The Writer, Artist of Words
Michaela Frey, 12
A fog has fallen over the people, a devastating, colorless, mist of despair hanging over the humans. Those consumed in the fog are mourned; yet the numbers of those taken rise every day, a staircase leading up, and all the same, leading downwards in a spiral.
Anyone watching from the outside is relieved and happy, though anything that would ever rely on humans is missing that part. Animals in city parks, usually fed by tourists, look around with confusion, wondering where their food is.
You write this paragraph with disdain. A school project? Hardly anyone cared at your school; with the grades not counting, the assignments optional. But writing, writing is the only thing that keeps you working. You are a writer. An artist of words, shaping, molding, hands working with a fragile clay called language.
Flipping away the page in your notebook, you turn to a blank page and stare down at it. After writing for the past few hours, you need a break. But a break from what?
A break during quarantine is staring out your small apartment’s window, the one housing your mother, father, and siblings–each a handful of their own, but together, they are loud, tired, and angry.
Outside, the city is deserted except for the occasional car passing by, a person with or without a mask walking down the street. The normally bright restaurants, the ones you have been able to walk to your entire life, are either closed for quarantine or closing permanently due to lack of business.
You sigh and go back to your writing.
A magical young reindeer, with sparkling cream-colored horns, emerald eyes, streaks down the city streets, bringing color to each part of the dull, deserted, infectious roads–
With a groan, you shove the page to the side. Too corny. Hope would not be corny. If your writing was hope, you wouldn’t be cringing at it. Even your report that was for a school project was not hope, just a blatant, unemotional report about the facts everyone knew. If it was published in a paper, people would look at it, skim through briefly with a heaving sigh, and go to the next report.
You know people want hope. You, a writer, an artist of words, a sculptor of stories, know this, from the top of your head to the tip of your shoes.
But how do you give it to them?