Day 2 Writing Homework

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Prompt :

Write a 400 to 500 word narrative, exploring an antique object

Slides: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1OfnSwDrziw_2AkQZ71nqiiotOnyRHDYC?usp=sharing

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  • Due Date : October 2, 2025
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21 thoughts on “Day 2 Writing Homework”

  1. Lawand Brimo

    The Brass Telescope Mystery

    My brother, a group of friends, and I were clearing out my grandpa’s attic one summer when I came across something that totally changed the way I think about old things. It was a brass telescope, buried in a worn wooden box with peeling carvings on the lid. I initially thought that it was just rubbish, but as I was about to grab it, I sensed that it was heavier than it appeared and had strange marks engraved on the metal. The brass was tarnished, but when the sun hit it in a particular manner, it glittered like gold.

    I asked Grandpa, and his eyes glinted like I’d uncovered buried treasure. He told me it had belonged to his great-grandfather, Captain Elias Monroe, a Pacific Ocean sailor of the late 1800s. Captain Monroe had employed the telescope during his voyages over the ocean, I was informed. Grandpa told me it had peered out at islands no map had ever shown and storms that swallowed whole ships. That blew my mind. I had something in my hands that had been on real adventures.

    The telescope was old and slightly worn and had a peeling and cracked leather handle but still smelled of salt and old tobacco. Peering through it, the lens was a bit misty, but I could still see quite far out in the backyard, all the way to the red-colored roof of our neighbor’s house. I wondered what Captain Monroe did see through it—whales, pirates, maybe sea monsters?

    I devoted the rest of the afternoon to cleaning it using a soft cloth and a small metal cleaner. While I was cleaning, I noticed tiny initials carved near the eyepiece: “E.M.” It was as if Captain Monroe had left his signature on the telescope in private, in anticipation of someone some day finding it and remembering him. I imagined him at the rail of a vessel, wind blowing through his beard, scanning for land or adventure.

    Afterward, I wrote a short piece on the telescope for English. I named it The Eye of the Sea. My teacher described it as “imaginative and heartfelt,” and I was happy. But in reality, the real tale was already written in the scratches and dents of that telescope. It was not an object—it was a time machine, a link to a person who lived a century ago.

    Now the telescope sits on a shelf of my bookcase, in between my favorite books. Occasionally I take it out and look through it, not to gaze into the distance, but so that I can be near the past. It reminds me that everything old has a story to tell, and occasionally, if you are lucky enough, you find yourself a part of it.

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  3. Varun

    Strings Broken, Heartbroken

    Dust hung thick in the air of Great Grandpa Ben’s attic. Cobwebs draped over old trunks and faded photos. There, in a quiet corner, sat a vintage guitar. It had gone untouched for years, maybe decades. The wood gleamed just a bit, holding on to its old pride. It waited for hands that could wake its music. Jason climbed the creaky stairs that day. His heart pounded hard. Fear made his eyes jump from shadow to shadow in the low light. The room smelled of old paper and faint mildew. He wanted to turn back, to head down to the safety of the kitchen. But something pulled him deeper. Then he saw it. A beam of golden sun slipped through a cracked window. It lit the guitar like a spotlight. The neck curved smooth, the body shaped like a gentle hourglass. Jason stepped closer. His breath caught. This was no ordinary find. It was Grandad’s guitar from his youth, back when he played at local dances and family gatherings. Jason’s fingers, smudged with dust and bits of varnish from poking around boxes, reached out. He gripped the strings one by one. They felt stiff under his touch. With steady pulls, he tightened them. Each twist brought a faint twang. The guitar’s surface, once polished to a shine, now carried the marks of time. Faint fingerprints layered over decades of handling had worn it dull. A thin crack ran across the spruce top, like a lightning bolt frozen in place. It told stories of rough moves or a forgotten fall. Three strings dangled limp, twisted and loose like vines left to wither. They snapped from age and neglect, silent witnesses to years without care.

    The clock downstairs struck midnight. Its chimes echoed up the stairs, sharp and clear. Jason didn’t move. He bent low over the small lamp on a nearby crate. Its warm glow pushed back the dark. He worked on, twisting and tuning, sweat beading on his brow. Tools from a dusty toolbox lay scattered—pliers, wire cutters, a small file. He adjusted the bridge, filed down rough edges on the frets. Hours blurred as he focused. “Will it ever play again?” Jason whispered to himself. His voice shook. He knew Grandad might wake and climb up any moment. The old man slept light these days. Jason pictured the surprise, the questions. What if Grandad got mad? The guitar was a treasure, not some toy to tinker with. A low hum broke the quiet. Then came footsteps on the stairs. They grew louder, steady and sure. Jason’s drill whirred one last time. His vision blurred for a split second—panic, maybe, or just tired eyes. When it cleared, he sat straight on a worn chair. Grandad stood there, smiling wide. His eyes sparkled with a joy Jason rarely saw. “I see you’ve found my old guitar,” Grandad said, his voice warm and rough from years of stories. “I’ve waited a long time for someone like you. A kid with real fire for music to hold it right.” Jason stammered, “Y-y-yes.” Worry twisted in his gut, mixed with confusion. Had he done wrong? Grandad leaned in. “You fixed it up, didn’t you? Played a note or two?” His grin grew, like he already knew every twist Jason had made. Jason looked away from those kind eyes. He stared at the guitar in his lap. Time had scarred it deep. The crack still marked the wood. Those three strings hung slack, dead as forgotten promises.

    A soft pause filled the room. Grandad nodded, then took the guitar with gentle hands. He carried it to his workshop downstairs, a small space full of half-fixed clocks and polished wood scraps. There, under brighter lights, he worked his magic. His fingers, gnarled but sure, replaced the loose strings with fresh ones. He sanded the crack smooth, sealed it with careful glue and a thin brace underneath. The varnish got a light buff, bringing back a hint of its old shine. When he finished, the guitar looked alive again. Grandad sat in his rocker. He strummed once, a soft shuffle of chords. The notes rang clear and true, filling the air with a melody from long ago. Each string hummed in perfect tune. Jason watched, his chest tight with awe. That sound washed over him like a wave. It chased away the fear. In that moment, he knew deep down—things broken by time could heal. A cracked guitar, a scared heart, all of it. With care and a steady hand, anything could sing once more.

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  4. Tiffany Gu

    Nobody remembered the harmony of timpani and the melodic ensemble of strings. The world abandoned the imperfect beauty of orchestras and colour, but Charlie knew the world would eventually be languished in the trap of rambunctious noises.
    Charlie stared at Grandpa’s sepia-tinted photograph. His cordial voice reverberated through his mind, his clichéd stories of Little Red Riding Hood. In the corner of his ramshackle hut beside the once cerulean river, the mahogany guitar stood like a solitary soldier, finally returning to its hometown. The once strong strings sewed together memorable legatos, yet now they were mangled by a black-and-white pandemic.
    Charlie tugged at the charcoal-smudged curtains, slammed the groaning door, and the guitar radiated with threads of amber. The golden rays made it more than a battered guitar; it sparkled music in Charlie’s ears. His numb fingers plucked the frosty strings—no sound. No memories. Just deafening silence. The grey candle wax dangled onto the candle. Coffee stained maps of the world were suspended in the air. Nothing seemed to move. All wildlife stopped. Even the weak heartbeat of the world stopped.
    Charlie crawled between the bookshelves with suspended books that were about to fall two seconds ago; cobwebs stretched like a teetering bridge. Charlie thought lonesomely, “Why will the world of music exile me? Why hadn’t Grandpa ever told me about a small corner of music that still existed in this world?”
    “Come to my room, Charles,” echoed Grandpa’s soft voice.
“Grandpa? What does the guitar do?” asked Charlie, eyes welling with lachrymose tears as he stared towards the sky that was always covered by heavy clouds.
    Charlie held onto the rusty doorknob that left stains on his fingers—no creaks, no complaining door groans. Apples and oranges were like a sunset that reflected onto the shining windows. The sapphire bedsheets felt fluffy like those vibrant cotton candies Grandpa used to buy for Charlie. Colour pencils were scattered all over the desk like a rainbow, and the black-and-white music piece with the letters: C-H-A-R-L-I-E on it.
“This guitar used to be your helpful enemy. Remember how I forced you to play guitar and how you scribbled all over the sheet music I spent my monthly salary to buy?” sighed Grandpa.
    Charlie began to realise—how can the world be like this without his true love for guitar? With the unique harmony of six strings, the tranquil hush of trickling water returned to his ears. The coats of varnish represented the true care for his guitar, all tied together with impenetrable strings that held together crescendos of music.

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  5. Sehej Dhillon

    The life-Changing Guitar

    When Harry bought a timeworn guitar, his life changed forever. Their destinies were intertwined. One day Harry walked across the dull street as he saw an old, dusty, decaying guitar. That had the potential to become transcendent with its owner. He had a long stare at it first but then, without another thought, he bought it. Like a demon clawing through wood, the guitar was slowly aging. That is why Harry went to the luthier, once it was given back it looked awesome. Harry was waiting for this moment, now he could finally play it…

    Harry strummed the guitar and out came a big, fat, happy to be free, genie. Harry had mistakenly bought a rare antique. A one out of one guitar that has a genie inside of it. The genie exclaimed with happiness ‘You have been given three wishes; you must choose wisely what you wish for.’ he looked around and replied ‘Firstly, I want a time machine secondly, I want infinite money and lastly, I want the ability to teleport anywhere I want.’ ‘As you wish, your wish has been granted.’ Then he vanished. Harry looked for his time machine and soon was sent into the Mesozoic Era.

    Harry stood in the middle of Tokyo with his guitar on his back. The city was super busy and full of bright lights. He had just escaped from dinosaurs and met a genie who gave him three wishes. But even with all that, the best part was still playing his guitar. He walked into a music club and went straight to the stage. Nobody stopped him. He plugged in the guitar and played one loud, crunchy chord. Everyone stopped and stared. Then they cheered like crazy! Harry kept playing, and each sound told a story about his wild adventure. The guitar sounded rough and cool, like thunder in a box. Some people said it was haunted or magic, but Harry knew it was special. He played every night, and people started calling him “The Time Guitarist.” He did not care about money or being famous. He just loved the music.

    One night, Harry played a powerful chord and a portal opened. He jumped through and landed in the future! Everything was shiny and quiet, and people did not listen to music anymore. But Harry changed that. He played his guitar and brought music back to the world. No matter where he went past, present, or future the guitar came with him. It got older and dirtier, but it still sounded amazing. It roared like a storm and sang like magic. Harry was not just playing music. He was living it. And the guitar was his best friend through it all.

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  6. Kyle Hui

    As I walked into my grandmother’s room, dust exploded into the air like fireworks and floorboards creaked in a high pitched tone with every quiet, gentle footstep. I was looking for an old but important and precious book for my final year 8 psychology study. However, the moment I got to the shelf a bright light beamed at me from behind blinding me completely for a few seconds. On the top draw layed an old small palm sized clock, when I turned to pick it up it was heavy I realised that it was made from solid gold carved into this shape by Julius Caesar himself in late 50 BCE. I kept this in my pocket and continued my search for the book. I reached into the untouched bookshelf and felt the scooty remains on the shelf there I found it sitting seemingly priceless, in the middle, that’s what it may look like but that was secretly the key to psychology specifically dreams. On the way out, I felt the clock vibrate softly non the lest demandingly. I took the metro home but all I could think of was what is so special about the clock? Why was it vibrating? Why was it…. When I got home, I knew that I had to stay focused and work on my project as it was the most important thing of my life still, I was not able shack the feeling off my head it was like magnets were stuck inside my head. So, after my project I decided to spend time with the ancient clock.

    When I said something about family history the clock buzzes, hums and takes teleports me to a place I never knew. Deep underground dark and thithy, it seems like no one has been here for years. As I walk deeper, I saw tonnes of money and other valuables, I didn’t know what the meaning of this was. Why here out of anywhere? What’s so- THUMP! For a second there was only silence the boulder were falling like meters closing the one exit. I knew where I am I’m at my great grandfather secret assassin hideout. He was the most notorious criminal the only major crime boss that was never caught in his lifetime. You know the robberies in Iraq well… he was the master mind behind it all. You know El Chapo you think he’s the biggest crime lord well… lets just say he commends El Chapo. No one was ever to know about this. Desperately I pressed two buttons which teleported straight back home I was so out of breath but the it’s morning already I had no SLEEP NOOOOO!

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  7. Isaac Yim

    The Soiled Guitar
    The guitar stood drowsily upright, waiting for someone to play it, as it leaned against the cracked wall of a ghostly house house. It had been years since the clean, soothing stings which were now oily and loose had been played at countless parties. Several years later, Bob, who unfortunately had his grandfather pass away recently wanted to clean up his grimy house. While he was moving all the furniture out, he stumbled across an acoustic guitar. The unsturdy, worn timber, which used to be as smooth and appealing to the eyes, was now faint due to the amount of ash covering it. He picked it up full of caution, and gently swiped his finger across the wood. Ash and debris were left on his finger as he looked at the patch of untouched wood he swiped off. Then suddenly, a vivid memory appeared in his mind. He had remembered the time when he was just a kid and pranced around the floor acting like a professional dancer as his grandfather played a harmonious melody on the instrument. But when he strummed the guitar, it played an awfully ringing and croaky sound. Bob raised his eyebrow, with a disgusting look on his face, for he knew he definitely needed to tune the instrument.

    Bob inspected each string and note and tuned each one. He sat there, fixing the guitar for hours. Like a pirate determined to find treasure, he was determined to fix it. Even when the glistening moon and stars arose he hunched his back over the lamp, refusing to give up. “Will I ever fix this?” he uttered silently to himself. Bob was starting to lose hope and doubt himself. His eyes were weary, body slouched and overall exhausted. Bob’s fingers were oily and sooty from mending it. After a prolonged time, he tuned the last note making it back in tune. He picked up the guitar as midnight chimed and played a single note. The beautiful sound played countless memories at once of his grandfather in his mind. His mouth stretched from ear to ear, his eyes lit up. He stood up as proud as a fearless lion, and strummed some nice music. The nostalgia echoed in his ear as he pranced around the old room like he was a kid again. And one week later the timber and strings were fresh as new. He brought it to parties just like his grandfather did and played it to everyone which they absolutely loved.

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