Welcome to the second week of the Spring Writing Challenge!
You all did so well with your stories last week! There were so many interesting and unique ways you interpreted the prompt. It’s now the second week, so it’s time to do it again! Will your story take place in the past? In space? Underground? Whatever you decide, we can’t wait to see how you use this prompt.
So, without further ado, here’s your next prompt!
Week One Prompt – The Setting Prompt
Write a story that takes place in a
Forbidden Garden
Wait…what’s a setting prompt?
A setting prompt is a prompt that takes place in a specific setting. It doesn’t matter who’s there, what happens, or what’s said. The only thing that matters is that your story must take place in a forbidden garden.
Before you start writing, we have some important rules for you to follow.
Writing Rules
1. Please keep the content of the stories you post to a PG rating. Please avoid real curse words. Violence/fighting should be limited and purposeful. Please do not include any spice.
2. Your story must be 1,000 words or less, and must contain the prompt to be counted for the challenge. You’re not required to post it in order to “win” the challenge, but if you want it to count for your team, your story must be posted by Sunday at 11:59 PM ET, and you must include your team name.
Remember to scroll all the way to the bottom of the page and post your story as an “answer” to this question. 🙂 You’re all doing such a great job!
Happy Writing!
Team 1! Sorry if there are typos or grammar mistakes, I’m posting this a minute before the deadline haha <3
When my brother became king, he sealed all entrances to the palace garden. He put his best guards around the perimeter and ordered anyone who strayed close to the entrance to be arrested.
My brother was only in that garden for minutes on the fateful day he watched my parents die, but his eyes are now hollow, his once chocolate brown hair streaked with gray. He told me, and I honestly can’t recall if he has spoken to me since, that he would die before letting another person set foot in that garden.
I pull my hood tighter around my head as the frigid wind bites my cheeks. I have no desire to be the reason for my brother’s death, but my need for answers is becoming suffocating.
Tonight, the moon hides behind the clouds, helping me stay undetected. I zig-zag between the shrubbery that once lined the path to the garden. The guards around the perimeter have become more lax with the rotations since no one has yet tried to break in.
I hide behind a bush and count sixty seconds between when a guard disappears around the corner and another one comes into view. I try to relax my muscles while I wait for the next thirty-second gap. When no guards are in view, I run towards the garden hedge and push off the ground to jump. In the split second I’m in the air, I realize the hedge is taller than I remember. I ungracefully land somewhere in the middle, grasping wildly for purchase.
I’ve almost managed to make it almost to the top when the next guard rounds the corner. My traitorous body freezes in fear, fingers going slack. The guard doesn’t see me until he’s right below my perch. I watch my presence register on his face, but manage to keep my grip. I swing my legs over to the other side as the guard opens his mouth to sound an alarm.
I hit the ground ungracefully, rolling onto my back. Then I’m up and running. I’m not sure if the guards will try to chase me, but I’m not taking any chances.
As a child, I found gardens tedious and stuffy due to the parties of that sort my parents hosted here. Now, I wished I’d spent more time in the garden as I blindlessly race through it.
After putting a good distance between me and where I climbed over the wall, I pause to catch my breath. The palace garden is essentially a maze, somewhere designed for people to become lost in.
For the first time, the layout seems sinister, not romantic. A chill creeps down my spine as I take in my surroundings. The tall hedges are healthy and pruned, even though my brother had the gardeners relocated after his declaration. The leaves are so green they appear black, and instead of the colorful flowers I remember, glowing silver blossoms adorn the hedges.
What happened here?
The flowers start to slowly grow, their petals reaching toward me. I back away, blinking. And that’s when the music registers.
I’d thought it was the wind in my ears as I ran, but there’s a haunting melody floating through the air. It seems to grow louder after I acknowledge it.
Ignoring the fear in my gut, I start following the sound. I’m here for answers, and this impossible song seems like a good start.
I always try to be brave, but this garden is haunting. Vines strewn the ground, and some are splattered with red. All I can think about is my parents and how they spent their last moments here. Was it quick? Were they scared? I feel nauseous.
The music is now so loud it’s almost deafening. It doesn’t occur to me to think about how I know exactly which path to follow, and how the music seems to be tethered to me, reeling me in.
Suddenly, I come to a clearing. In the center, was something that tugged at a childhood memory. A wishing well.
I approach the well in a daze, ears ringing and eyes stinging from the blindly bright flowers. I came here as a child several times, but only made a wish once.
“Careful,” my parents had said. “The well can only hold so many of your wishes before it takes in return.”
I lean over the edge, a terrible feeling crawling up my throat, causing my earlier nausea to return. The water in the well is splashing about, and there, in the waves, I can make out the resemblances of my parents’ faces.
I reel back, horrified. My legs give way, but the well is pulling me closer again. I fall against its rim, shutting my eyes so I can’t see the water.
In one terrible moment, the melody morphs into a voice.
“Elora. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Team 1 Reepicheep
A Treasure Hidden
Somewhere in Obsidian City, between black-painted cinderblock houses and steel skyscrapers, among cracked sidewalks and shriveled weeds, was a garden.
It was ten feet across and twelve long, barely big enough to be considered a garden, and encased in a tall wooden fence. No one could see through it, save for the tiny cracks through which sometimes one could spot a flash of vibrant green or red.
But if they could have seen inside, they would have seen an old man—older than anyone could guess—sitting on a concrete bench among innumerable plants, hobbling around with his watering can, or holding out his hand for one of his butterflies.
No one knew he was there; he hadn’t left the garden since the days when he went for walks with his daughter past cheerful redbrick houses. Ugly spray-painted letters across his fence read DO NOT ENTER, warning away curious passersby.
They couldn’t see him. But through a knothole in his side, he could see out, and some days he sat and watched.
Most who walked by barely gave the fence a glance. But there was a little girl, hobbling on her crutch, who always stopped.
She would stand by the fence and breathe in deep, enjoying the scent of recently cut grass, of flowers, and of fresh strawberries. Some days she stood there for fifteen minutes, listening and breathing.
Other times, she stood as close to the fence as possible, her face against the cracks, trying to catch a glimpse inside.
And as she did, she tried to guess what the garden was like.
Could there be butterflies inside? Did butterflies exist, or were they a figment of the imagination of people who made picture books? Could flowers grow here in Obsidian City? She didn’t know, but in her mind, every flower was behind that fence.
Most days, she heard a bird call, too, and wondered if the bird ever left the forbidden garden.
And then the church bell would ring, and she would open her eyes and run as fast as she could while hobbling on her crutch, to the little marketplace.
The market never had fresh fruits—just dried fruits that sold for a hefty price, and usually a crate of half-rotted vegetables shipped in from the countryside days ago.
But the bread made at market tasted like heaven, and there were sweets, too, and meat and cheese and sandwiches that more than made up for it.
Today, though, things were different.
Today the little girl did not run when the church bell rang. She didn’t stand at the fence with her eyes closed, smelling the flowers. She didn’t stare at the forbidding sign or listen for the bird.
The church bell rang, then rang again. The old woman at the market, with the tired lines in her face glanced out the window, then grumbled something about irresponsible young people. And then she glanced out the window again, the tired lines deepening into worried ones.
By noon, the people on the street were asking questions. The little girl hadn’t bought her lunch of nuts and chocolate from the stand across the street, or walked down the block to fill her water bottle from the pump. She hadn’t smiled at customers as she packed their bags, or sneaked a bit of dried fruit into the bag of a tired-looking mother.
By the next day, the few who knew her had begun to panic. People didn’t often disappear, never without answers. And the girl with a crutch had been an orphan; no home to speak of, no parents, no protector.
It wasn’t just the market woman, or the owner of the nut stand, or the beggar who said hello to her each morning. Someone else had noticed.
Someone behind that foreboding fence, someone who had watched through a knothole every day as she hobbled by. Someone who hadn’t left the forbidden garden in years.
More than once he had considered opening the gate to her, but refrained. It was too dangerous to let anyone in. Far too dangerous.
But as the sun set on the second day, he discovered he had no choice.
He packed up a bag of the best the garden had to offer—a few strawberries, two of his best carrots, and an apple. Then he walked out of the garden, locking the gate behind him, the bag slung over his shoulder.
And he began searching. He didn’t know where she lived, but he knew the homeless people slept on the stairs of the church, so he started there.
It was several blocks from there that he finally found her, huddled underneath the bridge over the dirty river that ran through the city. Her face was white, and her coughs echoed over the rushing of the river.
And he stopped.
He should get closer, offer her the fruit. But he couldn’t bring himself to move.
Those coughs, that pale skin—it reminded him of another girl, and it was too much. He couldn’t bring himself to come closer. To risk her coughs becoming quieter and her breaths weaker. It was the same reason he’d never opened the gate, even though he knew he was fading away and the garden should belong to someone else. How could he let someone in only for them to abandon him?
But then again, how could he abandon her?
He sighed. He might have to watch another person fade, feeling his heart ripping out of his chest again. But if he walked away, he would die without ever opening the garden. And wouldn’t that be worse?
He hobbled forward, breath coming faster, clutching the bag.
She looked up, frowned, tried to scramble backwards. But she was too weak, and collapsed back to the damp ground, whispering, “Please don’t hurt me,” through cracked, dry lips.
He hobbled forward, and forced a smile, which felt strange on his old, wrinkled face.
She stopped struggling, and hesitantly smiled as he opened his bag.
“Would you like a strawberry?”
Aw this was so sweet 😍
Team A
“There once was a forbidden garden. Guarded by an old troll with green, wrinkly skin. When the little children knocked, she would yell- you cannot come in!” Finn huffed and knocked over the troll he set up on the table and it went hurtling to the floor with a thump.
May, a tot with those cute, spiky, toddler-wisp pigtails on top of her head, bent down and picked up the doll, petting its head. Then she put it in her mouth.
Finn sighed.
“May, give me that back.” he said, holding out a hand.
May shook her head no and her mouth hardened into a pout.
“Mine.”
“No, it’s mine. I need something to be Old Lady Crandall.”
“Mine.”
His little sister could be so stubborn.
“Fine. You can play with it. See if I care.”
“Finley.” His mother’s admonishing, but gentle voice carried over from the kitchen where she was cooking. “Be nice to your sister. She’s little.”
“Okay.” He got down to May’s height. “Sorry I was mean.”
“It okay.” She gave Finn a hug and he hugged her back. He couldn’t be cross at her for long. May didn’t understand his frustrations.
His mother set their pasta dinner on the table and Finn was asked to clear up his creation to make room for his plate. He did- tearing down the Lego fence and removing the dandelions he’d placed to represent the neighbour’s flower garden.
He gathered those in his hands.
“You can have them.” he said, and his mother, a slender blonde woman, set his plate on the table, picked up his sister and settled her into her high chair, and then accepted them.
Pasta was good, like usual. Finn liked it very much. What he didn’t like was the way Old Lady Crandall had looked at him as he walked past this morning on his way to school. He always stopped by her fences and always stood on his tippy toes to peek over the fence into her garden. It was real lovely in there- roses and buttercups, stone walkways, even a pond.
He liked the pond, with its splashy fountain and huge koi. He’d sometimes see frogs over the fence too. Most often, he saw Old Lady Crandall. She looked like a prune and she had a voice that scratched when she yelled. She yelled whenever she caught him watching her. She made Finn feel worse than dirt or an ant on the road.
“Finley, what’s wrong? You seem upset.”
“Sorry.”
His mom smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay to have feelings.” she said with a smile.
“Old Lad- Mrs. Crandall hates me. Today she forbid me when I asked to see her fish and garden.” Tears began to spill over, so his mother reached for her napkin and began to dab at his face, cradling him close.
“Maybe I should talk to her.”
“No.” He pleaded with his eyes. “She’ll be more mean when I walk past to school.”
“We’ll see about that. How about we go talk to her together?”
“I don’t know.”
“Some people are mean for lots of reasons. You got upset at May because you were having a bad day. Maybe she’s feeling bad because of her day.”
“Or years.” Finn muttered, a bitter note seeping into his little voice.
His mother patted his head and then directed him to eat his dinner.
The next day was a Saturday, and Finn wasn’t going to school. He was almost glad because he wouldn’t have to see Old Lady Crandall again, but then he remembered Mom’s words. Yes, they were going to see her and talk to her. Big gulp.
He put on one of his Sunday shirts just in case, and brushed his hair real nice. If she thought he was a good boy, could he see the fish?
Only one way to find out.
Finn put on a determined gaze and waved good-bye to his Dad and little sister May. Then he took his mother’s hand and they both walked down the street. Finn’s mom had a soft, warm hand, and a basket of cookies in the other. She said cookies could help anyone remember their manners, and Finn believed her. Unless some people were too cranky for cookies.
His breath hitched as they came into sight of her house, and he had a vivid picture in his head of her scowling face, but she wasn’t in the forbidden garden today.
She must be home.
Finn and his mom came up the driveway beside her car. She was home. Finn gripped his mom’s hand tighter and hid behind her once they were on the doorstep.
The doorbell chimed a beautiful sound, like church bells. What Finn was worried about was the shrill noise that would remind him he was a terrible boy. So, when the door began to open, he wished he was invisible and shut his eyes too, hoping it would work.
“Hello, Mrs. Crandall.” His mother said.
“Cheryl. Your boy’s been trying to ruin my flowers.” She said, fixing Mom and the cookies with a harsh stare that made Finn quake in his sneakers.
“I thought Finn could explain himself if you’d give him a moment.” Mom said, holding out the basket of cookies.
The old lady took them.
“Fine. Speak up, young man. Yes, I see you there.”
Finn stepped out from behind his mother. His eyes threatened to fill with tears.
“I like your garden- I wanted to visit.” He said, and then the tears came.
“Oh. Oh.” The old lady almost dropped the cookies, but managed to bend down a little, so she was looking into Finn’s face.
“You really should have just asked.” She said. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were one of the boys who threw toilet paper at my house last Halloween.”
Finn looked up into the old lady’s face and wiped away his tears.
“It’s okay.” he said.
Then they walked into the garden together.