Calling all creative writers! This is a column run by Nathaniel Lee to inspire readers to write. The column includes writing prompts, pieces by the coordinators, and occasional submissions from readers.
This month: poems from Amy Johnson and Riley Barta, and short stories from Riley Barta and 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 theme prompt is Thanksgiving.
1. Set your story in a shopping mall during Black Friday.
2. Your character has a plan. They're going to save the turkeys. All of them.
3. Write about a Thanksgiving potluck gone wrong.
4. Your character's father stands up to give a speech at Thanksgiving. What he says next surprises everyone.
5. Write a story about a family gathering to watch the biggest football game of the year.
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, 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.
What is death? The god asked the boar.
I don’t know, it says. I know what comes after death, though; the soft touch of decay, the sickly smell of rot.
It looked down at the ground. I think it’s a gentle thing that cradles a soul and rocks it to sleep.
—···—
What is death? The god asked the fox.
It’s a cruel thing, it replied. Death dithers about, taking whatever it pleases. If you have any sense, you best leave it alone.
The fox cackled. It will tear you to pieces if you don’t.
—···—
What is death? The god asked the human.
It’s what I cannot escape from, they said. I’ll die, as certain as the sun sets. Seasons will change, I’ll grow old, then I’ll die.
They paused. It’s not as bad as it seems, though—you learn to live with it.
—···—
What are you, death? The god asked.
Are you gentle? Are you unkind? Are you unfeeling?
But no one answered.
—···—
Ah, the god said while cradling the corpse of its worshipper.
I think I understand now.
I like cats
I like cars
I like stars
I like when the lion roars
I like when the bird soars
cash money
Fish fish fish.
I really like fish.
Dad said if I was good enough I could get my own fish. My brother gets to have fish, but he works with fish at work. His fish tank is so big. It is bigger than me. Brother does not like it when I'm in his room, but he isn’t here right now. I sneak into his room and pull myself up into the chair by the tank. He has a lot of little shrimps and tetras in the tank.
The only big fish he has is a Kuhli Loach. It stays inside a big rock most of the time. I like looking at the shrimp cleaning all of the little leaves everywhere. They look like little aliens. I grab the green bottle that has the dried krill, and I sprinkle a bit into the water. The loach swims out and begins to eat it.
I get a bit closer to the tank, my face pressing against the glass. The loach’s beady eyes seem like they are looking directly at me, and then it swiftly bolts back into the cave. The door creaked open like a bell tolling my death.
“Milly! What are you doing in my room? Get out!”
“But Sam-”
“No, how many times have I told you before? You aren’t allowed in my room. Get out before I tell Dad.”
My brother is so lame. If I had my own fish tank, I would not have to go into his room.
Ugh, it's like everyone hates me in this family.
My face hurt. Well, really everything hurt, but my face especially. Bright lights shining in my eyes, the glint of camera lenses in the dark, the enormous smile plastered on my face. I shifted, holding the plaque at a different angle as dozens of cameras clicked, flashing more lights. Finally, I passed the plaque off to someone else and was led over to a chair. Able to rest my aching legs, I sighed in relief, which was abruptly stopped when someone wiped a damp cloth across my face.
“Take that makeup off, and hurry to your dressing room. An outfit is waiting for you there, and your artist has everything ready.” I was ushered down a hallway to a bright room, so bright it was nearly impossible to see well. Someone I couldn’t see helped me out of my suit and into another, possibly gold, I couldn’t tell. They led me over to a chair, where I sat while my artist—who I had never seen—applied makeup and other accessories. My silver stud earrings were removed and replaced with dangling ones, probably matching my suit. Large fake eyelashes were added, weighing my eyelids down. To help with this, my artist pushed metal tools under my eyelids, which held them open, despite the obvious pain.
After they had styled my hair in a way I’d probably never see, the artist applied makeup. Lots of makeup. I was then handed off to someone else, who sat me in another chair, possibly in the same room, possibly another, and fed me food. Some of the food tasted horrible, but I’d learned not to complain. After I was fed, someone half dragged, half carried me out to a vehicle. Having been in this situation before, I knew what was expected of me. I leaned out the window and waited. After a while, the vehicle began moving. When it came to a busy road, I saw people lined up along the side. I waved at them, and they waved back. They were totally in sync and robotic, but it was what I’d learned to expect.
After a little bit of driving, the vehicle stopped and I was pulled out of the vehicle and up a few dozen steps. After all the standing and walking, my feet felt like they were aflame. One last makeup and hair check, and then I was pushed out in front of a podium. In front of me, the entire population. Behind me, a dozen guards, armed with weapons. I looked down and saw the script, something written by…someone. I don’t know, but it wasn’t me.
“Citizens of Phonith, listen to me now. I, your loyal President, graciously ask you to donate two-thirds of your income to the government. This will allow us to be better, and better serve you. My second, and final request for today is that, if physically able to, everyone must skip. Everywhere they go today. Thank you, and may Phonith reign evermore.” Everyone raised their right hand, and touched the index finger of their left hand to their chin. I was taken offstage and led back to the vehicle. After another parade of waving, I was brought into a room and sat in a chair. The chair was surprisingly comfortable, along with the lack of light.
I was left alone in the room for a couple of minutes, then a masked figure joined me. I was used to seeing this person, and smiled, as they were the only sense of normalcy I got.
“You did well today, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, I—”
They cut me off. “No need for you to talk. We’re going to film a video of you skipping around, then edit it into some video of the city. This will show the people that you, their loyal leader, also participates in your requests.” The person left, leaving me alone again. Bright lights came on, and a disembodied voice told me to begin skipping around the room, occasionally waving. I did so for about thirty minutes nonstop. When I felt about to collapse, someone came in and removed my suit, and then carried me to a bed. A cot or gurney of sorts. They attached different tubes to me using needles, and I felt drugs slowly pump into me. This was a daily occurrence, but still felt unnatural. The drugs took the place of sleep, allowing me to do more. I hadn’t actually slept in…a while. Funny, I can’t remember.
After a solid ten minutes of being injected, they detached me from the tubes and put me in a new suit. More makeup, and then I was taken back to the photography studio. Smiling, bright lights, tired legs. Then back to the dressing room, and another suit and more makeup. Back to the road, and another waving parade.
“Citizens of Phonith, listen to me now.” They all began the same. Today my request was for them to bow to everyone they see. I went through the cycle again.
“Citizens of Phonith, listen to me now.” Someone should really be a little more creative.
“Citizens of Phonith, listen to me now.” Why do they make it so repetitive?
“Citizens of Phonith, listen to me now.” This is getting a little boring.
“Citizens of Phonith, listen to me now.” So…tired…
“Citizens of Phonith, listen to me now.” Why do they make it so repetitive?
“Citizens of Phonith, listen to me now.” Why do they make it so repetitive? Now I’m repeating.
“Citizens of Phonith, listen to me now.” My voice shook and my face paled as I glanced down at the paper. The terrifying words glared up from the page. “My request for today is that all citizens over the age of twenty-five report to the…” My voice trailed off. One of the guards nudged me, but I still didn’t speak. He pressed the cold muzzle of his gun against my neck, jolting me into action.
“Report to the gas chambers,” I whispered into the microphone. The gun was removed. Across the crowd, people started moving towards the exits.
“Wait!” I called. Everyone froze, and I heard someone gasp behind me. “You don’t have to listen to me! Make your own decisions! Don’t go to the gas chambers! Please! I—” I was cut off as the stock of a gun smacked into the side of my head. I fell to the ground but recovered and stood, gripping the sides of the podium while guards pulled on my shoulders.
“Run! As far as you can! As fast as you can! Just get away!” I heard a gunshot, and looked around, wondering who had been shot. I looked out at the crowd to see if it was one of them. Glancing down, I saw blood spreading across the side of my suit. Guards grabbed me and roughly pulled, carried, and shoved me down a hallway. I resisted the entire way, but they were stronger than me and finally brought me to a room. The gunshot wound finally began to hurt, and I collapsed to the floor. They smacked me over the head with a gun, and I fell to my stomach. Blood stained the floor as I crawled to a corner. The masked figure entered the room and pulled a pistol from its holster on his waist and leveled it at my head. The gun spat out a bullet, and it drilled into my skull. It all went black. In the seconds before my death, I realized I was never in charge at all. I was just a puppet on a string.
