Get ready for this weekend's creativity challenge 😊. It’ll run until Monday.
Choose one of the four classical elements - Earth, Air, Fire, or Water - as the central theme for your piece. Whether it's a story set in a desert, a poem about the gentle breeze, a character with a fiery personality, or an exploration of the deep sea, let the chosen element inspire and shape your narrative.
We’ll showcase the top challenge responses in our newsletter. And the best part, you, our readers, decide who wins. The entries with the highest number of likes will be declared the winners. You’ll have until Sunday or Monday midnight to post your response. Once we lock the thread, we give a few more days for everyone to vote. Then we’ll reveal the writing champions and their entries! Are you up to the challenge?
The last time I saw Erika Chan was at her 21st birthday party. She arrived at the Mi Piaci Italian eatery in a midnight blue evening gown that matched her BMW. She and all her debutante friends then settled down for a fancy meal. I ordered angel hair pasta, the easiest to twirl with my fork like everyone else at the table.
After we ate, we agreed on a tiramisu cake for dessert. While we waited, we presented our gifts to the birthday girl. Now, when I look back on that day, most of those presents were probably jewelry or designer purses. Erika gave me a disappointed glance when I handed her mine, a clay tea set I bought from a store in Chinatown, wrapped in used paper.
It's been decades since I graduated from the posh university where I met Erika. I often take the bus to Temple City, where a giant teapot fountain flows with nostalgia. I can imagine Erika telling me that my humble gift was priceless, blessing her with abundance, just like the fountain.
Ella covered her waste and urine with dirt from the cellar floor to keep the flies down. The hollow sound of water rushing through a pipe told her Monica had used the toilet. She thought it would be nice to use the toilet again and have running water. It would be wonderful to see the sun and take a bath. How long had it been since she'd heard water splashing into a bathtub? Months.
The floor creaked, the water to the toilet stopped, and the sound of water flowing to the sink started. Ella pictured the old red-haired woman washing her hands. She could almost smell the clean. The pipes banged. The sound of water stopped, and the floor creaked.
It went quiet, and Ella imagined Monica scooping coffee into the pot. She heard the sound of water flowing into the kitchen sink and closed the main shutoff. The sound stopped. It'd taken her weeks to break the chain. The floor creaked. If Monica wanted water, she'd need to open the cellar door. Ella picked up the blade of a rusty knife and glanced at the shallow grave. She'd cover Monica good and deep to keep the flies down.
The Teapot Fountain
The last time I saw Erika Chan was at her 21st birthday party. She arrived at the Mi Piaci Italian eatery in a midnight blue evening gown that matched her BMW. She and all her debutante friends then settled down for a fancy meal. I ordered angel hair pasta, the easiest to twirl with my fork like everyone else at the table.
After we ate, we agreed on a tiramisu cake for dessert. While we waited, we presented our gifts to the birthday girl. Now, when I look back on that day, most of those presents were probably jewelry or designer purses. Erika gave me a disappointed glance when I handed her mine, a clay tea set I bought from a store in Chinatown, wrapped in used paper.
It's been decades since I graduated from the posh university where I met Erika. I often take the bus to Temple City, where a giant teapot fountain flows with nostalgia. I can imagine Erika telling me that my humble gift was priceless, blessing her with abundance, just like the fountain.
The Sound of Water
Ella covered her waste and urine with dirt from the cellar floor to keep the flies down. The hollow sound of water rushing through a pipe told her Monica had used the toilet. She thought it would be nice to use the toilet again and have running water. It would be wonderful to see the sun and take a bath. How long had it been since she'd heard water splashing into a bathtub? Months.
The floor creaked, the water to the toilet stopped, and the sound of water flowing to the sink started. Ella pictured the old red-haired woman washing her hands. She could almost smell the clean. The pipes banged. The sound of water stopped, and the floor creaked.
It went quiet, and Ella imagined Monica scooping coffee into the pot. She heard the sound of water flowing into the kitchen sink and closed the main shutoff. The sound stopped. It'd taken her weeks to break the chain. The floor creaked. If Monica wanted water, she'd need to open the cellar door. Ella picked up the blade of a rusty knife and glanced at the shallow grave. She'd cover Monica good and deep to keep the flies down.
Shirahige
White roaring falls of Shirahige
Plunging to depths of ravenous ravine
Splintering the cold silence all around
Of stoic frost-encrusted trees
And steely shimmering icicles
In shattered symphonies striking surface
Bubbling picture-perfect blues
Pitching to flow in oneness
With the great River Biei below