Calling all creative writers! This is a column run by Averie Black to inspire readers to become writers. The column includes writing prompts, pieces written by the coordinators, and occasional submissions from readers.
This month: A thrilling short story by Rylie Revercomb, and a bittersweet short story by Averie Black.
Congratulations to this month's Creative Corner winner: Rylie Revercomb! Enjoy your notebook for fresh ideas! Want to be next month's winner? Submit a creative piece to the next issue.
Below is a set of prompts for different styles of writing beyond journalism. The idea is that you can create some kind of creative writing piece inspired by one of the prompts, but it doesn't have to be. You can submit any piece of writing you would like to share! All submissions should be school-appropriate. You can also suggest prompts to be featured in the next issue.
Here are some prompts to get you started. You can follow a prompt or submit a unique piece of work. The prompts can be used for anything, though some specify poetry or short stories. This month, the prompts are:
Write about the creation of a fictional holiday.
Write an acrostic poem using a wintery word.
Write about the effect someone has had on your life.
Write about something small that re-sparked a forgotten memory.
Write about a future where robots take over (with a positive twist)!
If you have any prompt ideas in mind that you haven't seen on here yet or would like to see someone else respond to, then drop them in the Google Form below and I'll try to get them in the next issue! I sometimes don't see the response until after the issue is published, so I'm sorry if it takes a couple of months.
“Hello, and welcome back to the Channel Six Evening News. Tonight’s topic: the elusive serial killer who has been taking lower Manhattan by storm,” the woman on the TV drawls, looking beyond the camera at a prepared script as she continues to make more disgusting noises. “Striking by night, she targets young men alone on the streets at night. The police have yet to catch her. However, sightings of the criminal have suddenly decreased. What could spur this sudden change? Well, here we have police Chief O’Malley on the sub-”
Reaching for the remote, I listen to the satisfying click of the off button as the woman’s voice fades out and the screen goes black.
Isn’t that so much better? I couldn’t stand to hear her repulsive voice for another second.
Newscasters, reporters, journalists… They’re all the same. Slimy snakes who slither their way to the top of the food chain, eating the crumbs off everyone’s plates in an attempt to find the next BIG STORY. They’re vermin, always using their words to vilify or ostracize any innocent person who happened to say something that was just a tad controversial.
Of course, a serial killer on the loose isn’t necessarily a controversial topic to speak on… Unless the viewer IS the killer, or you’re a psychopath sympathizing with the so-called criminal. Still, they always seem to tie in unnecessary things, weaving lies and using the mainstream to sell their ideas.
Sinful words hidden behind those fake pearly white smiles; fluffed-up hair sprayed to perfection; surgically improved cheekbones and noses; and emotionless eyes. You’d think anyone would see past that facade, but apparently, our society is gullible enough to fall for any pretty girl’s lies.
They’d feign any disgust if it meant they could ogle at the reporters on screen all day.
Disgusting. Shameful.
You know… If you compare the News Reporter to the Killer, at least one of them has real goals. One of them expresses their emotion, their wants and needs, their bloodlust.
Those women on the TV have no passion. It’s worse than a stage play with rehearsed lines, emotions, reactions… Everything on the screen is impromptu. They don’t even get to see the story before they go LIVE and blab about it. It’s not even THEIR opinion.
At least the serial killer knows what they’re doing. They meticulously plan each detail. They stalk their prey, find out when they’ll be alone, plan it on a night where they can escape without being seen… And, most importantly, everything is coming from THEM. It’s actually THEIR opinion.
It’s a work of art in a way.
Getting out of my own head, I stand up from the couch and let out a soft sigh. My bones pop deliciously as I listen to the sounds of the floorboard creaking.
Clambering to the kitchen, I furrow my brows. The radio blares from the apartment across the street, playing that SAME Channel Six news story on full blast. God, her voice is abhorrent.
“The serial killer’s actions are an effrontery against the city of Manhattan, which is why the police chief is indefatigable as he follows a new lead and vows to hunt down the murderer--” The pompous woman just KEEPS. ON. GOING.
I shut the window and draw the blinds, grumbling to myself as I put a kettle of tea on the stove, dragging my hand down my face as the water begins to boil and the fire crackles beneath it.
In between the mixture of sounds, I hear a muffled thud from the closet.
My brows furrow in annoyance, and I shove down a frustrated sound. I approach the closet and bang harshly on the door, listening to the woman inside let out a scared scream in response.
Jeez… Women really are annoying.
“Screaming isn’t going to help you...” I stifle a slight chuckle at how stupid she’s being. I mean, she should have figured out that the banging was redundant about an hour ago. I stride back to my kettle as a sinister smile slowly forms on my face, “No one’s going to find you.”
How funny…
I kidnapped THE serial killer.
The same killer they just can’t stop making ridiculous stories about, the same one who’s been plaguing the radio waves and TV stations for a week. And, the more I think about it, the funnier it becomes.
The irony of it all is that…
I bet they’ll make some stupid news story about me.
Lion does not think he was alive before Eleanor. He is not even sure if he is alive now, but if not alive, certainly something of the sort. The first haze of consciousness sprouted from his feather-filled head like a dream. A girl, all brown-eyed and baby-faced, combed through his mane with hands as small and pale as daisies. Lion did not know much, but through his small, plush existence, he knew this was his person.
Every morning they would go to breakfast together. She would hop out of bed, the nightgown she was meant to grow into dropping all the way to the floor and sliding down the hallway, holding him securely by his torso, never his leg. Gentle humming vibrated from the kitchen as Mom flipped buttermilk pancakes hissing on the pan. Eleanor sat at the table with Lion in her lap, eagerly swinging her feet. Lion much preferred when she had cereal, which tended to end with less syrup in his fur, but whatever Eleanor loved, so did he. In the afternoons, the two friends would go to private schooling with Eleanor's tutor, Mr. Portman, a man with a face as wide and strong as a buffalo's. Then, when it came time for the afternoon, Lion accompanied Eleanor to the garden where they would play games or babble out secrets under the blooming hydrangea bush.
Even as Eleanor’s legs grew long enough for her feet to touch the kitchen floor during breakfast and Mr. Portman assigned her books without illustrations, Lion was always with her. Sometimes, he would question why other children stopped bringing their companions to sleepovers and birthday parties. Angie Wright’s Bear and May Robinson’s Horsie were nowhere to be found. Once in a while, as Eleanor’s back was turned, the other girls would cup their hands around their mouths and create an echo chamber of quiet, venomous words.
“Aren't we too big to be playing with toys?” May would whisper to Angie.
“Well, she doesn't talk to anyone else really,” Angie replied.
Lion wished claws would unsheathe between the slits of his knitting to defend his Eleanor, but his prayers fell upon deaf ears. Instead, Lion sat as always— silent and still at the will of others. No, Eleanor would never leave him behind as May and Angie did to their companions. They took care of one another.
Just a few weeks before Eleanor’s 10th birthday, her cheeks reddened and her throat swelled. Her silky blue sheets were thrown to the floor while sweat soaked through the mattress. Lion stayed close as always, watching over his friend as she cried for Mom and sucked her thumb-- a habit she had long outgrown. Wet, hacking coughs made the air feel disgustingly humid, but it was nothing Lion hadn’t seen before.
It only began to change when a man arrived. He brought a dark leather case with him like the one Dad used for files, but when he clicked the locks open, cold, metal tools were inside. Mom hovered at the end of Eleanor’s bed while the man examined her. Lion had gone with Eleanor to see a man like this once, but he had never come to their house before.
“See this?” The man pulled down the collar of Eleanor’s shirt to show Mom an angry rash covering her chest. “Measles. It should run its course. Just try to keep her fever down and fluids up.”
Mom nodded and escorted the doctor out, offering teas or liquors. She did everything she could to take care of Eleanor, just like Lion, but the little girl progressed quickly. Lion stayed close over the next couple of days listening to Eleanor’s stories, and when she would run out of subjects to talk about, she would make up fairy tales with brave knights and beautiful princesses. Sometimes, Lion would even be in the stories, too, those were his favorite.
A couple of days passed and the crisp summer morning shed golden light through the window. Eleanor’s fever had disappeared. Her skin felt icey against Lion’s stitching, and suddenly it was like the tundra pounding snow onto the Earth below it. They missed breakfast, but Lion could smell the sweet syrup from the kitchen. Slowly groaning, Eleanor’s door opened. Mom stood in the doorway, wordlessly mouthing Eleanor’s name. It was the last thing Lion saw before being thrown to the floor face down. A deep scream came from between the heart and stomach where Mom kept her soul. Lion hoped it wouldn't wake Eleanor.
Day turned to night, which blurred into more days and more nights. Lion had lost track of how long he was there face down on the floor, but it was longer than he had ever been alone before. He longed for someone to talk to him, for Eleanor to comb his mane and take him to the garden, to see anything but the oak floor of a bedroom. It was not as if he would give up hope. Eleanor would never leave him like this. She was not like Angie or May who abandoned their companions in crumbling brown boxes or lost them to the darkness under their beds. Eleanor would come back for him, eventually.
It felt like months before the groan of Eleanor’s door was heard again. Heavy footsteps made their way towards Lion. Lion perked up, Eleanor walked soft and silent like a ballerina, but all of the hope of seeing his girl flooded into his chest. All of that anticipation, just for large, smooth hands to grab him with all roughness and desperation. Not Lion’s Eleanor. Dad lifted Lion from the floor and held him up to his face. Lion thought he looked tired, with dark bags under his eyes and his face with much sharper angles than before. Tears rimmed his red eyes, quickly overflowing onto his grey, hollow cheeks. The plush toy looked upon him in despair. When Eleanor was sad, she would hug Lion close, sob, and talk to him about what was wrong until her eyes ran dry, but he didn’t know how to help Dad. Lion felt like crying, too. He only wanted his Eleanor. She was the only one he wanted to be comforting. Lion wished for a moment he wasn’t just plush and that all of these twisty feelings inside could flood out of his body like people can.
Suddenly, a second figure swept into the room. Mom, in an equal state of disarray, flashed her pointed teeth.
“Get rid of that.” She demanded, grabbing one of Lion's feet.
Dad pulled Lion closer to his chest, “We don't have much left, Sarah.” He spoke in all exhales.
“We cannot keep living like this. This, all of this, needs to go.” She tugged Lion further from Dad’s grasp but his grip only tightened.
“I will not erase my daughter from my life.”
"She is dead! It is time to start living again.” Mom pulled with all of her strength, a ripping sound silencing even the morning birds.
Lion watched in horror as his leg ripped from his body, fluff spilling from his soft frame. Mom and Dad met eyes, Lion watching the gaze crumple between them. He wanted to cry out for his Eleanor. She would stitch him back together and tuck him into bed while he recovered, and treat him with all the dignity in the world.
“Sarah…” Dad whispered.
Mom dropped Lion’s leg to the floor, something Lion thought to be very disrespectful. Without a moment to think any longer, Lion was crushed between the darkness of the couple’s embrace. Mom’s body went near limp as Dad worked to keep her upright. Lion felt their heavy chests take deep breaths, choking back sobs as he wondered what Mom meant by the word dead.
