Welcome to the fourth week of the Spring Writing Challenge!
You all did so well with your stories last week! There were so many interesting and unique ways you interpreted the prompt. It’s now the fourth week, so it’s time to do it again! Will your story have an epic battle between good and evil? A long-lost evil brother? Whatever you decide, we can’t wait to see what you come up with.
So, without further ado, here’s your next prompt!
Week Four Prompt – The Theme Prompt
Write a story that’s about a
Bigfoot Reunion
Wait…what’s a theme prompt?
A theme prompt is a prompt that’s about a particular subject! It doesn’t matter where your story takes place, who’s in it, or what’s said. The only thing that matters is that your story must be about a Bigfoot Reunion.
Before you start writing, we have some important rules for you to follow.
Writing Rules
1. Please keep the content of the stories you post to a PG rating. Please avoid real curse words. Violence/fighting should be limited and purposeful. Please do not include any spice.
2. Your story must be 1,000 words or less, and must contain the prompt to be counted for the challenge. You’re not required to post it in order to “win” the challenge, but if you want it to count for your team, your story must be posted by Sunday at 11:59 PM ET, and you must include your team name.
Remember to scroll all the way to the bottom of the page and post your story as an “answer” to this question, not a “comment”. 🙂 You’re all doing such a great job! I’m so proud of all the stories you’ve posted.
Happy Writing!
Team #1
The Gathering at Cedar Hollow by Ada Flannery
Every ten years, when the moon hung low and full over the Cascade Range, the great gathering commenced in Cedar Hollow. Hidden deep in the forest where no human foot had ever trod, at least, not one that returned, the Bigfoot clans came together from every corner of North America.
Gorruk adjusted the moss covered satchel that was slung low across his massive shoulders. His long shaggy fur shimmered with dew under the moonlight, and the scent of pine and river mist clung to him like a second skin. He hadn’t seen his cousin Drall in a decade—not since the incident with the elk stampede and the accidental fire.
Gorruk still insisted that it had been Drall’s clumsy feet that sparked the blaze, though Drall swore it was lightning. Either way, Gorruk was eager to see him again. He reached the clearing just as the others were arriving. Hulking figures stepping silently from the shadows, eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. There was Murra from the rockies, carrying her newborn swaddled in birch bark; Old Burr from the Alaskan tundra, wrapped in a faded hunter’s poncho he’d “found” decades ago; and the whisper-quiet twins from the Appalachian range, who always moved in perfect synchrony and never spoke above a murmur. And then, of course, there was Drall.
“Gorruk!” Drall’s deep voice boomed across the hollow as he lumbered over, arms wide, grin even wider. He had more gray in his fur now and a limp in is gait that hadn’t been there before, but his eyes still held that mischievous glint.
“You still owe me a pelt,” Gorruk grunted, gripping his cousin in a crushing hug.
“That elk was suicidal,” Drall muttered, releasing him.
“Besides, you never missed a meal because of it.” The cousins laughed, the sound like rocks tumbling through a cave, as the rest of the clan settled around the great fire pit. No flame was lit yet—it wouldn’t be until Grandmother Ylga arrived. She was the oldest of them all, the keeper of lore, and the only one who could summon fire without fear of revealing their presence to the humans below. The Gathering wasn’t just about reunion—it was about sharing stories, births, losses, sightings, and warnings.
Bigfoot lived in the seams of the world, between memory and myth. They thrived in shadows and silence. But even shadows needed a hearth now and then. Ylga arrived as the stars began to wheel overhead. She walked slowly but proudly, her fur matted with age, her eyes pale but piercing. With a wave of her gnarled hand, the fire sparked to life—not with matches or stones, but with an ancient magic passed down through her bloodline. They sat in a great circle, hundreds strong, their enormous shapes crouched like ancient statues. Gorruk leaned forward as the stories began. Murra spoke first, telling of the time she’d led a hiker in circles for hours to keep him away from their den.
She mimed the hiker’s frustration, arms flailing, and the group howled with laughter. Old Burr spoke of a time he was almost captured on a trail cam but instead left a blurry smear and a smear of bear scat in its place.
“Confused ‘em good,” he chuckled. Then came the more serious tales: a warning from the Northern clans about new drone patrols, a mention of strange lights over the forest in Arizona, and rumors that some humans were beginning to believe again—not just in blurry photos, but in the truth.
“More seekers now,” Ylga said, voice creaking like old bark. “Some who want to find us. Some who want to prove us. Others who want to hunt us.” A hush fell. Gorruk stood.
“Then we must remember what we are. Shadows in the trees. Whispers in the wind. We do not fight. We do not flee. We vanish.” They all nodded, solemn now. The fire crackled. Later, after stories and song, after shared meals of roots and fish and the odd deer haunch, Gorruk and Drall sat at the edge of the hollow, overlooking the sea of trees below.
“Remember when we tried to prank that park ranger by rearranging his gear?” Drall asked.
“He thought it was raccoons.”
“Raccoons can’t spell ‘Hi Bob’ with sticks,” Drall snorted. They sat in silence for a while, watching an owl drift silently between trees.
“You think it’ll last?” Drall asked finally. “The Hollow? Or us?”
“Both.” Gorruk didn’t answer at first.
“So long as the humans keep arguing about whether we’re real, we’ve got a chance. It’s belief that kills us. The more they think we’re a joke, the safer we are.” Drall grunted in agreement.
“Still, I wouldn’t mind being a legend one day. Like dragons. Or Elvis.”
“You are a legend,” Gorruk smirked. “At least to me.” Drall threw a pinecone at his head. As dawn crept over the horizon, the fire was doused, and the clan began to fade into the trees, one by one, until Cedar Hollow was empty once again. Silent. Untouched. Just the way it needed to be. But if you ever hike deep into the Cascades on the night of a full moon, and think you hear laughter in the trees or catch a flicker of firelight through the pines—don’t follow it. Some reunions aren’t meant for humans. And some legends prefer to stay that way.
