Grimdark with its misery and grittiness is so old hat.
Let’s write something that exemplifies positivity, cooperation, and kindness…
…a HOPEPUNK story!
During the last stream, a subscriber requested that we write a hopepunk story.
If you’ve never heard of “hopepunk” before, then check out this article for a detailed description, or scroll down for a quick one:
https://www.vox.com/2018/12/27/18137571/what-is-hopepunk-noblebright-grimdark
- Grimdark is the genre that is all about grittiness, pessimism, bleakness and inescapable misery. Even though hope may exist, it is typically crushed by impartial/overwhelming reality
- Hopepunk is nearly the opposite of that: it is all about fighting for love, kindness, and humanity despite oppression/disaster
- Even more specifically, hopepunk exemplifies having a positive attitude (not resignation), cooperating with others, exemplifying vulnerability and kindness as a strength, and understanding that success is a constant battle with no “end”
Some example of Hopepunk stories:
- The Hate U Give
- The Martian
- Children of Men
- Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind
- Star Trek
- Undertale
Chat then voted that we write this hopepunk story together: The depressed people of a weather-creating world (depressed = literal rainclouds above head) come together to bring water to a drought area. Feeding the earth and seeing nature revive brings them happiness.
Here’s what we came up with:
The group of Mourners slowly marched away from the fields, with the farmers hurling vicious insults after them.
“Your mothers regret having you. You’ve all been disappointments every moment of your waking lives.”
“You’ve drowned our fields and children. We hope your futures are flooded with as much pain as you’ve brought to us.”
“You’re nothing but a walking curse, the lot of you!”
The Mourners could only absorb the abuse in silent solidarity, using it as fuel for their long trek to come. The farmers were doing their job, and doing it well, ensuring that the Mourners stayed crying, and the clouds that followed above them stayed raining, until they arrived at the next village.
That was the way of the world. The Mourners gave rain through feeling sadness, the Cold Shoulders gave snow through feeling icy indifference, and luckiest of all, the Radiants gave warm sunlight though feeling joy.
There was a saying that summed up Mourner life: “Even a Radiant’s darkest hour is more worthy of a smile than a Mourner’s brightest hope.”
The only spot of relief for the group of Mourners was when they travelled between villages that needed water. When fresh insults weren’t burning into their minds like a direct gaze into the sun. When frosty gazes didn’t stare down on them, lacking even pity in those superior, uncrying eyes. When only the scars in their hearts were left to bleed through their eyes, and bleed from the skies, the soft drip-plop of their earned and deserved misery coronating them anew with wet crowns on every muddy step.
After a day’s walk, the Mourners arrived at the next village. Just from a single look at the dry fields that awaited them, the Mourners winced in painful anticipation of the anguish that would soon be hurled their way. This place, Lakton Village, had once been an oasis of thriving greenery and fertile grounds. Now, it only stirred up dust that caked on the sad wooden buildings, and turned to mud on the Mourners’ clothes.
It would take nothing short of a complete downpour to save this village and revive the lake it was named for. The people who lived in it were going to have to break the Mourners in new, horrible ways. Just the thought of how much pain they would have to bear set off a wail from one of the younger Mourners that immediately brought down a sheet of rain right upon her.
The others did not comfort her. “Sacrifice” was their motto,
to bear the burdens of others was what they were born to do.The villagers came out of their dwellings, standing on the dry, cracked ground, carrying blanket-covered baskets. Some of the Mourners flinched when they saw them, remembering times past when baskets of stones had been thrown at them as hard as the insults, resulting in a glorious monsoon and broken bones.
Grinning, one of the villagers removed the blanket from his basket, and the Mourners looked upon what horrible torture they would have to endure.
It was a cinnamon cake.
The Mourners who had reeled back in expected pain now leaned forward in curiosity. They’d never smelled anything like it before, sweet and warm with a hint of spice. Their entire existence was soppy and soggy, nothing but the most bland flavors ever survived the journey to their mouth under their constant rain clouds.
Other villagers took the sheets off their baskets too, revealing a bounty of fruits and vegetables and sweets and even a basket of roast, crispy meats.
For a moment, the rains above the Mourners thinned to a light drizzle, then stopped. Their sadness was temporarily taken over by their surprise. Never before had a first meeting with a village gone like this before.
Then a torrent of rain spilled down on one of the older Mourners as he cried out.
“They’re going to eat all of that in front of us,” he whimpered. “Or throw it on the ground in waste. Oh no, oh no….”
The other Mourners followed suit, tears spilling from their eyes and summoning rain above as they gazed in new horror at the instruments prepared for their torment.
The villager with the cinnamon cake stepped toward them, walking through the barrier of rain, and gently pressed the basket up to the first Mourner in the group.
“This is for you,” he said cheerfully, then nodded his head to the other villagers. “All of this is.”
Almost instantly, the rain stopped. The Mourners gazed at the drenched cake and man with confusion. Was this some trick? It didn’t make any sense. The villagers were supposed to wring tears out of them, not feed them. Especially not during a drought!
The young girl Mourner stepped forward to speak. “But how can you afford to present us with such riches when your farmlands are dried up?”
“Because we won’t have to ration our reserves now that you’ve come to save us,” the cake-man said. “It’s not much, but we want to properly thank our heroes.”
All of the other villagers came up to the Mourners, bearing their gifts and their beaming faces.
“Here, try my apples!” one of the women said, thrusting her basket forward. “Your cheeks need some red color to them.”
“You haven’t lived until you’ve crunched on my corn,” another man said with a basket of corn as bright yellow as the sun. “It’s sweeter than even that cake there.”
“Save room for pork belly,” another said, wiggling his basket of crispy meats. “Braised in maple syrup. Mmmhmm! You all look like you could use a little more protein in your lives, eh?”
The Mourners said nothing. More and more of the villagers surrounded them with their gifts, smiling, talking about how happy they were to share. How happy they were to see the Mourners. How grateful they were for them being there.=
Drip.
Drip.
SPLASH!
The clouds above rained down like never before. Brought from the Mourners’ tears of joy.
More tears spilled from the Mourners’ eyes than any insults could have ever wrung out from them. Choking sobs that shuddered through them, dribbling almost as much from their tear ducts as was pouring down from above. The entire sky filled with thick, grey clouds brimming with lakefulls of water.
Just as the villagers propped their blankets above their heads, a torrential downpour gushed as if a river had been turned upside down above the village. All of them cried out for joy, hugging the Mourners, grabbing their hands and dancing with them, and propping wooden covers over their baskets to protect the feast to come.
From that day on, there was a new saying that summed up Mourner life:
“A Mourner’s joy brings more hope than a Radiant’s brightest smile.”
If you want to join us and help write a story by trolling in chat, or share your own writing for feedback, then we’d love to have you join us on Twitch.
And you missed the stream, you can still watch them on the YouTube channel or watch the full stream reruns.
Hope to see you next time, friend!
Top image: Pakutaso