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 short story by Averie Black.
Attention, creative writers! Every month, Creative Corner hosts a contest for the highlighted writer of the month! Submit your writing to Creative Corner and you will be immediately entered to win a journal.
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.
Each month, one submission to Creative Corner will win a prize! This month's prize goes to Gabrielle A. Hart. Conratulations, Gabrielle! We will be in touch!
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 an unlikely love story.
Write a screenplay.
Write a story as if it were your character's diary.
Write a story about a story that takes place in 24 hours.
Write from the perspective of an object.
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.
The golden, dusty mirrors vibrated on the walls. Each plucked string vibrated through the air with the sound of waves bouncing off of every statue and painting. It started harshly. One string plucked with a nubby finger, a moment, a second string, and so on until the woman raised her bow. August pressed the tight horse hair onto the steel strings and began to play. She showcased a dramatic performance with fast and high screeches remedied with deep, soulful strokes. The sun began to rise and sunlight leaked into the tall, skinny windows, making the dust covering the museum shimmer. With the tall ceilings and cramped hallways occupied by no other living person, the music pounded through the room, filling it with life.
A soft, warm draft made a figure eight around her legs like a purring kitten. The spirit liked to show its satisfaction when August played a piece it particularly enjoyed-- though the same could be said for when it had a distaste for the piece. August quickly learned to never play anything too experimental. The spirit enjoyed classical music the most, which made sense considering its origin. Flecks of muted color spiraled around the hall– crushed azurite and burnt bone that smelled of sour milk. August had never quite gotten used to the odor. The spirit rose high above her head, the air pressure rising and making August’s ears pop. Today, it took the vague shape of a giant woman, a crimson red flushing across its cheeks and chalky blue forming the silhouette of a long dress. It brought its hand to its mouth, soundlessly giggling. August angled the string at the base of her bow, using the full length to release the last quivering note.
The air pressure dropped with the spirit’s disappearance. It never stayed long, but its presence still filled the room. August could feel it as she packed up her instrument. She felt the way the statue's eyes moved. In this way, the claustrophobic halls took on a more cozy appearance. Everything was lighter, more curious, more alive. More than anything, August felt the spirit within herself. It was strange to think something mystical had such an effect on her body– her eyes dilated, and her early morning fatigue sizzled away into joy. That’s how everyone who walked into the museum felt, and it was all because of August, the groundskeeper. Despite it being an entry-level position into the field of arts, it was the grandest honor. Much like the city's doctors and lawyers, August studied for years in higher education, competing for the small chance of artistic recognition. The few who made it obtained entry-level positions and apprenticeships, while those who didn’t were completely stripped of their craft and sent back to live among the rest of society. That was never an option for August. She vowed to work her way into the Musician's Guild– or throw herself into the sea tied to her violin. There was only going to be one path for August. It was success, or no future at all.
August brought her violin into the back office and was locking it in the safe below her desk when she heard the front door creak open. A shot of anxiety bolted through her. She could have sworn she had locked the door behind her. The galleries weren’t open for another two hours. August hustled to the front, her boots screeching to a halt when she saw him.
“Ms. Dixon,” he smiled, “I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Mr. Sterling Pascal was a tall, broad man with silver hair and diamond rings roped around his fingers. His short forehead was always sweaty around the hairline, and his crow's feet grew deeper every time August saw him. It used to be nearly every day, Mr. Sterling Pascal would check in on her and his museum. Such a delicate job required proper oversight until he was sure his sponsor could handle groundskeeping on her own.
August smiled wearily and nodded her head at him. “It is nice to see you, sir.”
Sterling strolled back towards the office, eyes swiping from left to right over the galleries. August trailed timidly behind him. She didn’t like unexpected visitors and had been quite content in her routine. Though Sterling was her sponsor, he had never warmed up to her as closely as some of the others he worked with.
“I know you don’t care much for pleasantries, Ms. Dixon, so I will get to the point,” Sterling said, sitting in August’s brown leather chair behind her desk. “I want to bring a new groundskeeper into the museum. Her talent… It's like none I’ve ever seen before. I had to offer her something before someone else could offer her a better position. I’m sorry, Ms. Dixon. I will still allow you into the museum to play once in a while, but of course, your violin will have to stay here.”
August had to use the wall to hold herself up. Everything started getting dizzy. She felt so much smaller than before, like the size of a mouse. August thought she had altogether won her fight into the Musician's Guild. All she had to do was get a couple more years at the museum, and soon she would be taken seriously. She would play for a crowd, submit her application, appear before the Guild, and be accepted. All of her hard work just to be taken out by a fresh-faced college graduate with supposed immeasurable talent. August was well aware of what that really meant. Someone who grew up with parents in the Musician's Guild. Access to tutors, high-class instruments, and music in the air wherever she walked– but this graduate wasn’t ready to face August. She didn’t know what kind of woman she was up against.
