Creativity Corner

Calling all creative writers! This is a column run by Liv Akers and Mariah Lumsden to inspire readers to write. The column includes writing prompts, submissions from readers, and pieces by the coordinators.

Calling all creative writers!

Welcome to The Scroll's newest column, a space for readers to write in The Scroll without necessarily being journalists! We hope you guys look forward to participating!

How to participate:

Below are 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'd like to share! All submissions should be school-appropriate.

Send in your submissions to gphsthescroll@gmail.com to be featured in the column! You are more than welcome to send in anonymously or put your name on your piece. Please just specify when emailing us. Thanks!

Prompts:

Here are some prompts to inspire your writing this month! Let us know how it goes, if you decide to try one. :)

Write a story about something that happened to you in real life, but from the point of view of someone else.
Write an essay/analysis/rant/etc. about that one weird niche thing you know a lot about that you wish people would ask you about so you could talk about it.
Make a blackout poem with notes you don’t need anymore for a class or an old essay/assignment to celebrate the end of the semester!
Write a letter to a teacher you had this semester, without saying who it is, and let people guess!
Write a story or poem about a prized possession.

Black pearl- Liv Akers

This is an older work of mine that follows prompt five. You guys should try it too, it was really fun!

It is small enough to fit on the first segment of my pinky finger. Its metal cage with thin, curved bars are worn and, though it still retains some shine, the gold color has long since faded to silver. The small black pearl itself lies untouchable inside its cage, as though it will escape back to the sea if it isn’t held captive. It smells old and musty, like the jewelry box full of memories it called home for so many years. It feels like the joys of youth, and the love that was delivered with it when it landed in my possession. Though trapped, it feels like the freedom of young age that led to its captivity. Though I haven’t been able to call it mine for long, it reminds me of the time spent with the previous owner, despite the long periods we’ve spent apart. The clip on top, meant to hold the charm to its now-broken chain, is like a tether holding me to my family, and keeping my Granny, many states away, close to my heart.

The last time I saw her was in Texas, and that was when she gave me the necklace. We had ducked into the cool guest house to escape the unbearable southern heat, and she beckoned me into her bedroom. Her walker scraped against the floor as she made her way to the trunk against the wall. The lid creaked open, and bright colors flew in a blur as she pulled out various garments and blankets from when she used to knit, some resembling the bright yellow blanket draped across my bed that she had made for me when I was a baby. Finally, she pulled out the dusty wooden jewelry box and took me to the kitchen, where she laid various necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and brooches over the table. She dug through pouches, drawers, and bags, in desperate search of an object I could only imagine. My mother examined various items of gold and silver, carefully holding them in her hands, touching their delicate surfaces. At long last, Granny pulled a gold chain out of a black pouch, and handed it to me with a smile. I took the necklace and held it carefully in my fingers, before closing the clasp around my neck.

We went to the living room, where my eyes fell on various objects I remembered had been in the beach house in Rhode Island. The plush salmon chairs that she and Pop sat in now. The stuffed lobster that had been a centerpiece on their coffee table, now a decoration on an end table. The swan vase that had resided in the bathroom. I stroked the charm’s surface thoughtlessly as we talked, my mother mentioning how lucky I was to have been given the necklace before her Aunt Peg had gotten it. That was when Granny started telling me the story of how she had originally gotten the pearl, which now rested on my chest, held there by its slim gold chain. As she spoke, I felt myself being whisked away into the story.

I pictured her younger, like in the picture Mom has on the bookshelf in our new house. Her dark hair, not yet grayed, glinting in the sun as she dove into the water. I could envision her in my mind, swimming in deep water, oysters scattered everywhere. I could practically see her hand as it reached out and grabbed the smallest oyster she could find. I pictured her laughing and talking with friends as they pulled out pairs of white pearls, glinting in the sun, discussing plans to have them made into earrings or put on bracelets. Then my Granny pulled out her silvery black pearl, and put all of her friends’ pearls to shame.

I left the guest house that day rolling the charm between my thumb and forefinger and thinking about the morning’s events. Just holding the necklace in my hands, I had been able to feel the joy she had had when she found it, and now felt my heart overflow with love because she had chosen to give something she cared so much about to me. Even now, I still feel her pride in discovering the pearl, mingled with my own pride in being the receiver of such a gift. I had already decided to pass the necklace onto my own great-grandchildren one day, and to hold it close to my heart until then.

Mariah Lumsden

CHAPTER 1

Maybe I could have let it go if I tried, but the music didn't know the war. The music was young, and the war was ancient. There was no way they could have ever understood each other, or have a conversation that didn't involve them yelling at each other until their lungs burned. I understood where both of them were coming from. The war was tired, their skin was yellowing and caving in, they had been breathing for too long. Music was just a child. She was smart for her age and she showed so much potential; new ways of thinking. The war was bad and the music was good. In this world, too much bad and too much good could never even be in the same room with each other, let alone in the same universe. It was, however, the universe's decision to do so, so I forced the war to listen to the music until the war cried. I forced the war to listen to the music until the war's ears bled.

I could have spent days in that chair, scratching away at sheet music. Sometimes I was so passionate about it that I ripped the pages to shreds in my attempt to create art. Art is still art if it's torn apart. The meaning changes, however, when it is broken and lying on the floor, because who will see it but the artist themself?

My fingers were in love with the strings on that violin. It's like they would dance every time I played a song. The bow is what made them sing, and it was angelic. I would get lost in the strings, and the bow. It was transcendent, a lovely vacation from what was going on outside those dingy apartment walls. It was the war. That dirty war. It kept me up all night. I could hear the screams and the agony like hell was only one block away. Stomachs were being stirred with hunger and anxiousness. That was probably the loudest sound. The other loud sound was people weeping from lost ones. It was like you could feel the life leaving the earth on those nights when the crying was the loudest. Babies screamed all night long; they would have strong lungs when they grew up. Lungs to breathe, lungs to sing, and lungs to cry some more. I hoped that they would have lungs to laugh with too.

I wanted the war to die so people could stop screaming and feeling constant pain. A part of me hoped that my music was a sound in the world that didn't bring the feeling of one sinking deeper and deeper into an ocean of quicksand. I wanted my music to fill the world. But it couldn't.

CHAPTER 2

The moment I opened that front door was the moment that I filled with dread. Every single time I opened it. I had to open it, though. I had to feel the cold seep through to my skin and violate me because I had to go out into this broken world to go to work. Playing the violin all day doesn't pay the bills, although I hoped that one day it would.

Chilled to the bone, I strolled outside with all of my layers on. I was wearing a long, cinnamon coat. It was so long it barely grazed my ankles, but it kept me warm for the most part. I lived in the city so I usually found myself walking to my job as opposed to taking a bus or a car. Also, I didn't make or have enough money to pay for gas so walking was pretty much the only alternative for me. My work was only a couple blocks away from my apartment building so I didn't mind the walk anyways. I always saw the same sights and same souls on the way. There was always that broken down brick building that went out of business about five years ago that nobody bothered to sell so it just sat there, weathered and cold. Every time there was even the slightest of a breeze, the dust would be torn from their safe home on top of the disproportionate bricks and fall to their timely death. Then there was always that man with a lonely hot dog cart, shivering and praying for someone to muster up a crinkled dollar bill to buy one of his slimy hot dogs.

My work took place in a building similar to the eroded building wilting away a few sidewalks back. It was an ancient building, one with five stories but only the first two stories being used because the other ones were unstable. The first story was inhabited by a small coffee shop, not at all thriving just sort of existing. The second story was used for storage that someone neglected at least twenty years ago. Although, I am certain that if more than two people went up there at the same time, the whole floor would disintegrate into dust and fall tragically.

I opened the door to the coffee shop with the icy doorknob and smiled at my boss who was a quaint, round little Italian man. He wore a curly black mustache, which did not at all match his full head of gray hair, had olive tanned skin despite the sun going on vacation. His name was Francesco, and he was the purest person I had ever met. He smiled with all the teeth he had left, and genuinely.

"Hello, Francesco," I said softly, grazing the door behind me as it closed.

"Ciao, Aisla." He said this cheerfully; however, I was concerned as it was far less cheerful than his usual self.

"What's wrong, Francesco?" I said, walking over to him where he slumped behind the counter and cupped his folded hands. He wore a grim expression; the lines on his forehead deepened like canyons.

"The coffee shop is, how to say," he said, talking with his hands, "going out of business." His bottom lip twitched like he was going to cry, which sparked a chain reaction and as a result, my bottom lip started twitching.

"Today is the last day," Francesco said, fixing his posture and walking over to a lonely coffee pot. I seldom felt sorrow for I lived in a world filled to the brim with sorrow already, I could not afford to add more to the overflowing cup. So I put on an old, dirty apron that was once clean and white. I walked over an isolated individual who sat in a deep cave in the very back of the small coffee shop, sipping microscopic sips of black coffee and staring out of the grim window dramatically.

"Is everything okay?" I asked them, as cheerfully as I possibly could. They sighed loudly, fidgeting with their coffee cup.

"The coffee is excellent, but you know," They said, flicking their eyes back towards the window.

"Okay great, let me know if I can get you anything else," I said awkwardly. I turned around and could hear the clattering of coffee cups and spoons swimming in the coffee, but it was prevalently loud. I couldn't focus. I was overwhelmed because it had hit me. This was my last day, with no notice. I had to dive deeper into the world to find a new job the next day, and I wasn't sure I was ready for that. I wasn't born at the right time. I wasn't existing at the right time and everything was all wrong.

I tore off my apron and frantically ran back to my apartment complex. I needed my music to feed my soul because it felt like I was slowly disintegrating into nothing. It was all wrong.

I opened the door to my apartment breathlessly, as I had just ran at least a mile and a few flights of stairs. It felt like I was suffocating and my music would give me air.

My fingertips were the first to find the violin. Automatically, without music, I felt better. My throat was still closed up but it was keeping me alive. I rested my chin on the chinrest, and the bow embraced the strings and my fingers danced on the strings.

I could finally breathe. Anything that was going on out there, did not matter. I was safe, the melody was cradling me like an infant. Maybe I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but as long as I just kept playing my instrument, everything was complete like a puzzle. I had found the last piece all along.

thanks for reading!

These were just some examples to hopefully generate some inspiration for you guys. This column relies on reader participation, so we really hope you all decide to give it a try. We look forward to reading your submissions!

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