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This week, we present responses to the following challenges: Elves. Some people believe that forests are enchanted places, with elves living there. Write a story or poem about the forest elves. And general writing.
By Gabriel Geller
Age 17, Thetford
Fair creatures with fair desires,
yet with no believers and no admirers.
They are those who enchant the oblivious eye —
through wandering skies and regretful smiles,
through itching feet and endless isles.
Encircled by those who die,
they meddle and peek, evasive and shy,
under mortal moon and breathing bowers —
and push their backs against the grain,
and fool them all again and again.
Under Aberdeen evergreen,
they will never be seen.
They are those who dwell in secret towers,
under a spell of unknown powers.
You may hear their hymn of bygone breaths
in the dawn of dim-lit deaths,
like sunlit wings that carry light
into eternity, all through the night —
all without a single sight.
Like pale phantoms, they are never to pass.
By Layla Hanissian
Age 15, Lyme
“Don’t say we didn’t warn you,”
is the farewell you hear
as the forest swallows you up.
It’s not as if you didn’t know
about the elves —
about their tricks, their lures.
But the forest has always called to you
louder than your family’s cautioning.
“They’ll take you,
and they won’t let you go,”
is what they said,
to try to tame your curiosity.
But instead you’d thought,
I wouldn’t mind a bit.
You walk deeper into the shadows
and you don’t look back.
Prompt: General
By Emilia Perry
Age 15, Thetford
I walk into the empty house, sunlight filtering through the open door behind me. I’ve never been here before, and I am shocked with a sense of such strong familiarity that I can almost taste it. But it’s not a bitter, unwanted taste. It’s sweet and thick like honey, and propels me forward.
I continue on, my feet knowing exactly where to go, as if following a predestined path. Despite the peeling paint and splintering wood, there is such a strong energy in this foreign place. The dust particles seem to vibrate, sending out shockwaves that lift the hairs on the back of my neck.
It is in this moment I am struck with the realization of why I was drawn here, of all places. It is not my home, but it is someone’s. I can sense the generations that have lived and loved inside this space – the years of sunsets and sunrises that cast a golden glow, much as the sun is doing now.
I walk back out the door and take one last glance at this house, a playful wave on my fingertips. A gentle, “See you later!” dances on my lips.
By Zia Smith
Age 16, Thetford
Her skeleton was warped
and bruised by the waves,
but never wanted to stop.
Her wings were torn in the wind
as they guided her home.
Her body was worn and grateful
for the sea that had pushed her along.
The sea urchins cried as she went by,
and she sent them a silent thank you.
Her ropes were unwinding and old,
but willing to hold.
The water sang and bowed
as she passed through the treacherous sea.
And only once, almost tumbling down
as she saw her home in the distance,
a smile rose with the sun.
Her body sighed and creaked
as she settled down to sleep.
She was beautiful,
but in a different sort of way.