My experience at WriCampia was special. Although it wasn’t ideal at first, through many hours of social activity, I began to feel a sense of comfort and solace there. When I awoke on the morning of the day of departure, I was immediately drowned in feelings of annoyance and resentment for the camp that my mother had signed me up for. I sat still on my bed for a long while, contemplating it all. Why did I agree to this? I began to think that it was indeed a mistake, and a costly one, for I’d miss the start of the cross country season, high school orientation, and a number of other important affairs. There were many other reasons that contributed to my gloom and doom of course, but one question tormented me the most – was WriCampia worth it? Despite my pessimism, I dragged myself out of bed and got ready to go through two weeks in hell. It was a cold, gloomy morning as we drove to the bus stop in D.C., and upon arriving, I saw a flurry of activity at the waiting place. I joined this group, whom I would later acknowledge as fellow WriCampians and we proceeded to board the bus after we bid farewell to our mothers and fathers.

The six-hour bus drive to the camp was rather pleasant, for an old friend of mine by the name of Jacob had decided to join me on this journey. I had known him since the fifth grade, but these days we didn’t talk much at school or anywhere. He always wore a pair of dark blue Ray-Bans and he had hair so jagged that it looked like a miniscule black mountain range had formed on his head. The whole bus ride we fiddled around with Jacob’s nifty flashlight that could change the size of the light projection, color, and design. The trip went by fast and soon enough, we arrived in Peru, Massachusetts.

While the bus driver gave us a tour of the camp, I stared out the window, in wonder at my surroundings. It wouldn’t be until later when I found out the true immensity of the camp. After a minor scurry to find my luggage, we discovered what bunks we were to be in. The bunk arrangement was based on age, thus splitting my friend Jacob (who is 15) and I apart. On entering my bunk, I was introduced to quite the spacious room, composed of two rows of bunk beds on either side. A group of campers were having a conversation in the middle of the room. They seemed to be having an intense argument. A boy I would later come to know as Justin, stood in the middle of the circle of campers. He was tall, with loose brown hair. As I approached the scene, I discovered that Justin seemed to be reproaching another camper, David, with angry slander. They noticed me and calmed down promptly, so I took the opportunity to introduce myself. Together, we took the long walk up to Acres, which was the campground for the older kids. The rest of the day went by quickly; I went to a writing workshop and was introduced to the other instructor and other kids, ate dinner at the dining hall, and went to the campfire to eat s’mores.

The first day was merely a teaser to what WriCampia would be like. The second day gave me a real taste of it all. After a delicious breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and sausage, I headed over to the workshop, where I revisited the short story that I’d brought along with me. I’d been working on it for some weeks – it is a piece of historical fiction that dealt with rum-running during the 1920s, that I am planning to submit to the 2023 Scholastic Awards. Afterward, we ate lunch, which was usually the best meal of the day, ranging from Chinese takeout to Mexican tacos and rice to Italian cuisine. Then, I ventured over to the elective. On the first day, I chose Fantasy/Sci-fi writing since I wanted to write about something that I usually don’t touch base on. The discussions there were often about Brandon Sanderson’s Stormlight Archive. I found the conversations fascinating because the world-building is so extensive that it demands a full focus, and Sanderson’s writing style is able to sustain readers for long periods of time, engaging and expanding their senses regarding the setting. Next, there was a long break, where the campers were free to do a number of activities, including swimming at the lake, doing another elective, or playing sports. I spent the break by taking a hot shower in the cabin, where I could finally feel a sense of privacy in the bathroom, for the walls of the stalls are quite short and it is not very pleasant to change when you can see the head of another fellow in the stall next to yours. Then it was what they call track (an hour and a half session of activity), which was Writing Portfolio for me. Portfolio was succeeded by dinner, shower hour, and evening activity. Some evening activities were enjoyable, and some were terrible. One of the rather abhorrent evening activities was dance night, where all the campers would dress up and frolic at the soccer field. Apart from the factor of nervousness that comes with meeting girls, it had rained the night before, so in the commotion, I would at times be ignorant of my footing, thus leading to a splatter of mud on my pants. The better ones included the Worldbuilding Olympics, in which campers competed in groups to score the most points for their fictional worlds, and other bunk competitions like the scavenger hunt. After the evening activity, it would be time for nighttime electives, which were only for upper camp.

Walking around camp in the dark was always frightening due to the eerie noises from the forest and the creek. It was also often chilly, which did not help my fear of the dark. I had taken a fair amount of walks down the path from Acres to lower camp, but every time I took the trail at night, something inside of me was enlivened. There was something thrilling about these walks that I had taken on the rugged pebbles, the murky mud, and the cracked pavement. It was never quiet during these ventures, for the chorus of the forest shattered the tranquility of the night.

I remember the first horror story writing elective distinctly, as if it happened yesterday. After reading about the colossal Cthulhu by H. P. Lovecraft the day before, I gained a sudden interest in the genre of cosmic horror. And so, in an act of curiosity and fascination, I trudged past the muddy fields behind the dining hall, staining my white shoes with filth, and entered the small shack near the outskirts of camp. A small dim light kept the room bright enough to see the other campers and I found it to be quite cozy once I had settled myself on a couch. To my surprise, I saw that Jacob had also decided on horror story writing for the night. Even in the faint lighting, his spiky hair gleamed. For the next hour or so, I wrote placidly. As usual, this peace did not last. An immense obstacle stood in my way. It was an old nemesis of mine by the name of… writer’s block. Throughout the years, I had won every encounter against the vile fiend, snatching what was to be mine every time from his jaws. But, I could not seem to surmount the cursed hindrance on this occasion. I thought and thought but… to no avail. With one final excruciating push, I desperately tried to grasp ahold of the grand idea. It was no use, for my chances of reaching the mythical plot-advancer were lost. But lo! I was saved by my companion, who spoke to me these precious words: “When you can’t write, just write” – and so, slowly at first and then gaining speed, my fingers began to dance.

The rest of the week usually followed my daily routine, but it would change depending on what I wanted to do for electives. I tried a variety of role-playing games, which included Dungeons and Dragons. Additionally, I went to horror story writing, basketball, gym, and more. From writing stories on the grassy hill of Acres to frolicking around at the trampoline festival, core memories were made every day.

Unfortunately, my time at WriCampia did not end as I had hoped it would. ‘Twas the night before departure when everything crumbled to the ground. Two bunkmates (Oscar and Covy) and I had just returned from the evening activity and we were immersed in a game of Scopa, an Italian card game where players try to earn the most points by capturing the greatest amount of cards. All our bags had been packed and we were ready for tomorrow – departure day. We were sitting on the floor and relaxing when suddenly, the door burst open and a cluster of boys entered. The unmistakable sound of Justin’s rough, thick voice broke the silence, “Hey guys! Let’s stuff Eddie in a locker!” By now, Oscar and I stood by the entryway that allowed for movement between the two rooms. We watched silently. Two other boys laughed at Justin’s remark and immediately took action. They grabbed the smaller child’s arms and legs and carried him over to the locker in the room we were in. I caught a glimpse of Eddie’s face – he was smiling, as if it was all a joke. In my head, I wanted to do something, to intervene, but I didn’t. Remorse from my inaction still torments me to this day. Just as the older boys were about to shove Eddie into the dark closet, Eddie regained his sense of reality and began to scream. Punches were thrown and soon, the victim rushed out of the cabin, with tears flowing down his face. It was quiet for the rest of the night. Despite the overwhelming emotions that we all felt, whether it was regret, guilt, or sorrow, we silently brushed our teeth, washed our faces, and got into bed. In the back of our minds, we all knew that the passionate brotherhood built on respect, trust, and honesty that we, the boys of Bunk 9A, had so proudly established through the course of two weeks, was gone, crushed in the matter of an hour.

At around six in the morning, we were awoken by the familiar voice of Joey, our counselor. He and the other camp counselor lectured us for a long period. Despite the awkwardness, Justin and Eddie came forth and Justin apologized. I was delivering my pack to the bus, so I missed it. Afterwards, we went down to breakfast. The rest of my time at camp went by quickly, for the buses arrived after breakfast and I had to say a number of sad goodbyes to my friends. Reunited with our phones, we traded numbers, and checked in with our friends at home. I boarded the bus, knowing that I might never see these people again.

The bus ride was delayed by an extra two hours because of all the traffic, but we still got back to D.C. in no time. As I took the final steps out of the bus, I finally reunited with my mother and father, whom I had missed dearly. Upon returning to my room back home, I was met with feelings of happiness and joy. But, I knew I couldn’t enjoy the rest of my summer the same way I had expected to before leaving for camp. Somewhere in that great blend of emotions, I felt a deep longing. And even if I tried to deny it, I couldn’t. That camp might’ve been the best two weeks of my life, and now I truly missed it. I missed the ping pong games, the late-night movies, the lengthy workshop sessions, the endless supplies of apple juice, and the vile bathroom stalls (maybe not that one). I missed my friends, bunkmates, and counselors. Most of all, I missed the feeling of waking up to a new day at WriCampia. Maybe, just maybe, someday I’ll ride that bus again.