Music can inspire such emotion. That’s why I made it the theme of my February Prompt Contest.
If you’re unfamiliar with my Prompted Contests, every other month, I post three different writing prompts (usually created by Lydia Jane) and ask people to write flash fiction stories based on them. My co-judge for this month’s contest was Kirsten Daniel, an amazing writer and violin teacher (and a dear friend of mine). There’s no one I’d rather have by my side while judging a Music-Themed Contest.
This contest didn’t have quite as much participation as the previous contests, but I think it was because I chose a terrible time of the month to do it. Valentine’s Day, gross weather, the works. But I’m still so excited about the entries. Here are the posts for this month’s contest:
You might be wondering what Shards is. Well, I’m glad you asked.
Shards is a novella I wrote for my internship at the ministry organization Network 211. The story was posted on their website Journey Online. Here’s a synopsis:
18-year-old Elisabel Kent wants nothing more than to be accepted at Zenith University and study music so she can fulfill her deceased mother’s dream of becoming a professional violinist. Unfortunately, she has to lie to get there––both to her father and to the university itself.
If you’re interested in reading the story, here’s the first chapter! You’ll find the rest of the links on the website. There are twenty-three chapters in total.
However, on the website, I didn’t have an opportunity to give you an inside look into the story. So, here is that inside look!
Many things can inspire stories––words, pictures, and music, to name a few. This song––”Stand Still” by Mia Buckley––inspired me to write a story.
I hope you enjoy “Golden Hour,” my look at loss and letting go.
The tip of my brush dips into the paint, then hovers over the canvas propped up on my knees. The bench wood presses against my back as I close one eye and mark the painting with a golden streak.
It had been a beautiful hour––an hour I thought would lead into the rest of our lives. But life is strange that way.
Footsteps pound against the concrete. A man jogs along the park pathway, backlit by trees and a cheery blue sky. I turn back to my painting. Then I hear the wheezing. His footsteps slow, and his ragged breaths quicken. I look up.
“Sorry, can I sit here?” The redness of his face highlights the pale stubble clinging to his chin, sparse in some areas, thick in others. “I’m dying.”
“Don’t apologize for dying.” I pick up my palette to clear room on the park bench.
“Sorry,” he says again, plopping next to me. The bench rattles. He holds his head between his knees and inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales.
I balance the palette on my lap and resume. Another stroke of gold. Another spark of memory imbued in color.