Welcome to the first week of the Spring Writing Challenge!
We’re so excited to get started on these stories. It’s time to roll up your sleeves, set your fingers on your keyboard, and get writing. Will your story contain aliens? A prince in disguise? Maybe even a sweet summer romance? Whatever happens, we can’t wait to see what you come up with!
So, without further ado, here’s your very first prompt!
Week One Prompt – The Dialogue Prompt
“If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here.”
Wait…what’s a dialogue prompt?
A dialogue prompt is a conversation between two characters. It doesn’t matter who says it, or if it takes place in the beginning, middle, or end of your story. However, one character must say the first sentence, and the second character must respond with the second sentence.
Before you start writing, there are some important rules 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. Moderators may remove stories and comments for any reason at any time. Moderators may remove any member from the challenge at any time.
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.
It’s time to post your story as a comment down below! We can’t wait to see all the fun directions you guys take this dialogue prompt. If you have any questions, feel free to email us at info@writers.company!
Happy Writing!
Ava,
Your story was very well written! I enjoyed reading it! 👏
Melissa
Ooh, what a fun story, girl! Fantastic job!
Wow, this is beautifully written!
I love your writing style!
Wow, I’m very impressed. The worldbuilding here feels grounded and real, the characters fleshed out, and the prompt just flows so smoothly with the rest of the narrative. Great story here!
I hope this part of something larger. I was totally sucked in.
Thanks for sharing your work. 🙂 Enjoyable read.
great opening line!
Beautiful story! Great job!
Absolutely loved it
i NEED the rest of this asap! i would love this as a book series. its excellent! The world-building is so good. you did a great job. i especially love how the characters are already full of the knowledge of the world and there is no need for any one character to outright explain things. again, have i expressed how i literally want this in my life so much!
Great details! I was brought right into the world you built!
Such a fun story! Loved the comical banter between characters
Team 1
The Whispering Yearbook by Eliza June Sapphire
I wasn’t skipping chemistry—I was just strategically avoiding it. Yes, there is a difference. I promise.
The back corner of the school library is the perfect hiding spot. It’s quiet, a little dusty, and just out of view of Ms. Shoust’s eagle eyes. That’s where I first saw it, wedged between an old dictionary and a hardcover titled, The History of the Periodic Table. A yearbook. 1999.
It looked normal at first. Navy blue cover, gold lettering, a doodled heart in one corner. Exactly what one would expect in my new high school, complete with the school colors. Flipping through the pages—mostly to amuse myself with old hair styles and clothing choices—I found it.
The sticky note seemed as old as the yearbook itself—yellowed, curled at the corners, and no longer sticky. The purple ink drew me in like a moth to a flame: Don’t ignore the margin notes. Cryptic.
Naturally, I had to read through all the notes. It was easy to spot all the typical scribblings:
Stay cool.
Don’t change.
Friends Forever 🎶.
Huh, I actually liked that song.
But alongside all those notes, were other, strange words. Phrases that didn’t make a lot of sense.
One margin note read, “Pop quiz—3rd period. Smile anyway.” Next to it, in red ink were the words True.
Another said, “Mug explodes. Glass. Stitches.” Next to that in the same red ink were the words: True.
The bell rang twice, signaling the switching of classes as I sat reading through the margins, unable to turn away. Toward the end, a date was written in clear, all caps. It was today’s date. Frowning, I checked, just to be sure. But, there was no mistaking it, it was today’s day and the time listed was in mere minutes.
Hallway H. Spill. 1:17. Avoid.
Weird. I flipped a few more pages, scanning for clues. A minute later, a loud SPLAT echoed from the hallway. Then laughter.
I crept to the doorway and peeked out. Someone had dropped a whole tray of food.
I blinked, stunned. I read the words again and again—unable to understand, yet knowing somehow they were true. I quickly went back to my earlier spot, but came up short when I saw Riley sitting in my abandoned seat.
“Where’d you come from? You weren’t here just a second ago.” I felt like an idiot—there was no way he could’ve gotten back here without walking right past me.
“I just got here.” He smirked. “Is that a problem?” He lifted just one eyebrow, immediately annoying me. I’d always wanted to be able to do that.
“No. I guess not. Just surprised.”
Riley nodded his head, “I see you found the book.”
I looked at him, weighing my options. I was already the new kid—did I want to be labeled crazy, too? I decided to go for it.
“If you know something bad is going to happen,” I asked, holding up the book, “do you have to try and stop it?”
Riley leaned forward, his expression shifting from amused to intrigued. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” he said. “These predictions…they’re real. Some more serious than others.”
My eyes widened. “You’ve seen it before?”
He nodded. “Found it last year. Thought it was a prank until the marching band’s tuba caught fire. On picture day.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Exactly.” He flipped a few pages forward, like he knew where to look. “It doesn’t always warn about big stuff. But sometimes it gets serious.”
We scanned the margins in silence until we found it—today’s date again, circled this time in thick, black ink. Underneath it read:
“Stairwell B. 2:03. Slip. Sprain. Don’t Run.”
“I literally just read through this whole book front to back. This wasn’t here before. I would have remembered the circled date!”
“We’ve got four minutes, you in?” Riley asked. “The messages seem to come and go, no pattern that I’ve found.”
“Guess it’s time to become hallway monitors.”
We half-jogged through the halls, skidding to a stop outside Stairwell B. No one was there—yet.
Then we heard footsteps pounding down the halls.
A young kid—probably a freshman—rounded the corner at full speed, backpack bouncing like it had its own orbit. Behind him, Coach Demming—aka The Human Freight Train—was giving chase.
“Slow down!” I yelled, flailing my arms like a lunatic. “Don’t go down the stairs!”
To our surprise, the kid skidded to a stop, blinking. Coach Demming slowed, panting.
“What’s this about?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you boys be in class?”
Riley jumped in, improvising. “There was…uh… water on the stairs? It’s super slippery. The janitor’s on the way, he asked us to stay here until he got back with the sign.
Demming frowned, but nodded. “Fine, but get back to class as soon as he gets here.” He turned to the kid, “You, my office. Now.”
As the hallway cleared, I turned to Riley, heart pounding. “Do you think that was it?” I asked.
“Pretty sure,” he shrugged. “Let’s go check the book.”
We walked back to the library, side by side. I opened the yearbook between us, half-expecting it to start talking. Riley shifted, putting his hands in his pockets.
I thumbed to the page with the most recent warning, but it was gone—as if it had never been there at all. Turning the page, I saw it—new handwriting at the bottom.
Not red. Not black.
Purple.
“New Club: Yearbook Watchers. Two Members Required.”
I gasped, glancing at Riley.
“Well,” he said, “looks like we’ve been recruited.”
I laughed despite myself. “Guess skipping chemistry isn’t the worst decision I made today.”
Riley offered a fist bump. “To the club?”
I bumped his fist. “To the club.”
And just for a moment, the yearbook’s pages fluttered, even though there was no breeze.
What an interesting take on the prompt! I really enjoyed reading this! ❤️
I loved this! Such a great premise and so much fun to read!
Honestly, I got lost in the world you created. The story was captivating to me in that it reminded me of the mystery books I used to read when I was younger. The premise of the story involving a “future-telling” yearbook was just brilliant. I love the dynamic between Riley and the first person speaker. Great work!
This caught my eye quickly. I enjoyed the read and would love more of this story. <3
Very fun premise! It almost feels like the intro to a YA novel. Great job for putting it out there!
Ooh, fun idea! Great job!
I would love to read this in a book. There is so much potential here!
Thanks for all the kind and thoughtful words! The act of posting our writing is such a vulnerable one. I so appreciate ya’ll <3 Always happy to connect and receive feedback (good and bad!)
Gloomweaver and the Deep Dark
Being a hero is frustrating work.
It beats slinging mochas at the local cafe dive or my old job- funeral assistant- but it’s soul-sucking, mind-numbing, brain-wants-to-explode work anyway. And my fellow heroes? They keep talking about all these virtues and heroic qualities and blah, blah, blah.
Fine, maybe the real problem has more to do with me than it does with them, I gripe, pulling my cape closer about my shoulders as I step into the training room.
I grab a subatomic gun from the wall.
“Simulation 1.” I say in a monotonous voice.
The room whirs to life and water forms all around me. Vicious little fish-like monsters, fictional and cartoon-like, float towards me and I finish them off one by one, relaxing in the blast of my gun.
This is what my life has become. The equivalent to stress gaming.
My simulation cuts out before I can finish it completely.
“What on earth?”
The doors open to reveal one of my colleagues, Amina Parquette, also known as Bubble Wonder. Her powers are chewing gum manipulation. The kind of hero I try to stay away from at all costs.
“Hey. I noticed you come here a lot.” she says, her dreads bobbing up and down as she talks, since she’s bouncing towards me in an annoying way. It’s the way she walks, and I admit. It’s who she is, but through my current perception of the world, it irks me. She’s everything I can’t be. I clench my fist inside my gloves, my jaw in a similar state.
“Not in the mood to talk, huh?” She smiles. Nauseating.
“No, of course not.” I can’t restrain the growl in my voice. It’s always there lately. Always. She recoils, backing away from me, one step.
“Gloomweaver, if you need to talk-” The attempt to regain her courage is touching, really, but I only feel what she doesn’t say. She’s afraid of me. They all are. Why wouldn’t they be?
“If you know something bad’s about to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
Her brows knit together and she purses her lips, looking at me harder to see if she can figure out what I’m talking about.
“I just got here.” she says, putting her hands on her hips and tossing her head a bit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Me.” I wander back to the gun rack and put my weapon back, settling onto a bench by the racks. A water cooler is within reach, and I wonder at once if I should go get a drink since my throat is dry as dust, but make no move to do so.
Bubble Wonder kneels down in front of me, meeting my teary eyes like I’d do to comfort children who had their homes wrecked by supervillains.
“Don’t tell me you know one of their plans.” She says, and the comment stings.
“You think I’m a traitor?” I cross my arms.
“That’s not what I’m saying. Maybe you overheard something? Were threatened? It happens to the best of us.”
I reach up and touch my hair. Finger the communication earring I’d convinced myself was a good investment.
My brain backpedaled to find an answer like it usually does, for a few suffocating moments under her gentle stare.
“What if the problem I’m talking about is me?” I spoke out loud, finally. It didn’t seem like those were my own words.
“Now, you’re really not making sense.”
“It’s not going to be long before I absorb someone’s happy emotions again and leave them numb and broken.” I finally admit. “Besides, I’ve been a menace lately. I’m so sorry, but.” Tears were flowing down my face freely now and I cringed as my coworker gave me a hug. Everything in me screamed as I fought to avoid sucking up her warmth, her joy, her enthusiasm. Things my heart beat with jealousy for.
“You’re not understanding everything. I’ve seen you with those children. You’ve returned smiles to their faces. It’s beautiful.”
“And then, they don’t understand me because I’m the gloomy Gus.” I retort as she sits down beside me, hand still on my shoulder.
“I see.”
“I probably should have said this from the start, that every negative emotion I encounter and take, I have to live with it, and soon I become a menace and a monster.”
“Does absorbing happy emotions work for you?”
“No. I can’t siphon those either, since I become nothing but a happy idiot with no restraints. I’ll spend my money on frivolous things, and end up skipping around with my head in the clouds. It’s more addictive than it is helpful, and no, I don’t generate my own emotions. Since my powers manifested, I’ve felt nothing.”
“Okay.” She bit her lip, focusing really hard. “Let’s try something. I know I speak for the team when I say we still want you aboard. You do your best and have a heart for helping people, and it shows. But- you do need to get a handle on this ability before it consumes you. Yes, you have to stop something bad from happening when you know it will.” She smiled.
This time I thought it was genuine, even though my feelings said otherwise.
“What I want you to do is to take from the team in small amounts, whenever you see us have an abundance of positive emotions. Bask in the small things, enjoy along with us. I’ll ask you in a week how it’s going. Hang in there.”
“Okay, I will.”
I admit, I was hoping for them to kick me out like my parents did or find some way to remove my powers. Not advise me to treat life like a balancing act. Bubble’s words helped me to rise from that bench and go back to my quarters, and from that day forward take step after step.
Yes, when you know you’re headed to a dark place, it’s important to do something about it.
Thanks for reading- I appreciate it.
Loved the yearbook story such a creative spin!!
“Oh no.” I lowered my chicken wrap and gazed past my brother. “If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
Tommy raised his hands as if in surrender. “I just got here.”
“So that’s a no?”
“It’s a maybe. Ellie, what the heck is going on?”
My question exactly. But that guy with his hair parted in the middle and khakis that didn’t fit right was walking across the college cafeteria toward Maddie, my best friend. Again.
“If you see an awkward guy with no social awareness walking toward your best friend, should you try to stop it? When you know he likes her but she’s not interested in him?”
“If it were me, I’d just let it play out and see how it ends.”
I crossed my arms. “Some friend you are.”
He shrugged.
“But what if your friend said she was really tired of the socially awkward guys asking her out? And how they never took no for an answer? Like a modern-day Mr. Collins?” I turned to my brother. “Should I try to stop it then?”
“This is a lot more ethical questions than I signed up for.” My brother crumpled up his paper coffee cup. “Who the heck is Mr. Collins?”
Mr. Socially Awkward had spotted Maddie. Maddie hadn’t spotted him. She continued blissfully reading her book as he beelined across the food court, khaki pants swishing as they brushed against each other. Who wore khakis to class these days anyway?
“He’s spotted her,” I hissed. “Do something!”
It was too late. Loose-fitting khaki pants seated himself at the table with Maddie. Maddie closed her book, said something (probably an excuse to leave), but khaki pants was already launched into a thesis-long speech about how the Crusades weren’t actually all that bad. Maddie, kind-hearted soul that she is, sat back down and nodded politely.
“Tommy, she’s fallen into his trap,” I said. “He knows she won’t get up again and he’ll go on and on until she’s so sick of listening to his Crusades tirade she’ll do anything to get him to stop. Then he’ll ask her to go to the movies and dinner with him tomorrow night and she’ll be so eager for the chance to get out of the conversation she’ll say yes.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “That’s not going to happen.”
“I know it is because it’s happened before!” I threw my hands in the air. “Last weekend when she couldn’t come to the football game with us? She had agreed to go to the Mexican restaurant with some loser because she’s too nice to say no. And she doesn’t even like Mexican!”
“So why doesn’t she tell khaki pants she’s seeing someone else?” Tommy asked.
I kept my eyes on my friend as I replied. “I finally convinced her to stop going out with him.”
Tommy leaned into my line of sight, forcing me to look at him. “So she’s single right now?”
“Yes, Tommy, that’s why this guy is trying to get her number!” I shook my head. “You guys are so dense sometimes.”
Tommy stood up and dropped his crumpled coffee cup on the floor. “I’ll save her.”
I was so shocked and impressed I didn’t even tell him to pick up his trash. He walked across the food court, stopped at the table Maddie was at, asked her a question without looking at Khaki Pants, she giggled and nodded, and Tommy returned to my table, grinning like…
Like he just got a date.
“No,” I breathed as he floated past me. “What did you do?”
He beamed at me. “I made it so she can’t go out with Khaki Pants.”
“By doing what exactly?”
His face just about broke he was smiling so wide. “By asking her to go to the movies with me tonight.”
I looked back at Maddie. Khaki pants had disappeared. Maddie’s face was buried in her book again, but I caught flushed cheeks and a faint smile as she turned the page.
For crying out loud, she was holding the book upside down.
This was not how I expected this to go.
“Well, as long as she’s excited about it,” I said. “Just don’t take her to the Mexican place for dinner.”
Team A
This is so sweet! I loved it 🙂
Ah! I thoroughly enjoyed that! It was so fun and easy to read; it flowed so naturally. Ten out of ten.
That was great!
Aww that was a sweet read!
The story flowed well and was so believable, I felt like I was watching it happen. Love how he solved the problem! 🙂
Awww this is so cute <3
Awww thank you all I’m glad you liked it!
Team 1 <3
The Letter
by Ava Fiore
Violette kept one hand in her pocket as she hurried up the church’s worn, crumbling steps. She remembered when buildings like this were revered, but time was ruthless. It had long ago wormed its way into this place, chipping away at the stone and forming cracks in the once beautiful architecture.
Rushing down the center of the dusty sanctuary, Violette sank to her knees before what must have once been the altar. The little sunlight that made it past the grimy windowpanes dappled her face as Violette pulled the letter from her pocket.
She unfurled the page, hands shaking. How could one piece of paper determine the fate of so many? Violette pressed her hands to her corset, finding it hard to breathe. If she could find help anywhere, it would be here.
“If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try to stop it?” Violette held her breath as her words echoed around the room. She had heard the stories of faith and answered prayers, but couldn’t be sure if they were true.
At first, all was quiet. Then, “I just got here.”
Violette’s heart leapt in her throat as she jerked around, wayward curls whipping her cheeks. A man stood a few feet behind her, hands in his pockets. Well, maybe not a man. He only looked a few years older than her.
He stood with wavy dark hair falling over his brow, staring at her with a you don’t see this every day look on his tan face. Violette stuffed the letter back into her pocket and started to stand, but he motioned for her to stop.
“Don’t let me disturb you.” Then he did something extremely strange. He came and kneeled next to her.
“Sorry, I thought I was alone,” Violette said apologetically. She probably looked ridiculous in her voluminous gown, speaking out loud like a madwoman. Plus, her heart had yet to cease pounding loudly in her chest since she found the letter that morning.
“Everyone is welcome here. Though I’m guessing it’s your first time coming since I’ve never seen you before.” His eyes took in her gown and curls before adding, “Princess.” The word was more of a question than a statement, one that Violette found she did not want to answer. But after he watched her expectantly for about ten seconds, she gave a slight nod.
“I’m Violette.”
“Henry.” He returned, like meeting princesses was a daily occurrence for him. She offered her fingers, and he shook them gently. “I know you weren’t asking me, but I could give you an answer to your earlier question, if you want.”
A shudder went through her body as Violette remembered why she was at this abandoned church in the first place. She opened her mouth to decline Henry’s offer in the kindest way possible, but clamped it shut after a sudden thought hit her. Maybe listening to his words required an act of faith. After all, this was certainly not the response she had anticipated.
After seeing her nod, Henry casually ran a hand through his hair before saying, “Yes. If you know something bad will happen, trying to stop it is the only option.”
Violette felt a little dizzy from the surrealness of the moment. Kneeling at the altar of a dusty church next to a boy her age, who was currently treating her like a long-lost friend. Her heart pounded louder at his words. She was a princess, but that title did not hold the same power it used to. How could it be enough to fight against evil’s relentless tide?
Squeezing her eyes shut, Violette sent up a silent help me, please. When she opened them, she found Henry looking at her like he knew exactly what was going through her mind.
Then, because maybe prayers could be answered, he asked, “Do you need help?”
Violette’s brain screamed at her to say no, walk away, and keep her secrets close to her heart and in her pockets. She did not know this boy.
An act of faith, Violette.
So, she met his gaze and said, “Yes.”
Love the royalty spin on the prompt!! I especially enjoyed how you were able to make your writing so detailed even with the word count 🙂
I really liked this one! Would totally read more!
The Taste of Salt
I still remember the taste of salt in the air that day. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but you could feel it, whispering deep beneath the sea, muttering under the skin of the world. The sky hung low and heavy, torn with jagged bruises of cloud, the shore lashed by winds that dragged the scent of seaweed and old stone from the cliffs. I sat alone, watching the sun sink into the eastern ocean, the last threads of light staining the water blood and gold.
It should have been beautiful.
It had once been beautiful.
But that day, it had been a warning.
The wind stilled without warning, a hush falling over the sea so sudden it made my skin crawl. The waves went glassy, catching the molten light, more crimson than gold. For a breathless moment, the horizon was a world of black and fire, like torchlight glancing off a dark mirror. Just like they said in the old stories. The sort of light that came before a dragon-battle. The sort of fire that conquered kingdoms.
I didn’t care.
I had been born beneath a storm. Cursed from my first breath. The crippled daughter of a fisherman, offered to the dragons as a sacrifice. They had accepted me, and the priests of the House of Dragons took me gladly because I was born during the Storm-Tide. What else would I have been good for — a daughter of Aelgar with a twisted foot? No, the robes of a priestess and the songs of the gods were all I was destined for. A harbinger. An omen. A living offering.
The old pain tugged dully, and I shifted, the ache of bones that had never sat right. The sting of muscles grown brittle with cold. Limbs misfashioned in the womb so that even the high craft of the priests could not set them right. It was a quiet, familiar thing now. A part of me, like the sea salt in my veins or the wind in my hair. As cool and unchangeable as the roughness of the cliffs beneath my hands.
I didn’t turn at the sound of footsteps behind me. I didn’t need to.
Lyra.
She came down the path behind me, her white robes heavy with gold thread, catching on the wind like wings. For a moment, in the last light, she looked like one of the old goddesses from the high towers that rim the world. Pale hair gilded by the fire of the sunset, blue eyes like a storm-hungry sky. A priestess of the House of Dragons. A voice of the gods.
But to me, she was just Lyra.
I swallowed hard, staring at the horizon, where distant shapes wheeled in the dying light. Dragons. Even this far out, you could see them sometimes. Their wings catching the sun. Their shadows flickering over the water.
“If you know something bad is going to happen,” I said, my voice quieter than I’d ever heard it, “do you have to try and stop it?”
Lyra didn’t answer at first. She knelt beside me, her robe pooling around her, arms wrapped around her knees. I could feel the heat of her beside me. It made me shiver. “I just got here,” she said, and I could tell she did not want to talk about it. “Is this really the time?”
My hands clenched without meaning to. “I don’t know.”
Her eyes found the horizon. Under her breath, she muttered a few of the lines from the hymn of the setting sun. Ancient. Beautiful. Sacred.
We sat in silence a long while, watching the sky burn. Listening to the sea murmur far below.
I breathed the words without meaning to. “The king’s son is returning.”
Her tone was very soft. “Yes.”
That made me angry. Like she didn’t care. Like she had served the dragons for so long now she had forgotten there was a world outside our chants and rites.
“The city’s going to fall.”
She looked at me this time. “Yes.”
Another silence. The kind of silence you only find at the end of things.
“I dreamt of fire last night,” I whispered, because I had to say it. “Of black wings over the High Hall. Of blood in the streets. The dragons are restless.”
“They always are,” Lyra said softly.
I looked at her, and for a moment, there was something unguarded in my face. Something raw. She could tell I was afraid.
“I want to leave,” I whispered.
She started slightly, her expression going hard. “And go where?” I heard the mockery in her voice already. “Go kneel before the king? You know we control him. Go bow to the men of the other islands? The dragons will destroy them the same as us.”
There were a hundred things I could have said back to her. A thousand arguments I could have made. I didn’t want any of them though.
“I was given to the House because I was broken,” I said, staring out at the horizon. The wind had picked up again, sharp little gusts that whipped my hair across my face and sent chills down my back. I could smell the storm now. It was coming. “It’s hard to destroy what was broken to begin with.”
She looked at me, her jaw tight.
I pushed myself to my feet with a wince, turning to look down towards the city. The path is slick with the first drops of rain, the rocks treacherous. “If we’re going to die either way, I’d rather die fighting for something than worshiping the monsters that devour our people.” My eyes locked on her face, a tiny smile on my lips. “I was born broken — maybe that means I have nothing left to lose.”
Team Herbert
This is incredibly beautiful and so well-written (and as a fantasy writer, I’m amazed at the depth of world-building you were able to incorporate)! If you don’t mind my asking, are you published or do you have other work available somewhere? I’d love to read more of your writing!
Hey! Thank you so much!
I am not published yet (though Lord-Willing I would love to be soon). I am actually looking for some beta readers right now. This was written as… I guess cannon to the eight part series I am currently working on. For lack of a better way of putting it, its actual events that happened during my book Crown of Fire, but not characters or stuff you really hear about in the real book itself. *Grins* Kind of looked at the prompt and was like “why not write fanfiction for my own book” *chuckles* that is why there is so much world building in it. I have a whole world already set up. *eyes sparkle* I love it so much. I am struggling not to go into a long speech about said world.
I do actually run a paper called Blotted Ink Conspiracies though I would have to give you the link so you could access it. Honestly, I’d love to connect via email or something if you’d be open to it. *happy grin*
Sorry, hopefully I didn’t just come across as wildly weird or a creep.
this is sooo good! I love the world you created!
I really enjoyed reading your “action-packed” story, and I mean to say that the “action” were all found in the vivid imagery and the well laid out dialogue. Really excellent work. I wish this was a novel!
Such a fun concept! Great job 🙂
Ooh, what a fun concept! And amazing descriptions!
Alias, I’d love to connect by email, but I don’t want to post my email here. Could you reach out to me through the contact form on my website? The link is authorgracemacpherson.com/contact. That will give me your email, and then when I reply you’ll have mine as well. And I’d definitely be interested in beta reading–I’m always looking for new reading material!
Great job! I look forward to your published work!
Right Place Right Time
Taylor
The cool fall air of November hits me when I open the car door. I shut the door and pull my rust-colored sweater closer to my body holding in the heat. I cross the busy street and make my over to the town tavern. I don’t even know why I truly came. I tell myself for the millionth time this week. I am greeted by a standup sign outside the door it reads “Welcome Class of 2011”. I roll my eyes and take a deep breath. I walk inside.
“Hi! How many?” the bubbly hostess asks.
“I am here for the reunion.” I tell her curtly with a small smile.
Miss Bubbly, as I will now call her, walks me downstairs to the private party room that was rented out for this occasion. Our High School class was made up of only one hundred and nineteen people the day of graduation. Over the last twenty years people have scattered but also, unfortunately, passed. The room is a decent size, but I know for sure no more than fifty people are attending tonight. I take a moment to look around the room. It’s decked out with pictures from our senior year scattered across the walls. The centerpieces on all the tables represent our school colors of maroon and white. Immediately to the right of the stairs is a seating chart. I glide over to the chart and take note of where I am sitting. I’ll just head to my table and keep to myself. It is what I did best then, and I’ll do it now.
“Taylor! You came! It’s so nice to see you!” a woman’s cheerful tone calls out across the room.
Or not.
I turn and smile the biggest fake smile I can muster and see Emily Betts, our class Vice President coming over hastily toward me with open arms.
“Hi, it’s nice to see you too!” I tell her and also extend my arms for a brief embrace.
“I made sure to sit you with Kelsey since I know you two are still friends.” Emily tells me.
“Thanks, yes we are.” I smile and begin to look for my escape from this awkwardness.
Within a moment Emily was called away by the wait staff for food questions. Saved. There is a table in the center of the room adorned with school colors but also items from the time capsule that the class president opened up this year. A yearbook, and a football with the senior’s names scribbled on it. They won the state championships that year. I keep glancing around the table at the enclosed artifacts from our senior year when I come across a group of silicone rubber bracelets. Having a million colors and attempting to wear as many as possible was the cool thing to do. I scoff at the memory. I lean it to take a closer look at one of them because I noticed writing on it. On the inside band of one of the bracelets I saw written “revenge”. My eyes are playing tricks on me. But no, no they were not. It was clear what was written. I stood again and made my way directly to my seat. The room began to fill up with former classmates. I sat and poured myself a glass of water. I went into law enforcement after high school and had a knack for detective work. I loved CSI growing up. I became really good at investigating crimes and scenes, so much that federal picked me up and I do some top-notch secret work. I thought again about the bracelet. I told myself to stop overthinking. You are not at work; it was just a silly bracelet from high school. It calmed me momentarily.
“Hey! Sorry traffic was horrible.” Kelsey broke my thoughts and plopped down next to me.
“Thank god you are here!” It was all I could say.
“Did you see they opened the time capsule?” she asked
Just as I was about to answer I heard a gasp followed by shattering glass and a metal tray clamoring to the ground. I look up and notice a waiter carrying a tray of wine glasses bumped into Emily spilling its white wine, thankfully, all over her white blouse. Emily stormed off. I looked back toward the waiter who was making his way back to the kitchen. I caught a look at his face and felt recognition slide across my brain but couldn’t place it. Planting myself back into my conversation with Kelsey, I tell her.
“Yea, I saw. Did you look at all the stuff yet?”
“No, you?”
“Yeah, one of the bracelets has the word “revenge” written on the inside of it.” I inform her.
It was at that moment I realized why I recognize the waiter. In a calm panic, I grab Kelsey’s arm and ask her
“If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try to stop it?”
I know why I came tonight. it was for this moment.
“We have to go.” I tell her and a stand.
“I just got here.” she tells me in return but follows.
Once outside I make a call to the local PD throwing around my title. The waiter inside was a fellow classmate from high school. He was bullied a lot. He threatened a classmate once or twice. He may have had every right since he was the victim, but I always had an inkling he would retaliate. Kelsey and I sat in my car while I made the call and told them of my suspicion when he came out the back door, went to his car and grabbed a gun.
“I am going back inside. Where is your team?” I ask the chief at the other end.
“Inbound, seconds maybe.” He responds.
I hastily move to the back door with the sound of police cars barreling down the street behind me. Please God be with me.
“TEAM A”
Great job!
Cool take on the prompt! Great job writing and getting this out there!
I enjoyed reading your story. Having her notice a detail like “revenge” written on the bracelet was a great touch! The bullying reference gave great context.
Thanks for sharing your story. I like the concept of the high school reunion.
“If You See Something”
By: Hannah Stiff, Team A
Her phone’s on speaker, and I hear every word of the conversation whether I want to or not. As I round the corner into the drink aisle, I catch a glimpse of her face. She’s probably my mom’s age, short graying hair tucked under a hand knitted toque with matching scarf.
“And so ma’am, your personal account is now very much at risk, do you understand?”
It’s tragically obvious the guy’s reading a script, talking like a race announcer rather than a banking representative.
She’s balancing a case of cokes on her hip, eyes flicking between it and the phone perched on her shopping cart seat. I grimace, gripping my cart handle tighter. Are some people just born without consciences? What kind of monsters apply for those jobs anyway?
“Do you understand ma’am?” The guy’s accent is as thick as the call center’s background noise. Then the lady spots me and we lock eyes. She smiles, the all patient mother smile accompanied by an eye roll and resigned shrug.
She knows what he’s up to. I smile back, mimicking her gestures before pushing past her to the iced tea.
Perhaps, but shouldn’t you just tell her to end the call now? The suggestion hits me in the back like a spray of gravel. Duh, and look like a creeper? I retort before hefting a 2 liter bottle from the shelf and fleeing the aisle.
What’s creepy about offering advice? I hit a display of potato chips and simultaneously ram my ankle with the cart’s metal frame. Giving it and the display a glare, I resume my course to the bakery.
Telling a lady who could’ve birthed me to be careful about strangers? I’d come across like a nursing home worker! The rebuttal satisfies my inner critic, and I flex my shoulders before glancing down at my cart. And see the iced tea’s label.
Sugar free, seriously? I whirl around, wheels skittering on smudged tiles like an F1 race car. Focus girl! I shake my head as I spin into the drink aisle once more.
She’s still there. She’s leaning on her cart now, hovering over the phone like she’s receiving a loved one’s dying wishes. I move toward the iced tea, trying to hear nothing, but the words blare out like they’re on the PA system.
She nods, blue eyes traveling to her shopping list where she scribbles the number hurriedly.
My heart free falls from a second story window, and I scramble to make the drink switch. I look both ways, praying for someone else to walk by, to notice, to hear. But we’re alone.
She’s got this. I’m speed walking out of the aisle. Probably taking down the number to report to the fraud department. I hit another cart pusher and yank away, mumbling an apology.
She’s getting duped.
I pull up by the boxed donuts, swiping at one without a second glance. How do I know that? I mean seriously, I could be hearing it all wrong! And If I’m wrong, I’ll look like a nut!
So you’re worried about how you’ll look.
I want to punch myself. This interior debate is about to prompt a come apart.
It’s not just that! I’ve got no time. Shane’s coming in five to pick me up, and the meeting…
The meeting. The reminder adds more haste to my movements. I do some slowing breathing as I pluck a pack of paper towels from a bin and then power my way to the checkout.
The teenaged clerk “good morning’s” me, but I refuse to make contact of any sort. I wince as the donuts refuse to ring through, and the kid fiddles with the barcode. The cacophony of beeps and clicks suddenly fade as I pick up a shopper’s frantic voice.
“Yes, please give me a couple of minutes, I’m heading to the bank right now to make the transfer!” The lady breezes past, the coke case banging against her chest, the phone sliding on top.
“Of course ma’am, I will hold, just keep the purpose of the transfer secret for security purpose ma’am…” The scammer’s injunctions crackle out as she disappears from view.
I’ve been so wrong.
The clerk is moving with maddening slowness, her hands resting on the keypad.
Move, move!! My brain feels like it’s burning.
The girl swings the card reader over, and I smack it with my visa, my hands sweaty and shaking.
You need to go, now!!
The clerk hands me the receipt. I rip it from her fingers and hooking the bags under my arm, run like Rocky.
People are purposefully blocking my path, I swear. Plastic bags bang against my thighs, and I hear a handle rip off. The automatic doors slide open and I stagger through, taking in the parking lot like a bounty hunter.
The late morning sun is covered in sooty clouds, fog slithering around the building. I see no hand knitted toque, no pensive blue eyes. She’s gone.
A red sedan slows up under my nose, and Shane’s grin mocks me from the open window. I fall in, groceries gathering at my feet.
“If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?” I barely feel myself speak. I stare ahead, my body numb and cold.
Shane gives me a look. “I just got here. You ok?”
I lay my head on the dash and start to sob.
So that was rough… in a good way. It built up the tension nicely, and I appreciate that you didn’t take the “easy” way out with your narrator. I was somehow expecting the dialogue prompt to be between herself and herself, but I absolutely loved that the prompt was a thematic cap to her arc after she convinced herself not to do anything throughout the whole encounter.
Also, the scammer call guy — i loved that you pulled in that bit of reality from our current reality. I think that’s the first time I’ve encountered that in any medium of fiction.
The strength of this story — the internal conflict — drew me in, and I loved that your main character was not just trying to choose right or wrong but actively avoiding doing the right thing. It wasn’t an emotionally satisfying ending, but it was the “right” ending and I liked the way you took me on the journey.
Ah! This story was so good 🙂 You had me leaning towards my laptop as I read it. You raised the stakes really well with this.
Ben and Alli, thanks so much!! The prompt really spoke to me. The first truly “sad” ending I’ve written, but I’m glad you felt it was the “right ending” Ben. I’ve been trying to elevate my writing with focus on “showing rather than telling” since the ProCritique Alli. (:
I love that someone wrote what happens if you don’t do something. There are so many times in our lives that we just keep walking. What difference could it make if we did something instead?
Enjoyed the tension in your story. Relatable too, with all of the phone scams out there!
Thanks Annette!
This was really good! It’s tragic how the main character convinced herself not to take the risk of being wrong, and by the time she decided she needed to say something, it was too late. As someone who’s had pretty similar thought processes, it’s a great lesson to not let fear get in the way of speaking up. Great work!
Thanks Jordan! I agree, it’s so easy to logic out our decisions to stay quiet or not act, I’ve been there too. I’m glad the lesson came through. (:
Thanks April, sorry I didn’t respond sooner, the comment only showed up today. I enjoyed exploring that side of our humanity with this story. (:
The automatic glass doors opened, bringing in a rhythmic set of squeaks from a pair of old-fashioned clown shoes. Buster stepped inside, taking a moment to admire the sleek, modern casting office. He stared at the marble floors and the giant digital posters gliding silently across the walls. Soft ambient music played as he bobbed his head, completely out of sync with everything around him.
One poster caught his eye. PAINTED TEARS: FOR THE LOVE OF COMEDY
In a world where laughter is a crime, only one man remembers how to smile.
The image showed a grayscale clown standing against a line of riot police. One hand raised in surrender, the other held a deflated balloon.
“Huh,” Buster muttered. “Looks intense…maybe a parody?” He made his way to the front desk, where a sophisticated receptionist tapped at her tablet.
“Hi there! Buster the Clown. My agency booked me—Funny Clowns Serious Prices?”
She blinked. “That…doesn’t sound familiar. Are you with one of the majors?”
“Nope. We’re boutique. Real edgy. Lots of mime work lately.”
She gestured toward the waiting area. Buster squeaked his way to the chairs. The room was filled with sharp-jawed actors in sleek black suits. Some sat silently, headphones in. Others whispered emotional lines with different facial expressions. He passed a few of them and paused to listen.
“They banned balloons. Said they were a threat to society.”
“I told my kid a knock-knock joke. They told him no one’s ever there.”
“I haven’t heard a laugh in five years…”
Buster blinked and looked away. These guys went from stone-faced to sobbing in seconds. He found an open seat between two of them and sat. His whoopee cushion went off.
“That wasn’t me. That was him,” he said, pointing. “Haha!” The actor beside him scooted away. Buster glanced to his left and froze. Sitting next to him was Jack Hammerstone, star of Jack Attack 1 through 5 and Vengeance at the Zoo. Jack stared ahead, lips moving in a whisper.
“The last time I smiled, they took away my red nose.”
Buster leaned in, grinning. “Whoa. Jack Hammerstone! I’ve seen all your movies. Even the one where you played a firefighter scared of fire.”
Jack gave a slight smile and a small nod. “Appreciate that.”
“Didn’t think movie stars did clown auditions.”
Jack turned toward him. “You know this isn’t a comedy, right?”
“It’s not?”
“It’s dystopian. The last clown standing in a world where laughter is illegal. Big budget. Real stakes. Deep stuff.”
“Oh…so not, like, balloon animals and banana peels?”
Jack shook his head. “It’s a psychological role. He sparks a revolution, with silence. There’s a scene where he gets arrested for smiling.”
Buster sighed. “I think my agency made a mistake.” A casting assistant entered. “Jack Hammerstone?” Jack stood. Before walking in, he paused.
“I don’t believe in mistakes,” he said. “Things happen for a reason.”
“You think so?”
“If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
Buster frowned. “What does that even mean, man?”
Jack smiled. “Exactly. Just let yourself go. Be the actor you were born to be.”
“Okay… I guess?”
Jack handed him a thick, folded script, several lines highlighted.
“Focus on the ones I underlined. Might help.”
Buster opened the script and flipped through. “Scene twelve…” he read. “‘The world cracked when they outlawed joy. But I still had my horn.’” He scratched his head. “What?”
He paced through the waiting room, mumbling as his clown shoes squeaked.
“He juggled pain like it was hope…the mime resistance starts at dawn…they took my rubber chicken…and with it, my soul.” He looked up, watching other actors rehearse.
“He laughed once. Just once. We never saw him again.” One actor said.
“They broke his kazoo. With a steel-toe boot.” The other one acted out a boot stomp.
Buster scanned the room, astonished. “This is definitely not like a kids party.”
The casting room door opened. Several agents stepped out. Some wiping tears, others clapping.
“That was transcendent.”
“Jack, you became the clown.”
“We didn’t watch the scene. We felt it.” The third agent said. Jack exited, calm and composed.
“Wow,” Buster whispered. “They loved you!”
Jack shrugged. “Nah, that was easy. Just focus on the lines I underlined and I’m sure you will be ok.”
“Right. Thanks.”
Jack gave him a pat on the shoulder and walked off. Buster watched him in awe.
“He even walks like a star.”
As Jack disappeared, Buster waved, then as he dropped his hand. Out came his never-ending red handkerchief. It kept falling…and falling. He fumbled to gather it just as the assistant poked her head out.
“Buster? You’re up.”
Buster straightened, took a breath, adjusted his red nose, and stepped forward.
“Okay…you got this. Serious funny face now. No juggling. Just feel the sadness of…balloon oppression.” He said.
The glass doors opened again. A young actor in a crisp blazer walked in, confidence radiating. He looked around like he owned the room. Buster watched him, then stepped forward, channeling Jack.
“If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here.”
“Exactly. Be the best actor you can be, kid.”
“Huh?” The young actor blinked.
Buster pulled out the script and held it out. “Here. This helped me. Might help you too.”
The actor didn’t move and said. “They gave me the script months ago.”
Buster hesitated, then committed. He folded the script and tried to slide it into the actor’s blazer pocket. It slid halfway then fell to the floor. They both stared at it.
“That still counts,” Buster said with a proud smile. The young actor raised his brows. Buster patted him on the shoulder like he’d just changed his life.
“Buster! Are you ready?” The assistant said once more.
He looked at the script on the floor, then at the assistant. He adjusted his suspenders and smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I am.”
Team A
Buster really was that one man standing that wanted to challenge society’s ongoing strike against laughter and humor. The story was ,in some way, similar to an inception or “a dream within a dream”, where the movie Buster the clown was auditioning for mirrored the world he was already in. To be frank, our world also seems to ban laughter and other humorous topics for the sake of not getting “cancelled.” I also liked the humorous interactions Buster has with Jack and the young actor. Very thought-provoking!
Reading this was a delightful surprise. Starting with the clown shies I had no idea where this was headed, and in just 1000 words of character interaction you gave a couple nice twists and turns.
Knowing how short this was I grew concerned that the words were running out and… I wasn’t going to see the audition!!
Let it be known, the desire for a sequel is a sign of a successful story. It succeeds because I like the clown. I enjoyed his inner dialogue, the situation, and his growth in the moment.
Desire for a sequel aside, it works ending where you ended it. So while I’m curious if somehow he got the part… or if Jack did… or even the new guy… these moments resounded.
Wow, this was definitely not what I expected at the first line. I love the irony of it, and how it was funny and somewhat sadistic at the same time. Awesome writing!
Job #13 by April Lee Hammond, Team A
Job hunting was the worst. Caleb clutched his backpack, containing everything he owned, and surveyed the crowded waiting room. Could there really be this many looking for a job on this tiny ship? If so, he was out of luck.
His morning alarm hadn’t gone off despite having checked it several times before sleep. Traffic jams forced him to switch cabs three times. He missed the notification that the interviews had moved. All that meant he was late.
The man beside him didn’t look much better. He sat forward, his elbows on his knees, his head down. Caleb couldn’t help but ask if he was okay.
The man turned to him with dark eyes and said, “If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here,” Caleb replied.
Someone called Caleb’s name.
“May you have eyes to see,” the man said. “One three dot one three.” He got up and walked out.
Rattled, Caleb hurried to the interview room. One man, his eyes on his tablet, motioned for Caleb to sit. Another watched, expressionless.
“I’m Mr. Smith,” the guy with the tablet said. “This is Mr. Williams.” He looked up. “And your interview was twenty minutes ago.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry. Traffic.”
“Twelve jobs in the last five years?”
“Yes, sir.” This was the moment they would make their decision. Though people claimed they weren’t superstitious, they were reluctant to hire a man for his thirteenth job.
Mr. Smith seemed to expect excuses, but all the reasons were on his tablet. Budget cutbacks, corporate restructuring, and decommissioned ships meant no job lasted longer than six months, but Caleb was never at fault when leaving.
“There’s a period of eight months you didn’t work at all. What happened there?”
“I was taking care of my father. I did odd jobs when I could.”
“And where is your father now?”
“Dead.”
“Hmm.”
Mr. Williams kept staring. Caleb fought not to shift in his seat.
Someone rushed in. Caleb stiffened as his former friend, Jace, dropped into the seat next to Mr. Smith. They hadn’t talked to each other since the incident at school.
“Sorry,” Jace said. “Miller is finally on the right track. Where are we?” He looked up and froze. “Caleb.”
Jace glanced at the tablet. “Level One Maintenance? I thought you’d be at least level five by now. What happened?”
Caleb motioned toward the tablet. He hadn’t missed the officer’s patch on Jace’s chest. How did he go from mediocre student to first officer of a transport ship in four years? The same four years in which Caleb had gotten absolutely nowhere.
The so-far silent Mr. Williams sat forward and began a barrage of questions about various systems. Caleb answered the best he could. Some were about systems he’d never seen, but he had spent a lot of time studying while sitting at his father’s bedside.
Finally, Mr. Williams sat back and gave Mr. Smith a nod. Mr. Smith turned to Jace, who also nodded.
“We ship out in twenty-six hours,” Mr. Smith said. “Can you be ready?”
Twenty-six hours later, Caleb was rushing through post-flight checks. He’d gone straight to the ship, gotten a brief tour, then started working. He’d barely slept. This ship wasn’t just one system. It was a mish-mash of so many systems that Caleb lost count, and whoever had been doing maintenance before hadn’t been doing his job. Mr. Williams, his new supervisor, left him to it, busy with his own tasks.
They were thirty minutes from the jump when Caleb finished the last item on his checklist. Satisfied, he headed for the engine room to find Mr. Williams. The room was empty. Caleb looked around. Diagnostics said everything was in good condition.
He stopped in front of a fan. The first thing he was going to do after the jump was take a nice, cold shower. Cleaning filters and hot vents left him covered in grime.
He wiped sweat off his forehead. What did it say the temperature was in here? Caleb was studying the readings when a Level 6 tech, entered. He ignored Caleb’s concerns.
“Go back to your grunt-work.”
Caleb slipped off to another console, calculations running in his head. A Knight cooling system and a Perkins engine. The Hoffman software they were using was the only one that could read both. Thankfully, the Knight and Perkins software were also installed.
He was flipping screens when Mr. Williams stopped in front of him, arms crossed and a stern look on his face.
“Something’s not right,” Caleb told him.
“You just got here, Caleb,” Mr. Williams said. “Leave the engine diagnostics to us.”
“But—”
“Out, Caleb.”
The numbers clicked. Thirteen point one three. If you know something bad is going to happen…. Caleb ran.
A large security guard grabbed him just outside the bridge.
“Jace!” Caleb yelled.
The guard tried to push him away.
“Caleb?” Jace appeared. “What’s wrong?”
“Incompatibilities in the coolant system. Diagnostics are showing the engines thirteen points cooler than they are.”
“Take it up with Williams.”
“He’s not listening, Jace.”
“We’re ten minutes from jump. We don’t have time for this.”
“Like you didn’t have time for Riley?”
Jace glared at him. “That was not my fault.”
“She lost a leg because we overlooked a seven point deviation. This is a thirteen points. If I’m right, there’s an eighty percent chance we’ll explode on jump.”
Jace paused. “Your calculations aren’t usually wrong. Show me.”
An hour later, they were on the ground with engineers crawling the ship.
“He’s right,” an engineer told the captain. “If you had jumped, you wouldn’t have made it.” He clapped Jace on the back. “You have a good first officer here.”
Jace glanced at Caleb, but Caleb shook his head. Mr. Williams watched him with that expressionless face. Was his thirteenth job over already? Oh, well, the crew was still alive. Maybe his eclectic background was good for something.
Nice to see some sci-fi here. I like this kind of sci-fi, with relatable situations in fantastic settings – like job hunting, so you can be on a starship…
The world building was good – in only 1000 words you created a subtle picture of what kind of world we were in – although if I had one critique it would be to make it known sooner.
The 13 was interesting – it comes up a couple times, even in the “26 hours later” – although he might have been able to bypass the hesitancy of the number 13 by including the odd jobs while caring for his father. 🙂
I was glad to see you made him work for his victory – saving the ship wasn’t just a realization that the “prophecy” was right, he had to overcome his own doubt and then had to work through the doubts of his superior officers.
Also. Nice work making the technical issues accessible. That couid have resulted in technobabble, but you explained it quickly and succinctly in a way that made sense.
Overall, nice story!
Jewels and Thieves
Elara Brook was doing fine.
Really.
She was living in a small apartment in New York City, still doing online college, working for a jewelry shop most of her days, selling jewelry—rather than creating it. That was what she truly wanted—to create her own jewelry, to design it. So, in all of her free time, she would pour over sketchbooks and create designs of gorgeous necklaces, bracelets, rings—you name it.
On a perfectly ordinary day, she sat behind the counter, scribbling furiously on a new design in her overly full sketchbook—a red diamond ring, a beautiful, intricate wedding ring. She had seen the most gorgeous skirt on a patron earlier, such a pretty shade of red. Elara couldn’t help but imagine it as jewelry. A woman—couldn’t have been much older than Elara, so maybe twenty—walked in casually, looking over the display cases.
Elara’s head snapped up with realization, strawberry blonde waves of thick hair brushing her cheeks—she was supposed to be selling to this woman, not drawing!
“Hi, can I help you?” Elara asked quickly.
“Yes, actually,” the woman said, brown eyes gleaming. “My name is Melanie.”
“Oh, hello, Miss Melanie.”
Elara was used to rich women walking in and expecting their names to be recognized—Elara honestly could’ve cared less.
“May I see that sketch?”
Elara froze. “My sketch? Of the ring?” She confirmed.
Melanie nodded. “Are you a designer?”
Elara flushed. “No. I wish I was.”
“Your work is beautiful,” Melanie murmured, looking over the drawing.
“Thank you!” Elara said excitedly.
“There’s a gala tonight,” Melanie declared, almost grandly, setting the sketchbook on the counter and smiling, “and I’d like to invite you.”
Elara froze as Melanie slid a business card across the counter. “You have potential. We need more designers like you.”
“Thank you so much for this opportunity,” Elara gushed.
Melanie smiled. “Your welcome, Miss…?”
“Elara,” she cut in quickly.
“Elara…?” Melanie prompted.
“Oh.” Elara turned pink. “Brook.”
“Elara Brook. A beautiful name,” Melanie said kindly, turning to leave. “Bring your designs, too, Elara.”
Elara nodded vigorously. A gala?
That was when the thief walked in.
A blonde boy with dangerous, even deadly eyes, a gun on his belt, a long, thin, pale scar on his forehead.
He threatened, but made no move to hurt her—just went for the display cases.
Elara, of course, had no power when he stole the jewelry—all she could do was call the police.
When they arrived, however, the thief was already long gone, slipping out into the alleys.
They questioned her, and she described him as best as she could.
Her mind was on the gala.
When she arrived, hours later, wearing some of the jewelry she had designed and made out of cheap plastic ‘jewels’ she’d bought online, armed with her sketchbook—and her senior prom dress.
She knew the long, pale blue, glittering, and butterfly-detailed dress wouldn’t receive many complements from these rich people. After all, they were all wearing dresses that were basically ball gowns out of fairytales, but it would suffice.
She smiled awkwardly as she walked through the crowds, admiring the grand chandeliers and beautiful ballroom’s details—until she finally found Melanie.
“Elara!” She called, waving her over.
Elara walked towards her—Melanie was wearing a beautiful ocean blue dress, and Elara instantly complimented the matching necklace—it must’ve been one of Melanie’s designs—a seashell with pearls coating it, glittering in the dramatic lighting.
One of Melanie’s friends seemed to like Elara immediately, a pretty, Asian girl with a bright smile.
“Your bracelet is so cute! I’m Tia!” She said excitedly.
“Thank you, Tia!” Elara replied, glad to have something to talk about rather than just standing there.
Until he walked up—Jordan.
“Elara?” He yelped, hugging his old friend.
She blushed bright pink—she had worked with Jordan for years in the past.
He was always such a nice, promising designer, and she had heard he was doing well, building a brand—being what she couldn’t seem to become.
“Hey, Jordan!” She said, pulling away as un-awkwardly as she possibly could.
“How have you been?!” He asked.
She tried not to notice how much older he looked—he was not the geeky teenager she had once known.
Then again, she wasn’t the nerdy teen she had once been either.
“I’ve been good. How have you been? If you are here, you must really be getting somewhere!”
“I am—”
Elara tried to pay attention—she really did.
But something caught her eye.
A pale, thin, white scar on the forehead of a man.
“We have to go,” Elara said suddenly.
“What?” Melanie, Tia, and Jordan all said simultaneously.
I grabbed Jordan by the shoulder. “If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here!” Jordan protested as Elara pulled him out of the ballroom. Melanie and Tia followed, confused and concerned at Elara’s sudden words.
They sat out on the steps behind the building. After twenty minutes, Jordan couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Elara. What. Is. Going. ON?” He demanded.
“There’s a thief,” Elara explained, “he robbed the jewelry shop not long after you left, Melanie. I told the guards by the front as we came back here.”
“WHAT?!” Everyone yelped.
One of the guards came around the corner and called, “all clear. We found him, he’s with the police now.”
Everyone breathed sighs of relief, following him back into the ballroom.
“Did you just save our lives?” Tia asked, stunned, eyes wide.
“There was no death tole,” the guard assured them. “Just some stolen necklaces and such.”
“So, no,” Jordan smirked, “she saved our jewelry.”
TEAM HERBERT FOR THE WIN!!!!!!!!! (Team A)
The beginning statements about Elara and how her dream was to create jewelry instead of just selling it was really relatable and I liked how you pointed out the nuance of it. I also like how you didn’t dwell in detailing the characters like Tia and Jordan but also allowed their characters to shine even for their brief “screen time.” I do like it when heists are included in a story!
Well done, Lydia! I was quite intrigued. 😀
To Save from a Dragon
It’s a common thing, a knight killing a dragon to save a princess, right? What if you’ve just been promoted to a knight, and you’ve only been for one month? Here’s the situation. One week ago, Mavyz kidnapped Princess Addison. He’s your typical dragon. He likes to burn down villages, hoard gold, and steal princesses. He stole one princess a few years ago. Sir Lucient Prell rescued her, and now he’s revered as the coolest and bravest knight. I want to be that cool. It can’t be that hard right? I mean, it’s common, so everyone is doing it. Why can’t I? It also doesn’t hurt that Princess Addison is around my age and beautiful. It’s the perfect time for me to solidify my status. Sir Gaven Halloway, savior of Princess Addison. It has a nice ring to it.
There’s a slight issue. Mavyz is one of the most feared dragons known to mankind. Sir Lucient was sent to save Addison and hasn’t returned or sent word back. Rumors have spread like little fires that maybe Lucient was turned into ‘roasted Lucient.’ If Sir Lucient couldn’t save her, could I?
“At your post, Sir Gaven.” My thoughts were interrupted by Sir Castil. He was a tall man of great stature, not to mention he was sixty-five years old and could still put us young men on the ground.
I cleared my throat and stood straight, my armor clinking against itself. “Yes, sir, sorry sir.” I chanted.
“Distracted, boy? Thinking about dragons coming to steal you next?” He sneered.
He’s only half wrong.
“No, sir!”
He walked away with a grumble in his throat.
The day passed, and my mind couldn’t stop racing. Nobody had gone after Sir Lucient or Princess Addison. Supper time was one of the rare times when the knights gathered together. I saw my fellow newby knight, Sir Jorgin, walking up with his awkward steps. He was a clumsy guy, it’s a wonder he made it through training.
“If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?” I asked him as he sat down beside me with his tray of bread.
“I just got here.” He sighed and rubbed his temple.
He had a point, but I kept going. “There’s something I want to do…but I have a feeling it’s going to turn out bad.”
Jorgin raised his brow, “Okay…spill it, Gaven.”
So I did.
“You want to do what?” he exclaimed.
“Shhhh shut up!” I hissed. “Think about it! I’d be renowned! The youngest knight to slay a dragon, and save a princess.” I could see the knights surrounding me, cheering me on.
Jorgin sat back, “I want to be renowned…” He drew his words out. Then, his face lit up. “I’ll come with you!”
My eyes widened, “Oh no, no no no, this is my thing!” I almost whined.
“If you don’t let me come, I’ll tell Sir Castil.” He countered.
We left at dusk.
___
It turned out to be a not-so-bad thing that Jorgin blackmailed me into joining. He’s like a walking map. Of course, we lost the element of surprise. With Jorgin’s stumbling and huffing, Mavyz will hear us before he sees us. Which means we will be toast in a matter of hours. The closer we get, the more my imminent death becomes more apparent. I can’t back out now, I’ve already set my mind to it. At least when I die, I’ll die as someone with honor. That or Sir Castil will render us as the two idiots who tried to slay a dragon.
“So…do we have a plan?” Jorgin broke the silence with a valid question.
“Um, well…” I stammered. How was I supposed to kill a dragon?
“You know we could just get Princess Addison while Mavyz is asleep…” Jorgin mused. “We may not be dragon slayers, but we’d be Princess saviors which has its merit.” He shrugged.
This was sounding more and more promising. I still get accolades, and I get to stay alive. When I didn’t respond, Jorgin chuckled. “Aren’t you glad I threatened you?”
“Oh, save it,” I grumbled.
____
You are confronted with your mortality when you stand outside of a dragon’s lair. I’d never felt so close to death in all my life. It was silent inside, not a breath or a peep.
“We can’t just stand out here all day,” Jorgin whispered.
“Shut up.”
“Let’s just go in!”
“I mean it, stay quiet! You’re going to give us away.” I hissed and peered inside the mouth of the save. There he was. Mavyz. Huge and black scaled with nostrils so big, I could climb in them and sleep. “He’s asleep…” I whispered. “Stay here.”
With one hand on my sword, I slunk in. It was your average lair. Gold and treasures everywhere. But where was Princess Addison?
“MAVYZ?!” A shrill female voice made me jump. The dragon awoke and grumbled deeply. He almost sounded…annoyed. He locked eyes with me. I stared back, my armor clanking like the sound of chains rattling.
“Have you come to save me…?” His voice sounded in my head. Save him?
“What?” I barely whispered.
“From…her” He trembled.
“Mavyz!!” The shrill voice sounded as Princess Addison stepped out. “Those bedsheets are not pure cotton! I demanded pure cotton!” She stamped her foot.
Mavyz’s arm came up and covered his eyes. “I’m sorry Princess..” He grumbled and then looked at me. “Save me…” Hewhispered.
I blinked. “She’s a princess…you’re a dragon! Just you know…” I made a swatting noise with my hand.
“You take her then! I steal princesses for fun!” He shook his body. “My name isn’t even Mavyz…it’s Marvin.”
I was about to speak when I heard her scream again.
“Where is my lemonade?!” She was annoying.
I looked at Marvin. “You know…you can keep her…” I stepped back.
I don’t think anyone could save that dragon.
I enjoyed the unexpected plot twist! And I chuckled at this transition:
“If you don’t let me come, I’ll tell Sir Castil.” He countered.
We left at dusk.”
For Team 1/Team Reepicheep
Miss(ed) Omen
By Jason Shane
Her son was in danger. She sensed it.
“Which isn’t the same as knowing it, Kendra,” Stanley calmly reminded her.
“I know, honey,” she said. Her husband, Mighty Man, gifted with herculean strength, couldn’t understand the cursed blessing of hyper intuition, that hum undulating throughout her bones, foretelling some future danger she had to thwart as the foreshadowing femme, Miss Omen.
Today’s hum thrummed Dustin. He was in trouble. Or would be.
A car honked as Kendra skillfully weaved their Subaru around it.
“Wait, are you driving there now?” Stanley asked through the car’s speakers.
“Yep.” Her super sense guided the sedan like a hare among tortoises. “Be there in one minute.”
Phone-Stanley sighed.
“I know it’s about Dustin,” Kendra emphasized.
“Ok. I trust you. Look, we’re nervous about him going to this concert by himself at thirteen. Doesn’t help that it’s at the mall, especially since his superpower hasn’t emerged yet. But nothing dangerous ever happens here. Plus he’s with friends, his girlfriend, and—”
She threaded the needle between two cars at the blinking left arrow.
“—he’s growing up. He needs to have experiences of his own.”
“I know, you’re right.” They had eased off his leash, but Kendra knew Dustin wasn’t ready yet, too new for the world, even too young for whatever teenage overdramatics he would encounter.
She’d be a terrible mother if she didn’t go.
“There’s something about today’s hum. Whatever it is, I can’t let it happen to him.”
“He’ll be ok, Kendra. It’s like we’ve been saying,”—she mouthed the words with him—“if you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here,” Kendra announced, screeching into the closest available mall parking space.
Stanley breathed noticeably. “Ok. Just play it cool?”
“I will. Love you.” She hung up, grabbed her emergency incognito trench coat and hat, and sprinted into the mall as if speed were her superpower.
Despite the clog of people clamoring for some pop star named Disko—whose name plastered an over-sized disco ball hanging from the atrium’s dome—Kendra made her way to the second floor.
She scanned everywhere, wary of all the angles. The hum strengthened.
She sighted Dustin, in the back row with his friends and Heather. Mild relief mixed with the hum.
Then she saw it. Heather’s faraway gaze, her frigid posture.
Kendra knew: Heather was going to break his heart and break up with him.
Was this the hum’s warning?
To this Super Mom, it was danger enough.
Kendra texted Dustin to find her above.
“What’s this ‘important thing,’ mom?” Dustin asked after arriving. “Other than a bonkers headache, I’m ok, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“In a way. Dusty, I—”
“Got a feeling?”
Kendra nodded.
Dustin whirled around, ready to fight. “I wish I had my superpower. I can still help!”
She admired his courage but knew he couldn’t face what was really coming.
“It’s Heather,” she said gravely. “She’s going to break up with you.”
Any gut punch must have landed internally: Dustin gave no visible reaction.
“That makes sense,” he said.
Oh. Her cosmic hunch didn’t predict that.
“Hard to explain, but I thought she might? Or not. I’ve had, like, a hundred different versions of it flash in my head today.” He rubbed his temple. “Hasn’t helped my headache.”
Kendra saw her window. “This is a lot for you. Being at this concert isn’t going to help your head—or your heart.” She removed her trench coat and hat, becoming Miss Omen. “I’ll talk to Heather.”
Dustin shot her a bewildered look. “No, mom.”
“It’s for the best.”
“No!” Several nearby shoppers turned at this. “Mom, that’s embarrassing.”
“I’ll do it quickly, so you don’t have to feel—”
“Mom, no!” He winced, his hand darting up to his temple again. “I don’t . . . I don’t always need your help!” He stormed off toward the escalators.
It was Kendra’s turn to hide a gut punch. Stunned, she could only stand and watch. She felt lost, as if her danger-GPS lost signal.
Suddenly, Dustin spun around, alarmed. The hum intensified—then silenced.
Sonic distortion burst through her brain, scrambling every thought, stifling her abilities both super and human. She collapsed, along with the throng of mall-goers.
The giant disco ball exploded, its mini-mirrors becoming a thousand daggers. They hovered, gathered, then rocketed like a swarm of glass hornets straight at Kendra.
Unable to evade them, she braced herself.
A cascade of shattering glass resounded all around.
But nothing touched her.
Unsquinting, she saw a bubble of red fumes shielding her—and Dustin hunched over her.
“You ok, mom?”
She blinked. She could think clearly again.
“I saw, like, ten versions of you, like echoing back and forth, all getting hurt. One of you died. I ran toward that one.”
Kendra gawped at her son. The headache made sense.
His superpower. It emerged. And he received two? The ability to see immediate future timelines and produce a protective shield, a beautiful combination and evolution of her and Stanley’s powers.
Kendra was at a proud loss for words.
A knowing smile passed between them.
“WELL, WELL,” boomed a digitized voice, “MISS OMEN, RESCUED FROM MY NEURAL BOMB BY A CHILD. CAN’T FIGHT YOUR OWN BATTLES ANYMORE?”
A figure clad in chrome took center stage.
“AH. YOU MUST BE HER CHILD. YOU GONNA COWER BY MOMMY, OR FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN?”
Dustin turned to his mom. “I think I do need your help. With this one,” he said, excitement and nervousness in his voice.
Kendra smiled. “Go. I’ll be here. Let’s see what you can do.”
Radiating adrenaline and apprehension, Dustin kissed her cheek before running down, dodging lasers and deflecting grenades with his shield. He slipped once, a chrome drone zapping him. But he leapt up, dodged another electric beam, and made his way toward the chromed villain.
Kendra didn’t think he could do it.
She knew he could.
Great use of the prompt. It blended perfectly.
Well done! I enjoyed your story and how you seamlessly included the prompt!
JFK Revisited by Andy Morisseau
Team A
Jack’s equilibrium failed, and he tumbled to the hard floor—one of the many side effects of time travel. At least this side effect was temporary. A cataract haze obscured his eyesight, and his stomach twisted in knots. He’d need a moment to get his bearings.
Sigmund’s digital voice spoke in his right ear, “If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here,” Jack said. “Give me a second.”
“They just gave you six hundred years. What’s another second going to do?”
Jack willed himself to his feet as his vision cleared and his head stopped spinning. He glowered at the strange room. A warehouse of some kind, full of cardboard boxes and stacks of books. The scent of paper filled his nose as he inspected one of the primitive physical tomes. He’d only seen non-digital books in holo reels and historical documentaries. How odd to hold words in his hand.
“When am I?” he asked.
“November 22, 1963, according to the old calendar. We’re in Texas, before it reasserted independence from the First American Empire.”
Texas. 1963. For a time agent, Jack had a poor grasp of history. He retained ideas and events but forgot names and dates. The disorientation from the trip compounded his difficulty recalling his new assignment. He rubbed his hands down his gray jumpsuit as his knees stopped wobbling. “What’s my objective again?”
“Tisk, tisk, Jack. Did they even brief you? You need to save a man’s life. Look around. It shouldn’t be that hard to figure out.”
Jack groaned at Sigmund’s curt remark. AIs didn’t experience temporary memory loss from time travel, and this one had remarkable snark. Jack wished he’d chosen a different model for the implant. “How about a clue at least, Sigmund?”
“Humans are so obtuse. Very well. The man you are to save will pass in front of your location in a few minutes. Stop the killer.”
Jack glanced around the warehouse. Light poured in from a row of giant windows on the far wall—physical glass, no forcefields. He approached them and observed the roadway below. Crowds lined the streets, dressed in the archaic clothing of the twentieth century. In the distance, a motorcade approached. Jack’s eyes widened as the clouds lifted in his memory. “This is the day of the JFK assassination, isn’t it?”
“Finally! I thought you’d never figure it out. Now get to work. The president is almost here.”
Jack swallowed and pressed his hands against the strange glass. Images from ancient news clips ran through his mind. The president would be gunned down on the roadway right in front of him. With a gasp, he noticed a man at the far end of the wall crouched behind a stack of boxes. The stranger aimed an ancient gunpowder rifle out an open window, the sights trained on the approaching motorcade.
Jack ducked behind a stack of boxes. “Sigmund,” he whispered. “Is that Lee Harvey Oswald?”
“Correct. I’m glad your memory is coming back.”
Wishing he had a weapon of his own, Jack risked another glance at the gunman. Ballistic rifles may be outdated, but they were still deadly. Fortunately, Oswald focused on the street below, oblivious to Jack’s presence. Good. That gave Jack the advantage of surprise. He’d need it.
A frayed broom lay in the corner not far from Jack’s position. He eyed it wearily. Confronting an armed assassin with a glorified stick made as much sense as jumping out the window. Still, options were limited. Jack cursed command for not assigning him a phase pistol. Liability, they said.
“Get moving,” Sigmund said. “You’ll never change history at this rate.”
With a deep breath, Jack pulled the broom to his side, careful not to make a sound. He crept behind a row of boxes until he was a few meters behind Oswald. The cheers of onlookers reverberated from outside. The motorcade had to be close now. Time was up!
With a war cry, Jack emerged from behind the boxes, waving the broom overhead like a savage charging into battle. Ten meters separated him from Oswald, then five as he rushed forward. Oswald turned, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open. The gunman raised his rifle just as Jack descended on him.
Smash!
The broomstick shattered over Oswald’s head. The men collided and tumbled to the ground, the rifle pinned between them. Surprise had evened the odds, but now Oswald fought back with frantic desperation even as blood trickled down his forehead. He rolled Jack onto his back and tried to pry the rifle free. Jack strained every muscle in his body not to let go. With a kick, he knocked Oswald back. The would-be assassin stood with a shocked, terrified look on his face, then darted across the room toward an exit, leaving the rifle in Jack’s arms.
The roar of the crowds grew louder outside. Jack rose to his feet, huffing for breath. Pride swelled in his chest at besting the assassin. He’d receive a commendation for this, maybe even a promotion. He’d changed history.
Clack, clack, clack.
Gunshots rang out. Jack pressed his face against the glass as the screams of onlookers met his ears. A familiar scene played out on the streets below. Swarms of men in dark suits rushed to the motorcade. The president slumped in the back seat of a parade vehicle. His terrified wife crawled on the trunk in a pink dress.
Jack gasped. “Sigmund! What’s happening? I stopped the shooter. None of this should be happening!”
“Shooter? You didn’t stop the shooter.”
“I did! I chased Oswald away.” He waved the rifle in the air. “I even took his gun!”
“Oh, Jack. Don’t you know anything? Oswald was never the shooter.”
I enjoy both history and time travel. You blended them well!
Max swore under his breath. That was the fourth branch that had slapped him across the face.
“How much farther, Fitz?” he huffed. They had been trudging along for an hour now.
“Almost there,” Fitz replied jovially. He was no older than fourteen, and seemed oblivious to the older boy’s rotten mood. “So, how much do you know about the Pirates?” he asked, pushing a branch away.
“As much as everyone else in Germany does,” Max replied, catching the branch before it smacked him. “They sabotage the Gestapo, spread Western propaganda, vandalize government buildings. Annoy Heinrich Himmler in any way they can.”
Fitz smirked. “That about sums it up.”
“So who am I meeting again?” Max asked, stumbling over a tree root.
“Eric, the leader of the Oberhausen sect,” Fitz replied, hopping lightly over a log. “He’ll decide if you’re in.”
Max tried to calm his nerves and failed. He wasn’t some roguish hero of the oppressed, just a punk who had a bad reputation with the Gestapo. If he acted up again, he was told, he would have to join the Hitler Youth or be arrested. The secret police were giving a rare show of patience. He should be grateful, they had chided.
“Anyway, what happened to you?” Fitz asked, interrupting his thoughts. “You’re a wreck.”
Max was a wreck indeed. His lip was split and he could feel bruises beginning to bloom across his cheekbone, but he only shrugged offhandedly. “Got whipped.”
“How?” Fitz queried, again ignoring Max’s attitude.
“Showed some decency,” Max explained coolly. “A Gestapo was about to beat a Jewish woman who wasn’t cleaning a street fast enough. I stepped in, tried to cool it down. There was a misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding?” Fitz looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
“I punched him.”
Fitz’s eyes widened. “You punched a Gestapo?”
“If I pull another stunt, though, I’m not getting off easy,” Max added.
“How did you get off this time?” Fitz cried, tripping over the underbrush. “That would usually land you in a camp!”
“My family is favored,” Max grumbled. “Big supporters of the Third Reich and all that.”
Fitz frowned. “Some justice that is. Playing favorites and enslaving the ‘inferiors’ that help support society.”
Max halted at the appearance of a cave’s mouth looming ahead. Fitz never slowed, marching into the cave and giving Max no choice but to follow. A path had been worn through the wide cavern, curving deeper into the earth. Max squinted into the darkness and could see traces of light reflected off the cave walls farther down the trail. The cave bore more marks of exploration as they walked; a hand print here, a drawing in the clay there, and two sets of initials encircled by a heart in the rock. Fitz suddenly rounded a corner, drawing Max behind him, to a hidden cavity flooded with torchlight. Propaganda posters had been pinned to the wall and painted with mocking doodles. Wooden tables around the room were littered with anti-Nazi pamphlets and note paper. Most surprising of all, both boys and girls filled the cave, a striking contrast from the militant separation of the Hitler Youth and League of German Girls.
It was a secret world of teenage rebels.
Max was awed by the bit of freedom these kids had managed to carve for themselves. One Western pamphlet alone could get its owner detained, but in this little hideout underneath Oberhausen, he could speak his mind without fear of the Party. That, in his mind, was paradise.
Fitz nudged Max out of his reverie and gestured toward a boy approaching them. He was tall, imposing, and carried himself like a leader. Not proudly, but confidently, as if this cavern was his natural element and all the kids were his brothers and sisters. “This the new kid, Fitz?” Eric said warmly, slapping the boy’s shoulder.
“Yes,” replied Fitz proudly. “This is Max. Do you know he slugged a Gestapo?”
“Did you now?” Eric raised an eyebrow at Max, who gave a devil-may-care smirk. Eric suddenly pinned Max with an intense gaze. “Tell me something, Max,” he said lowly. “If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here,” Max stammered. The smirk fled his features and was replaced by confusion.
Eric still held him under that look. “That’s not an answer.”
Max swallowed, intimidated. “Yes,” he answered after a beat.
“Even if it goes against the Fuhrer?” Eric pressed.
“Especially,” Max replied before he could stop himself. “Hitler is just an angry man taking out his frustration on the Jews. I’ll die before I’ll serve that monster.”
The surrounding chatter of the room hushed. Max almost kicked himself. Why would he declare such dangerous ideas out loud? Those sorts of things were never meant to be spoken. He met the eyes of some of the closest kids and, to his surprise, saw in their eyes not shock, but admiration. He realized that he had just put into words the same revolutionary thoughts that all of the other teenagers held. He caught a girl grinning at him from a few yards away and grinned back, making her cheeks flush.
Eric smiled and nodded. “Couldn’t have said it better myself,” he said approvingly. “You’ve got a good eye, Fitz. Hey, Frank!” he called over his shoulder. “Get me the pins.”
A skinny boy hastened over with a box of silver disks. Eric grabbed one and held it out to Max. Max took it and ran his thumb over the surface, which was engraved with a bunch of blossoms he knew to be edelweiss, the mountain daisy. The name Kittelbachpiraten was emblazoned above them in proud letters. Dangerous, revolutionary letters.
Eric clapped him on the back. “Get ready for the most fun you’ll have in your entire life,” he proclaimed. “Everyone, listen up!” he shouted. “Welcome our newest Kittelbach Pirate!”
Welp, that was amazing. Your writing flows so well; the story and the characters are great. No notes, just praise.
Team A
“I’m sorry, but we can’t let you participate if you don’t bring your own equipment.”
She didn’t even let me protest further as she frantically moved on to supervise the contestants. Contestants who had planned on entering this event previously and made sure they had their own fancy riding equipment before showing up. They even provide the horses, but apparently making sure every one of their horses has their own saddle and bridle is too much work.
I stomped outside, kicking a slightly large pebble, before I found myself trying to take my anger out on something like the sign-up tent. I forced myself to take deep breaths, something I’ve been trained so hard to do when getting stressed, I highly doubt I could break myself of the habit if I tried.
I had two options I could think of then. Somehow steal one of the contestant’s spots, or call Alice to admit defeat. Calling Alice would be worse than losing the race, but I didn’t want to break the promise I made to Alex not to cross any lines. That left the secret third option, the one Grandma would be proud of me for coming so far to finally reach the point of thinking of it. Waiting.
I practiced my breathing and cleared my mind of thoughts related to my frustration, thinking happy thoughts instead. I had come a long way from the hot-headed girl who stormed into her uncle’s house demanding he return the money he took, but that felt like more of a testament to how far I had fallen trying to make everything right than to how I had grown since then.
When I calmed myself down, I looked up and saw that a sign had been placed in front of the now-closed tent that the race was full and no longer accepting walk-in contestants. An announcement I heard coming from the racetrack but couldn’t make out suggested that the race was about to start or would start soon.
I was too late to try to find a way to enter the contest somehow. I heard a loud, frustrated groan from somewhere behind me that startled me so hard, I literally jumped up then fell to the ground.
“Sorry,” came the voice from behind me, that I recognized now that he was talking and not groaning. Archie.
Not seeing each other in over a year triggered an awkward silence between us. It only lasted a few moments, though, before I broke it by blurting the question I’ve been wondering to myself since things have started going wrong over the past couple weeks. “If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
Archie blinked at me twice, then responded, “I just got here.” A typical, unhelpful Archie response.
“I know, but…” I sighed, and found myself confessing everything I’ve been up to, trying to stop Uncle Alan from taking everything from Alice. When I was done, Archie just stared at me, and I couldn’t tell what he seemed to think of me and the things I’ve done. When he responded, he responded with, “like I said, Aly, I just got here.” He then turned around and headed back towards his car.
Before he left, though, he stopped and said, “for what it’s worth, I think you should keep trying. There’s probably a solution out there you haven’t thought of, and maybe that one will work.”
I thought about what he said as I headed for my car. Could the answer to my problems be as simple as something I haven’t thought of? As I went through the rest of my week, I tried something new, and that something new worked. It was something my Grandma had told me plenty of times, something that I’d heard repeated many places. Instead of trying to take everything into my own hands and do everything on my own, maybe I’ll start trying to just put everything in God’s hands and seeing where life takes me instead.
By Izzy C Porter
I love the way you incorporated Christian themes!!
The way you included the prompt was seamless!! I liked the clear Christian morals as well! Super refreshing 🙂
ahhh this is so good! <3
Team 1 – Coffee Is a Love Language
by Ava Travis
I forgot to grab coffee on my way out the door.
So, maybe the night before I had been at a concert till 3 a.m., and maybe I had turned on a sound machine, and maybe I had forgotten to set an alarm…
“Kaela! Don’t you have an 8 a.m. class?”
I mumbled something and rolled over, but was jolted awake by a punch to the arm. My eyes flew open. My roommate, Selena – Type 1, ENTJ, practically perfect in every way – was frowning over my head.
“Hmmm?” I squinted as she threw open the curtains. “What time is it?”
Selena stuck her phone into my face.
I gasped. “7:45?!” I threw off my covers and jumped out of bed. “Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?”
“I just got back from the gym.” Selena tossed her phone on the bed. “Besides, it’s your class.”
I shot her a glare as I stumbled to the bathroom. I hadn’t even washed off last night’s makeup – my reflection was a mess of caky foundation, blurred eyeshadow, and smudged mascara. Not to mention that my eyes were red and swollen. I flung on the faucet and set to scrubbing.
I glanced at the mirror after a few minutes and groaned. My running mascara had painted black zebra stripes down my cheeks. But I was out of cleansing wipes, and all my towels were in the wash…
Aha. My eyes landed on Selena’s hand towel, snowy-white and soft as a cloud. She never let me touch it.
But this was an emergency.
I grabbed the towel and rubbed it over my skin. When I finally peeled it away, my face was clean – albeit a little red and sore from the scouring – but the towel was streaked with black, gold, green, and tan. It reminded me of vomit, but I didn’t dwell on that too long.
I tossed the towel in the shower and ran to my dresser. 7:50. It was a five-minute walk to class. I could still make it.
I tossed on leggings and a random T-shirt I had borrowed from my best friend Emily. I slipped on my Birkenstocks, grabbed my backpack, and tied up my hair in a thick, unruly bun. Just as I noticed the scent of coffee wafting from the kitchen, Selena walked in with a steaming mug in her hands.
“Did you make enough for me?” I whispered.
“Yes, it’s in your tumbler. I put out all your creamer and stuff too.”
I pressed my palms together and bowed. Selena rolled her eyes, and I bolted into the kitchen.
I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, and my heart dropped. 7:53. I looked at the coffee Selena had poured for me, black as ink in the tumbler. I looked at the array of creamers – lavender, vanilla, hazelnut, caramel. I looked at the milk frother, the flavor dispensers, the ground cinnamon…
No time. I slammed the lid onto my tumbler and took a swig of the black coffee. It zipped down my throat like poison.
It was 7:55 when I stepped into the stinging light of a spring morning. A bluejay jeered in the crape myrtle above me. Two girls passed by, and I overheard one ask the other if she’d finished some assignment.
My heart stopped.
The assignment.
My hands flew to my head. I’d forgotten to grab my assignment!
Quick as a whip, I turned around and darted up the stairs to my apartment. Music thudded on the other side of our bedroom door. I set my coffee on the counter, then burst into our bedroom to pounding bass. Selena looked up from her phone. “What now?”
I rummaged through my desk, my drawers, my bed. Nothing. I rummaged through Selena’s desk, drawers, bed. Still nothing. I let out a wail and flew into the living room. Nothing! I stood in the center of our dorm, fingers digging through my oily hair.
It was 8 a.m.
“Are you looking for your Ethics paper?” asked Selena.
I nodded.
“I stuck it in your backpack before you left. I figured you’d forget it.”
My jaw dropped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was about to, but you were already out the door.”
I didn’t even answer. I grabbed my backpack and ran back out the door.
I charged full speed all the way to the classroom. I tripped over an uneven spot in the sidewalk, fell, and tore a hole in my leggings. I gritted my teeth and kept running.
I burst into the classroom at ten after eight. Fifty eyes turned on me, staring. Penetrating.
I stood in the doorway, bun falling apart, leggings ripped, backpack over one shoulder, eyes burning, chest heaving.
“Kaela.” My professor’s eyes were flat. “Perhaps you can answer this question the class has been pondering. If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here!”
“Is that your answer?”
“Uh – no.”
“Then what is?”
I whimpered as I staggered toward a seat. “I don’t know.”
My professor frowned. “Hmmm. Why don’t you drink some coffee or something and see if it aids your mental faculties. We will return to this question. Ah, yes, Luke. Why don’t you tell us.”
Coffee…I stared at my empty hands. I’d forgotten to grab my coffee.
I dropped into the seat next to Emily and buried my head in my arms.
Something slid across the desk and bumped my elbow. I looked up wearily to see Emily smiling like spring sunshine, and a cup from the campus coffee shop touching my arm.
“I figured you’d need it,” she whispered, and winked.
Tears suddenly flooded my eyes. I gave a pitiful laugh. “You have no idea.”
“It’s caramel macchiato, too. Your favorite.”
I smiled tearfully, thanked her, and took a swig. The coffee slipped down my throat like wine.
Kaela’s ordeal is relatable especially as a student trying to have it all together. I really loved the way you described her predicament and her thoughts. Your team would be proud because this is wonderful work!
This one was so good! I so enjoyed reading it 🙂 Great job!
Thanks, guys! Glad you enjoyed it! 😀
I loved the unique approach you had to the prompt! And this is so well-written and immersive, too!
I definitely felt her anxiety. I’m a dinosaur who hasn’t been in college for decades and you took me back.., although unfortunately, I still have days like this. But that’s not important right now…
I especially liked how you incorporated the dialogue of the prompt into her late arrival to class, but her friend answered the question through actions.
Nice work!
Caffeine and classes go together! Drew me right in!
I signed up late and missed the team assignments, so I’m hoping you can still work me in. – Sandra Rose Hughes
Jack and the DreamStalk
Once there was a boy named Jack.
He and his widowed mother lived in a run-down farm. They once had chickens, but when the fences fell apart, the chickens escaped. They once had an orchard, but when the riverbank changed course, the trees died. When their cow stopped giving milk, Jack’s mother sent him to the market to sell the cow.
On the way, Jack saw a woman in a dark bonnet standing by the edge of the road with a girl about Jack’s age with hair the color of clean straw.
“Nice cow,” the old woman commented.
“Used to be,” snorted Jack. “But she’s dry as a bone now. Useless critter.”
She peered at him beneath her bonnet. “And what have you done about it?”
Jack kicked at the dirt. “Nuthin. Told ya’. She’s useless. Mother’s making me walk to the market to trade her off.”
“How tiring. Would you be willing to trade for her?”
Jack’s eyes glittered. “What you got?”
The woman pulled out a small glass jar containing three black seeds.
“Beans?” snorted Jack.
“No,” said the woman. “Dream seeds. They’re worth more than your cow, but I’ll trade with you because I can see that you need them.”
“Mother said to try to get a fair price.”
“Of course. But you wouldn’t want to walk all the way to the market, would you? Especially on such a hot day.”
Jack wiped the sweat off his forehead and soon found himself walking home with the jar of seeds in his pocket. When he got home, he dug a few shallow holes near his house and planted the seeds. His mother yelled at him when she learned what he’d done, but eventually she went to bed, her pillow wet with tears.
Jack fell asleep on his cot, wondering about the name of the girl with straw-colored hair.
Jack heard strange sounds in the night. When he went walked outside next afternoon, he fell into a giant hole. He fell for what felt like a long time, and landed with a thump onto the floor of a cavern. By the dwindling daylight high above him, Jack saw a girl sitting by an underground. It was the girl with the straw-colored hair.
Tears streaked down her cheeks. “If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here,” said Jack. “I dunno.”
“Look in the river. What do you see?”
Jack peered into the water. At first, he just saw his own rather fat reflection. Then he saw an image of himself wandering around his mother’s farm with a hammer in his hand. Jack saw himself fixing the fence posts and repairing the outbuildings. In the vision, there were chickens roaming safely around the farm.
“That looks like an awful lot of work,” frowned Jack. He looked up, and found that he was no longer in the deep hole, and the girl was no longer there. He was outside the front door, the hole nowhere to be seen. Jack looked at the hammer hanging on the fence and shook his head, then went back to bed.
The next midday, Jack wandered around the back of the house and came across another giant hole. This time, he swung down willingly and climbed, root by root, down to the bottom.
At the bottom, he found the girl again. She was picking berries off a bush and her hands were bloodied by thorns. “You again. Did you do any work around your farm yesterday?”
“Nope. Things are falling apart. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
The girl lifted a mirror toward him, the blood on her hands smearing the glass. “What do you see?”
Jack peered inside. This time, he saw an image of himself shoveling ditches to direct water back to his mother’s orchard. Jack saw the orchard coming back to life, and saw himself bringing a basket of fresh apples to his mother.
Jack shook his head and dropped the mirror. “Just looking at all that digging makes my arms hurt!”
When he looked up, the girl was gone, and he was outside the back of his house, the hole gone as if it had never been there. Jack glanced toward the shovel hanging off their barn, and looked out at the sickly orchard. Then he wandered off into the woods and spent the rest of the day there.
The third day, Jack was still thinking about that girl. He hunted around the side of the house and, sure enough, there was a third giant hole. He climbed down again and there she was.
Tears still streamed down her cheeks. “If you continue to do nothing, your mother will suffer. You will suffer.”
“And what about you?” asked Jack.
“I’ll suffer most of all,” she said. “Look into my eyes.”
He stood very close to her now. She smelled like cornflowers and sunshine. In the reflection of her eyes, he could see himself nursing his cow back to health, feeding it special foods and leading it to good pasture. He could see himself bringing full glasses of milk to his mother, and to the girl, who smiled at him gratefully.
Jack blinked and stepped away. “That cow was useless. Nothing I could do about it.”
The girl shook her head and ran off into the black cavern. Jack ran after her, calling her name, but the cavern was vast, and he finally gave up, collapsing on the ground next to the river.
When he woke up, he was in his own bed. Morning light streamed through his window. Jack went outside and looked all around his house; there were no holes anywhere. He stood for a long time, looking at the sky and thinking about cornflowers.
When Jack’s mother came out, she found him hammer in hand, patching the holes in her fence. And she smiled for the first time in a very long time.
I just found out I am on Team A! Go, Herbert!
What a great story, Sandra! I loved the twist on the Jack and the Beanstalk fairytale!
Great reimagining of a classic story! I do like that this was a much less disturbing route for Jack to learn the most important lesson of all — and it didn’t take two killer giants and a dangerous heist for golden eggs!
Great nudges and lessons to lead your character to do the right thing! Well done!
In the quiet of the library, tucked away somewhere amongst the towering bookcases, sloping archways, and dusty tomes, someone strikes a match. It emits a soft glow upon the freckled face of a young woman, the flames dancing in her dark eyes as she lights a candle. She blows out the match, placing the candle on top of the stack of books in front of her. Her hands sit in her lap as she watches the candle flicker.
She is waiting.
Time passes slowly in that place, each tick of the clock feeling like an eternity. Everything is still and quiet. Until– footsteps, echoing off the high walls. Someone has entered the library. The young woman’s head turns towards the sound, but she doesn’t move.
After a few moments, the owner of the footsteps comes round the corner. It’s an old man, perhaps in his seventies, with receding white hair combed neatly back and a mustache painstakingly curled at the ends. He wears an expensive-looking tweed suit, though it is crumpled, ink-stained, and stretched to bursting around his stomach. She watches as he makes his way over, stopping a few feet from where she sits. For a moment, they stare at each other. Then he reaches into his overcoat and draws out a scrap of parchment, laying it next to her candle. It contains a hastily written message:
Mr. Baudelaire,
Meet me at the library at eleven.
Sofia
“You called?” He says dryly.
“If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?” The words burst out of her before she can help herself.
He rolls his eyes, settling himself on the floor beside her with a grunt. “I just got here.”
She presses her lips together. “Sorry. Thank you for coming. I–”
“Ms. Dickenson, it’s late, and I am tired. I almost ignored your note completely, but you know what they say about curiosity and cats. Why have you called me here?”
Sofia tucks an errant hair behind her ear. “Well, sir…. To ask you that question. I need advice. It is a great honor to be enrolled here, obviously, and I would never attempt to do anything that would cause me to be removed from the school before my education is complete.”
“But…?” prompts Mr. Baudelaire when she doesn’t go on.
“But… Well, these days I find myself caught up in a web of deceit and trickery that grows ever stickier– and it is not of my own making. Getting involved could risk everything on my part– expulsion, failing grades, a tarnished reputation. But to turn a blind eye to it? It just doesn’t seem right.” Her fingers reach out and trace the title on one of the books in front of her. “I don’t know what to do.” You were the only person I trusted enough to ask for advice. She doesn’t say that part out loud.
Mr. Baudelaire sighs. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, my dear, but it sounds very much like you’ve caught wind of a certain secret society operating on our very own campus?”
Sofia draws a sharp breath. “You know about it?”
“My involvement goes a bit beyond knowing about it.” He doesn’t explain what he means, but Sofia flashes back to the letter that had mistakenly found its way into her mailbox a few days back. The signature had been B. Alexander. She had assumed Alexander was the surname, but what if it was the other way around? Alexander B.– Alexander Baudelaire? After all, she had never bothered to ask what the old man’s first name was.
“Are you–”
“Yes,” he interrupts. “I’ve been worrying about that letter ever since Tommy told me he hadn’t received it. Thank goodness you were the one who got it.” He laughs a little. “Ms. Dickenson, I can only imagine the conclusions you have drawn from the contents of that letter. I assure you, most of them are likely false.
“Yes, we are a secret society, and yes, we function outside of the eye of the university. But our intentions are undeniably noble.” He pauses, then points a finger at her. “This is strictly confidential, by the way.”
She nods hastily, impatient for him to continue.
“Good. We exist as a society to question the order of things– the intentions of the monarchy we are under, and even those of the superiors of this school. I myself founded it, after years of questioning our statues . To answer your earlier question, my dear, yes; we’re supposed to do something. That is what the society exists for.”
Sofia had been listening enraptured, her eyes shining. “Sir, that’s wonderful,” she says earnestly. “I confess I myself have questioned those very things.” She thinks back to money she’s seen exchanged on the sly, professors who have turned their heads the other way in the presence of blatant cheating and bullying. “I am relieved to know there are people who are doing something about it.”
“Not exactly doing– not yet. As of now we are still gathering evidence, and only beginning to unveil a conspiracy bigger than any of us imagined.” He again reaches into his coat, drawing out another piece of paper. He hands it to Sofia. It’s a calling card, The Bee Society printed on the front in plain lettering. “We could use a sharp brain like yours, not to mention a fresh pair of eyes. If you’re interested, come to my flat at midnight this Wednesday.”
Sofia’s breath catches. “Oh– Thank you, sir! So much. I would love to come.” To be part of a cause like this– it was something she had always dreamed of.
“I’m glad.” He extends his hand. They shake.
The young woman stays for a while after the old man departs. She sits much like she did before he got there, but unlike before, she’s smiling.
Team A | Lydia Fiore
Great story! I love the secret society 🙂
thanks Alli!
Intriguing!
For me, much of the fun that comes from reading these stories has been how they use the prompt – I like how he was using it almost as a test, to see if the accidental delivery could lead to a new recruit. Clever use of the prompt.
So yes, I’m intrigued and curious where things go from here for her.
Oh I love the aesthetic of this!! You really hit the nail on unique character voices! Can’t wait to read more of your work! <3
Ooh this one is good!
Ben– thank you so much!! yess I love seeing everyone’s take on the prompt. thank you, I’m glad you enjoyed my story!!😊
Jordyn– ahh thank you!! im so glad you think so 🥹 hehe I can’t wait for more prompts!!
Izzy– thank you so much!!<3
THIS IS AMAZING IM SPEECHLESS!
The Tale of Edrys and Eldred, by Sarah Sax (Team 1)
You may have heard the saying, “As bright-eyed and bold as Edrys.” It is a common one among mortals, and it is often used to describe women who risk everything for their loved ones. And if you have ever been to Faerie, you may know the saying, “As devoted as Eldred,” and the people of Faerie use this to describe a man dedicated to his woman.
These sayings originated a long time ago, back when the Faerie and mortal realms were much closer together. Edrys was a woman so beautiful people said she had Faerie blood. But she was a mortal, though this didn’t matter to Eldred. He watched her longingly as she came through the woods, hunting, picking berries, or gathering mushrooms and herbs. He was of Faerie; his home was the living palace of the forest, called the Aelfwolde.
Edrys lived in a village near these woods, but her people and the people of the Aelfwolde never mingled. She knew which parts of the forest to avoid. Eldred, however, would catch glimpses of her sometimes as he rode along, and he began leaving his people’s forest to watch her. He was too shy to approach her, however, for there was something so wild and beautiful and free about mortals—a different wild and beautiful and free than he himself was.
But one night the two finally met. They were walking through the trees and encountered one another, and what happened then no one knows. But Edrys returned to her village with eyes sparkling like the stars, and Eldred returned to the Aelfwolde as silent as if he’d seen the gods.
After that, the two met often. Edrys never took him to her home, and Eldred never took her to the Aelfwolde; neither did they speak of this to their people. No one really knows how long this lasted or what all they did. But one way or another, suspicions were raised, and the secret was discovered at last.
They all met in the woods—Edrys, Eldred, and their families, right on the boundary between the normal woods and the Aelfwolde. The humans accused Eldred of enchanting their daughter. Eldred’s people said Edrys was a witch, trying to overpower their own. Edrys protested this was not so, they were merely in love. Eldred said the same, but added he could never marry Edrys, for her life was so short that her death would break his heart. And Edrys said she could never marry Eldred, for she was mortal and his world was not for her. She looked at Eldred and said, for the good of their people, they must never see each other again. And Eldred agreed.
But this meant little to their families. The humans spoke of Faerie enchantments, Faerie spoke of mortal witches, and war threatened to break out. Eldred knew something must be done, for his people would obliterate the humans and he would not have this happen, for Edrys’ sake. He took his people to the mortal world, to make a treaty. Little peacemaking was done however, and it seemed the war would break out then and there.
In the midst of this, Edrys and Eldred faced one another as if they were the only ones in the room.
“We swore to stay apart,” Eldred said. “We agreed our people should not mingle. Why is there still hostility?”
“If war is still the outcome,” Edrys agreed, “why did we part at all?” And she cried to her people to stop their madness, adding if they went to war, they would be slaughtered. Eldred too spoke to his people, begging them to hold back from the mortals. Still, this did little good.
“The Faerie folk think themselves above us!” sneered the one side. “The mortals think too highly of themselves,” said the other. And so it went. Eldred was in despair at his people’s stubbornness, but Edrys was angry.
“Why do they not listen?” she said to Eldred. “Did our promises mean nothing to them? We broke our hearts for people who do not care.”
“We must make them care,” said Eldred.
“Why should we care?” said Edrys. “Leave them to destroy one another. If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try to stop it?”
“I just got here,” said Eldred, looking around the room. “I know very little of the mortal realm. But I know of Faerie.”
And while everyone was still shouting, Edrys and Eldred joined hands and walked from the room. They mounted their horses and rode away, riding faster and faster until they were like shooting stars. When they noticed, some from both their peoples rode after them and were hard-pressed to keep up.
They found them at last, on shores of the sea at the end of the world. It was night, and the moon left a silvery path across the waves. Edrys and Eldred stood in the sand, still hand in hand.
Something about the moment kept their pursuers from going right up to them. Or maybe they were exhausted from their ride. Whatever it was, they stayed back and called, “Where are you going?”
Edrys turned, and even though it was night, they could see her eyes sparkling. “We go across the sea,” she said.
And they mounted their horses and rode the moonpath until they vanished from sight. For those who can cross the moonpath reach a world beyond the sea. It is a long journey, and the path is uneven from the waves. No enchantments can be sustained on such a path. And it was this that proved, to men and to Faerie, that Edrys and Eldred truly loved each other.
So the threat of war was ended, and the story of Edrys and Eldred was told far and wide. No one doubts they made it across the sea and now live happily ever after, far from both Faerie and mortality, knowing their families are at peace.
Normally I don’t like this type of “magical genre” story but you have done a good job with this. It really kept my interest. Thank you for writing!
Thank you, I’m so glad you liked it!
Fun story! I like your take on the prompt–it felt fairly well integrated into the narrative.
The story gave off major Beren and Luthien vibes–very cool! Good job!
Thank you! That was definitely an inspiration, though I hope to flesh out the story a bit more later.
Ooh, I totally agree with Noah, I loved Beren and Luthien’s story, and I immediately felt the same way here! The language was so beautiful, especially when you said Eldred came back silent as if he’s seen the gods.
Thank you! It’s actually going to be a myth set within a bigger project of mine, so I’m hoping to flesh out more details like that in the future.
Planning
Lucas Helm, Team A
Jimmy walked down the street, completely unsure of what he was doing. The mysterious envelope that had appeared on his kitchen table raised more questions than the letter inside answered. All that it contained was a time and an address. The address he was outside of at this moment, but as for the time; he was ten minutes late.
The street he walked down was a cold reminder of the harsh times in which they lived. Before Jimmy was born, the government had taken complete control over every aspect of their lives, but somehow some people still found hope. Jimmy was one of them. He prayed day in and day out that the Lord would change the hearts of the leaders and guide them to him. Many across the nation also prayed similarly, but all knew that whatever happened, they were in God’s hands.
Jimmy gingerly walked up to the house and knocked on the door. It cracked open slightly, allowing light to spill out onto the midnight street.
“Get in!” a harsh voice commanded as Jimmy was pulled through the door.
When Jimmy’s eyes adjusted to the sudden light, he could see four people huddled around a table. They were teenagers like himself, two boys and two girls. On the table was a map with many different chess pieces on it.
One of the girls turned to Jimmy and asked, “If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here.”
“Let me explain,” the boy who did not pull him through the door said, “We’ve received information about a convoy carrying food to a nearby town.”
“Okay,” Jimmy shrugged, “So what? The people need food somehow.”
“That’s the problem,” the burlier boy who had pulled Jimmy through the door grunted, “It won’t reach its destination.”
Jimmy’s head was swirling, “Okay, I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you people and what concern is this to us?”
“Us? You’re already associating yourself with the group? I told you I liked this guy Jerome,” the red haired girl who had not spoken up to this point said.
“Fine,” Jerome waved her off, “Then you explain it to him.”
“Gladly,” she smiled brightly at Jimmy, “For starters, I’m Emily, the one who pulled you through the door is Jerome, the other boy is Timothy, and the other girl is Sandra. We’re what we like to call freedom fighters, but you’d probably know us as what the government calls us: Cold blooded revolutionaries. You see, they take great offense to us spreading hope of a better future, so they use propaganda to make us look like villains. Terrible I know. To answer your second question, we’ve received notice that a defecting part of our network, now known as the thieves guild, has planned to attack the food convoy.”
“I still don’t see the problem,” Jimmy was more confused than ever.
“Neither do I, but Emily insisted we call the meeting,” Jerome rolled his eyes.
“The problem is that we have a chance to stop it,” She slammed her fist on the table.
Jerome lashed out, “Why should we? This is a good lesson to the government as to what it’ll cost them to continue like this!”
“But those people will starve otherwise!”
“It’s worth the cost for freedom in the future.”
“Ugh, fine. Jimmy, this is why we invited you. We’ve seen you lead your small group Bible study, and we know that you’re… Discerning. What do you say to do about our dilemma?”
Jimmy’s whole world had been turned upside down in a moment. He felt he was just trying to serve God the best he could, yet now he was presented with a monumental decision that could affect countless lives. Could he really make such a choice? Not knowing what else to do, he silently prayed for an answer.
“Well?” Jerome’s harsh voice cut through Jimmy’s conscience.
Jimmy breathed in deeply and then nodded, knowing what was to be done. “Christ has commanded us to care for those in need.”
“Yes,” Jerome yelled, “And caring for those would be to strike the government down!”
“No. That is not our place, at least not here and now. Jerome, you still have influences with the thieves guild, yes?”
“Yes,” Jerome looked away.
“Then you can get them to call off the attack. I don’t support the emperor, but I also don’t support taking away what little these people have. We must rely on God to carry out his plan, and there may be a time for action, but it is not this way.”
“Fine! Have it your way then, I’ll call off the attack. Just know when they continue to oppress us at every turn, you could’ve stopped it!” Jerome stormed out of the room.
Emily turned to Jimmy, “I’m proud of you. You did the right thing and standing up to Jerome can be frightening. I think you certainly have a place here. Can I count on you for our next meeting?”
Jimmy thought for a moment, “Yes, but before we dismiss, I have a plan to help even more.”
Quickly, plans were drawn up for something no one had thought of. A secret garden, one that could be used to feed those hungry. While that meeting wasn’t the victory the group was looking for, it was a victory in a much different and better way, and one that God used to his glory as he does all things.
I really liked that tension between two opposing ideals as shown with Jerome and Jimmy’s argument. Although I agree with Jimmy, I think it is important to also show another way of thinking since this is how the world we live in works. I also love that God can be seen at work in this crumbling society (not too far from our own), which desperately needs His hope.
I really liked your ending and the plan for the secret garden. Sometimes God’s plan is having people help themselves when they can’t rely on others. God always works things out.
An interesting resolution – a quiet revolution, planting seeds before taking arms. That made for a good twist.
“My lady, is there anything we could do for you?”
The sweet-toothed princess of the Alpenmich family let out a groan and waved her languid hands to her ladies-in-waiting. First, they tried to dress her in her favorite jewels and clothing. Second, they showcased all the princess’s favorite activities, from reading cookbooks to perfume-crafting. Third, they recited jokes from the latest fascinations from town. Finally, they paraded a mixture of sweet and savory treats, Their attempts to cheer the princess all fell short.
“Any other ideas?” The head lady-in-waiting drew circles on both her temples. Margareta, a lady-in-waiting, pouted, and Swanhilde, the other lady-in-waiting recently included in the line of attendants, stood in silence. Emeline, the head maid assigned to the princess, interrupted the overgrown silence by whispering with a saccharine tone. “I’ve ‘er Royal Highness’s meal.”
“Emeline,” the head lady-in-waiting sang her name in an almost reverent tone as she reached for Emeline’s reddened hands. Emeline gave a hearty laugh in response, adding a rosy tint to her already livened cheeks.
“I’m afraid our lady will not be eating that. Or anything at all,” Margareta looked longingly over the steaming plated entrée. “Why ‘ver not, milady?”
“We’re trying to figure that out.” Margareta glanced over at Swanhilde who was now leaning at the doorpost with arms crossed. The head lady-in-waiting stepped in between the ladies and then shifted her stance to direct the conversation to the head maid. “You have known the princess longest, Miss Emeline. Surely you must know…”
Emeline scratched her forehead laced with some of her unruly blonde curls. “I’m at a loss too, Lady Schuelte, I’m afraid.” The head lady-in-waiting slouched her shoulders slightly. “Although…” Emeline recalled, “‘Er grace does have a fav’rit pastry she used to gobb’ up.”
This led them to concoct another strategy: serve the princess’s favorite dessert, the schotrobeutel — a bright, tart fruit infused with light cream added into an airy puff pastry, finished with a glaze of cocoa syrup. Lady Schuelte finally remembered the princess would stuff herself with these pastries, especially chilled by a Schlau Koch.
“I’m afraid there’s one teeny probl’m, ma’am,” Emeline held up her gaze. “The Schlau Koch respons’ble is out on a spree.”
The head kitchen staff were no ordinary cooks. They also possessed rare magical abilities designated by the Institute of Consumer Affairs. Schlau Koch only receive such a title once they have gained renown for their specialized skills. The Schlau Koch “chilling” dairy products for the royal family was Yvo Siegert, a young artisan recently onboarding the Royal Kitchen. The only catch is that even artisans can be called for duty on the battlefield given their specialties.
“Where would a new Schlau Koch be, if not here in the palace?!” Margareta hoisted her hands in the air, hoping help would draw near. Emeline shook, startled by her fellow attendant’s abrupt outroar. Lady Schuelte crossed her arms and tapped her foot, letting the echoes of heeled shoes reverberate down the emptied halls. “If only there was another Schlau Koch who specialized in ice magic.”
“I don’t think that would work.” The three attendants turned their heads toward Swanhilde, who they almost forgot was even there.
“And why is that, Swanhilde?” Margareta rolled her eyes and anchored her hands to her waist.
The silence grew between the ladies, so Lady Schuelte interjected, “We ought to keep discretion as ladies-in-waiting.” Emeline nodded and used her hand to cover her seemingly non-discretionary mouth and mumbled, “I did hear…” she cleared her throat, muffling her words, “Sir Yvo…has made…um… quite an impression… on… ‘er grace.”
“Alright. I give up,” Lady Schuelte snapped back to her usual polite frame and elegantly gripped the handle to the princess’s bedroom door, “We shall speak with the princess directly.”
“Our lady,” Lady Schuelte plunged into a deep curtsy as the other ladies and Emeline followed along. Princess Adelaide was now laying on her soft layered bed while staring blankly at the canopy. “We want to know how to lift your spirits,” Margareta bravely followed. “We cannot help you if you do not tell us,” Swanhilde’s sweet-flowing voice made the princess close her eyes.
“I just want to have a schotrobeutel…”
Emeline moved her eyes toward Lady Schuelte and held out a breath.
“… by the new Schlau Koch, Yvo.”
The princess didn’t hesitate to utter the artisan’s name. “I know…” Princess Adelaide rolled over to her stomach and now faced her attendants. “I know he volunteered to be stationed at the border with the peace envoys.”
Margareta softened her gaze while Swanhilde lowered hers. Lady Schuelte trudged carefully toward their dispirited princess, “My Lady, you do know, we have the technology that can aid your curiosity.”
The ladies then called for the Communication Aides from the Technological and Informational Advances. The spectacled aide didn’t ask many questions and began flipping through a gigantic book. He traced the numbers with his fingers, lifted a clay tablet, and drew with his glowing pen. In half an hour, the princess and her attendants were able to witness the clay tablet turn into an almost crystal-like surface that reflected Sir Yvo’s likeness on the other end. “Your Royal Highness, for what do I owe the honor of this call?” Hearing his soft and mellow voice, Princess Adelaide let out a sigh, “If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here.”
With a crease between her eyebrows and lips tightened shut, the princess began to sulk in protest. Lady Schuelte held back a giggle through her teeth, “Sir Yvo, Her Royal Highness is just concerned for your welfare. I believe it will do her good if you would delay no further…”
Margareta swooped in, “…and make Her Royal Highness her schotrobeutel before something bad actually does happen!”
Swanhilde beamed, “We might need a peace envoy here soon.” Emeline’s roaring laugh echoed in the room and Princess Adelaide finally broke out into her signature sweet smile.
Team A: Herbert
Thanks for sharing your work. I know that can sometimes be the hardest part about writing! I liked the overall concept. If you are looking for feedback (I am always looking for feedback), I felt like the stakes were not clear here, but that could just mean I am not the target audience. 🙂
Thank you so much for your kind take and feedback on my story! 🙂 It’s been a while since I wrote any short stories so I need to brush up on the techniques and raising stakes/making clear goals, but also as you’ve mentioned, my audience may have been targeting those who like character-driven or dialogue-heavy stories (or in my case, a vignette). I’ve been reading lots of books that are not plot-heavy or high-conflict so maybe that’s why it shows in my current writing. I love how your short story had a good balance of dialogue and a clear focus or stakes! I hope I can one day write worlds and tell stories the way you did.
Drown
Emily Martin
It’s their yelling, the voices that cut through a closed door and headphones, that drive me out of my room tonight. Hood up, shoulders hunched, I slip through the kitchen, drumming my fingers against my leg in time to the music.
Distracted, I accidentally knock a glass of orange juice off the table as I pass. It shatters, and colorful liquid splattering all over the floor and onto Dad’s briefcase that leans against the corner cabinet.
I freeze and pull my headphones off for a second, convinced the yelling is about to escape the bedroom and find me instead. But the voices continue. Even shattering glass can’t overpower tonight’s argument.
Good. They can clean up this stupid mess later, when they’re done screaming their heads off at each other.
I put the headphones back on, and the comforting sound of old rock fills my head again. Then, I push open the door that leads to a utility closet and a narrow metal ladder. I scale it in a matter of seconds and shove open the trapdoor at the top. We’re not supposed to go up here; too dangerous or something dumb like that, but my parents won’t notice tonight.
The roof is just a flat concrete surface under a smoggy blanket of dim stars. It smells vaguely of cigarette smoke and car exhaust, like our entire block does. But the screaming can’t reach up here. Instead, it’s just me and Queen and the humid night air.
I walk toward the edge, to the place I like to sit and take in the view—and then stop. Someone has beaten me to it—a tiny figure sitting cross-legged on the concrete, chin in her hand.
I slide my headphones down around my neck, the song giving way to the distant sound of cars going by, somebody’s party music playing on the next block, and…yes, the yelling too, although much quieter now. “Kyra? What are you doing up here?”
She keeps staring out over the city. “If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it?”
“I just got here.” I crouch down next to her. “That’s a pretty big question for a 9-year-old.”
She sighs a deep, shuddering sigh.
A pretty big sigh for a 9-year-old, too. Those voices would have been even louder in her room. My fists clench, blood pumping, and I wish I could punch something or shout at someone to release the energy boiling inside of me.
Would it kill my parents to remember that they have two children?
My gaze travels out to the city, and the sight is oddly calming. Yellow street lights, some flashing, colorful lights from the casino across the street—the source of tonight’s argument. I can’t even get away from it out here.
The air out here is hot, too hot for nighttime, making my shirt stick to my skin and sweat trickle down my back.
As we sit there, Kyra’s question finally registers. I stare at her. “Hey, why’d you ask me that?”
She shrugs. “Just wondering.”
“Is…is something bad going to happen?” My stomach twists.
She bites her lip, then nods. “Really bad.”
Just what I need tonight. Something like panic claws around inside of me, but I push it away. She’s nine years old; her idea of really bad might not be the same as mine. “Do you know what?”
She turns and looks at me, her wide eyes reflecting the flashing casino lights. “It’s Mom and Dad.”
My stomach drops. Of course I knew they were yelling, of course I knew they’d been arguing almost every night. But had she heard something I hadn’t, through my closed door and headphones? “What did they say?”
She shakes her head and turns away.
Downstairs, a door slams, filling in the blanks.
More tears stream down Kyra’s face. I clench my teeth and slip my headphones back on, focusing on the street lights and the people walking into the casino and the rhythm of the drums and anything other than the tightness in my throat.
Kyra leans over, resting her head on my shoulder, and I awkwardly put my arm around her. She’s too little to have to deal with this. How can they not see that?
If you know something bad is going to happen, do you have to try and stop it? Finally, the last part of her question connects, and I swallow hard, trying to force down that lump in my throat.
My music can drown out a lot of things, but it can’t stop those words from playing in my mind like a broken record. I take the headphones off again. “Hey, you don’t have to try to stop it. Mom and Dad…they’ll figure it out.” My voice catches halfway through
“What if they don’t?”
I squeeze her shoulder. “I don’t know.” How to explain it to her when I don’t even understand?
So I don’t say anything, but instead, pull her into a hug. Her tears drip onto my shirt, soaking through to my skin like warm raindrops. She snuggles up closer to me, and her tears slowly give way to deep, even breathing.
I stare out at the city lights for hours, Kyra sleeping next to me, until my eyelids droop and the air becomes cooler and I finally wake her up and guide her back downstairs. Orange juice and broken glass still decorate the kitchen floor, but Dad’s briefcase is gone.
Something hot and wet burns behind my eyes, but I blink the moisture away.
Kyra clings to my hand. “We’ll stick together, right, Jake? And we’ll be okay?”
“Yes,” I whisper, and my heartbeat quickens like it does when I lie. And we walk back to Kyra’s bedroom, and I tuck her into bed. And I start to go back to my room, but it feels too empty, so instead I lay on Kyra’s floor and stare up at the ceiling, my music drowning out the silence.
Team 1
To Change the World, by Ava Murbarger
P.S.- sorry I missed the meeting, we were out of town. I hope to be at the next one!!
The sky was bleeding again.
Rust-colored clouds hung over the City like bruises, pulsing faintly. Rael kept her eyes fixed on them, one hand on the rail of the Watchers’ Tower. Her gloves were too thin. The steel was cold enough to bite.
Behind her, a door creaked open.
“You’re late,” she said without turning.
Boots scraped against the stone. A new recruit, probably. They sent one every week now. Fresh eyes, fresh loyalty.
“I got lost,” the boy said. He sounded too young to carry the badge. Too soft to hold a blade. “Sorry.”
She turned and looked at him.
Dust-colored coat, too long in the sleeves. Wide eyes. Not from the City, then. One of the Outer Rings. Maybe even farther. She sighed.
“If you know something bad is going to happen,” she said, “do you have to try and stop it?”
The boy blinked. “I just got here.”
“Well, obviously.” She crossed her arms.
He shifted nervously on his feet.
Rael turned back to the cityscape. “The answer is yes, by the way. At least, if you’re cursed with a conscience.”
He joined her at the rail. Together they watched the distant flicker of drones weaving patterns in the smog. A red warning rune glowed briefly on the horizon, then faded. Rael knew what it meant. The Reclamation Agents were moving again. Soon, another neighborhood would vanish.
“Why do you do this?” the boy asked.
She laughed without humor. “Because no one else will. Because the High Council stopped caring two winters ago. Because someone has to.”
A long pause. Then, “Is it true the Watchers can see the future?”
“We read the signs,” she said. “Patterns in weather. Seismic anomalies. Political shifts. The Council says it’s superstition.” She paused. “But when the streets burn exactly seven hours after the rats vanish, over and over again, you stop calling it chance.”
He was silent. Good. Maybe he was listening.
“You said you got lost. But you still came up here. Why?”
“I heard the bells.” He hesitated. “They said you can’t hear them unless you’re meant to.”
Rael glanced at him. The brass bell on the tower hadn’t rung in years. She narrowed her eyes.
“Name?”
“Wren.”
“That’s not your real name.”
“It is now.”
She smirked. “Fine, Wren. Welcome to Watcher’s Hill. Welcome to the losing side.”
Another alarm rune lit the smog. Closer this time.
Rael pulled her scope from her belt and scanned the eastern edge of the city. “Sector Four. They’re burning the food lines again.”
“That’s the second time this week,” Wren said quietly.
She lowered the scope. “Third.”
He didn’t speak for a long time. Then he said, “My sister was there.”
Rael’s fingers tightened around the rail. She didn’t ask if the girl had survived. That wasn’t the kind of world they lived in anymore.
Instead, she reached into her coat and handed Wren a folded map, inked with lines and red X’s.
“There’s a storm tunnel under the old trainyard,” she said. “It’s not on any schematics, and it’ll get you to Sector Four faster than any street. But it’s dark. And crawling.”
Wren took the map with trembling fingers. “Why are you helping me?”
Rael looked at him, really looked. The wide eyes weren’t wide with fear, not completely. It was fire. Just hidden under the ash.
“Because sometimes the only thing worse than seeing the future,” she said softly, “is doing nothing to change it.”
Wren nodded. His jaw set. “Then I’ll go.”
Rael watched as he turned, vanishing back into the tower’s dark. When the door slammed shut behind him, the bell gave a soft chime. Just once.
And far below, the wind began to shift.