Writing Prompt

“Welcome musicians, to another session,” Haydn said.

A circle of musicians all sat, tired and exhausted. Distant melodies were all singing in their heads.

“Yesterday I watched some ballerinas dance to my Swan Lake. They were impeccable!” Tchaikovsky said proudly.

“Kinda weird you’re watching people dance, Tchaikovsky,” Mozart remarked.

Tchaikovsky ran his fingers through his hair in a fit of...

“_Ugh… my head…_” I murmur, sitting up. Cold concrete beneath me, I stand and look around. Old plaster walls surround me, partially blocked by coat racks and… costumes?

I turn and see giant maroon curtains, almost like the ones on a stage. People dressed in black dart around like desperate ants, yelling into head sets and rearranging set pieces.

I spot Bella, “_Hey, Bella! What’s happening? I t...

A figure stalked through the dark elm tree's bough, a soft whispering quelled near. The spy laid down and swung his legs to side to side quietly but swiftly, grabbing at tufts of long grass and dragging their form up. The smooth grass moved like waves. The endless ocean scrambled the hushed voices- the spy must get closer.

A louder voice, heavy accented with German, penetrated the swish-swash of t...

Eddie had been dead for six months before he got the invitation.

It arrived in the usual way—sliding under the door of his shabby, spectral apartment in the afterlife, written in an elegant, looping script.

THE DEAD MUSICIANS’ SUPPORT GROUP

For those still adjusting to the silence

The address was scrawled at the bottom, but Eddie didn’t need to read it. He already knew. The abandoned nightclub ...

_The caves scream in fear_

_A haunting echo rings throughout the cavern as _

_The hole attempts to close itself before the _

__

**Man**__

_Can come any nearer _

__

_What was once a cocophony of jasmine and garnet, wind chimes rimming through halls, gracefully sweeping fingers across weeping teeth _

__

_Was now a mouth closing in on itself_

_Wonder, sonder flee while they have a chance_

__

_But sti...

Morrison

And Janice

Left too soon

With Kurt

And Cass

Cry to the moon

There was Amy

And Jimmy

Truly soul singers

Then Lennon

Mick Taylor

Their sounds linger

Buddy Holly

And the Bopper

Lost in a crash

Elvis

And Lisa

Together at last

Death come fast

Their names familiar

Songs outlast

None are strangers...

This isn’t the first time Ethan had been thrown out of a bar, and probably won’t be the last.

He hit the ground with a thud, landing on his shoulder. Scrambling up with a crack and groan he wiped the blood from his face.

He squared up with the taller and much wider bouncer. The man just gave him a pitiful look and tossed his guitar next to him.

“Go home, Ethan.” He grunted and slammed the door.

“...

Robert’s fingers ached. He tried to curl them into his palm and out again, one by one and then all at once, but nothing moved. He stared at his fingers, once so agile, so lithe, and watched as they sat there on the table top in silence, unmoving.

Anna’s throat burned. She had been unable to talk for weeks, and when she tried to speak to ask for water or tea nothing came out. She had to write her...

Under a flickering streetlamp, the dead musicians gathered in an abandoned warehouse. Elvis, his hair a patchwork of cobwebs, sat silently beside ghostly Kurt, whose eyes burned with quiet despair. Amy, pale and trembling, clutched a wilted rose while Jimi’s phantom fingers caressed a broken guitar. They formed a support circle, sharing haunted whispers of lost fame and eternal isolation. A newcom...

If I was dead, I’d be simply gone.

I wouldn’t be quite missed or loved and lost,

I’m sure they’ll only think of the costs,

of me lying on my deathbed,

the musician in me wants a song,

but I know I don’t have far too long.

A poem will suffice because a mark will be left.

Just remember, I’m a soul only wrecked,

a soul no one would bother to stoop,

a soul no one would bother to create yet another Dea...