This video, titled ‘Ao gives Watame some questionable writing advice’, was uploaded by Maple Leaf Translations on 2024-05-20 19:39:25. It has garnered 5002 views and 487 likes. The duration of the video is 00:01:13 or 73 seconds.
hololive’s Tsunomaki Watame reads the greatest work of autobiographical fiction ever written in Minecraft (ft. Hiodoshi Ao).
Original stream: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rlnG6FQ7Bfg
@TsunomakiWatame @HiodoshiAo
Outside of the community college classroom, Watame stood with one hand on the door handle. She had spent the entire weekend working on her short story. She thought it had turned out pretty good. When she had heard that there would be a creative writing workshop this week, led by an author she had never heard of, she signed herself up without a second thought.
She took a moment to quell her nerves and, manuscript in hand, pushed open the door and strode into the classroom. The absence of the dozen curious and friendly faces she had been expecting made her stop. The room was empty.
Empty except for a hunched-over blue-haired woman who was working fastidiously on a colouring book. Watame began to back up slowly, but, before she could escape, the young woman looked up and spotted her.
“Hello!” she said, jumping to her feet. “You must be here for the workshop.”
Watame held her manuscript over her heart like she expected it to take a bullet for her.
“Well, come on in and have a seat. My name’s Ao, by the way.”
“I’m Watame.”
“That’s a cute name.”
“Thanks.”
Watame shuffled over to the nearest plastic-backed seat and sat down. She looked down at her manuscript and her cheeks flushed and she glanced up. “Sorry, I’m a bit nervous.”
Ao chuckled and sat down backwards on a chair across from her. “Well, don’t be! It’s just you and I in this room. And, trust me, there’ll be no judgment on my part.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“You really, really, really—”
“Listen,” said Ao, leaning forward and taking one of Watame’s hands. “No matter what it is you’ve written, I will hang on every word with nothing but curiosity and goodwill in my mind.” She patted Watame’s hand. “Okay?”
Watame lifted her head and beamed. “Okay.”
“Good.” Ao assumed the posture of a good listener. “Let’s hear it then.”
“Alright. It starts in the middle of things—”
“Oo, in medias res. That’s pretty advanced.” Ao grinned. “I like it already.”
Watame giggled. “Thanks. Okay, here I go.”
“The blood hung thick in the acrid air, intertwining with the gunsmoke to form hellborne helices. The threads of blood and gunpowder wormed their way down into my lungs and coated them from the inside.
I breathed in deep. I exhaled.
‘I love the smell of slaughter in the morning.’
I unbuckled my super shotgun from my belt and popped in a few explosive shells. I levelled its bores at the nearest—”
“Stop! Stop!” shouted Ao. Her forehead was creased with worry lines. “What genre did you say this story was?”
“Actually,” said Watame, “I didn’t mention it, but it’s a comedic slice of life with a minor romantic subplot.”
Ao blinked as though she’d been flash-banged. “I see.”
“Shall I continue?”
“Um, well—”
“I’ll continue,” said Watame, sweetly.
“Wait!” said Ao. “I have a better idea.”
Watame cocked her head.
“I’ve got a pretty good understanding of your story just from those opening lines. Being able to communicate the theme so, um, vividly and succinctly is the mark of a great writer. Maybe you can skip a page or two and pick up from there.”
“Okay!” chirped Watame. She skipped a few pages until she found a passage she particularly liked.
“A fountain of gore—viscera flying like the floes and flecks of a vomiting volcano—erupted from—”
“That’s enough for today!” screamed Ao, jumping to her feet, scrambling to pack away her colouring books.
“But it’s only been five minutes,” said Watame. “The workshop is supposed to go for an hour.”
Ao turned and looked at her, her face grave. “I have diarrhea, okay?”
“Oh,” said Watame. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, I gotta go RIGHT now—”
“Let me just read you the end,” said Watame, oblivious to Ao’s tormented groaning.
“Her feet are light and nimble. She never sleeps. She says that she will never die. She dances in light and in shadow and she is a great favorite. She never sleeps, the sheep. She is dancing, dancing. She says that she will never die.”
Ao slumped back into her chair and stared up at the ceiling.
“Wanna know what I’m gonna title it?” asked Watame.
“Dear God, no.”
Watame stroked her manuscript and leaned forward, her face darkening, her eyes reflecting the light unnaturally. “‘The Sheep Who Did Nothing Wrong’.”