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.”
Beyond What is Forebode
By: Else Hjorten
Team A
Just beyond the back deck, two pigtails peek their way up towards where the metallic lattice meets the tips of the green bean vines. Bobbing as the tiny human advances through the plot, a raucous melody commences to aid the vegetables in their growth. As the tune grows in vigor, they twirl around until ending in a heap amongst the garden beds. The little girl sighs morosely, pushing her body off the ground to dust the scuff from her knees. Due to her excitement, she had forgotten that carelessness could end in pain. Following this realization, she is startled by a screech from above, rigidness rushing into her body to meet the impending conflict.
“Aileen! You better not spend too long in that insipid garden. Dinner is almost ready. Finish whatever frivolous activity you are partaking in, and scurry back inside,” her mother demanded, hands full of stirring spoons and spices.
“…Yes mother,” the younger of the two acknowledges.
Even though the girl formulated an agreeable response, it is a commonly known fact that children are reluctant to follow what they are told. So, instead of reversing her path back into the one-story townhouse, her pigtails resumed their journey through the grounds. With each trod, the gardens seemed to envelope her, despite their meager appearance. The chicken wire gradually dissipated, to reveal a deceivingly open plot of land. The green bean vines that were once her height extended to become ten times her figure. Various flitting creatures traced the edges of her vision as she craned her neck to locate familiar sights, only to be faced with sky and root. Scanning the area tantamount to that of a forest, the little girl’s focus shifts to a group of gargantuan flowers, each resembling one of her friends from school.
“Frannie? Mason? Carol?”
She fruitlessly utters their names, still unsure if the flowers are self aware. It was not like the blooms were humanoid, but they held a certain resemblance to her classmates. A feeling of relation, of shared history that tugs at the subconscious. Unexpectedly, they begin to converse, but not in a manner that suggests her presence in front of them.
“We can all come to an agreement that Aileen has disrespected our extents of invitation far too many times,” the tallest fuchsia, dubbed Frannie, starts.
“Certainly! It isn’t even that we want to invite her, but rather, common courtesy cannot be ignored. What do you suppose we should enact, Carol?”
“A complete and all-encompassing isolation, Mason! For no more shall we humiliate ourselves for the greater good,”Carol the medium-sized sunflower responds, apathetically gazing towards the rose named Mason.
As the flora nod conclusively, the girl begins to sniffle. This rejection, no matter how unorthodox, spurs her into a moment of self doubt. It was not her doing to decline their outings, but her mother’s. Her elder always found reasons to keep Aileen home, whether it was chores, omens of peril from the newsboy, or the promise of unagreeable weather.
“Excuse me, are you spying upon our private conversation? Fauna simply do not know how to conduct themselves,” the rose gasps, drawing the attention of his two other companions.
Eyes wide and bleary, the contrasting child ran from the voices. The definition was loose, for she stumbled in her haste, wobbling clumsily without a glance behind her. If she had swiveled her head, she would have noticed the flowers shrinking. They shrank until they ceased to exist, their responsibility completed.
After what felt like hours of primal scrambling, the trail began to clear, clusters of roots incompatible with the new clearing. The brief moment of contentment was combated by a new difficulty, which was the blockade of thick garden vines. The rope-like aberrations were present before three different paths, each etched with a different scrawl of writing. The soft evening sun draped itself over each, aiding anybody who would need to decipher the words.
“Parent’s room,” she read the first out quizzically, squinting to make out the carving.
“Basement,” the second was given voice.
“Attic? These are…chamber names,” the girl discovered, balking abruptly in front of the last formation.
Stepping closer, she placed a finger on a tendril, only for it to move right through. Such a lack of modern physics astounded the girl, for she yanked her hand away like it had been seared. Heart pounding, she extended her arm to put more of it through this minuscule portal. The attempt was a success, and before she could think to remove herself from the situation, her body keeled over, into the very portal that she had been wary of. The action seemed to be compelled through some invisible force, aware of the fact that her child-like body would be of the stature to enter. The feeling was tantamount to the metallic slides in the local playground, though the girl had never experienced it firsthand. It was just another form of entertainment that her mother had barred her from, seemingly to exacerbate her boredom. She cried out as she reached the bottom of the not-slide, legs splaying out beneath her as she landed with an uncomfortable thump.
“Ah, this must be what an attic’s interior looks like,” Aileen contemplated, noticing the dust and grime that coated the wooden walls.
She kept her position on the creaky floorboards, body exhausted from her abnormal journey. The sound of someone clearing their throat echoed in the hollow space, causing the girl to focus once more. When she paid mind, the person spoke.
“Pardon my brazenness, but why are you here girl? Nobody has visited since my arrival,” the adolescent who looked so much like her blurted.
Taking in the stranger’s features, the girl noticed a sense of sloth and neglect in her older self. In this alternate universe, she must not have been nurtured and advised by her mother, leading to an isolated and underachieved reality. This person cared more about enjoyment of self than diligence and perspective.
“It must be fate.”
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.