Welcome to the 2015 Summer of Stories! Each week we will present SIX writing prompts (one for each weekday and a different type of challenge to carry you through the weekend) to keep you going through the summer.
Each prompt will have TWO tags that go along with it. Everything will be tagged SoS15, and each individual challenge will have a numbered tag as well (SoS15.1, SoS15.2 and so forth). Copy and paste the tags into the Tags bar to keep your work organized.
The Voice is YWP's monthly digital magazine of the best writing, photography, audio and video submitted to youngwritersproject.org.
Launched in September 2014, The Voice receives up to 18,000 views per month. The average time spent in each session is an impressive 6 minutes (especially considering the average website gets 15 seconds or less).
The Voice showcases the many talented writers and artists who make up the Young Writers Project community. Our goal is to produce a literary magazine that is dynamic, thought-provoking and beautiful, one that makes the digital world take notice. Our goal is to publish YOU!
I thought it would be worthwhile to jot down the changes to be made here.
In-site search Six word stories Chat, in some capacity Events Calendar Relational sidebars -- This is a big project and one that is important to look, feel of site, ie., when you click on content, related content is shown to the right. GG is working on it. A full profile page like the one on the old site, including who visited recently SPROUT a story option -- this will be coming Direct record -- install it only if it works well (as in perfectly)
Dashboard -- was replaced with a new configuration
New dashboard needs to be checked, specifically to what happens with Add a block; it appears it lists all that are on the page but no others. my dashboard link on profile page
Springtime is light,
and the longer days, and the sound of birds outside my window
reveling in the smooth breeze,
and landing on the apple branches.
The branches touch the sky, and I climb the branches
to feel the sun on my hands and face
I'd forgotten what the sun felt like on the back of my neck. It's good to remember.
Springtime is to forget
the harshness of winter; death, doubt, cold, despair, indecisiveness in the face of challenges.
Worries made me helpless, but Spring brings hope and meaning to life.
So, I'll banish all the worries I can spare (which is most)
down into the snowbank, where they will melt away.
Springtime is laughter
while stomping in the snow and chasing each other,
and then curling up on the one dry patch of grass.
The warm ground embraces me, and the sound of melting snow lulls me to sleep.
So imagine, for a moment, you are at a dining room table and the wind is rushing outside in the late afternoon sun -- another day where rain and storms mix in with gorgeous clear sunlight -- and you stare at your terminal, at the laptop beside you, the empty cans of Red Bull, the giant, yellow & black Drupal (whazzat?) book, the empty bag of YoLo popcorn and wonder ...
Will this make a difference?
Will you actually like this space? Will it be warm and welcoming and interesting and inspiring? Will it help you make connections? Or will you react to it in stunned silence and never return?
I don't know.
But I was wondering ... What do you think? Join discussion or write a blog post and use the #newsite hashtag.
Glimmering in the dawn’s waking hours, dust dancers come to rest with the wind on the cardboard city, catching on the trails of pulled back packing tape below the new layer. Ridges and creases cast shadow scars across the faces of the boxes, rising and falling like heartbeats; white curtains caress the wind in gentle, cold breaths of morning. Black sharpie scrawls out your name. As I begin shifting within the large chair, my bones cringe, my skin separating from the weaving of my afghan. I pull it closer to my face, hiding away from the crinkled tower; vainly murmuring my reminder that even faded boxes will die.
I snuggle deep beneath my little moss blanket on my wooden bed deep inside of the hollow tree village. Mamma and Papa are amidst another heateed argument over the same old topic: humans. The citizens of Killarney betrayed us 50 years ago but my clan is so bitter it may as well have been 50 days ago! To be completely fair it was not the citizens of Killarney who betrayed us but their town leader, Mister Amos Flaherty who was cruel to us wee folk. Thats when everything changed for us.
Grammy sometimes tells me stories of how it used to be. She said that the folks would dance in the center of the town and we rode on their shoulders. The little children used to braid our hair. They treated us like one of their own. As she said, the people were in tears on the streets as we left. They loved us. She’d tell me stories whenever it rained, whenever I was ill or honestly whenever she could keep me in the tree for more than 10 minutes.