Author’s Festival; The Attic

The author’s festival is a writing competition at our school. We have three days (each with 1 hour and 20 minutes – not including time at home) to write one 200 word creative story. This was my final project that I came up with:


Constant streams of sunlight bleach my chestnut, brown skin. Tucked away in the corner of the musty attic, a thick layer of dust veils me. Scratches, the scars of time, imprint my skin but also my soul, reminding me of the one who could make my strings sing. My mere presence once enticed her to play my taunt strings for hours, until we both could play no more. Instead of sunlight, the spotlight poured over us. Gentle but firm fingers danced along my neck. As the vibrant melody crescendoed and her bravado quickened, I felt her heart race. My heart sank through my strings and hers through her fingers. Together our rich mellow tones cascaded across the room. Tzcaikovsky wrote his concerto for us. For hours I yielded myself completely to her as she did to me. The energy we give is replenished with the rich melodious tones that bring heaven to earth and fill us until we can meet once more. The attic door creaks. Moments pass. The door closes and all is still again. I will wait. Years add to my rich tone and she will be pleased with what she hears when she returns. I will wait.