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#26 Musical Genius

January 27th marks 264 years since the birth of one of western music’s greatest composers: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

To celebrate Mozart’s birthday, this week we’re inviting you to explore different facets of both his life and his legacy. From little-known biographical details to the things he’s most remembered for, let the tune of his life inspire you to create your own entirely unique masterpiece.

P.S — Want to learn more about the lives and legacies of other greats? Check out this list of our 30 favorite biographies.

🥇 Winner

Lara

Winner of Contest #26 🏆

I sit, frozen and rigid, on a cold bench as I stare at the stringed instrument that taunts me with its very existence. So you are a prodigy, the voices whisper in my head. No, of course not, I tell them right back. I am not a prodigy. I am just Lara. The voices are relentless, whispering that dreaded word in my ear, mocking me with its weighty meaning. Fame and exploits, wealth and power: all of these things come with being a prodigy. Lara is not a prodigy. She is just a dabbler, a little girl playing pretend in a world fu...

95 likes

⭐️ Shortlisted

A Song For A Flower

Shortlisted for Contest #26 ⭐️

Leda noticed the guitar case as soon as the man entered the inn. Too small for a guitar, actually. A mandolin, maybe. She narrowed her eyes as she watched him, her hands busy with her barkeep tasks. He stayed by the door for a minute, looking around the taproom, at the tables only sparsely filled with customers, every single one of whom had been there at The Sow’s Ear a dozen or a hundred times before. This man by the door, this musician, was a newcomer. Newcomers were a rare ...

11 likes

The Patron Saint of Lost Things or Lost People

Shortlisted for Contest #26 ⭐️

For the longest time, I didn’t know what my name was. That is the thing you should know when you don’t know anything else. But I didn’t mind it. I could tell when people were talking to me and when they weren’t. My mother called me Honey, Sugar, Pumpkin, Gum Drop, Caramelo when she slipped into her Spanish. I grew up thinking I was the derivatives of sugar. I was the ingredients that went into making a cake. My father called me son. His voice the way I read italics in books. It made me believe I was the yellow ball of fire in the sky.&...

11 likes

Five Years Afterwards

Shortlisted for Contest #26 ⭐️

An urban vocalist. That’s what I’m “supposed” to call myself. Not that I’m the only one. Begging is illegal (officially) and street singer makes it sound as if we’re poverty stricken here (which we are). It saves the state having to pay benefits (which it rarely does) or making the hard-pressed and supposedly neutral charities even more over-stretched, when those of us with some talent – that glorious, clumsy, old-fashioned word ACCOMPLISHMENT springs to mind – can eke out our own incomes and our families’...

8 likes

Holding

Shortlisted for Contest #26 ⭐️

He wakes up in an empty bed. A pang of hollowness stabs him. It will take a long time before he’s used to this, the raw ache of missing. It’s a familiar feeling. It feels like losing a limb. For a minute he lies there, crushed by the weight of a thousand empty mornings stretching out before him. He doesn’t want to get out of bed, to face the loneliness of the future that yawns like a gaping mouth. How can he bring himself to move forward into a world without her? He will not think of the future. Not yet. Today is for remembering. He forces h...

8 likes

A Veteran Fiddle

Shortlisted for Contest #26 ⭐️

First was my Pop. He served in the Civil War, a drummer boy, and an excellent one at that. Somewhere buried deep in my drawers I bet I could find his badge he willed to me. He was only 16, but he still marched just as tall –if not taller– than the other soldiers. Fighting for the unity of our country, he was my idol. I never quite knew how he was able to play music after the war. He told me the bloody details that I was too young to hear yet remember fondly. And still, he love...

7 likes

E Flat

Rachel Fendrich

Shortlisted for Contest #26 ⭐️

He was surrounded by notes, and they were taunting him. Dozens of lined pages were strewn haphazardly around him, ensnaring Abraham in a tight circle of accusation. The quarter notes were now eyes, black as death and unforgiving, never shifting their gaze away from him. The eighth notes had twisted into sneers, the sixteenth notes snarls, with the white space between the beams shape-shifting into bared teeth. And the whole notes opened wide, screaming at him, bel...

4 likes

The Mortician

Elena Welsh

Shortlisted for Contest #26 ⭐️

I remember the day I first stumbled upon the name ‘William Banting.’ I was fourteen years old, friendless and awkward, and obsessed with poetry. The school library was my haunting ground. One day I was wandering through the back recesses of the library when I found a pamphlet titled Letter on Corpulence, Addressed to the Public. I’m still not entirely sure why my public school had this buried in its depths, but I am forever grateful it did. That was my first day experiencing faith. &...

3 likes

This week's prompts

Write about a character who was considered a prodigy when they were young.

Fiction – 61 stories

Write about a character who goes by many different names throughout their life.

Character – 50 stories

Write about a character who was raised in a musical family.

High School – 49 stories

Write a story about a musician struggling to find work during wartime.

Historical Fiction – 41 stories

Write a story about a character obsessed with one of the long-dead “greats” in their profession.

Adults – 24 stories

Stories

Lara

Winner of Contest #26 🏆

I sit, frozen and rigid, on a cold bench as I stare at the stringed instrument that taunts me with its very existence. So you are a prodigy, the voices whisper in my head. No, of course not, I tell them right back. I am not a prodigy. I am just Lara. The voices are relentless, whispering that dreaded word in my ear, mocking me with its weighty meaning. Fame and exploits, wealth and power: all of these things come with being a prodigy. Lara is not a prodigy. She is just a dabbler, a little girl playing pretend in a world fu...

95 likes

Festival of the Bear's Hand

Submitted to Contest #26

I am the woman who sits at the café edge, the one with bluish curled hair, the one who writers her Ls all cursive, the one who only loves men named Martin. I am she. I sit. I watch. The café belongs to me within my soul. I live here. I sit under a viney shade with a cup in my raw-rubbed fingers, blue curls hiding my eyebrows, sitting, watching. They call me Mademoiselle Sorcière. The witch-lady.I do this every day, here in this café. I drink the same tea, smile the same smile, sit in the same place. But the people that I watch are different....

41 likes

Poison Ivy - stage 1

Yoomi Ari

Submitted to Contest #26

You and I are like poison ivy. We irritate ourselves or others until they are swollen, then we leave them. We delegate our pains to be like bubbles. Like bubbles? Like bubbles who rise up in water in a pressurising pan, pushing others down, popping them out, then we rise or pop ourselves. Sink: pop. Rise too far above: pop. So keep your toes on the ground and float. You stay down then you will be delegated on, fly too high then you will fling your burdens to others. Poison ivy.Gentle though they seem to appear, pounce on you like a bullet an...

32 likes

Dead Name Alicia

Submitted to Contest #26

My birth parents named me Joy. They always said it was because they were so happy and excited about becoming parents for the first time. That excitement apparently wasn’t enough. At seven years old I was in my first foster home, unable to sleep in a strange bed, wishing that my parents had named me “Crystal” because I heard them talk about her a lot. I cried for hours because I figured they loved her more than they loved me.I didn’t talk much in that first home. I missed my family and my stuffed animals and my friend next door. The second ho...

25 likes

Cimmaron Creek

Samuel Blue

Submitted to Contest #26

“Cut, cut Goddamn it cut!” yelled the director. “Come on, Ben, this is the eighth time we’ve tried to get this scene right and you still haven’t got your lines correct. Enough for today. Let’s shut it down and regroup in the morning. Ben, for God’s sake, know your lines tomorrow.” Ben Fielding has heard the word “cut” too many times this week. Even though he had appeared in over 35 western films in the last 25 years, he was feeling that his age and his drinking was finally taking its toll. Cimmaron Creek was probably going to be his last fil...

20 likes

The Codebreak-her by Linda Herskovic

Linda Herskovic

Submitted to Contest #26

Rachel was standing at Doug’s computer showing him their version of a coding system. Doug was new to the company.“Sorry. I’m not used to all these characters being used,” Doug said. “At Richter, we only used only about five at a time.”“Well, forget everything you know. Well, not everything obviously,” she said with a little giggle.Doug looked up at Rachel. She had an awesome smile when she wasn’t serious, when her face relaxed. And her hair was so thick and shiny. The ends were touching his arm ever so slightly as she leaned into the screen....

17 likes

The Baron's Daughter

Submitted to Contest #26

They locked the cello in the cellar. Now, before we go any further, understand that this was not the sort of cellar in which we find homey cabinets of jams and pickled beets. Mrs. Maganis is more than fond of the story and, before the incident, acquired quite a knack for telling it.Her husband was the sort of man who takes great pride in the guests he brings to his table, and though he was not usually a proponent for letting the women "prattle on through gentlemen's business," as he put it, it was not long before she developed such a reputat...

17 likes

The Orphan's Song

Submitted to Contest #26

There was something about the way the wind was blowing that day that echoed how I felt. It had the same notes of rising hopelessness, of despair descending into depression, that I stopped to listen. A building across the street was hit last night, and men are digging through the rubble. The staccato of bricks striking each other provides a funeral march’s percussion to the lament of the wind. A perfect accompaniment to my thoughts. William Taylor’s Orchestra was my last hope. Or had been. Until William Taylor himself told me that there was n...

17 likes

The Last Song

Eric Falvey

Submitted to Contest #26

I clenched my hands in and out, flexing the tiny joints and muscles that lay within. As I lowered my palms down onto the piano keys, I felt the familiar cold of the white ivory jolt through my fingertips. As my fingers took in the geometry of the intricate keys, I glanced down, mesmerized by the scars running across my hands. I warmed up, getting a feel for that gorgeous, rich sound; the tune of salvation, but also, my darkest demons. As my hands flew around the keys, faster, and more precise, the sensory overload overtook my brain. The smel...

16 likes

Haunted House of Music

Libby Carter

Submitted to Contest #26

I didn’t know what to expect when I said I wanted to come back here, but it wasn’t this. The house is black and burnt is most places but it’s still standing, and that’s all I need. At least the fires didn’t destroy everything. I said that I’d catch up to Reg, Chase, and Mace in a few minutes after I checked on my house first. I’m sure Reg knew I meant my dad’s house and not the apartment I’ve been living in for three years now, because he wanted to come with me. I had to assure that I’d be fine, and he needed to go check on ...

15 likes

And Then The Wars Broke Out

Submitted to Contest #26

I could hold a note when needed, learning to dance took much more effort. My bread and butter? What kept people believing I was the next big thing? I could tickle the ivories. I could play any Earth Standard, jump straight into Universal pop music, jazz and gospel. And I was acting in a good number of theater productions of the galaxy as well. I helped write some lyrics and music for the shows I participated in. I grew up on music. Nat King Cole, Stax “Saxophone” Jackson, Sam Cooke, Yedda Peal, and my great grandmother, Jinah Carter. My...

15 likes

Li’l Chev

John K Adams

Submitted to Contest #26

“Adean never forgave you, you know, Chev.”“I know, Mama.” “What will you do if he doesn’t show?”“Carry on, as usual, I expect.”“He doesn’t think it’s fair, you expecting us to play for free.”“You can tell him I never had such expectations. He’s welcome even if he leaves his fiddle at home. Always has been.”“I know…”“Anyway, I thought Daddy said family shouldn’t expect family to pay.”“I think he was talking about the food, Chev.” They laughed together. “You might be right, Mama. You know I don’t do that.”“You want me to sing? I’m here.”Chev t...

14 likes

The Professional

Submitted to Contest #26

Lil Johnny Brown was never the first child to be picked for teams at school. He was not a very popular kisser. Heck, even the Mathletes were a little wary of the four-foot-two, chunky, pink child with a mosaic of acne you could read your horoscope in. But lil Johnny Brown had a secret.No, not really. It was too enormous to be a secret.He was the best sousaphone player in the world.Now, some of you might be wondering, how might I, too, play the sousaphone? Or where might one acquire such an instrument? Or oh, is that that thing that I thought...

14 likes

What You Have To Work For

Submitted to Contest #26

I stamped out my cigarette in a cheap, plastic golden trophy. Slim rays of sunlight glinted through the closed blinds. I ruffled one hand through my uncombed while the other searched for a new cigarette. One of the rays hit me in my left eye. I grimaced and ducked from the light.Reaching for a fallen cigarette on the ground, I hit my head on my unstable night stand. “Fuck!” I cursed under my breath.I laid down on my bed. Silk sheets pooled around me. I twirled the cigarette in my fingers. My brain buzzed for a hit but my eyes begged for a na...

13 likes

The Mind of a Master

Submitted to Contest #26

Could you imagine living in a world without colors? It would be like eating food without any flavor: sure, you can get by on it, but why would you want to? It’s a bland, boring, purposeless existence, suitable for animals but not for humans. Humans need something more. Humans need spice in their lives.That, my friend, is why we turn to art!Before I found art, my life was utterly unbearable. I was an animal in human form, seeing in monochrome and eating grass; no point to any of it except prolonging my meaningless existenc...

13 likes

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Contest #26

This contest has ended. Thank you for your submissions.

$50

Prize money

225

Entries

0

Stories

Ended on 23:59 - Jan 31, 2020 EST

Won by Hannah Carter 🏆

Title: Lara

Submissions must be between 1,000 - 3,000 words and will be approved and published on Reedsy Prompts within 7 days of the contest closing.

Read the full terms & conditions or check out the FAQ if you have any questions!

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