Calling all creative writers! This is a column run by Nathaniel Lee to inspire readers to become writers. The column includes writing prompts, pieces by the coordinators, and occasional submissions from readers.
This month: a poem from Riley Barta and a short story from Nathaniel Lee.
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. They can be used for anything, though some specify poetry or short stories. This month, the prompt theme is Cold.
1. Write about a character emerging from hibernation, whether literally or metaphorically.
2. Start your story with a description of the cold, using lots of sensory detail.
3. Start your story with someone looking out the window and seeing the first snowfall of the season.
4. Write a story from the perspective of a bird migrating for the winter.
5. Write a short story about someone experiencing their first winter.
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.
They
Want to
See you rot
So eat your own
Poison, and find the
Life you need. It will be
Scary, but you will be safe.
Eat your own poison, find your place.
cash money
To write this story, I pulled up a random word generator. It gave me five random words, and I used them to write this story. The five words will be bold in the story.
If you ride toward the setting sun, you’ll reach the Forgotten Lands. A place where everyone goes eventually, when they’re forgotten.
At least, that’s what my dad said.
“Always remember people, oresti. No one wants to end up in the Forgotten Lands.”
He didn’t even follow his advice.
One day, years after my mother’s death, I asked him to describe her. This was something I’d done many times before, and I expected it to be the same as always.
“Let’s see, she had brown hair… or was it black? Her eyes were… blue? I’m sorry, oresti, I can’t seem to remember.”
“You must remember her! I can’t do it myself!”
He passed away a few days later.
The doctor said that he’d been sick, and assumed that it had affected his memory.
“But… mom,” I whispered to myself.
“You’ll be taken care of. Don’t you worry,” the doctor said. I wondered what he meant.
Eight years in an orphanage is what he meant. Each year, getting moved further and further to the back. No one wanted to adopt a teenager. “They’re too hard to train,” I heard one man remark.
At eighteen, I was finally free. I got a job and worked to earn a house. I had to vote. I didn’t know any of the candidates, so I guessed.
One day, driving home, I decided to leave this world and its struggles. I kept driving, right past my apartment, past the city limits off into the sunset. As I drove farther, I stopped seeing other cars, and it stopped getting darker. I passed a road sign and had to turn around to make sure I’d read it correctly.
Welcome to the Forgotten Lands!
They’re… real? And I’m here? It can’t be true. It’s probably just some trick for tourists.
The first town I got to was filled with ghosts from all time periods: Roman soldiers, crusaders, even modern-day people. I had to stop my car to keep from running them over. In a place like this, I didn’t know if they would exact revenge for that. As I wandered through the town, I noticed my skin paling.
I was becoming one of them.
“Oresti!” I heard someone yell.
I turned and saw two people walking toward me. My father, and a woman who I didn’t recognize, arm in arm.
“Dad? I forgot you?”
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
He grinned and pointed at the woman in excitement.
“Meet your mother.”
