Create a universe. Twist a hand and just let the galaxies flow through your fingertips. Obsess over tiny details: the colour of a flower, that specific shade of orange in the evening sky. Scatter moons into orbit like grains of sand.
That is what it means to be a God.
Isla is a fourteen-year-old aspiring author doing her very best to get her ideas across. Hopefully after exams she’ll have more time to write!
My students think writing these stories is impossible. I will make it my mission to show them otherwise. I will write one, right here, right now. Off the top of my head.
Some of them have started, I think. Some of them just waste time. Some of them watch, waiting.
Caitlin Griffin wrote this story.
Although labled as weatherproof, Tom’s notebook,
was really only water resistant,
much like many watches, whose level
of protection is limited to soda spills,
and like events.
From memory, he was able to reconstruct
just one of the day’s haiku, the rest being
lost beyond recall.
Phil Huffy stays up late reading Charles Dickens out loud.
Still in graduation cap and gown, Johnny gawked as a parade of robots entered the convention center, carrying colorful paintings and sculptures, sturdy keyboards and drums, even elegant, fashionable garments.
Several carried banners: “Inaugural Synthetic Art Festival.”
Disgusted, Johnny pitched his art school diploma in the trash and slouched off.
Gordon Sun is a surgeon, scientist, and consultant who lives in California and has published numerous peer-reviewed articles in the New England Journal of Medicine, JAMA, and other medical journals. His literary writings can be found in Ars Medica and Hektoen International.
She was never good at gardening.
Each of her interests she only held briefly. Art, acting, writing, physics, she gave up on them all quickly. She planted the seeds and sat there waiting for them to grow.
But she neglected to water them and impatiently nipped them in the bud.
Lulu wrote this story.
Nobody saw the blood on her hands, as she walked out the door. She had only done him and herself a favour. They probably wouldn’t have had a “bright future” together anyway. It was for the best.
Back in the room, her inner artist child lay slain, bleeding to death.
Yassi Dooo believes the inner artist of each person is of the opposite sex. How else could one pro(actively)create?
Cynthia had made a habit of sneaking cookies out of the jar when Mom left the room.
One day, Mom caught her, and Cynthia received a crisp slap on the wrist.
The next afternoon, Cynthia emerged from her bedroom with foam padding taped to her wrists, and took a cookie.
This story was based on the prompt “slap on the wrist” at TypeTrigger.