(Private to Trist)

The sky was awake, so Scott was awake. And so Scott must play.

The son of Demeter searched desperately throughout his bright day. The sky was clear and blue, excellent weather. Campers had flooded to the beach to go swimming, surfing or just sunbathing. Other's relaxed around eating popsicles, or laying in the shade. And yet others were training, playing volleyball or basketball. And Scott didn't want to do any of those. He despised swimming, he was not much of a fighter, and he wasn't big on sports. And still, he sought something to do for he was not the kind of guy to just lay around, especially on a day like this.

Unable to find sustenance for his adventurous and active appetite, Scott wandered from one end of the camp to the other. He first started at the forests, but found it was a little creepy. He then moved on to the strawberry fields. Perhaps, he thought, his garden-based talents could be of use. His assumption rang true. There seemed a plethora of ripe strawberries giving off a delectable scent as it wafted by Scott's nose. And there were a strange absence of campers around the strawberry fields. It was a perfect environment for Scott.

Scott grabbed a bucket from the tiny excuse for a tool shed, and began to meander down the rose of strawberries. He examined almost each one, picking only the freshest and plumpest to go into the wooden bucket. Every now and then Scott stopped, brushed off a strawberry with his shirt, and took a bite. They were astoundingly juicy, the red liquid dribbling down his chin. Scott chuckled and wiped it off with the back of his hand. By the hour was up, Scott's bucket would be full, his hands would be sticky with the strawberries' juice, and he would have a nice sun-kissed tan.