This Week's Prompt! -- 8/24/2020

 Welcome writers! Today is our second writing assignment.

This week, you will be writing a story to describe or talk about a hobby—any hobby you choose! 

The stories this week will have no word limit, they can be as long or as short as you want (as long as you don't write a novel). 

Just like last week, your stories should be posted by this Sunday (8/30/2020). 

Hannah will choose our next assignment on Monday.

Have fun writing, writers!

-SAMARA

Update: Since none of us were able to upload this week due to various reasons, the publishing date will be moved forward a week. Your stories should now be posted by September 6th (9/6/2020). 

The Train Station

By Samara Walters

Tap. Tap. Tap. The girl’s foot beat light and quick on the ground, full of impatience. Not annoyed, but nervous. Her hands were clenched on a small handbag in her lap, squeezing it tight. Her face was tense. She seemed to be waiting for something. But then again, who wasn’t at a train station? 

It was currently 8:03 AM. I was seated at the train station waiting for the 8:15 train to take me to work, reading a newspaper I had picked up earlier. Well, I was. I’m not sure what drew my eyes to her in the first place, actually. Perhaps it was her gentle tapping. In any case, she was an interesting subject to observe. I wondered what her story was.

You find a lot of people like that at train stations. People with stories you’ll never know. Sometimes you’ll find an old lady waiting for a train. Is she visiting grandchildren? An old friend? Or is it just a trip for fun? Sometimes you’ll see a family. Are they having a picnic? Visiting some museum? You never know. 

I wondered what her story was, and what she was waiting for.

A train obviously, but someone on that train? Or a train to take her to someone? Or somewhere? I observed her further. Her eyes glinted with suppressed excitement, but they had a sparkle of mischief too. Perhaps she was embarking on some frolic with a friend. But the large suitcase seated next to her spoke otherwise—possibly a vacation instead?

At that moment, a soft sound interrupted my thoughts; a rhythmic puff growing louder each second. The girl’s head perked up and her foot stopped tapping. She grasped her ticket in her hands.

The train had almost arrived when she bounded up out of her seat. But as the train began to pull in, a sharp wind suddenly whipped the ticket out of her hand. She let out a cry of dismay and jumped to grasp it, but it was no use. Frustrated, she pulled out her handbag. But as she rummaged through it again, a look of shock, and then distress came over her. She must have been out of money.

By now the train had come to a complete stop, and passengers were filing off the train; but the girl turned back, disappointed, to go collect her suitcase. She would not be going on this train. 

She started to walk away, when a clear voice rang out above noise, “Darla!” The girl looked back, surprised, her eyes searching for the caller. Was Darla her name? I didn’t have much time to wonder, because her face suddenly lit up, and she dashed off. I looked to see where she was running towards, and saw her embrace with an older woman, both of them squealing in excitement. The sight warmed my heart. I didn’t know who she was to the girl, but it was evident that this was who the girl had wanted to see. 

After a bit, they both left the train station, all smiles and pure contentment. I knew that encounter would forever remain a mystery to me, but I was filled with a sense of their contentment too. 

This is what I like about train stations. You never know the people you’ll meet there, the stories you’ll see unfolding in front of you. But there always comes a point where you have to move on, and it seemed my time had come. After all, I still had a train to catch.

Finally Seen

By Hannah Stake

Many people have rhythms to their days. Some play the same song every morning, others do certain stretches to extend muscles that have been frozen for hours. I look in the mirror to memorize my outfit. 

Living in New York, you see all types of styles and fashions: that's my problem. 

I got into NYU due to my " fashion talent” which I don't actually possess. 

I take my seat there and wait for my professor to step in and describe what outfit I'm wearing today in her eyes. 

She enters, surveying my outfit. "Your red satin top with the embroidered gray skirt and those boots- I love it!" 

It's always red satin with her. Yesterday I was wearing a red satin bow, the day before red satin pants. 

In my next class, Professor Pascal was inspired to find me donning purple checked flats, a velvet skirt, white shirt and denim jacket.

People always see my outfit based on what their opinion of the perfect style is but never the real me. 

I make my way home but not without hearing, “Cute dress!” before I enter my apartment. I’m starving but haven’t made it to the store yet so I order in and hope that traffic isn’t bad. 

Later, I smell my delicious burger through the door before I even hear the knock, and I’m met with the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I’m so shocked by him I fall over.

"Are you ok?" 

I reply with a quick yes and leap up to retrieve my burger and the last shred of my dignity. 

A conversation starts and soon arises the question of where we attend school. Assuming my mask, I share that I attend NYU majoring in fashion,gesturing to my outfit, commenting “Obviously”. I wait, interested in hearing what he sees. But he looks at me like I’m crazy, shoves my meal into my hands, and then walks away.

"Wait! Why are you leaving?!" I call.

"I don’t appreciate being lied to,” He shoots back.

Offended, I retort,"Well, at least I’m not rude!" 

“Enjoy your burger.” He cockily replies. 

Why did he treat me like that? He’s just like the rest of them. I let him leave.

Yet, I can’t help but have his words in a loop inside my head, "I don’t appreciate being lied to" 

Lied to.

Then it hits me.

Realization covers the feeling of offense and replaces it with a need to chase after this man because he could be the person I've been waiting for. 

I scramble out onto the sidewalks of New York City and immediately am overwhelmed by the mass of people. I was Prince Charming, he was Cinderella, and there was no shoe.

Then I hear him.

Turning, I get his attention by yelling,"What am I wearing?"

Confused, he replies, "You're wearing a blue greasy T-shirt that's way too huge for you, no shoes, and I assume shorts under that shirt." 

I can’t believe it. 

I look down and there is the outfit I’d worked to memorize this morning. The blue shirt, covered in grease stains from numerous burgers lay there just as he’d described. No red satin, no plaid flats, just a plain T-shirt. I’m not a fashion icon. I’m me. 

He sees me for who I am. For the first time in my life. 

I never want it to stop.

Creativity's Grasp

By Libby Alley

I had been pacing across the ugly gray carpet floors of the airport. There was a steady rain outside the clear expansive windows, falling in thin sheets. The mashed-potato clouds in the sky were as muddled together as my thoughts. My sneakers and pink fuzzy socks itched and made my ankles hot. I meandered aimlessly back to my seat; I settled back down and my feet thanked me. The flight had been delayed an hour, leaving me time to write another boring article.

I wondered if my publishers could tell that I was a fake.

I opened my laptop and the screen bit into my eyes. 

I wondered if my readers knew I wasn’t a professional.

Instinctively, I opened Microsoft word.

I wondered if that was why I paced.

I began to type as slow and mechanically as a sputtering broken car engine, my mind feeling like the old car it’s attached to.

What did she say she wanted? Another weight loss one? 

“10 EASY WAYS TO FEEL COMFORTABLE IN YOUR BODY AGAIN.”

I bit my lip. Too bland.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick said the delete key as if it was mocking me.

Suddenly, thunder cracked like a whip against a horse, and the entire airport’s power diminished in a second. 

I released my lip from my teeth and lost my breath when I saw what was surrounding me. Purple heavenly light that streamed from the tall foggy windows formed a rectangular shape on the carpet. The light was a mix of all kinds of watercolor-like hues. The rain's flying pirouettes projecting directly onto the carpet. The white moon twinkled through it all, as if it was the main performer. 

A chill came across me, and I rubbed my goosebumpy arms. My mind became clear, my imagination was waking up. I looked down at the green, glow-in-the-dark keys, suddenly unaware of publishers and deadlines, only aware of my swirling and coursing thoughts being entertained by the moon and his dancers.

Creative energy is something that meets you halfway, and your job is to grab hold of it.

My fingers flew across the keys.

The Mysterious Case of the Missing Ring

by Audrey Harlacher

It was a rainy Saturday evening when Miss Lizzy Smith came to my door, asking for my help. She came to me, explaining how a most important item was stolen from her last night while she was sleeping. Tears streaming down her face, she gave me a description of her priceless ruby red ring, given to her by Billy Charleston, an honest boy with a love for sweets and Miss Smith. She begged me to catch the no-good crook.

Luckily, my schedule was clear, and the case seemed easy enough, there were only two suspects; kid Conner, and Joe. 

Kid Conner was out for a round of cards with the boys, so I paid Joe a visit. 

Upon investigation, Joe seemed to be clean too. He had a solid alabi. He was installing a new light fixture for his wife, and then promptly hit the hay. The only useful information I got from Joe was that he had heard someone walking around and a loud crash last night. He looked around for someone, but found nothing, and dismissed it for Patsy the dog getting a drink.

I checked out Patsy’s water bowl, it was in its place, but water was all over the floor, like someone bumped into it, and placed it back in a rush. As much as I loved a double case, Lizzy Smith was getting antsy, and I never like an antsy client.

That just left kid Conner. Since I couldn’t interrogate him, I conducted a private investigation of his room. I touched his door handle, and was met with a sticky red substance. Intrigued and slightly scared, I proceeded into his room with caution, searching is room for any sign of the ring. I didn’t find anything at first, until I remembered to search the trash can, where I found the ring case, and the base of the ring, but no jewel.

I checked his dresser for the jewel, but found nothing. But when I searched his bed I found more of the sticky red stuff. And that when it all clicked.

“Have you found anything?” Lizzy asked

“Where were you keeping your ring Miss Lizzy?” I asked

“In the pantry, duh, mom doesn’t let us keep food in the bedrooms.”

“I know what happened to your Ring Miss Smith.”

I began to explain how that no-good kid Conner had sneaked out last night into the kitchen, and stole the ring before kicking patsy’s water bowl, spilling its contents and hiding so Joe wouldn’t find him. Conner made a mistake though, he started eating the ring on the way back to his room, and threw away the wrapper in his own trash can. 

Just then Conner burst into his room, “Please don’t tell mom! I’m sorry I ate your ring pop. Here, I bought you another one.”

Lizzy seemed happy enough with the new ring, and promised not to tell mom. Everyone was happy, and the peace was restored. Yet another successful case, and happy client.

Our Very First Post!

 WELCOME TO WRITE IT DOWN!!!

Our first type of writing to tackle this week will be the simple SHORT STORY.

With a maximum of 500 WORDS, tell a short story. 

Please post your finished work by next Sunday night -- (8/23/20).

After that, we can read and comment on each other's work.

That’s all there is to do. Don't feel pressured to make it as much as 500 words, remember this is just to practice writing more often.

Samara will post the type of creative writing she wants us to do next on Monday!

Here is how the order will go (it was a random pick):

Libby

Samara

Hannah

Audrey

Virginia

And then it will cycle through back to me.

 H A V E F U N .

-LIBBY