Overall, there are four major islands and twenty-three minor ones, one of which is inhabited exclusively by birds. They sit fairly far up in the northern hemisphere of their planet, but weather is equivalent to the southern hemisphere of our Earth. (This is due to the axial tilt being reversed on the planet the N. Tatters Isles are on.) A (not so) brief note about the "bird island" This island is preserved as a park, the kind that regular human activity is not allowed on. Occasionally, park caretakers will perform controlled burns of the dense forests for safety reasons, but generally the locals leave the bird population alone. The reverse is far from true, though. Travel guides for the western side of the Isles are littered with pleas to not feed the birds. The consequences tie between a rapid bird explosion, the largest birds pestering tourists, and birds fighting amongst each other over food. The latter results in a subgenre of home movies, nicknamed "bird wars"
I remember when I could write daily in middle school. I had become almost consumed by passion, days upon days of schoolwork blurring into each other— the teachers called me bright but spacey. In those days, I was better at feeling pain. I could be repulsed by the hypocrisy of the anti-bullying pledge in my school’s lobby, or feel frustration at the stage makeup for the musical making me look like an orange at clown college. Today, I have problems recognizing my own emotions, and I sometimes don’t know I’m feeling anxious until my chest tightens or my energy level plummets. Part of me wonders if these emotional issues are what makes it harder for me to write, but I know at least part of it is that my depression has finally caught up to me. I always thought I was going to write myself out of this hole, but I was kept too busy with schoolwork and counting down the years until I could cut contact with my father. Another part of me wonders if I should stop calling myself a wr