily to the scuffed and well-trod floor below my dressing table.

i grab the powder first, stuff’s expensive

and then crouch awkwardly to grab the paper off the floor.

it’s a chopped up photograph, maybe two or three inches each side, of this goofy looking kid with big ears and eyes, and a big gap where their front teeth should be.

at this point, it’s been wrinkled and sun-stroked and the colors aren’t what they ought to be, but i know that neatly collared, button top is a bright orange with little flowers, and i know those eyes are brown but not the nice kind, if there is such a thing

just like mud.

or a mouse, or something.

but darn it, they’ve got a big, gap-toothed, wind-whistling smile on that little face, just like always.

i look into the mirror.

i’m no hair today, bald cap on, looking like a fuzzy caucasian egghead,

makeup maybe an inch thick, already running in the slightly too stuffy dressing room and i haven’t even seen a stage light tonight, like a melting clown

like a melting clown version of richard the lionheart, less crusade and more cruising.

and big brown mud puddle eyes, like always.