11/28/2011 02:47 pm ET

FICTION BY TEENS: 'The Life Of A Playwright'

This is a regular column featuring original fiction by and for high school students, provided by, an online community writing site for young people.

It was a given that we would be conspicuous. We were, by nature, dapper, flamboyant, fabulous people. And we had decided to stroll through Central Park dressed to the nines. But what did we care? We were born to attract attention and we loved it. That’s part of the reason we’d moved to the city in the first place.

“Well, what do you think?” Roger took my arm and laced it through his. “Should we set our next show in Baltimore?”

I shook my head. “Hairspray already took all the credit for that.”

“Well where do you propose we set it then?” He asked with a laugh.

I paused for a beat before I spoke. “Boston.” I stopped walking and looked up at my partner in crime. “We’ll set our next show in Boston.”

He smiled down at me with that sparkle in his brown eyes that I knew was a tinge of inspiration mingled with excitement. “Alright then.”

We started walking again, both silent, letting the plot bunnies go to work, all the while enjoying the curious looks we received from bystanders. Roger took a turn when we reached the reservoir and we stopped and stared at it for a while, still deep in thought. Roger leaned against a tree as I loosed my hair from its tight, sleek bun.

“Got anything?”

I shook my head as my dark brown tresses tumbled over my shoulders. “You?”

“Nope.” He moved to my side, still looking out at the water. “Funny how now that we’re in the most spectacular city in the world, we are anything but inspired.”

I sighed. “Has writing always been this difficult?”

“Not as far as I remember.” He looped my arm through his again and led me away, this time to a fountain. We stood and looked at it for a while before Roger got an idea. He leapt onto the side of the fountain. “Maybe we just need to let loose a little bit.”

“Roger!” I looked around at the people watching. “You’re making a scene.”

“Of course I am!” He said with a twinkle in his eye. “That’s what I’m best at.” He paused a moment to steady himself, then spread his arms wide and started crooning. “Start spreading the news!”

“Roger!” A crowd had begun to form.

“I’m leaving today!” He stopped singing and held his hand out to me. “Come on, London. Don’t let me make a fool of myself alone.”

I rolled my eyes. Then, kicking off my stilettos, I hopped onto the side of the fountain with him. “I wanna be a part of it!”

It didn’t take long for about fifty people, both natives and tourists, to gather and watch our show. They pulled out cameras and took pictures. A few even started singing along.

Roger and I belted out the finale with gusto. “New York, New York!”

I burst out laughing and the crowd applauded. Roger jumped down and helped me do the same as the audience disintegrated and the onlookers went their separate ways. I put my hand on Roger’s shoulder as I slipped my shoes back on. “Do tell me, my dear, why on earth we just did that?”

“Because,” He replied. “The life of a playwright is stressful. We need to take a break, do something spontaneous for once.”

I sighed. “I do have to admit, it was a blast.”

“You see?” He took me by the hand and spun me around. “In the city, we can do anything and be anyone we want.” He put a hand around my waist and dipped me. “Now what do you want to write about, London Shea Monroe?”

I stared up at the sky and contemplated the answer to this question. He slowly brought me back to my feet and clasped his hands around my waist. I looked into his eyes as I found my answer. “Flappers.” I said confidently.

He cocked his head in curiosity.

I nodded as I was now sure. “I want to write a musical about the 1920s and the dancers and the glamour and Roger!” I grabbed his shirt and looked up at him excitedly. “I want to write it from a housewife’s point of view!”

His look of confusion turned to a smile, which turned to a grin, which turned into a fit of laughter. “Brilliant!” He said. “Let’s start on it tonight!”

I nodded excitedly as he draped his arm over my shoulders and led me back to our apartment. “We’re probably going to need a piano though . . .” I thought aloud.

“Why don’t we go get one now?”

And so we walked off, arms around each other, plotting all the brilliant things we wanted this show to include. Our life in the city was getting off to a fabulous start.

- Charity