Throughout this year the Creative Writing Club has been writing short, original, stories based on prompts they have been given at their meetings. Here, we would like to highlight the stories and prompts of the Creative Writing Club and give the members an opportunity to show off their favorite works and stories. 

Table of Contents:

• The Broken Trance Disappointment, Jack Wolff
• All a Dream, Wyatt Sweeden
• The Missing Cat, Ruby Erickson
• Friendly Debate, Tristan Ray
• The Narrator Narrating The Narrator Narrating The Story Has A Conflict With The Narrator Narrating The Narrator Narrating The Story, Ansh Panjala
• Man in Sheep’s Clothing, Anonymous

Jack Wolff is a senior who graduated from BHS, before his leave he was an active member of the creative writing club. When asked what story he would like to share he gave us, “The Broken Trance Disappointment” which came from the prompt “A Character Discovers Their Whole Life has Been a Dream”

The Broken Trance Disappointment.

In fact scratch that, utter overwhelming depression. The pure feeling of loss that comes with your entire life being a lie. I hate everything right now. I lived a good life, I was happy. I felt fulfilled. Now it’s all gone. Back to square one. Well maybe not one, but definitely a long way to go. My life sucks now, I have to scrape my way out of crippling depression and mental instability again. Is it really worth it? I mean, I have already lived a full life. Come on, I can remember stuff that happened. Wait… NO! NO NO NO! It’s fading away! WHHHYYYY! Why does it have to all be taken away? I was so happy, I felt like I had value, like my life meant something. Now I’m back to being nothing, just a washed up piece of ordinary junk, just like everybody else. This sucks. Wait, that’s not enough to convey what I’m actually feeling. Hmm… This f███ing sucks. No, still not good enough. I’m not good enough. Me and my dumb███ memory that can’t even remember the happiest points of my own life! Even though it’s not my own life. My own life is awful and what I thought was my own life was a ruse by my own brain. I might as well get up. You know what, why should I! If one life was a lie then maybe this one is too. Yeah, I’m just going to sit here and do nothing. I’m going to fall back asleep and wake up back in my old life. Everything is going to be fine… It didn’t work. I’m still stuck here in this hell-hole that I can still remember from before my life, excuse me, FAKE LIFE played out. Reality is often disappointing: really hit the nail on the head, didn’t you. I don’t know what the point is. To cope maybe? To live out the rest of my miserable real existence thinking about the fact that I have to cope with living a fulfilling, pleasing life and then being dropped back into the grind of reality? There is no way in hell that things will work out the same. So much had to go right for me to get there. I would have rather died than get transported back. Hmm, maybe I did die and this is just the afterlife. Wow, that’s really depressing: forced to live through the worst time in your life after you die. Hey, what if this is a dre- no, I already disproved that. Well, if I’m dissatisfied with my current life and I already feel fulfilled from what I thought was my real life, what’s to stop me from ceasing my current life. Maybe it’s a dream-ception and to get out of this purgatory, I need to do something drastic. No, all those are stupid ideas. All my ideas are stupid ideas. Move on with yourself, you stupid obsessive depressed idiot!

Another story from the same prompt is titled “All a Dream” by Wyatt Sweeden. Wyatt Sweeden is one of the two presidents of the Creative Writing Club, organizing a meeting, slideshow, and prompt. When asked about his favorite part of Creative Writing Club, he says it’s the Creativity Alarm. “Of course before we start writing people are talking and joking. At the first meeting I played an alarm sound to get their attention and it’s been a tradition ever since.”

All Dream

Micheal was a great man. He had a great life, a great wife, and one great child. His life was pure heaven. He lived 80 great years this way, and as he sat on his death bed he reflected on his life. His pure American dream of a white picket fence, surrounded by friends and family… peacefully. He slowly faded out of consciousness…

…

…

…

Until a narwhal smashed through the hospital wall and began to scream!! The clocks on the wall melted, the world began to grow hazy, and the narwhal– which had wings now– began to speak.

“Micheal, be not afraid, for it is I, Micheal!” the narwhal, apparently also named Micheal, said. Micheal confusingly stared at the narwhal then spoke “What do you mean your Micheal, that can’t be I’m Micheal. Why… What are you? Why are you here?”

“I am your consciousness, slowly h a l l u c i n a t i n g as I fade into existence. The reason I am also Micheal is because your life thus far has been F A K E. I am you, your wife is you, your two kids are you, everyone in this world is you. Your whole life is a D R E A M.”

“No, no, this can’t be. I have lived my life and I would know if it’s real.”

“Really,” replied the Narwhal, “What does your wife’s face look like?” Micheal thought about the question and laughed. He has lived 57 years with this woman, of course he knows what her face looks like. 

So he thought…

and thought…

and thought…

But he couldn’t draw a clear picture. Every memory of her face began to blur. “My wife, I can’t remember Mitchell’s face!” 

“That is because you don’t have a wife, you don’t have your three kids, because your life is a dream. It is all the fading hallucinations of a high blob of jello called the brain.” Said Micheal, the narwhal. 

At this sudden revelation Micheal began to hyperventilate, he thought and thought of all the memories but none seemed real anymore. “It’s okay Micheal,” the Narwal said, “You are still young–” 

“But I’m 80?” 

“Dream.” 

“Right”

“You are still young, you have a full life ahead of you. Accept this temporary sadness to live a forever happiness. Wake up Micheal.” Micheal shed a tear at the Narwhals’ wisdom. Maybe this life was fake but he can start a new one. As Micheal fell into consciousness he slowly began to forget his life. His wife, his four kids, all slowly fading out of consciousness…

…

…

…

Two year old Mickey awoke to the sound of his babysitter preparing applesauce. Mickey looked at his pacifier, and out his crib. The final memory of his fake life began to fade as it was replaced with a new one: “It’s time to eat a crayon”

The next story is written by Ruby Erickson, the other president of the Creative Writing Club. This story prompt was “Format Screw” which is to try and write in a different way, like portraying a story through a series of emails, a search history, or a shopping list. In this, Ruby chose a missing poster. When asked about her favorite part of Creative Writing Club, she said “My favorite part of Creative Writing Club is letting out my creativity and expressing myself through story. I also enjoy hearing others stories and experiencing their writing style and narratives.”

Another story with a format screw, although this was a different prompt, is “Friendly Debate” by Tristan Ray. The prompt for this story was “Friendly Debate goes Wrong” and Tristan wrote about words getting confused over call. When asked about their favorite part of Creative Writing Club Tristan said “To see how vastly different people interpret and execute prompts is truly beautiful. Whether you want to bring laughter, emotional depth, character development, world-building, or literally anything, each and every brush on this canvas of poetry further adds color.”

Friendly Debate

*PHONE CALL*

“Hey, may I ask why you called me?”

“Yes, I need advice…

Like.. I have questions regarding friendships”

“Shoot them.”

“Now why would I do that?!”

“You’re literally the one who called me?“

“Are you implying you want to die?”

“What are you on about? 

You aren’t SO bad at communicating 

that I’d want to die when I do so with you.”

“Well… anyway… I was gonna ask how to 

make friends since you’re so great at it.”

“I’m really not…”

“Yes you are. You know, like everybody!”

“Knowing everybody doesn’t 

mean you’re friends with everybody”

“Yes it does!”

“No it doesn’t!”

“Is this turning into a debate?”

“A friendly debate… sure…”

“Friendly… yeah… assuming I don’t shoot my shot.”

“What the hell is going on? If you’re 

gonna shoot your shot you don’t need 

to be doing all of this.”

“So is it official?”

“Sure.”

“Now that our debate has commenced…”

“Wai–… you men–  dih– bate?”

“Sorry, what? I think we’re breaking up!”

“What?! We literally JUST started dating!”

“Huh? Your crazy at the moment.”

“You’re or your?”

“Yeah… homophones are confusing.”

“I KNEW YOU WERE A HOMOPHOBE!”

*HANG UP*

Our next story is a comedic bit titled “The Narrator Narrating The Narrator Narrating The Story Has A Conflict With The Narrator Narrating The Narrator Narrating The Story” written by Ansh Panjala. The prompt for this story was “Gaslight the Reader” and Ansh took this in a way where the Narrator is being gaslighted by another narrator. When asked about his favorite part of Creating Writing Club, Ansh said “One thing I really like about Creative Writing Club is the large amount of diversity in writing styles that people have and bring to the club every meeting. Everyone is also just very cool.”

It was a bright and sunny day. There were two people, a boy and a girl, siblings. They were exploring the forest behind their house, with a multitude of trees looming overhead. 

“Hey, what’s that over there?” Says the brother, a 13-year old named Philipe. The sister was 15, named Patty.

“What do you see?” Responded Patty, making her way towards Philipe. The two were close, having always spent time with each other as they grew up, typically going on wild adventures in the forest around their house.

“It looks like a large hole in the ground, but I can’t see into it. Come look!”

Patty walks over to where Philipe is standing, and in front of him is this large hole, 6 feet in diameter. This gives Patty an idea. “Hey Philipe, can you shine a flashlight into that hole?”

“Sure!” He responds, pulling out his phone. As he leans over the hole and shines his flashlight down it, Patty takes a few steps back, then runs at Philipe and pushes him-

Ok I’m sorry, who the HELL does that to their BROTHER? What the hell, man? God. I’m sorry. I know I am supposed to be narrating the story. I just… geez, man. How could you do that?

“Could you continue? I was just getting to the fun part!” Says Patty, evidently impatient to continue the story and push her brother into the hole.

“Well hold on now, who are YOU? Who else is narrating?” says the narrator, bewildered that there is someone else narrating what he says. 

Stop that! Don’t give me dialogue! I’m the narrator! Who are you!?

I’m the narrator.

No, I am! 

No you’re not. You are a character in this story, just like everyone else.

Hey, no! I am THE narrator!

Don’t you remember signing up for this story? You wanted to be a part of it, playing a role in the story as it progressed! You wanted this, don’t you know? Can’t believe they hired someone so forgetful, let alone gave you such an important role. 

Ok buddy, listen here, I don’t know where you get off with this power play, but I know that you are just some poser, someone trying to be a fraction of my narrating greatness.

I don’t know what you are talking about, sir. I didn’t do anything. I don’t mean to be rude, but… did you miss taking any medications? Are you mentally sound? Are you mental?

I- But- What the hell, man?

Narrator was now frustrated, and evidently about to give up, as he should. The person he was arguing with had done nothing wrong, and the narrator unreasonably took out his anger for no reason.

“Wh- OH YOU LITTLE-” Said the narrator, before being silenced. He tried and tried to talk all he wanted, but he couldn’t get a single word out. Narrator realized how trivial this argument was and rightly decided to stop talking.

Patty continued to push her brother into the hole.

“Nah, man, I got bored. I quit.” Said Patty as she walked away.

Our final story today is titled “Man in Sheep’s Clothing.” This story was given to us anonymously. The prompt was “Write something scary.” When asked about the story, the writer said “I wanted to get out of my comfort zone, I don’t usually write horror so this prompt really challenged me.”

Man in Sheep’s Clothing

Poor, homeless, good for nothing. These are all things Wilbur Fleece thought of himself. He knew this, and he knew others knew this. Born on the streets, lives on the streets, die on the streets. He knew this so he didn’t bother changing. Why bother? Well, one day he knew why he should bother. As Wilbur was doing his normal everyday routine of cleaning his van-home and looking for odd jobs to make some money he found a number on a telephone pole. “Looking for some easy cash? Call this number 000-555-6000.” Wilbur, curious by the odd sign, called the number anyway. “Hello? I saw your poster.”

“I did put up that poster.” Said the voice from the phone, in an odd southern accent. Wilbur might have hung up there, his breath stopped, his mind swirled just hearing the voice. He continued.

“Well, what would I need to do? I’m looking for money and–”

“Can you take care of sheep?” 

Wilbur was caught off guard by the bluntness. The voice didn’t make an attempt for small talk.

“Umm… yes. I can?” 

“Great, meet me at this address tomorrow. I need some help.” and it hung up. Wilbur felt off about the whole interaction. This sounded like a setup in about every horror movie. Was his life worth risking for some money? Poor, homeless, good for nothing. He had nothing to lose. After some thought, he decided to go.

The next day Wilbur woke up early. The poster, when he flipped to the back, said to get there before the sheep could wake up. 4:00 AM sounded reasonable but when he got to the dusty old farm he saw many of the sheep wide awake.  The farm looked odd. It had a single barn, and a giant pen where all the sheep stood. There were hundreds of sheep. Some were sleeping in the grass, disturbed by a nightmare, while most were awake. Out of the awake sheep, most were scratching at the pen. They were calling and bleating, like they were trying to speak to Wilbur. They looked desperate for freedom out of the chain fence. Many were even biting the fence. The other awake sheep were just grazing the farm. They had a soulless look in their eyes, like they’d given up. 

Wilbur must have been staring at the sheep for about half an hour. He’d snapped back into reality when the familiar southern voice spoke. “Well, you’re early.” Wilbur had finally seen the man that had beckoned him. He was tall, really tall. Wilbur had to look up to the man, which is surprising as Wilbur himself was quite tall. The second thing Wilbur noticed was he couldn’t see anything. Besides the man’s overalls, boots, and hat he couldn’t see any features. His face was covered by a mask and his eyes were blocked by sunglasses. He looked like a living scarecrow. Despite not being able to see a mouth, the man was eating lamb. “So? You ready?” said the man.

“Yes, right. What do I do?”

“Well, I’m having to leave for a meeting, and I need someone to look after the sheep. After the week I’ll give you as much as you need upfront? How’s 100,000?” Wilbur was shaken by the offer. 100,000 just by taking care of some sheep? This made Wilbur all the more suspicious. What’s the cost? Would it be worth it? Poor, homeless, good for nothing. “Now my only rule is you can’t let any sheep go. I have exactly 366 sheep on this farm and if a single one goes missing then I’ll have issues. You’ll have to pay for it. These sheep are priceless. Worth as much as a human life.” Wilbur agreed to the terms and was given more instructions on how to keep guard of the sheep. Don’t let a single sheep escape, then he’ll no longer be poor. He’ll no longer be homeless. He’ll no longer be good for nothing. 

The days were as eventful as taking care of a bunch of sheep could be. Since the grass of the farm fed them he just needed to get a water pail out to fill the trough. Moving in and out of the pen was a challenge. Every time he would open it a flock of sheep would take their chance to try and escape. He found a method to make sure no sheep leaves but it was tough. Eventually he just slept in the pen with the sheep. Best way to avoid risk. On the fifth day, when he was getting a little lazy, he noticed something off. He saw a hole in the fence. The hole was small. Tiny. Miniscule. No big sheep could fit… but maybe a smaller one could. He didn’t know how long the hole had been there but he wasn’t risking leaving the sheep alone. He covered up the hole and prayed no sheep saw it. 

The next two days were absolute hell. The waiting and waiting grew Wilbur’s stress more and more. He continued to watch the gate, fill the trough, care for the sheep, everything, but he couldn’t confirm if a sheep escaped or not. He didn’t want to face the man who’d given him the task, and as he slept he was stricken with the same nightmare of many of the sheep. He continued to think of the scarecrow-like farmer and his wrath. But like every imaginary nightmare, he eventually woke up on the seventh day to face his real one.

Waiting. Wilbur was waiting. Wilbur was never a patient man, it’s why he was homeless in the first place, but now he was forced to wait. Forced to hope and pray everything went right. The farmer was back, he drove in a beat up car, and walked out slowly. Forcing Wilbur to wait that little bit longer. Seeing the man walking made Wilbur feel sheepish. The farmer thanked Wilbur, and invited him to eat while he counted the sheep. Wilbur, knowing it was a bad idea, agreed. He sat at the dinner table of the farmhouse and was given some lamb curry. Being around sheep all week made Wilbur hesitant to eat it, but he still did. Eventually, the man walked back to Wilbur. The room was absolutely silent, and Wilbur stood for what felt like days to see if he failed. The man spoke slowly but firmly. “It appears we have 365 sheep on this farm. You lost one sheep.” Wilbur immediately began apologizing, begging, pleading with the man. But the man remained chill. “Don’t worry, you can pay it back. Easy.” Then the man took off his sunglasses and mask. 

When Wilbur awoke he was still on the farm, he tried to get up but it felt unnatural. Wilbur tried shouting but all that came out was a bleat. The last thing the man in sheep’s clothing saw was the same farmer bringing in a new victim to the farm. 

Overall, Creative Writing Club is widely described as a fun experience for anyone who enjoys writing! The types of stories can range from pure comedy, to horror, to philosophical, or just cute. Hopefully, you’re able to try out next year to see what kind of writing you’ll do!