January Writing Prompt


Literature Club Members, Contributing Writers

Prompt: “What would be the cost of making a dream come true?”


Club President(Xueyun):

When that song played, it always brought back a passing memory of a time when things were normal, and when happiness could exist without worry. Much time had passed before I heard the song again, and the memories that came with it naturally began to fade away like ink on a page. Other melodies have played, but none brought such freedom as that song. 

The ground crunched under my feet as I stood. The gravestone was cold. Only years of birth and death were carved into the stone, not even a name or set of flowers to show how much the world missed them. 

Around me, the wind blew through the trees, where birds chirped in their perches, and scents of misty summer flowers were like a never-ending song that carried life and death-a beauty of its own.

“How is it?” a voice to my far right approached with the rays of the warm sun. 

I turned and looked into the eyes of the tall woman with long brown hair dressed in black. She only smiled and motioned towards the gravestone, “I see you’ve been talking to him.” 

Words did not follow through with my response, so I could only nod. I followed her eyes to the gravestone and placed a hand over it. The melody played like a figment of my imagination for a brief moment before it dispersed just when I lifted my hand. 

“Tell me what you sense,” she said and held out a hand for me to grasp. 

I took hold of her warm hand and closed my eyes to share the memory. 

The melody played loud and clear as if carried by the wind and nature around them. Images of laughing children, fake smiles, and bitter memories flooded their vision. One memory, in particular, was clearest of all. A small girl sat alone in her room in front of a tall window. Beyond the window was only grey and rain. Then, the girl with brown hair smiled the brightest with a man whose face could not be seen. At the end of it all, the images faded away just as the music, like the memory, was being forgotten. 

When I opened my eyes, the woman stood still with her smile. Her eyes with filled with sadness and traces of regret, “So that was his wish.” 

We both turned to the gravestone, now only a smooth slate in the ground. 

The woman looked at me with confusion as she looked around. “Who died?” 

Anonymous Member:

When I announced what I thought was the greatest news to me, I was met by a small voice, “What about me?” The feeling soon turned from satisfaction to guilt, deeply rooted in my stomach.

God, here it comes again. I look down, fearing that when I look up I don’t see that bright smile, the one I love, lined with braces and accompanied by dimples that greets me every time.

I look down because I am selfish, and reprimanded since a young age for not understanding these complex emotions. I ignore them, that guilt deeply rooted inside of me growing into a full-blown tree and scattering leaves, words with worthless meanings spilling from my mouth.

This is what it is looking out for oneself, leaving others behind and turning from a song with happy hymns full of extended metaphors and enthusiastic drums to a meaningless tune, unaccompanied without any rhythm or harmony, a simple lone piano.

I say my final, fatal, last words, “I’m sorry.”