The boy gaped, eyes wide, at the hall ten times as big as his father’s farm. The ceilings, a shade like the sky at midnight, arched above the boy, stretching on and on into an expanding infinity. The walls were painted with script in languages that bent the boys brain, languages humans should not understand. The air smelled of the comfortable cold, crisp and clean and sharp. The boy took a great inhale, basking in the chill after the sweltering heat of the ancient town. Then, there were the dancers. All around the boy, specters swirled in glittering ballgowns and elaborate, blooming suits.
She is begging to me. She is not the first to beg— tears in her eyes, desperation clawing at her throat— and she is most certainly not the last.
Writer’s block: the dreaded enemy of authors, journalists, and writers everywhere. Sometimes, it can seem like a monster too big to face, some unvanquishable giant that stops you at every turn. I, for one, went […]
Hi guys! This new addition to Zoë’s Creative Writing Corner is a really short story about a girl and her violin. I really enjoyed writing this, especially since I was listening to fast, classical violin […]