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Reid's picture

Vermont Writes Day -- March 12

Seven Minutes  |  Seven Prompts  |  3.12.15

 

Vermont Writes Day 2015 is THURSDAY, MARCH 12!

 

Mark your calendars for this amazing, fun statewide day of writing!

 

It's the day we stop everything for JUST SEVEN MINUTES and WRITE!

 

VermontWritesDay.org will be open for posting on the day of!

 

Open to anyone and everyone who loves a good story and wants to share it: students, teachers, principals

and anyone else who happens to be walking the school's hallways that day! Click Read More for details!

AttachmentSize
Vermont Writes Day ebook 2014.pdf1.11 MB
VTWritesDay.Poster.pdf66.26 KB
VTWritesDay15.Prompts.pdf188.63 KB
admin's picture

Climate Challenge 2015!

HELP SOLVE CLIMATE CHANGE | SAVE THE PLANET | WIN FAME AND CASH!

 

The Challenge: Use the power of YOUR words, images, audio and/or video to combat climate change. Respond to one of three prompts (read on for details) to win BIG PRIZES and be part of a statewide Vermontivate! celebration. First place: $100 | Second place: $75 | Third place: $50 | Plus many coupons, gifts and accolades!

 

Letter to Sadness (slam?)

Sometimes I wonder if you even remember.

If someone, something, like you has the capacity

to remember.

I wonder if you ever even knew that what you took wasn't yours,

what I gave wasn't for you,

that you weren't good enough,

nor evil enough

to know you were not good.

Tell me, what did I look like to you when you found me?

What did you see that you wanted to own

was it my freedom?

my home?

my hands?

my beauty?

Did I look beautiful to you?

New

I've never before been

"new"

so it's interesting to see the stares.

 

I've never had people look at me

solely because of my skin.

 

It's odd, being new.

 

People slow down their cars

SpiderWriter's picture

Untitled #9- Chapter 2

My name is Shea Levi. Levi, like the jeans. My real name is Violet, but ever since I was born, everyone called me Shea. Violet is my first name. Shea is my middle name. I am almost eleven years old and I live in a big house with my aunt Julie, uncle Max, and their three kids. Allison is eight years old, Adam is thirteen, and Tyde is seven months younger than me. Julie and Max are really nice, and their kids are pretty nice as well.

A few months before I was born, my dad died of heart disease. Years later, when I was five, my mom got in a car crash and also passed.

At the time, my grandparents couldn’t let me live with them. The only other people in my family I could stay with was my uncle, Max. Max is my mom, Helen’s brother. About a week after my mother died, I took all of my stuff, including Sky, the doll my mother gave me the day of my birth, the picture of them I have on my nightstand, and the photo of Ruben, Mom, and me, and brought them to Max and Julie’s house. They let me have Tyde’s room, so now he and Adam share a room. I liked the room a lot because it had a big window that I could look out of. I’ve been at the Howell’s house for five years now.

“So, how was school? Alli?” Julie asked later, at dinner.

“Oh, it was okay,” Alli said.

“Okay?” Julie said. “Anything special happen?”

“Well, we had a really big test in reading, but it wasn’t that hard.” She took a big bite of spaghetti and sucked a piece of noodle into her mouth quickly. Sauce went all over her face. She giggled, but Adam made a disgusted face at her. “What?” she asked him.

pianolady's picture

why you shouldn't love me

falling in love with a poet is never

a good idea.

because you know what a poet does?

a poet records

everything.

she remembers what you say.

she writes it all down in one of her many bright-colored notebooks

which have been handed to her by all the people

who don't know what to buy her for christmas.

 

she remembers.

when a poet is in love with you,

you are her inspiration.

you inspire a rather ridiculous amount of unspoken,

unwritten,

unremembered

love poems.

The Elephant Children

“Ringling Bros, World’s Greatest Shows! Elephant Brass Band! Can we go, Mommy, can we go?” I had said to my mom. I was seven years old at the time, and very curious.

“Sure, sweetie. Anything you want,” Mother replied sweetly. I was a spoiled child, given everything from cotton candy to my own beach house the day I turned 18.

“Ladies first! That means you first, Mommy, you first!” I was also a brilliant child, always the top of my class, and, at the age of seven, I was already working on algebra. My mom and I had entered the tent, finding a seat near the front as the show didn’t start for at least ten minutes. When my mom looked away, I had pulled myself up onto the stage and ran behind the curtains. In front of me were five children, all about my age, pulling on grey suits. I realized that these were elephant costumes.

aliyaorali's picture

Dear Nikki (would love feedback on how to make this better)

Dear Nikki Minaj,

Power to you. Thank you for rocking it in front of the million dollar audience America provides for you, and testing my jealousy and hypocrisy. Americanda-don’t let the haters get you down. All us bitter adolescent feminists that despise your pushed up power sensation, are just confused and jealous that you hit puberty harder, and longer than most of us. If we criticize that, we criticize our gender.

Grace L's picture

Skinny Jeans

Thanks skinny jeans,

For making me regret that chocolate chip cookie

I had yesterday after school.

 

Thanks skinny jeans, 

For suffocating my stomach

And urging me to throw up

 

Thanks skinny jeans, 

For squeezing my legs, butt, 

And lower half basically

 

Thanks skinny jeans,

For making me feel insecure

When I'm wearing you 

 

Thanks skinny jeans, 

For showing me what the price of beauty is. 

Firegirl03's picture

Musty Old Book

i inhale you.

stagnant air and dust

has never smelled so sweet.

never.

i open your cover--

rigid under my fingertips--

and press my nose

to your jaundiced pages.

your paper, thick,

bends by my will

packed with letters

deliberately placed

to create a river that flows

through the canyons of my mind. 

where did you sit,

so many years ago,

when your words were yet to be read?

who kept you by their bedside?

who opened you at nightfall

and immersed themself

ada's picture

Little Blue Bird

On the bookshelf, covered in a layer of dust, your picture lies face-down and forgotten.

I don't regret not saying goodbye.

Or maybe I do, just a little.

 

Sometimes, I forget things. I forget why I can't wear that red cashmere sweater anymore.

I forget why you left.

I forget that you didn't care.

 

Oceania's picture

A Small Quest for Interesting-ness

Once upon a time, there lived a girl named Pippa who thought that life needed some interesting bits. At least her life. Lots of lives are quite interesting, as you and I should know. Unfortunately Pippa could not conceive of an idea to make her life interesting. She had lived in the same town for most of her life and done the same things for most of her life. Lucky for her, though, she was about to begin her first day of seventh grade.

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